She shrugged as she sat in the opposite chair. ‘What else can I do?’

‘Ever thought of going home?’

‘To Bavaria?’ She got to her feet, went to a corner by the window, lifted the carpet and produced a white envelope. She opened it and took out a passport which she threw on the table. ‘I keep it well out of Sammy’s sight. Last time I tried to use it, he beat me up so bad, I was in hospital for a week.’

‘You didn’t prefer charges?’

‘Do me a favour.’ She shrugged. ‘Since then, I haven’t been able to scrape more than a fiver together at any one time. He sees to that. Waits in the kitchen for the clients to go, then he’s straight in for the cash.’

Garvald picked up the passport and opened it. ‘It’s still valid, I see?’

‘So what? It’s about as much good as a ticket to the moon.’ She swallowed her gin and refilled the glass. ‘What brought you back, Ben? There’s nothing for you here. I suppose you know Bella married again.’

‘So I’m told. Where’s Sammy now?’

‘The Grosvenor Taps, that’s a boozer at the end of the street.’

‘Expecting him back?’

She glanced at the clock and nodded. ‘They’ve been closed about five minutes. He usually looks in before going on to work.’

‘And where would that be?’

She shrugged. ‘Various places. This week he’s at Club Eleven, that’s a clip joint about half a mile from here that Fred Manton runs for Faulkner.’

‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Molly Ryan.’

‘Girls, too, eh?’

Wilma shrugged. ‘You know what these places are like. Anything goes. Do you want Sammy for something special?’

Garvald lit another cigarette and blew smoke up at the shaded lamp. ‘When I came out of Wandsworth yesterday morning, a couple of hard cases tried to take me, Wilma. They made a bad mistake.’ He grinned coldly. ‘So did Sammy.’

The outside door crashed open and steps sounded along the corridor. A moment later, Sammy Rosco lurched into the room. He was a squat ox of a man with arms that hung down to his knees. His face was sullen and bloated with whisky and he stood there, swaying, a nasty gleam in his eye.

‘What’s going on here, then?’

‘Someone to see you, Sammy dear,’ Wilma said, a deep, ripe pleasure in her voice. ‘An old friend.’

Garvald turned his head and smiled gently. ‘Now then, Sammy, you old bastard.’

His face was very calm, but the grey eyes, changing constantly like windswept smoke on an autumn day, told Rosco everything he needed to know. He swung round, lurching for the door, but Garvald was even quicker. His hand fastened on Rosco’s collar and with a tremendous heave, he sent him crashing across the room.