Round about the time Jean Fleming was having her interview with Grant, Garvald was dropping off a truck at a bus stop on the North Circular Ring Road that linked the city with the A1. Ten minutes later, he boarded the first bus to come along and left it half a mile from the city centre, going the rest of the way on foot.

The journey from London could have taken no more than a comfortable four hours in a Pullman car, but that would have been too conspicuous an entrance into the city under the circumstances.

There were people to see, things to be done, accounts to be settled – notably Sammy Rosco’s – but first he needed a base from which to operate.

He found what he was looking for without too much trouble, a third-rate hotel in a back street near the centre of town. When he went in, a woman in a blue nylon overall was sitting behind the reception desk reading a magazine. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty with dark curling hair and bold black eyes.

Garvald rested an elbow on the desk. ‘And who might you be?’

She closed the magazine, a spark of interest in her eyes and responded to his mood. ‘A poor Irish girl trying to make an honest living in a hard land.’

‘God save the good work,’ Garvald said. ‘You can give me a room for a start. A room with a bath.’

‘All our rooms have a bath,’ she said calmly. ‘There’s one at the end of the corridor on each floor.’

She took a key down from the board, lifted the flap of the reception desk and led the way up the stairs.

The room was no better and no worse than he had expected with the usual heavy Victorian furniture and a worn carpet. A modern washbasin with tiled splashback had been fitted in one corner. He dropped his holdall on a chair, walked to the window and looked down into the street as the woman turned back the bedspread.

‘Will that be all?’ she said.

Garvald turned. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

‘We aren’t licensed. There’s a pub down the street.’

He shook his head. ‘Not to worry. I could do with an early night, anyway.’

She dropped the key on the dressing-table.

‘Anything you want, just ring. I’m on call all night.’

Garvald grinned. ‘The thought of that’s more than flesh and blood can stand.’

She smiled right back at him and the door closed behind her. Garvald’s grin disappeared and he lit a cigarette, sat on the edge of the bed and leafed through the phone book. There was no entry for Sammy Rosco and he sat there for a while, a slight frown on his face, trying to think of someone he could trust. Someone from the old days who might still be around.