Palmer-Jones looked at the face. Before his retirement, when he was working for the Home Office, he had met many policemen. The younger man was staring across the desk at him, willing him to remember. Then it came back to him. There had been an important corruption case in the north-west and he had been sent as observer, with no official status, just the requirement that he should report back to the minister. A young detective constable had come to him with information about one of the senior officers conducting the investigation. He remembered the meeting in one of the big, shabbily ornate pubs in Liverpool. It had been very smoky, the light had been poor, and in one corner an old lady sat drinking Guinness, singing. He remembered the policeman’s dark, angry eyes, and his resentment that no one within the organization had been prepared to listen. “It’s a bloody cover-up,” he had said over and over again. “A bloody cover-up.” Palmer-Jones had been able to use the information without implicating the constable. He understood that there had been changes in the Merseyside force after the inquiry which followed. At last the name and the face coincided.

“Superintendent Savage,” he said. “ Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you, sir. It would never have happened without your help.”

“How can I help you, Superintendent? I wasn’t here, you know, when the offence was committed.”

“I know that, sir.”

“I don’t expect to be consulted, or to be given any special consideration. I have retired. I won’t interfere.”

“It’s not a question of interference, sir. It’s a question of helping the police with their inquiries.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Well sir, you are in a special position here. You know all the suspects. You share their interest and you’ve got their trust. I’m sure that they will confide in you, in a way they never would in Connibear or myself. And I’m sure that you would never put personal considerations before the pursuit of justice.”

George’s immediate reaction was anger. What right had the little man behind the desk to talk in clichés about justice? His tone, however, was mild.

“I hope that you’re not asking me to spy on my friends, Superintendent.”

Savage took the question seriously. “Not that, sir. No. But if you were to be told something which might help, I’d be grateful if you’d pass it on. Murder’s not a matter of etiquette. You know that as well as I do.”

Do I? thought George suddenly. Do I really care who murdered Charlie Todd? And realized that it did matter, very much. He recognized with some distaste the old relief that something out of the ordinary had happened; at least for a few days he would not be bored. And he recognized the old arrogance: If anyone can sort the matter out, I can. They need me.

“I won’t do it secretly,” he said. “ I won’t pretend that I’m just asking questions out of interest. They’re too intelligent to believe that anyway. I will explain that because I know the set-up here, and because of my experience, you’ve asked me to keep an eye on things. And then I’ll pass on anything I learn, or anything that occurs to me.”