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boiled only moments before and his mother had called down the garden, asking if his father wanted coffee. There had been no reply, but in twenty years of marriage Aileen MacNamara had never known her husband refuse a hot drink. So, curious to know what his father had been doing all evening, the fourteen-year-old had poured himself one as well and set off down the path.

       The garage door was a sturdy, wooden affair, the handle missing for as long as the boy could remember, the hasp for the padlock its replacement. Looping a free finger around the metal bracket, he unhooked it then pulled as hard as he could. The door, warped from years of hot summers and cold winters, resisted before screeching open with a sudden jerk, spilling scalding liquid all over his hands. The teenager swore quietly.

       Niall MacNamara had patrolled the streets of Coventry for over twenty-five years and had seen—and heard—it all. Nevertheless he had zero tolerance for foul language in his home and his son wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

       The garage was dark, filled with tools and gardening implements. A spate of recent vandalism had prompted Niall to enlist the help of his two sons to clear enough space for him to park the family car in there overnight, but it was a tight fit.

       The boy started to cough at the same moment he saw the hosepipe snaking from the rear of the car and in through the partially open driver’s side window. With an incoherent shout, he dropped both mugs, forcing himself around the car’s bonnet to the driver’s side. After yanking the hosepipe from the window, he pulled the door handle. Locked. Through the clouds of exhaust filling the car, he could see his father, head slumped forward in the driver’s seat. Choking, the boy cast his teary eyes around wildly before spotting a claw hammer hanging from a hook. With so little room to swing it took three desperate attempts before he shattered the window, all the while screaming for his mother. After pulling the door lock button, he opened the door. An empty whisky bottle rolled off his father’s lap and clattered onto the concrete floor. Reaching in, he took the keys from the ignition. But he knew it was too little, too late.

       Tuesday 10 May 1988. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same again.

      Twenty-Two Years Later

       The scrum of press outside the prison gates was more like that awaiting the appearance of a pop star than a convicted murderer. An explosion of flashbulbs greeted the arrival of a black Jaguar. Some of the dozen or so uniformed police officers, who were stopping the pushing reporters from getting too close to the prison gates, broke off to form a similar line around the rear doors of the luxury car.

      Parked one hundred metres away, DCI Gavin Sheehy looked on with incredulity at the spectacle. All of the major national broadcasters were present, along with several noted international ones. Reporters earnestly spoke into cameras or radio microphones. Recognising one of the BBC’s most famous radio presenters, Sheehy reached for the car radio, selecting Radio 4. Sure enough, the anchor of World at One was reporting on the release of the prisoner, before handing over live to the presenter.

       “The scene outside Wormwood Scrubs prison is unlike anything we’ve ever witnessed before. Vinny Delmarno, the notorious crime lord sentenced in 1988 to life in prison for ordering the killing of a rival drug baron and accused—although acquitted—of dozens of counts of racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing and prostitution, is due to be released any moment on parole.

       “Most prisoners slip out of this back door with little more than a carrier bag, the clothes they wore when they came in, the address of a local bail hostel and forty-six pounds to help them start life again. Vinny Delmarno will have no need of any of these. It is alleged that while he one of the most successful crime lords of the seventies and eighties, he also owned—and some claim still owns—a string of apparently legitimate businesses across the Midlands and the East of England. All of these businesses and his palatial Hertfordshire home were signed over to his ex-wife in an entirely uncontested divorce settlement weeks before his successful conviction. Rumour has it that he and his wife have reconciled over the past twenty-two years and that he will be returning to the couple’s former home as soon as he is released.”

       The anchorwoman broke in, “This has caused some controversy, hasn’t it, Mark?”

       “Indeed it has. Politicians from all sides of the House are questioning if there is any way the state can seize these assets, even though they were legally awarded to his ex-wife. The shadow Home Secretary has claimed that the divorce was clearly a sham and that therefore his assets should be used to repay the millions of pounds of back tax that it is alleged he avoided through money-laundering schemes. It should be noted of course that despite his conviction, he claims to be innocent of all these charges and that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

       “When he is released, any moment now, it is expected that he will give a statement repeating those claims.”

       Suddenly the press started snapping pictures again and even from his distant vantage point, Sheehy could hear the increase in volume from the waiting press. A moment later it became clear why, as a small side door started to open.

       Sheehy’s breath caught in his throat. It had been a long time since he had last set eyes on the man. He wasn’t prepared for the shock. Delmarno was a small, dapper man in his mid fifties. His silver hair had been expertly coiffured and his thin pencil moustache trimmed neatly. The fitted suit that he wore was certainly not the one he’d worn in court; its cut was clearly contemporary. But then he had been a very different man back then.

       “In many ways it is a big surprise to see Vinny Delmarno here today. When sentenced back in 1988, he was believed to be within a year of dying from kidney failure. In fact that was put forward in mitigation by his defence team when the judge sentenced him. Six months into his sentence, however, he received a controversial life-saving kidney transplant. Questions were again raised in the House of Commons and the House of Lords as to whether a convicted murderer should be given such treatment free on the NHS. The then Health Secretary acknowledged such concerns but stood alongside the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister in claiming that denying prisoners such a life-saving operation would be a slippery slope.”

       The anchorwoman cut back in again, “I believe that Mr Delmarno’s lawyer is about to read a prepared statement.”

       A taller man, in an equally expensive suit, was now standing shoulder to shoulder with his client. He paused whilst the various camera crews jostled for the best position and microphones were thrust under his nose. Clearing his throat he began, “I am going to read a short statement on behalf of my client. He will not be answering any questions.

       “This day has been a long time coming, but finally my freedom, wrongly taken from me, has been returned. For over twenty-two years I have languished in prison for crimes that I did not commit, the victim of a conspiracy concocted at the highest levels. In that time I have maintained my innocence. During my incarceration I have been comforted by the support of my family and friends, who have stood by me and championed my innocence, and I cannot thank them enough. In a moment I will be driven away to be reunited with loved ones and I look forward to embracing my son and rebuilding my life. I feel only sadness that I could not do the same to my dear parents, both of whom passed away during my imprisonment.

       “On the advice of my lawyers, I will not be saying any more other than that I will be turning all of my energy towards overturning my conviction and seeking redress for this appalling miscarriage of justice.” The lawyer paused briefly, before continuing, “Those responsible for this cannot hide for ever. We know who you are and we will have justice. That is all.”

       Behind the wheel of his car, Gavin Sheehy’s hands shook. Suddenly and without warning his stomach lurched and he yanked the door open just in time. He was still hanging awkwardly out of the car, dry heaving, as the Jaguar roared past. The rear windows were blackened, but he still felt the man’s eyes burning hatred through the smoked glass.