He sat on the edge of the desk as Faulkner went behind the bar. He was wearing one of the most beautiful dinner jackets Nick had ever seen, superbly cut and somehow right up to date without being too far out. His pleated shirt front gleamed in the firelight, the cufflinks had just the right touch of ostenation.

There wasn’t a hair out of place as he busied himself with the drinks, looking like something in an advertisement for good whisky in one of the better magazines. He was too perfect. It was as if someone had given him a list containing all the characteristics of a gentleman and he had ticked them off one by one.

He handed Nick one of the glasses and sat down behind the desk again. The whiskey was Jameson’s and Nick savoured the inimitable flavour with conscious pleasure.

‘Excellent,’ he said.

‘Glad you like it.’ Faulkner carefully fitted a cigarette into a silver holder and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve just had a little chat with Bella about this whole business. It’s a pity that damned sister-in-law of mine can’t keep her nose out of other people’s affairs.’

‘She seems to think it is her affair.’

‘She would,’ Faulkner said. ‘All she can think of is that precious school of hers.’

‘So you’re not worried about Ben Garvald turning up here and causing any trouble?’

‘He wouldn’t be such a mug,’ Faulkner said crisply, his accent slipping a little. ‘I can look after my own. If Garvald doesn’t know that by now, then it’s time he learned.’

‘An interesting point.’ Nick swallowed a little more of his Jameson’s. ‘Someone tried to teach Ben a lesson outside Wandsworth when he was released yesterday morning. From what I hear, they came badly unstuck.’

‘These things happen all the time,’ Faulkner said blandly. ‘All you need’s a little bit of fog and every tearaway in town turns out to see what he can pick up.’

‘Strange you should say that,’ Nick said. ‘Although we didn’t have any fog up here, it was quite thick around Wandsworth yesterday morning.’

Faulkner had stopped smiling. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that a lump of dung called Sammy Rosco arranged the hit outside Wandsworth. He made a mistake. So did Fred Manton.’

Faulkner’s face was quite expressionless. ‘And what’s Manton got to do with this?’

‘That’s the interesting part. From what I can make out, he was acting as middleman for a friend. Now I wonder who that could be?’

When Faulkner answered, his accent had slipped right back to the canal docks and his eyes sparkled viciously. ‘If you’ve got anything to say, spit it out and be sure you can make it stick because I’ll take you all the way.’