Howard picks up his glass. “To our aberrations. Whatever they may be.”

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IN BED, WHILE WE were making love, Jean began to talk to me, the way she often did, about other people, about what she’d like to do to them, in fantasy, what she’d like them to do to me, what she’d like them to do to her, would I like it, would I like that, would I like to do something like that, would I, would I, and I would say yes, yes, to elevate her excitement, to help to lift her mind and her body, to help in opening the floodgates, and this time, it was Mickey. Would I like to do that to him, she’d like to see him do that to me, what would I feel like if I did that to him, would I, would I, really? Christ, would I, God, my God, would you, Christ. Christ.

“Listen, you cunt, try and fit me up all you want. There’s a filing cabinet through in the office; go and have a browse through. Feel free. But don’t come here playing the Shepherdsons’ game. It doesn’t suit you. You’re like a sardine in a trifle. You couldn’t pull off a fit-up if they kitted you out to look like Vince Hill, instead of wearing that clerical grey—you must spend hours on getting it to shine just right. Stick to your rules, Parsons. Stay within the guidelines of your striped suit. Have a get-together with the Inland Revenue, or the VAT boys, go after me that way. But don’t come in here in a haze of the Sheps after-shave and try and play that game. You are strictly not headline material. It must have been the helmet. All those years carrying it around on the night shift in Paddington. Irreversible brain damage. That’s what must have caused it. You are just a thick copper with nobody and nothing in your pocket. Except for your highly scrupulous expenses chitties, which are no doubt neatly folded and are sometimes not even cashed over the counter.”