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asked.
    ‘Lee went up to his room after dinner.’
    ‘Which was when?’ Reggie took a notebook from her pocket.
    ‘Around nine, maybe half past. I’m not sure of the exact time.’
    ‘And Lee’s room is in the attic?’ Huw sat forward on the edge of the bench seat.
    ‘He has a workshop up there as well as his bedroom. He’s a goldsmith. He’s working on an order for an antique shop in Hatton Garden. Restoring an Edwardian emerald and diamond collar, bracelet and earrings.’
    ‘Was it unusual for him to go up to his room early?’ Regina questioned.
    ‘Not when he’s working on something he’s interested in. He loses all sense of time. I’ve known him to work around the clock.’
    ‘Was your other brother in the house?’
    ‘James was in the kitchen pouring drinks. He and Dad often have a beer before bed. Mam has a G & T.’ Michael’s eyes were dark, anguished. ‘The fire – when did it break out?’
    ‘A witness saw flames in the attic and kitchen at around three o’clock,’ Huw answered.
    Michael glanced instinctively at his wrist but he’d dressed in a hurry and forgotten his watch.
    ‘It’s half past four,’ Huw told him.
    ‘And you only told me now,’ he protested bitterly.
    ‘No one knew where you were until our officers spoke to Tim Pryce. We assumed you were in the house…’ Huw faltered when he realised what he was saying.
    ‘You haven’t found any of them have you?’ There was a heartfelt plea in Michael’s question. Huw Thomas thought of his men and what they’d seen in the bedroom.
    He hated himself for taking away the boy’s last scrap of hope. ‘I’m sorry; we haven’t found anyone alive, Michael.’ He wanted to add “not yet” but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the platitude.
    CHAPTER FOUR
    Larry Jones was vaguely aware of noise and confusion. People were shouting. The ground beneath him shaking. Were his cellmates Bimmo and Piggy fighting again… couldn’t they let him sleep… what was that droning… the engine of a plane?
    Was he on a plane? Going to Malaga or Majorca? He’d been to both. Booze; girls up for unlimited bonking; and a nightlife to make your eyes water. He couldn’t wait. He opened his eyes, tried to move his head and cried out when shooting pains sliced through his skull.
    There was no plane, only lights burning somewhere ahead in a stinking smoke-filled gloom and a disgusting metallic taste in his mouth. Then he remembered. He’d come home… only no one had been in the house. He’d gone for a drink… met a mate… more mates… more drinks… a meal… gone into town… where was he?
    It was so dark he couldn’t make out anything. And the place stank. Worse than the raw sewage that had spilled on to the beach when he’d been swimming in Spain.
    His head hurt as if he’d been hit by a hammer. Had he? Had he been hammered? He had no memory of a fight. He cast his mind back before his last stay in prison and remembered… this was a hangover. He tried to sit up and realised he was lying in something soft. Soft and reeking. He made a supreme effort to get on his knees, fell back, crouched and gagged.
    He retched so violently he lost control of his bladder and bowels. He failed to stop the spasms, even when there was nothing left inside to come up.
    A torch shone down from ahead of and above the murk that enveloped him. A voice snapped.
    ‘Your name?’
    He wanted to shout “Piss off” but between heaving and vomiting failed to get out a word.
    The light drew closer. ‘Your name? What you doing here?’
    He remained crouching only just managing to shake his head.
    The light wavered. The man who’d spoken shouted, ‘Call a police officer, the Chief and get Tim Pryce. He knows everyone in town. If he’s local Tim will know him.’
    Larry wanted to yell, “That’s right, call the bloody police. Larry Jones has had a few jars so lock him up again, why don’t you.” But he couldn’t stop his stomach from cramping to rid itself