“I’m a single man myself, Detective Sergeant,” Joel flipped back. “Footloose and fancy-free. And I appreciate a well-filled corset, so I thought you might introduce me.”

“What if I told you my friend was an octogenarian gentleman with six cats?”

“I’d say you were lying through your teeth. If one is allowed to accuse the police of such a thing, even when it’s clearly true.”

“I’m here in a private capacity,” Fowler reminded him. “I can’t put you in touch with my friend, I fear.”

“At least pass on my advice. Get someone to cut those laces for you before you pop.” He gave it just a second, and finished, “...is what you should tell her. If you’re that sort of friend.”

He was pushing this, he knew, but he could no more resist the temptation than fly. “Don’t you think?” he added. “Better out than in, don’t they say?”

“That reminds me,” Fowler said. “When we discussed my friend’s handwriting you said I bet and then stopped. What did you bet?”

It was ridiculous he should have remembered that, or expected Joel to remember. It was even more infuriating that Joel did.

“Oh, I don’t think I should say,” he temporised. “I spoke without thinking. I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful to a lady.”

“I won’t repeat it,” Fowler said. “I’d just be interested to know.”

“Still. It was trench talk, if you know what I mean.”

“I was in the Navy, but I expect it’s much of a muchness. Say what you meant. I shan’t take offence on my friend’s behalf.”

“Well, if you insist,” Joel said. “When I read your friend’s letter, I thought that was someone who, in the right circumstances—the right hands—would bang like a barn door in the wind. Oh, will you look at the time: I’ve a client arriving any moment. It’s been an absolute pleasure, Detective Sergeant. Drop by whenever you’re passing.”

He ushered the slack-jawed policeman out. Then he put his back to the door, slid down to the floor, and laughed himself sick.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

TWO DAYS LATER, THE memory of the look on Fowler’s face was still giving Joel pleasure. It had been immature and stupidly risky, but what was life without a bit of fun?

If he wanted a serious answer to that question he should probably ask Fowler. Lord above, that man needed relief. He clearly wasn’t joyless—if he hadn’t been playing along by the end, Joel would eat his hat—but talk about self-control, a thing Joel respected more in the breach than the observance.

He should be glad of it in this case. He’d already done two months for soliciting a policeman, albeit by accident; a repeat offence was the absolute last thing he needed.