‘How were you going to tell him?’

‘He said he would contact me.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘John – McEliney.’

‘Where are you from, John?’

‘London.’

‘Can I see your driving licence?’

He pulled it out; it had his name on it and an address in Kilburn, North London. I photographed it and handed it back. The hooting was getting even worse.

‘How long have you been following me, John?’

‘This is the first time – just now.’

‘How many days have you waited?’

‘I just started today. He said you didn’t show for long periods sometimes.’

‘Who did?’

‘Mick.’

‘Mick who?’

‘I told you, I don’t know.’

I pulled out my notebook, and from the back I tugged a plastic strip; a sheet of plastic came out. ‘Put your hands on that,’ I said. He did so. ‘Now push hard.’ He was shaking like a leaf. I took his fingerprints. ‘Now your thumb … good boy.’

I put the plastic back in the notebook and put it in my pocket.

‘Was there anything else you wanted to see me about, John?’

He looked at me oddly, then shook his head.

‘Good, then I’ll be off.’ I took hold of his ignition keys, switched off the ignition, then removed them, pocketing them as I left the car.

The van driver in front had gone puce. He leaned his head out of the window and recited a very inadequate list of sexual organs and what can be done with them. He finished just as I shut my car door. ‘If that’s all you know,’ I said, ‘you can’t have a very interesting sex life.’

He could certainly run fast. Luckily the light was green, and I accelerated through it, leaving him to shake his fist impotently. I forgot him, and concentrated on McEliney.