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them in an old suit-
    case. All those memories. But then there was a house fire in the 90s.
    All lost. All gone.’
    He looks up sadly.
    ‘Tell me about it, Roy,’ she says softly.
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    ‘No,’ he replies, almost brusquely. ‘Too painful. All gone. All lost.
    No point raking over the past. I live for the now, for us and our
    future.’
    He is lost, again, to her. She leaves him to attempt to pick up the threads of his hospital drama and returns to the kitchen to complete the supermarket order. The snow continues to fall.
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Chapter Three
August 1998
    London Pride
    1
    They were gathered here, these brothers in arms, for the purpose of celebrating another glorious victory. Apart from Vincent, for whom
    Roy had other uses. None was aware, except Vincent, that this was
    Roy’s sign- off. Or kiss- off might have been a more appropriate
    expression. Nor were the others aware that, strictly speaking, a celebration wasn’t really quite the thing. Glorious wasn’t the right word either, any more than victory. For them at least. In fact they should be drowning their sorrows, little though they knew it. But they need not worry their greedy little heads about that now. All in good time.
    They sat at a window table and watched the Thames sparkle in
    the sun. There was the usual commotion of river traffic. The pun-
    gency of the river, wide and metropolitan, mingled with diesel
    fumes and the hoppy aroma of their beer. London Pride. It could
    not get more English, Roy thought. These were the best of times;
    this smiling bunch were in their prime. The elation of triumph,
    however illusory. The boys weren’t to know. A few beers. Cigars all round. A sunny day by the Embankment watching the world go by
    and getting pissed. These were the days that, shortly, would be over for him.
    He looked at them with affection and a practised air of noncha-
    lance. They were sharp, these boys, but none was as spry as he was.
    They wouldn’t catch him out. He had been there and he had done
    most of it. Vincent: now he really did have something about him, as well as the letters after his name. Which is why Roy had selected
    him to be his partner on the final part of this navigation. With all the right checks and balances, of course. Perhaps they would have
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    their own private celebration afterwards, the two of them. He
    doubted it: Vincent was too serious and, bluntly, Roy was beyond all that.
    This motley crew had seemingly formed organically, as if by
    osmosis, over the years, but in fact Roy had assembled them with
    painstaking care. Dave was at the bar getting the next round in,
    while fat Bernie launched yet another telegraphed ribald joke on to the table. Watchful Welsh Bryn, Jones the Eyes, did what he did: he observed, though he too was already two sheets to the wind and
    cracked a smile. Martin, suave and mustachioed, was in tears with
    laughter. Tomorrow they would all wake up and ask themselves:
    why on earth did we think that joke of Bernie’s was so funny? Oh,
    but we laughed.
    ‘Where’s that cunt Dave got to?’ boomed Bernie, and Martin
    winced, amused.
    Roy had known Martin the longest, had fished him out of the
    gutter it must have been twenty- five years before. Martin was not bright but he knew the bounds of his limited intelligence, as well as what he was good at. The son of an army colonel and the product
    of a prematurely terminated public school education, Martin could
    start a conversation from nothing and keep it going almost indefin-
    itely, exuding empathy and understanding. He was what they called
    a people person and with his wonderful modulated tones, lovely
    manners and cut- glass accent he was infinitely credible, however
    little he knew about the subject at hand. He was biddable, nerveless and ready to be deployed in the trickiest of