The door closed behind him. For a little while Lazer crouched there on the bed, the blanket wrapped tightly around him, the money clutched in his right hand and then, in one quick, positive movement that started off a chain action, he jumped up and started to get dressed.

6

Carver Street was a row of crumbling terrace houses near the river in a slum area which, as Chuck Lazer had said, was due for demolition.

Garvald found the shop with the boarded window about half-way along. The house next to it looked as if it might fall down at any moment and he followed a narrow tunnelled passage that brought him into a backyard littered with empty tins and refuse of every description.

He stumbled up four steps and knocked at the door. After a while, footsteps approached, it opened a few inches and a woman’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’

‘I’m looking for Sam,’ Garvald said. ‘Sammy Rosco. I’m an old friend of his.’

‘He isn’t in.’

The slight German accent that had been one of her great attractions when he first knew her was still marked, and he moved closer to the door.

‘It’s Ben, Wilma. Ben Garvald.’

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath, a slight pause and then the chain rattled and the door opened. As he stepped into the dark corridor, a hand reached for his face and arms pulled him close.

‘Ben, liebling. I can’t believe it. Is it really you?’

She drew him along the dark corridor and into a room at the far end. It was reasonably clean and comfortable with a carpet on the floor and a double bed against the far wall.

She turned to face him, a large heavily built woman running dangerously to seed, make-up too heavy, the flesh under the chin sagging. Only the incredible straw-coloured hair was as he remembered it and he smiled.

She coloured and her head went back. ‘So, I look older. It’s been a long time.’

‘You’ve still got the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.’

Something glowed deep in her eyes, and for a moment she was once again the young, slender German girl that Sammy Rosco had brought home after the war. She moved close to Garvald, her arms sliding up around his neck, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

‘Always, you were worth all of them put together.’

Garvald held her close for a moment, savouring with a conscious pleasure the feel of a woman’s body against his own, the first in a long time, then he pushed her firmly away.

‘Business, Wilma, business. Is there a drink in the house?’

‘The day there isn’t will be the day.’

She moved to a cupboard, took out a bottle of gin and two glasses and Garvald sat in a chair at the table. He looked around the room. ‘Still on the game?’