‘And what about the betting shops?’

‘He operates them on a day-to-day basis using the cash from the previous night’s take at the Flamingo. He still hasn’t got on his feet up here yet.’

‘So everything revolves around the Flamingo.’

‘I suppose you could say that.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘Never you mind, you’ve got other things to think about now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll have to get moving. We’ve got exactly half an hour to get you to the airport.’

The Bull & Bell Yard was not far from the market, a dirty and sunless cobbled alley named after the public house which had stood there for more than two hundred years. Beside the entrance to the snug stood several overflowing dustbins and cardboard boxes and packing cases were thrown together in an untidy heap.

It was raining slightly and an old man squatted against the wall, a bottle of beer in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He wore an ancient army greatcoat and his hair and beard were long and matted.

The door opened and a barman appeared in the entrance, a bucket in one hand. He was a large, hefty young man in a white apron with long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous face. He emptied the bucket of slops across the cobbles and looked down at the old man in disgust.

‘You still here, Sailor? Christ Jesus, I don’t know how you can stand it.’

‘Go on, Harry,’ the old man said hoarsely. ‘Ain’t doing any ’arm, am I?’

The barman went back inside and Sailor raised the bottle of beer to his lips. He lowered it slowly, his mouth gaping in amazement. The man who stood facing him had the most extraordinary eyes the Sailor had ever seen, quite dark and completely expressionless. He wore a three-quarter length British warm, a bowler hat and carried a tightly rolled umbrella.

His hand disappeared into a pocket and came out holding a pound note. ‘Do you know Mr Vernon?’ he said. ‘Mr Max Vernon?’ Sailor nodded. ‘Is he inside?’

‘In the snug, governor.’

The man in the bowler hat dropped the pound note into his lap. ‘I’m very much obliged to you,’ he said and went inside.

Sailor waited for no more than a moment and then he scrambled to his feet, pushed open the door an inch or two and peered in.

The Bull & Bell did ninety-five per cent of its trade in the evenings, which was why Max Vernon preferred to patronize it in the afternoon. For one thing it meant that he could have the snug to himself, which was handy for business of a certain kind.

He sat on a stool at the bar finishing a roast beef sandwich, a pint of bitter at his elbow, and Carver and Stratton lounged on the window seat chatting idly.