‘Yes, sir,’ Yellich beamed. ‘One son.’

‘Good man. How old is he?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Nice age. Getting a bit full of himself, is he? A bit cocksure? Mine all did at that age. I gave out most of my good hidings when they were between nine and twelve, about. As I recall.’

‘Well, he is a bit of a handful, but not so much a management problem. He’s got special needs.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Well, you know, I’m not, Mr Ffoulkes. There’s no denying that we were disappointed when we realized that he wasn’t going to be prime minister one day, but now we feel a sense of privilege…a world previously unknown to us is opening up that we would not have otherwise encountered…and Jeremy is such a sincere, genuine person…he’s growing up more slowly, he’s hanging around that age which is a lovely age for all parents.’

Ffoulkes smiled warmly.

‘We’ve been told that with love, and care, and stimulation and stability he could achieve a mental age of about twelve by the time he’s twenty or twenty-five. And he could live in a hostel where he’ll have his own room and cook his own meals if he wants to but staff will always be there, and prepared meals will be available if he wants them.’

‘There is that provision then?’

‘Oh, yes. And it means that we’ll be a little out of the mainstream of life. We won’t have grandchildren, but where Jeremy has led us and what he’s given us is not at all unpleasant.’

‘Good…good.’

There was a tap on the door. Ffoulkes said, ‘Come.’

Fiona entered and handed Ffoulkes a slip of paper. ‘The information you wanted, Mr Ffoulkes.’

‘Thank you, Fiona,’ Ffoulkes said as she turned to leave the office. Then to Yellich he said, ‘Ibbotson, Utley and Swales, solicitors, Malton. Mmm. Names as solidly Yorkshire as you’ll find anywhere. Do you know the origin of your name, Mr Yellich?’

‘Don’t, confess, Mr Ffoulkes. Eastern European, but it’s been altered over the generations.’

‘As it would, I daresay.’

‘But back to Mr Williams.’ Yellich wrote the name of the firm of solicitors on his notepad. ‘Was there any pattern to the spending?’

‘Foolish, ill-advised…more than generous…but the strange thing is that I don’t think he made any enemies.’

‘That’s interesting, especially for a businessman.’

‘I think the answer to that is that he was not a businessman. You see, I’ve been in banking all my life and it has been my experience that men who are businessmen are the ones who make enemies, and the ones who go from bungalows to eighteenth-century mansions, from Volvos to Rolls Royces. Going up you make enemies, coming down you don’t, not so much anyway. People on the way down make friends.’

‘Friends?’

‘Of the sort who will be only too pleased to help you spend your money.’

‘Ah…’

‘Are you getting to see Mr Williams now? He wasn’t so much a businessman, no matter how he styled himself.’

Ffoulkes grimaced and raised his eyebrows. ‘He was more of a soft touch for cash. His reputation got round and he became the softest touch in the Vale of York and in ten years he blew six million pounds, with a little help from his friends, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘People starting up a money-minting business that just can’t fail…that sort of thing, just need a few thousand to launch them, and another few thousand to get them through the first quarter…you grasp the pattern?’

‘I do. I actually feel sorry for the man.’ Yellich doodled on his pad. ‘You couldn’t advise him?’

‘No. Can’t interfere and he wouldn’t listen. He seemed to live in a cloud-cuckoo-land. It wasn’t long ago that he sold his mansion and his Rolls Royce. Even the move to a cramped little bungalow and loss of his prestige motor car didn’t seem to bring home to him the enormity of his financial loss. Only recently he came to me for a loan of some money to have a house built…he got his loan but only upon surrender of the deeds to his bungalow, they’re in the vault. We can recover the money from his beneficiaries, so we won’t lose it - the bungalow is worth more than the loan. Feel sorry for his children…they’re not going to inherit the bungalow. But they’ve both got careers, they’ll survive…they won’t sink…but you know Mr Yellich, the only place Max and Amanda Williams were heading was the Salvation Army shelter.’ Ffoulkes paused. ‘Complex man.’

‘Williams?’

‘Yes…you know, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead ‘Don’t then. Speak accurately of them.’

Ffoulkes smiled. ‘Yes…once I saw a side to him I didn’t like. Didn’t like at all. Accepted an invitation to his house…not what I expected…the bumbling, jovial, dapper Williams was a sour individual at home…everything in its place…a tyrant, I thought…and the tension between him and his wife, you could cut it with a knife. Their son was there, on leave from the navy. There was a lot of tension between them, cold, simmering tension…him and his son, him and his wife…son and mother…just an impression. But it was a strong enough impression that I didn’t accept any further invitations to socialize with the family. All that vintage claret gone to waste.’

Yellich walked out of the ancient stone doorway of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank and into Davygate. A hot, dry day in the ancient city; the tourists in one’s and two’s, family groups and school parties and the noise and the colour and the spectacle of the street entertainers; the buskers, the puppeteers, the fire-eater, the man on stilts. And the beggars in the doorways.

Vibrancy.

‘You know, Shored-up, I’ll never fathom you. Truly I never will.’

‘All part of the intrigue, Mr Hennessey, all part of the intrigue. How did you get here, car?’

‘Yes.’

‘I came by train. Pleasant ride from York. Especially this time of the year. Lovely countryside.’

Shored-up was, Hennessey found, to be in his usual confident manner. A tweed jacket, despite the heat, a Panama hat, a white shirt, tie with crest upon it, dark flannels, brogues, all cutting a dash, an English gentleman of military bearing, by manner and appearance.

‘Can’t get lost, just a short walk from the railway station to the abbey.’

‘And here we are.’

Hennessey and Shored-up strolled around the imposing building that was Selby Abbey, a mass of light grey stone against a blue sky, planted, it had always seemed to Hennessey, on the flat green landscape.

‘It’s your games, Shored-up. If it’s not a pub which only the devil would know existed in Doncaster, it’s the junction of two minor roads in the middle of nowhere…or it’s telephoning a public call box which turned out to be in Thirsk. Why Thirsk?’

‘Same as the pub in Doncaster, which I have heard referred to as “Donny”, same as the road junction, same reason as Selby Abbey…prying eyes, Mr Hennessey, prying eyes. If the criminal fraternity know that I give information to the boys in blue, I will be black-balled.’

‘The entire criminal fraternity gives information to the boys in blue, they do it all the time.’

‘Ah, but with what quality, what consistency? I am what is known as a grass. I want not my throat cut nor my body to be flung in the Ouse. The criminals in the Vale like me, Mr Hennessey, they know that with my background I offer them a touch of class.’

‘Which regiment did you serve in as the adjutant?’

‘The Green Howards.’

‘You’d better get your act straightened, Shored-up, the last time I asked you that question the answer was the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.’

‘Yes…’ Shored-up forced a smile.

‘You may impress your apprentice criminals who look to you as a father figure, but don’t try it on with me. You know and I know that the only army you’ve been near is the Salvation Army. Your mannerisms come from hanging around hotels and the like being a keen observer of the pukka, pukka English at play and your clothes show what can be had from the charity shops for less than a good night in the pub. So don’t put it on.’