‘Your new address?’

‘Well, I’ve got some adjusting to do, haven’t I? No more expensive rented flats in NW2 for me. I’ve got to find a damp bedsit somewhere. Maybe transfer out of London to some place where the rent is affordable for someone on my salary. Look for a rich man to rescue me. I’ve still got some good years in me. Shall we go?’

Yellich looked at Hennessey, who nodded, reluctantly.

Alone in the interview room, Hennessey looked at the date he had written on his notepad. June the thirteenth.

Some years he anticipates the date with dread, other years it comes and goes without him noticing it, and other years, the worst happens, he realizes on the day that it is the date. The thirteenth of June. His brother’s birthday. At least it would have been had he lived. Had he been cautious, not reckless, had the danger years not claimed him as one of theirs. It is said that the cemeteries are full of young men who don’t believe it can happen to them, and Graham Hennessey, twenty-two years old when he died, was one such. A long time ago now, but each thirteenth of June it seemed to Hennessey as though it was yesterday that the policeman had knocked awkwardly on his parents’ front door.

The End.