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silent and looked at each other, each more perplexed than the other.
    ***
    “That’s interesting, but how does an antipodean know who this bloke is when he lives eleven thousand miles away, and yet no one in London seems to know him?” DS Scott asked reasonably.
    Ben reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph of Dennis Grierson; it had clearly been taken with a long lens , because the betting shop behind him was out of focus. The picture bore the Vastrick logo in the bottom corner. Ben passed it to DS Scott as he explained.
    “This photo was taken a year ago. The subject is one Dennis Grierson, also known as Psycho. He lives in the Trafalgar House Flats in Tottenham. The reason I know that this is the same man is that he is my father!”
     
    The two policemen were stunned. In front of them stood Ben Fogarty, former All Blacks winger, son of the outspoken New Zealand MP, Patrick Fogarty, and yet he was claim ing that the vicious animal who had beaten PC Marisa Letterby half to death was his real dad. Ben briefly explained the background to his claim as DS Fellowes flipped open his laptop and began typing. In a matter of seconds a different picture, a mug shot, in fact, of an unshaven Dennis Grierson, appeared on the screen, and Fellowes drew DS Scott’s attention to it.
    “Bloody hell!” Scott blurted out. “This guy has form going back years. He’s been on the radar since he was about ten, and that was forty -five years ago. We need to give him a long service medal, or something,” he continued, sarcastic humour lacing his narrative.
    ***
    Ben had been told that the wheels of justice turned slowly in England, but if that had been the case once, it certainly wasn’t today. Fellowes was organising a snatch squad to head out to Tottenham, based on the Vastrick research Ben had in his file.
    The Vastrick investigator had followed Grierson for some time, noting that every Saturday morning, without fail, he turned up at Pat Byrne’s Betting Shop in Tottenham to place bets and do business. In the two hours he spent in the shop a stream of hoods, fences and drug dealers from all over the capital called in to see him. He had even been giv en the use of the rear office.
    Scott broke the silence. “Ben, we don’t go into the flats unless we have to. Between Grierson’s troop and the local gangs, they attack our uniformed guys and smash up our vehicles, so if we can pick him up at the bookies, all well and good. OK?” Ben nodded. Scott continued. “Now, Fellowes and I would like you to come with us to the hospital where Marisa Letterby is recovering. She woke up out of the coma a couple of days ago and she can communicate. We’d better run this by her. She deserves that.” The two men left to join DS Fellowes, who was retrieving his car, a dark blue BMW X5 SUV with darkened windows.
     
    ***
    Aft er a speedy journey across the capital, helped by the fact that the school holidays always reduced the city traffic, the three men arrived at the hospital. They had been directed to ward 32, second left on the third floor. They were waiting at the nurses’ station when the charge nurse approached.
    “Her husband has just left. Marisa is still weak so don’t stay more than a few minutes. Oh, and prepare yourselves not to show any shock wh en you see her; it won’t help.”
    The three walked into a four- bedded ward where Marisa Letterby was propped up in her bed looking small and frail, not at all like a burly policewoman. Whilst they had been warned outside about her appearance, they were still taken aback. It was doubtful whether her own mother would have recognised her bruised and swollen face.
     
    “It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks,” she assured them, attempting a twisted smile. DS Scott made the introductions, without mentioning that Ben was the suspect’s son, before showing Marisa the mug shot. In response she stifled a sob and Scott apologised, pulling the offending picture away.
    “You know the