“Bloody right I don’t. You’re the policeman, you solve the crime. I’m here for moral support, handwriting analysis, and the occasional Frenching to keep your pecker up.” He grinned at Aaron’s choke. “Look, I read that arsehole’s hand. I really do understand that we’re in a lot of trouble. But running away won’t achieve anything for me that I care to have any more. I’d rather play than fold.”

Aaron touched his face with a gentle finger, a wondering expression. “The odds are bad. And the stakes are very high.”

“I know,” Joel said. “But if the war taught me anything, it was that if you keep going, you might get through. And not to raise your hand for attention, that’s a terrible idea. And also that tea fixes most things, so get the kettle on, because we’re going to talk about this.”

***

AARON MADE A POT. THEY sat together on the settee, Joel curled against Aaron’s broad chest, Aaron’s arm round his shoulders.

“Gerald Marks. A private detective by trade. In particular he was hired a few years ago by the Beech family after their son hanged for murder.” He recounted the case: a wealthy art dealer found beaten to death; a bloodstained poker and a pile of cash under the bed where a drunken man slept.

“Was he covered in blood?” Joel asked.

“He was not. It was argued that he had had the presence of mind to wash himself and dispose of his bloodstained shirt—one was missing—but had forgotten about the poker.”

“And where did Colthorne come into it?”

“He was investigating the case, but he had played cards with Thaddeus Knight, the victim. He stated that at the outset, making it clear they had played legally in a private house and he didn’t owe the man money. It was less than ideal but he was kept on the case due to the pressure of wartime on manpower. Beech swung. His family hired Marks to look into it, but he didn’t get anywhere. The family emigrated two years back.”

“And the case was seven years ago, so why would Colthorne care now?”

“Good question.” Aaron made a face. “Marks didn’t forget the Beech case; we know he discussed it with his landlady. He came into money in the last weeks of his life, and we can’t trace its source. And then he received a fatal wound to the back of his head, his office was searched on the night of his death by someone who had his keys, and his notebooks and all his files relating to the last few months are missing.”

“That sounds dodgy as hell.”