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recovered the DNA of both Jack and one of his alleged assailants. There may have been no heroes on Peckham High Street that afternoon, but there had been two fellow bus passengers prepared to come forward and make detailed witness statements.
    Then there was the CCTV evidence. This was not only admissible but also quite damning, DS McCabe told the Greer family. The case was not exactly cut and dried, because no case ever was. But it was very strong. Despite it, the perpetrators had indicated that they would enter a not guilty plea. He was obliged to caution Jack that defence counsel would likely call him to the stand for cross-examination. It would bring the event vividly back to the present. It would be an ordeal for him.
    ‘Are you comfortable with that, Jack?’
    ‘I want them punished, Alec.’
    The detective had insisted that Jack address him by his Christian name. They had bonded very quickly over a shared allegiance to a particular football club. James Greer took no interest whatsoever in the game. But Jack was a talented player and, like DS McCabe, a passionate supporter of Chelsea FC. They had waxed nostalgic about the great days under the management of the Portuguese maestro José Mourinho, the self-elected Special One. They had swapped eulogies about the world-class midfielder, Frank Lampard. This had all quietly amused James, who calculated that when the Special One had left Chelsea, his son had only been about eight years old.
    Even at that age, though, his birthday present had been a replica kit. He’d won a Southwark-wide, borough-run keepy-uppy competition held for under-tens that year. Now a couple of London clubs were sending scouts to watch the games he played for South London Boys. Or they had been, before the attack and his injury. He had the off-season, the whole of the summer to recover. He would recover of course, but, if his father had his way, Jack had played his last youth match for any team based in the capital.
    They were in the sitting room of their handsome Bermondsey house. James had seen McCabe raise an appreciative eyebrow when he’d shown him in. He had inventoried the wall-mounted Bang and Olufsen plasma widescreen and the Naim audio components stacked in their steel and granite rack. He had catalogued the artwork, carefully accrued and proudly hung by Lillian. You could not live like this on a detective sergeant’s remuneration. Not if you were honest, you couldn’t, and James thought DS McCabe probably as straight as they came. He had accepted a cup of coffee and James had gone and made it and he sat with the mug rested in his hand on his knee.
    Lillian said to him, ‘Would it jeopardise the chances of a prosecution if Jack refused to take the stand?’
    ‘I’m not going to refuse to take the stand, Mum,’ Jack said. ‘I want them punished. I want to help to put them away.’
    ‘It would be far better if he were prepared to testify,’ McCabe said to Lillian. ‘He’s clearly attacked in the CCTV footage. The attack is sudden and unprovoked. But before he’s hit with the tyre iron and subdued, for the first half minute of the fight, Jack is actually getting the better of it. It would be much more damning if he could talk the jury through the film. He could stress the fact that they were total strangers to him. That’s more effective coming from him under oath. Your son has an engaging personality. He’s a very sympathetic character.’
    And you want them nailed, James thought. You’re a copper for reasons that go a long way beyond the uniform and the pension provision. He wondered what sort of childhood McCabe had endured. He looked more than capable of taking care of himself now. He looked well capable of taking care of anyone else, come to that. But he had been small and vulnerable once. He’d said he had a daughter. Should he go on to have a son James thought the boy would be very fortunate in having him for a father.
    To his mother, Jack said, ‘I don’t need the