JOEL HAD TO RETURN home eventually, much against his will. He wanted to be with Aaron, together, touching, giving each other strength; he also really didn’t fancy the walk. That was his hard luck, because the Tube and buses had long finished running, so he trudged along two and a half miles of dark, cold, empty streets, jumping at every shadow. He got stopped twice on the Euston Road by uniformed policemen commenting meaningfully that he was out late, and although he knew that Colthorne was CID, and was fairly sure he was outside G Division, it brought his heart into his mouth both times.

He replied pleasantly anyway, and had a bit of a chat with both constables. He might want witnesses that he was going home to spend the night in his own bed.

The cigarette-smoking watcher was outside his house again when he got back. Joel considered a smart remark, and decided against it. He just let himself inside, went to bed, and lay awake in the cold, trying to smell Aaron on himself and sweating ice about the next morning.

He’d been told to present himself at the Griffin public house in Clerkenwell at noon. He got there at ten to, and was conducted in by a couple of men who looked like boxers, to the saloon bar and a table where a broad-shouldered man sat.

You couldn’t call him pretentious. Darby Sabini, king of the racecourse gangs, wore a flat cap, a collarless shirt, a high-buttoned waistcoat, and a dark suit that had seem better days. He had a broken nose, and looked like a bricklayer in his Sunday best.

“Well, now, Mr. Wildsmith,” he said. “Sit down. You’re very prompt, I like that. Will you take a drink?”

He had a pint of stout in front of him. Joel wondered if this was some sort of trap. “If you think I’ll be staying that long, Mr. Sabini. I honestly don’t know why I’m here or what I can do for you.”

“We’ll find out. Pint, is it?”

“Just the half, please. I had a couple last night,” Joel tried, and saw no recognition in the shrewd eyes. Maybe Aaron’s place hadn’t been watched. That would be good.

Darby waved. A pint of bitter arrived. “Thank you,” Joel said, and took a polite sip, which unfortunately revealed that his hand was shaking. A dribble of beer ran down the tankard, and pooled on the sticky table.

“Right,” Darby said. “So, Mr. Wildsmith, what is it you do?”

“I’m a graphologist. I analyse handwriting. Tell you people’s characters.”

“You any good at it?”

“It’s a living. You know how it is, Mr. Sabini.” He lifted his truncated left arm. He’d decided against the prosthetic in case the hook was taken as an offensive weapon.

Darby nodded slowly. “I do know. And you didn’t answer me. You any good at it?”