The superintendent showed particular interest in the ex-army man Dunne had been trailing. “This mysterious overdressed bird? Straw boater and a college tie, claiming to be a detective? Don’t much like the sound of him! Though his wife sounds quite a strider. And he’s disappeared, according to his missis? Ho, ho! Have you tried ringing up that business address you got off the back of the cheque, Thoday? ‘Enquiries At’! The Strand! . . . The Director is unavailable, eh? Not surprised to hear it. He’s gone to earth. With or without his wife’s knowledge and collusion. I think your suspicions concerning the lady are probably merited, Thoday. Next time Edith’s up for interview, I’ll take her on. See how she fancies a trip to Brighton with me! Give it another go tomorrow morning. We may have to send in the local London coppers to make enquiries on our behalf. That’ll be the city police. Sharp lads—they’ll stand no nonsense. My money’s on this Abel Hardy. Takes a day trip up to Cambridge, tops his old army mate, buggers off. And are you saying you passed him in front of KOYLI?”

“Yes, sir. And I asked for any other close associates they had on record to be presented for our consideration.”

“Good lad!”

“I spelled out that it has to do with a case of multiple murders in civvy street by a man or men with a military background. That got their interest! You could hear the closing of ranks down two hundred miles of telephone wire. Form testudo! Defences—hup! Clash! Clatter!” Redfyre’s lively version of a Roman centurion’s barked command had Thoday unconsciously straightening his back, but MacFarlane was not impressed.

“Not funny, Redfyre!” he objected.

The inspector had forgotten for the moment that the superintendent’s intense patriotism and his thus-far-undisclosed military experience, though comfortably in the background as a rule, occasionally surfaced, and when they did, they trumped every other consideration. Rough and unemotional as millstone grit he might well appear on the surface, but Redfyre never had any doubt that, if worse came to worst and the enemy was inside the palace, they’d find that the last door’s last defence would be MacFarlane’s own arm slotted through the bolt ring.

“Sorry, sir! I meant no respect to a venerable regiment. But every section of the British army has had trouble over the last few years with renegade elements. No one’s surprised—battle-hardened trained killers, experts in arms, some of them insane, suddenly released back into a society that’s moved on and has changed its values . . . well, it’s to be expected. Will we ever forget that scandal in the Guards? They’ll want no publicity of that nature! If they have any potential assassins on their books, they’ll chuck them at us like a hot potato and let the civilian forces of law and order deal with it.”