“You’ve never found a body in the library with a tropical fish stuffed down its throat?”

“When you’re dealing with the average murderer, burglar, or racecourse terrorist, the only thing that goes down their throats is gin.”

“How dreadfully lowering. Can I ask you about your work or would you rather not talk about it in your time off?”

“I don’t mind.” He didn’t have much else to talk about. “Though I can’t discuss ongoing cases.”

“No, of course. But things like the gangs. The ‘racecourse terrorists’, as if there’s a racecourse within miles of Pentonville.”

“They travel,” Aaron assured him. “The Sabini lot, who are the main players in this area along with the Yiddishers—”

“I know who the Sabinis are. I live here.”

He said that rather sardonically, in a way that pricked Aaron’s senses. “You’ve had problems with them?”

“Not me personally, but a friend has. And you see them in the street, in groups, which I dislike intensely, and the most awful stories go round. Maybe it’s just gossip, but it feels like it’s got worse recently.”

“It is worse,” Aaron said. “The London gangs have got stronger since the war, no question. We don’t yet have anything like the problems they have in the United States, and I hope we won’t, but it’s certainly something the police are aware of.”

“I should hope so,” Wildsmith said. “Is it true the Sabinis have an in with the Met?”

He didn’t say it aggressively. It sounded for all the world like a real question rather than a sneer, but Aaron still felt as though he’d had a cup of cold water dashed in his face. “Are you referring to the case?”

“What case?”

“Mine. The one the other week.”

“No?” Wildsmith said blankly.

“Did you read the reports?”

“No. I saw some guff about you in the Pictorial, but that’s all. I don’t follow the crime news.”

Aaron felt his hackles subside a little. “One of the Brummagem Boys was on trial for killing one of the Sabini mob. His lawyer attempted to argue that G Division—the King’s Cross police—were biased in favour of the Sabinis. Specifically, that I was, as the arresting officer. It’s the kind of thing lawyers try sometimes.”

“It’s not nice having one’s character impugned in court, is it?” Wildsmith remarked snidely, then lifted a hand in immediate apology. “No, sorry. That must have been horrible for you.”

“It’s part of the game.”

“Still horrible, especially when one can’t answer back. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe for a second that you’d take bribes from a gang. Your hand reeks of honesty.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said, a second before realising he’d never actually admitted that he’d given Wildsmith his hand.