I wish I could say it was because I’d been too busy to give it another thought, but the truth was my outbursts had always left me feeling as though the Duracell bunny had nicked my battery and run off with it. As soon as I’d downed my share of that wonderful cream tea, I’d simply fallen asleep, my head on the kitchen table. And I remembered not because my sleep had left me refreshed and brimming with ideas, but because, after one of Griff’s best ever meals, a policeman asked me. Yes, one of Tony’s colleagues, a pale young man in his thirties called DC Brent, had got round to paying us a visit. ‘Fashionably late, I see, my dear sir,’ Griff greeted him, showing him into the living room. ‘Shifts,’ Brent apologised, peering nervously through trendy invisible-rim specs with gold sides. ‘You get into a routine and then it all goes nohow. You know how it is.’ ‘We do indeed,’ Griff cooed. ‘Our life on the road simply ruins our social lives.
