A few ragged junkies sat propped against the walls of the busy underpass, several of them young girls, Michelle noticed, and too far gone even to beg for change. As she passed, one of them started to moan and wail. She had a bottle in her hand and she banged it hard against the wall until it smashed, echoing in the tiled passage and scattering broken glass all over the place. Like everyone else, Michelle hurried on.

The tube was crowded and she had to stand all the way to Tottenham Court Road, where Retired Detective Inspector Robert Lancaster had agreed to talk to her over a late lunch on Dean Street. It was raining when she walked out onto Oxford Street. Christ, she thought, not again! At this rate, summer would be over before it had begun. Michelle unfurled her umbrella and made her way through the tourists and hustlers. She turned off Oxford Street and crossed Soho Square, then followed Lancaster’s directions and found the place easily enough.

Though it was a pub, Michelle was pleased to see that it looked rather more upmarket than some establishments, with its hanging baskets of flowers outside, stained glass and shiny dark woodwork. She had dressed about as casually as she was capable of, in a mid-length skirt, a pink V-neck top and a light wool jacket, but she would still have looked overdressed in a lot of London pubs. This one, however, catered to a business luncheon crowd. It even had a separate restaurant section away from the smoke and video machines, with table service, no less.

Lancaster, recognizable by the carnation he told Michelle he would be wearing in his gray suit, was a dapper man with a full head of silver hair and a sparkle in his eye. Perhaps a bit portly, Michelle noticed as he stood up to greet her, but definitely well-preserved for his age, which she guessed at around seventy. His face had a florid complexion, but he didn’t otherwise look like a serious drinker. At least he didn’t have that telltale calligraphy of broken red and purple veins just under the surface, like Shaw.

“Mr. Lancaster,” she said, sitting down. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“The pleasure’s mine entirely,” he said, traces of a Cockney accent still in his voice. “Ever since my kids flew the coop and my wife died, I’ll take any opportunity to get out of the house. Besides, it’s not every day I get to come down the West End and have lunch with a pretty girl like yourself.”

Michelle smiled and felt herself blush a little. A girl, he’d called her, when she had turned forty last September. For some reason, she didn’t feel offended by Lancaster’s particular brand of male chauvinism; it had such a quaint, old-fashioned feel to it that it seemed only natural on her part to accept the compliment and thank him with as much grace as possible. She’d soon find out if it got more wearing as their conversation continued.

“I hope you don’t mind my choice of eatery.”

Michelle looked around at the tables with their white linen cloths and weighty cutlery, the uniformed waitresses dashing around. “Not at all,” she said.

He chuckled, a throaty sound. “You wouldn’t believe what this place used to be like. Used to be a real villains’ pub back in the early sixties. Upstairs, especially. You’d be amazed at the jobs planned up there, the contracts put out.”

“Not anymore, I hope?”

“Oh, no. It’s quite respectable now.” He spoke with a tinge of regret in his voice.

A waitress appeared with her order book.

“What would you like to drink?” Lancaster asked.

“Just a fruit juice, please.”

“Orange, grapefruit or pineapple?” the waitress asked.

“Orange is fine.”

“And I’ll have another pint of Guinness, please,” Lancaster said. “Sure you don’t want something a bit stronger, love?”

“No, that’ll be just fine, thanks.” Truth was, Michelle had felt the effects of last night’s bottle of wine that morning, and she had decided to lay off the booze for a day or two. It was still manageable. She never drank during the day, anyway, only in the evening, alone in her flat with the curtains closed and the television on. But if she didn’t nip it in the bud, she’d be the next one with broken blood vessels in her nose.

“The food’s quite good here,” said Lancaster while the waitress was fetching their drinks. “I’d stay away from the lamb curry if I were you, though. Last time I touched it I ended up with a case of Delhi belly.”

Michelle had eaten a curry the previous evening, and though it hadn’t given her “Delhi belly,” it had made its presence felt during the night. She wanted something plain, something unencumbered with fancy sauces, something British.

The waitress returned with her Britvic orange and Lancaster’s Guinness and asked them for their orders.

“I’ll have the Cumberland sausage and mashed potatoes, please,” Michelle said. And diet be damned, she added under her breath. Lancaster ordered the roast beef.

“Bangers and mash,” he said, beaming, when the waitress had wandered off. “Wonderful. One doesn’t often meet people who go for the more traditional food these days. It’s all that nasty foreign muck, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind a bit of pasta or a curry now and then,” said Michelle, “but sometimes you can’t beat the traditional English.”

Lancaster paused for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the table. Michelle could sense him changing gear, from old-fashioned gallant to seasoned street copper, wondering what she was after and whether it could harm him. She could see it in his eyes, their gaze sharpening, becoming more watchful. She wanted to set him at ease but decided it was best to let him lead, see where it went. At first.

“The bloke that put you on to me said you wanted to know about Reggie and Ronnie.”

There, they were out. The dreaded words. Reggie and Ronnie: The Krays.

“Sort of,” Michelle said. “But let me explain.”

Lancaster listened, taking the occasional sip of Guinness, nodding here and there, as Michelle told him about the Marshalls and what had happened to Graham.

“So, you see,” she finished, “it’s not really the twins, or not just them, anyway, that I’m interested in.”

“Yes, I see,” said Lancaster, drumming his fingers again. Their food arrived and they both took a few bites before he spoke again. “How’s your sausage?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Michelle, wondering if he was going to be any use at all or if it was going to be one of these pleasant but pointless sessions.

“Good. Good. I knew Billy Marshall and his family,” said Lancaster. Then he stuffed his mouth full of roast beef and mashed potato and looked at Michelle, eyes wide and expressionless as he chewed, watching for her reaction. She was surprised, and she was also pleased that the information Banks had given her led somewhere, although she still had no idea where.

“Billy and I grew up just around the corner from one another. We went to the same schools, played on the same streets. We even used to drink in the same pub,” he went on when he’d washed his food down with Guinness. “Does that surprise you?”

“A bit, I suppose. Though, I must say, not much about those days surprises me anymore.”

Lancaster laughed. “You’re right there, love. Another world. See, you’ve got to understand where detectives came from, Michelle. Can I call you Michelle?”

“Of course.”

“The first detectives came from the criminal classes. They were equally at home on either side of the law. Jonathan Wild, the famous thief-taker, for example. Half the time he set up the blokes he fingered. Did you know that? They hanged him in the end. And Vidocq, the Frog-gie? Thief, police informer, master of disguise. Criminal. And back then, the days you’re asking about, I think we were a bit closer to our prototypes than the office boys we seem to have in the force today, if you’ll pardon my criticism. Now, I’m not saying I was ever a criminal myself, but I lived close enough to the line at times to know what a thin line it is, and I was also close enough to know how they thought. And do you imagine for a moment those on the other side didn’t know that, too?”