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it.’
    Staffe says, ‘Taormina?’
    ‘It’s a fancy resort in Sicily. Brad and Madonna like it, so they say.’
    ‘I know what it is. In fact, it’s where Attilio and Helena Ballantyne first met.’
    ‘Dominic Ballantyne was still in the saddle at the time.’ Josie reaches down into her bag, pulls out a copy of Hello! magazine and tosses it across to Staffe.
    In the back pages of social round-up, Attilio Trapani is pictured between Helena and Dominic Ballantyne, his large, bronze arms draped over the English couple’s shoulders at a charity gala. Eighteen months later, Dominic Ballantyne would snap his neck in two, falling sixteen hands from a horse on his own Ockingham estate.
    ‘Did you look into Dominic Ballantyne’s death?’
    ‘I was hoping to get some sleep tonight – for a change!’ Josie’s eyes are heavy.
    Jombaugh’s bleeper goes off and he gets out of his chair, pretending to be an old man. As he leaves he takes the coffee and beckons Staffe across, whispers, ‘Go easy on her, Will. So she’s got a boyfriend . . . You should be pleased for her.’ He winks, slaps Staffe on the shoulder and raises his cup, as if he were toasting. ‘Very tasty.’
    Staffe says to Josie, ‘Just do it as quick as you can.’
    Josie pulls out a stapled stack of photocopied paper from her shoulder bag. ‘Ta-dah! See, I don’t have to sleep. There wasn’t an inquiry and the police were satisfied there was nothing untoward. Disappointed?’
    ‘That’s not the right word.’
    ‘Well, I do have something else for you.’ Josie goes into her bag a third time, hands him a copy of Horse and Hound with a photograph of Attilio Trapani above a strapline that says, ‘Amateur breeder Attilio Trapani plans to expand.’ The article mentions the tremendous support he received from Helena Ballantyne, the widow of Attilio’s great friend Dominic Ballantyne. ‘Trapani acquired for the Ballantynes the very horse from which Dominic fell to his death.’
    ‘Blimey,’ says Staffe. ‘This was just a month after Ballantyne died.’ He drags his fingers through his hair and smiles at Josie, wants to say how proud he is.
    ‘What?’ she says, tilting her head. ‘What is it?’ The soft flesh between her eyebrows crinkles.
    ‘This Conor. He’s a lucky bloke. I hope he’s treating you—’
    The door creaks open and Staffe and Josie both look round, surprised to see Pennington. Instinctively, they both look up at the clock.
    ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this Carmelo business,’ says Pennington.
    ‘Chancellor has been hard at it, sir. We’re building the links to Attilio Trapani.’
    ‘And what about Pulford?’
    ‘He’s not telling me any more than he told you.’
    ‘Christ! I’m sorry about this Trapani thing.’ Pennington never apologises.
    The DCI sits down heavily in a chair by the window. His eyes are dark and heavy in his jaundiced face. With a gaunt gaze, he looks out across the rooftops, down Cloth Fair to the meat market, and sighs, ‘Internal Investigations aren’t pulling up any trees. What a bloody mess. I hoped he would open up to you.’
    ‘I have a lead. I can’t say it’s anything yet, sir, but there’s some e.gang members on the Attlee.’
    ‘We know that, for God’s sake.’
    ‘And there’s a Google Earth search.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘In prison, they’re not supposed—’
    ‘Don’t step on any toes – especially Internal Investigations.’
    ‘Great. Go where the angels are frightened of treading, but make sure you don’t ruffle Professional Standards’ feathers.’
    ‘Keep your head below the bastard parapet, is all. I’m not sure how long we’ve got before the CPS really push for a trial date.’
    ‘It can’t go to trial!’
    ‘It will – if we don’t get some evidence soon. Make sure you work closely with Rimmer on the Trapani case, but make it look as though it’s taking all your time. Now, Rimmer tells me Trapani drove a Daimler. It was a jalopy, but his pride and