‘It’s simple enough. He was involved in a serious car accident about six years ago – racing at Brand’s Hatch. His skull was badly fractured, bone fragments in the brain and so on. He was damned lucky to pull through. His extreme aggressiveness has been a development since then. The psychiatrists who examined him at Wandsworth were definitely of the opinion that the behaviour pattern was a direct result of the brain damage, probably made worse by the fragments of bone which the surgeons had been unable to remove. The pattern of violence grew worse during his sentence. He was involved in several fights with prisoners and attacked a prison officer. He was advised to enter an institution for treatment on his discharge, but refused.’

‘All right, Miller, all right.’ Mallory held up both hands defensively. ‘You go and see him – do anything you like. I’ll handle Harold.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Miller said formally.

He got the door half-open and Mallory added, ‘One more thing, Miller. A quid says Harold Phillips murdered Grace Packard.’

‘Fair enough, sir.’

‘And I’ll give you odds of five-to-one against Bruno Faulkner.’

‘Well, I don’t really like to take the money, but if you must, sir.’

Miller grinned and gently closed the door.

It was at that precise moment in another part of the city that the man known as the Rainlover opened his Sunday newspaper and found Sean Doyle staring out at him from the middle of page two. He recognized him instantly and sat there staring at the picture for a long moment, remembering the girl standing in the lighted doorway and the darkness and the rain falling.

He had unfinished business there, but first it would be necessary to get rid of the man. Of course he could always telephone the police anonymously, give them the address, tell them that Doyle was in hiding there. On the other hand, they would probably arrest the girl also for harbouring him.

The solution, when it came, was so simple that he laughed out loud. He was still laughing when he put on his hat and coat and went out into the rain.

Miller got no reply to his persistent knocking at Faulkner’s door and finally went down the stairs to the flat below where someone was playing a tenor sax, cool and clear, so pure that it hurt a little.

The instrumentalist turned out to be an amiable West Indian in dark glasses and a neat fringe beard. He took off the glasses and grinned hugely.

‘Aint’s I seen you play piano at Chuck Lazer’s club?’

‘Could be,’ Miller told him.

‘Man, you were the most. Someone told me you was a John.’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, man, you get some real crazy cats around these nights. Sick in the head. They’ll say anything. You coming in?’