He went. Crossed the yard through the heavy rain. Meadows watched him climb into the Cooper, then closed the door.

Miller went up the steps of the Central Railway Station and paused to light a cigarette in the porch. The match flared in his cupped hands briefly illuminating the white face and dark eyes.

Here and there in the vast concourse a lounger stiffened, turned and faded briskly into the night which was no more than Miller had intended, for the railway station of any great city is the same the world over, a happy hunting ground for wrongdoers of every description.

He moved across to the buffet by the ticket barrier and looked in through the window. The young woman he was searching for was sitting on a stool at one end of the tea bar. She saw him at once, for there were few things in life that she missed, and came out.

She was about twenty-five years of age with a pleasant, open face and her neat tweed suit was in excellent taste. She might have been a schoolteacher or someone’s private secretary. In fact she had appeared before the local bench on no fewer than five occasions for offences involving prostitution and had recently served three months in a detention centre.

She nodded familiarly. ‘’Evening, Mr Miller, or should I say good morning?’

‘Hello, Gilda. You must be hard up to turn out on a night like this with a bloody maniac hanging around out there in the rain.’

‘I can look after myself.’ When she lifted her umbrella he saw that the ferrule had been sharpened into a wicked looking steel point. ‘Anyone makes a grab at me gets this through the eyes.’

Miller shook his head. ‘You think you can take on the whole world, don’t you? I wonder what you’ll look like ten years from now.’

‘Just older,’ she said brightly.

‘If you’re lucky, only by then you’ll be down to a different class of customer. Saturday night drunks at a quid a time for a quickie round the back of the station.’

She wasn’t in the least offended. ‘We’ll see. What was it you wanted?’

‘I suppose you heard there was a girl killed earlier tonight?’

‘That’s right. Other side of the park, wasn’t it?’

‘Her name was Grace Packard. I’ve been told she was on the game. Is that true?’

Gilda showed no particular surprise. ‘Kinky looking little tart, all plastic mac and knee boots.’

‘That’s it.’

‘She tried working the station about six months ago. Got herself into a lot of trouble.’

‘What kind?’

‘Pinching other people’s regulars, that sort of thing. We moved her on in the end.’

‘And how did you manage that?’ She hesitated and he said harshly, ‘Come on, Gilda, this is murder.’

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I asked Lonny Brogan to have a word with her. She took the point.’