‘I should imagine so.’

She smiled delightfully and he pulled her close and kissed her again. ‘Now let’s get out of here before I’m completely corrupted.’

Chuck was still sitting at the upright piano in the corner of the music room playing by the light of the street lamp that drifted in through the window.

‘End of score,’ Nick called softly from the doorway.

Chuck ended on a fast run of intricate chords, swung round and stood up. ‘I’m with you, General. Where to now?’

‘I want to check in at Headquarters,’ Nick said. ‘I can drop you off at your place if you like.’

They moved into the small porch a few yards from the side gate in the railings. The rain still hammered down through the fog and Jean shivered.

‘Rather you than me.’

He grinned down at her. ‘Pity the poor copper. I’ll see you.’

They walked across the yard, opened the side gate and moved along the narrow pavement. The street was little more than an alley and bordered on the other side by a high stone wall.

The Mini-Cooper was parked under an old-fashioned gas lamp and Nick took the keys from his pocket as he stepped off the pavement to reach the off-side. From the lighted porch, Jean called his name urgently.

As he started to turn, a fist lifted into his face and some inexplicable reflex caused him to duck so that the blow glanced from his cheek. He was aware of sharp pain as a metal ring sliced his skin like a razor and then his hand swung expertly as he turned, catching his assailant across the side of the neck.

The man staggered back towards the outer darkness beyond the light thrown out by the gas lamp and Nick was aware of others. Three, perhaps four, he couldn’t be sure because they came out of the fog with a sudden rush like a rugby forward line.

One of them held an iron bar in both hands. As he came within striking distance it swung up and down, the man grunting with the effort. Nick ducked and the bar thudded across the roof of the car. He lifted his foot savagely into the man’s crutch, the bar rang against the cobbles and the man collapsed with a choking cry.

There was no time for words. Two more came boring in, one of them wielding a bone-handled razor, the blade gleaming dully in the rain. Nick reached for the wrist, turning his head to avoid a blow from the other and was aware of Jean Fleming’s face beyond the man’s shoulder, contorted with anger, teeth bared.