By mid-afternoon, the waves of panic had subsided a little, which allowed the jagged rocks of his personality to re-emerge. He was deeply, intensely pissed off that a copper had threatened him in his own home, over a civil matter, when he’d told nothing but the truth. He was not going to be pushed around by a uniformed bully boy, and he intended to do something about this.

The question was what.

A formal complaint was not a possibility. He wasn’t going to poke the hornets’ nest, not with his record. But he was going to complain to the only policeman he knew, and ask him what his cousin was up to and if he seriously intended to support it. After all, Detective Sergeant Fowler had come round to Joel’s home and accused him of dishonesty. He should have a chance to see how that felt.

He dug out Mr. Thurloe’s typed letter asking for an appointment. It bore an address of a mansion block in Lisson Grove, which wasn’t too far. He’d go and pay a visit.

***

JOEL TURNED UP AT ABOUT seven. He didn’t know what sort of hours detective sergeants worked, but they must go home eventually.

He’d realised on the way there that there might be a Mrs. Fowler. That would be a good thing: he needed to keep on the straight and narrow. Provoking Fowler had been fun—a lot of fun—but he’d probably have cold feet by now, he certainly would when Joel turned up at his home, and when some men got cold feet, they used them to kick with. Joel needed to keep it professional, demand what the hell was going on, and hope he’d read Fowler’s hand accurately.

Tollemache Mansions, Lisson Grove proved to be a newish three-story block of flats in yellow brick overlooking a little garden square, a short walk from Marylebone Station. It was quite a lot nicer than Great Percy Street. Plush for a policeman, Joel thought, and wondered for a second if Fowler was on the take before remembering his hand.

There was a line of doorbells, with Fowler at number three. Joel didn’t ring. He waited for someone to come out, smiled his way through the building’s front door, made his way up to the first floor and flat three, and rang the doorbell.

Fowler answered it, and the look of startled horror on his face was some compensation for the day Joel had had.

“Hello, Detective Sergeant. Could I have a word?”

“What are you doing here?”

“There’s policemen popping up at my place at all hours. Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?”

Fowler narrowed his eyes but stepped back. “Come in.”