When Gidman with charming modesty refused to take seriously a suggestion by one of the other guests that he was if not yet the Tories’ heir apparent, at least their heir presumptive, the chairman reminded Jones that he’d once described the MP as a modern Icarus, soaring high on wings created by his father.

‘Did you mean to imply,’ went on the chairman with his charming smile, ‘that, like Icarus, the higher he flies, the more he will be in danger of crashing to earth?’

Jones had replied urbanely, ‘Some people might say that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.’

And then, almost as if in a dream, he’d heard himself adding, ‘Of course, as a classical scholar, you will doubtless recall that Icarus’ father, Daedalus, was mixed up in some very dodgy activities, and indeed as a young man he had been banished from Athens for murdering one of his apprentices.’

While this fell short of being actionable, it made a nice headline in many of the papers, but from his own editor it had won only a stern reproof.

‘Don’t even dream of writing anything like that in my paper, not even if it’s in fucking Welsh!’

So he’d gone quiet. But he continued to add to the police files he’d inherited from Owen anything else that came up about either of the Gidmans. Secretly he still felt that it was his mission in life to do radical chiropody on their feet of clay, but now the only person he trusted enough to share this feeling with was his young brother. The eight years between them meant there was little or no sibling rivalry, just a strong current of affection, protective from the elder and hero-worshipping from the younger. Gareth sometimes asked for advice and usually took it, occasionally asked for a loan and always took it, and if ever the chance arose to impart something that might impress his brother, he always took that too. Hearing the name Wolfe mentioned in connection with that of Goldie Gidman had sent him rushing to his phone.

Jones tried to get in touch with Gareth as he drove back to Marina Tower, but there was no response. As he’d expected, the flat was empty. Might have been nice to find that Beanie didn’t feel the Shandy party was worth going to without his company, but he’d known better than to count on it. To tell the truth, he was quite glad to have the place to himself. Beanie would have required explanations, and even in their closest moments he never forgot that she too was a journalist. You might share your body and the deep secrets of your heart with a fellow hack, but you stopped short of sharing a story.

He switched on his laptop and accessed his Gidman file. He’d already done a quick check after Gareth’s call to confirm that Wolfe was there.

Now he ran through the relevant section again. Operation Macavity. Possible leak. DI Wolfe under investigation. Nothing proved. Wolfe’s domestic troubles. Breakdown, Retirement. Disappearance. State of fugue posited by medical experts. Goldie’s involvement posited privately by Owen Mathias, but no supporting evidence whatsoever. No trace of Wolfe ever found. (Owen’s personal note read: Murdered?)

Then there was the wife. Gina Wolfe. She was looked at very carefully after her husband went walkabout, both by the police and even more so by the papers, who’d given her such a hard time, she complained to the Press Complaints Authority.

Nothing from either source. No unexplained increase in bank balances. No sudden trips to faraway places. No untraceable phone calls. Nothing suspicious. She was either totally innocent or a consummate actress.

His mobile rang. He picked it up, expecting it would be Gareth. But the caller screen read Paul, which was just as good.

Paul was one of the sympathetic Met officers he’d encountered at Owen’s sickbed. An investigative journalist is only as good as his contacts and he’d worked particularly hard on this relationship over the past few years. Paul was a chief inspector, not all that high on the police totem pole, but he worked in the communications centre and what he didn’t overhear, he could usually find out. Jones had rung him on his way to ambush Gidman and asked him to check the current status of Gina Wolfe to see if there was any continuing interest in her.

Paul had laughed when he understood the link to the Gidmans. It amused him considerably to think that Jones had inherited the Mathias obsession. But it didn’t prevent him from doing a good job, though unfortunately it was pretty negative.

‘Had to go way back to find any mention at all,’ he said.

He then proceeded to give Jones the stuff he already had, though, of course, the journalist made sure that neither Paul nor any other policeman was aware of this breach of security.

So if there was nothing since, this presumably meant she was rated lily-white.

‘One thing, though,’ Paul continued. ‘The name rang a bell, I’d heard it recently, so I asked around. Probably nothing, but it seems one of our commanders, Mick Purdy, has got something going with this Gina Wolfe. I checked and it’s definitely the same one. Maybe she just likes cops.’

‘Maybe. Thanks, Paul.’

He fed the new name into his laptop, told it to search the Gidman file.

It came up twice. Thirty years ago, Owen Mathias, newly promoted to sergeant and not long arrived in the Met, had investigated an allegation of assault against Goldie. A DC Purdy had interviewed one of Gidman’s employees who’d been cited as a witness. Result, negative, and despite Mathias’s conviction that the man was guilty, no case was brought.

The second time was more interesting. Purdy, now a DCI, had been interviewed in the course of the internal investigation into Alex Wolfe. It seemed to have been merely a background interview. Purdy had been Wolfe’s boss during his early years with the Met and the investigators were checking to see if there’d been any previous doubts as to his reliability. Purdy had given him a glowing testimonial.

Now, seven years later, Purdy and Gina Wolfe were an item.

Significant? Probably not, but he added a note to the file. By indirections find directions out. A favourite quote of an old English teacher who fancied himself as a Richard Burton manqué.

What to do now? He tried Gareth’s number again. Still nothing. Probably needed a top-up. How many times had he told the stupid sod that his mobile was a tool of the trade?

So all he had was what his brother had told him. Not a lot, and when he’d tried to bluff it into something bigger, Dave the Turd had been puzzled rather than alarmed. He certainly hadn’t reacted like a guilty thing surprised. It was Goldie he should have gone for. No doubt young David would be hurrying to complain to Daddy that a big boy had hit him then run away. Perhaps it had been a mistake to gate-crash the Centre opening.

But it was done now. And the question remained-what next?

He couldn’t let it go. He liked the smell of this, and he’d learned to trust his nose. But he doubted if he would find anyone else at the Messenger who shared that trust, not when the name Gidman was mentioned.

So keep it to yourself till you’ve got something concrete. The advice he’d pumped at Gareth-Don’t tell a soul your story till you’re sure you’ve got a story to tell- still held good.

But it was pointless hanging around here. If there were to be any action, it was going to be up in Mid-Yorkshire.

He started tossing a few essentials into a small grip. As he did so he debated how to deal with Beanie. The key to her luxurious apartment nestling in his pocket wasn’t something to give up easily and, despite her efforts to appear indifferent, he’d seen she was seriously irritated by his defection from Shandy’s party. Returning home to find he’d taken off into the wild blue yonder could seriously piss her off. He’d need to think of a really good story; family emergency, maybe. She knew that Gareth had rung, so that could provide a firm basis. It was always best to have enough truth in your lies to hold them together. Old gran dying would probably sound too corny not to be true!