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a heart attack!”
    So that was why she had invited Tim to The Gravy. I should have seen it from the start. Minerva loathed her husband – that much had been obvious when we first met them at their suite at the hotel – and she amused herself by humiliating him. And what better way than to be seen out in public with someone like my big brother, Tim?
    At that moment I disliked her as much as anyone I had ever known. More than Charon, the four-fingered assassin we met in Amsterdam. More than my homicidal French teacher, Monsieur Palis. The thing about Minerva was that she was beautiful, rich and loved by millions. But she had the heart of a snake.
    Somehow we got through to the next course. My steak was fine but I didn’t like the look of the grey, jelly-like dish that Minerva had ordered for herself and Tim. It came in a yellow sauce with rice and beans.
    Tim wasn’t sure either. He had eaten about half of it when he stopped and looked up. “What did you say this was?” he asked.
    “
Cervelles de veaux au beurre
.”
    He took another mouthful. “It tastes interesting,” he said. “What does that mean?”
    “Grilled calves’ brains in butter.”
    Two minutes later we were standing outside on the pavement with the doorman glowering at us, glad to see us go.
    “That was a nice evening,” I said.
    “Do you think Minerva enjoyed it?” Tim asked.
    “Well, you may have spoiled it a bit when you were sick on her.” I looked around for a bus or a taxi.
    “I want to go home,” Tim groaned. He was still looking very green.
    “To Paddington Bear?”
    “Just get us a cab!”
    But as it turned out, we weren’t going to need a bus or a cab. Because just then a car came screeching to a halt in front of us and two men leapt out.
    “It’s a police car!” Tim exclaimed.
    That was particularly brilliant of him and I wasn’t sure how he’d worked it out. Maybe it was the blue uniforms the men were wearing. Or it could have been the car with its flashing lights and the word POLICE emblazoned on the side. But he was right. I thought they’d come to look after Minerva – but it was the two of us they made for.
    “Are you Tim Diamond?” one of them asked.
    “Yes…”
    “Get in the car. You’re coming down to the station.”
    “What’s going on?” I demanded. “What’s happened? And how did you know we were here?”
    They ignored me.
    The policeman was examining Tim. “We want to talk to you,” he said.
    “What about?” Tim quavered.
    The policeman smiled but without a shred of warmth or humour. It was the sort of smile a doctor might give you before he explained you only had a week to live. “You’re wanted, Mr Diamond,” he said. “For murder.”

THE DEAD MAN
    I don’t like police stations. They’re full of violent and dangerous characters who need to be kept away from modern society … and I’m not talking about the crooks. A lot of people say the British police are wonderful, but I’d have to disagree. I was only fourteen but I had been arrested so often, it couldn’t be long before they gave me my own set of personalized handcuffs. I even spent a month in prison once – and I hadn’t done anything wrong! When I look back on it, there’s only one word to describe the way I’ve been treated. Criminal.
    This time they drove us to a police station in Holborn, about ten minutes’ drive from The Gravy. Tim had gone very pale and quiet in the back of the car.
Cervelles de veaux au beurre
and now this! We stopped and the two policemen led us in through a door and down the usual corridor with white tiles on the walls and hard neon lighting above … the sort of corridor that can only take you somewhere you don’t want to be. There was an interrogation room at the end: four chairs, one table and two detectives. The furniture was hard and unattractive but that was nothing compared to the men.
    Detective Chief Inspector Snape and Detective Superintendent Boyle. They were old friends and, like most