“And get paid for it, right? Everyone’s got to make a living. So what Darby wants is a small monthly payment to cover his costs, so you can keep on making a living.”

Joel didn’t bother to ask what costs, or what Darby Sabini would actually do for his money. He knew what this was, and Mr. Twigg knew he knew.

“How much?” he said.

“Pound a week sounds fair.”

“What?” Joel yelped. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Here you are, no overheads, getting paid for reading, you can spare it.”

Most clients took less than half an hour, and sometimes Joel only had four or five clients in the week. “That’s too much,” he said.

Mr. Twigg’s eyes snapped to his. “Did I ask what you thought?”

“I don’t make that much money! I don’t know what you imagine—”

“I don’t imagine. Never have. I bet you’re an imaginative sort, graphologist and all that. You got a good imagination?”

“Look, Mr. Twigg—”

“You got a good imagination?”

Clearly he had to answer. “I suppose so.”

“I bet you do. ” Mr. Twigg gestured at Joel’s left sleeve. “I expect you’re always imagining stuff about that. What if you lost the other hand. What if someone took a brick to your fingers, smashed ‘em flat. One by one.” He made a sharp, violent, downward gesture. Joel flinched. “I bet a man with imagination would lie awake at night thinking about stuff like that.”

Joel swallowed hard. Mr. Twigg held his gaze for a couple of seconds longer. “Like I said, a pound a week, first month payable in advance, and then everyone can go about their business with no unpleasantness, see?”

Joel saw very well. “I don’t have that on me.”

“Then I’ll come back for it tomorrow,” Mr. Twigg said. “At ten. Make sure you’re here.”

“I’ve a client at ten.”

“So have my envelope ready. See you tomorrow, Mr. Wildsmith. Pleasure doing business with you.”

He ambled out, leaving the door ajar. Joel went to shut it, and stood for a moment, breathing hard.

He was being shaken down. So what was he going to do about it?

Police? Mr. Twigg hadn’t told him not to go to the police, but Joel suspected he was expected to know that for himself. Would the police act on the implied threat, or fob him off as they had his pawnbroker friend? Would they look at his record? Could they do anything useful at all?

If he spoke to Aaron—

No. It would be nice to have a CID man he could whistle up, but for that, he would need not to have told him to fuck off.