As MacFarlane laughed and asked his police driver to wait, a commissionaire strode down from the row of shops that appeared to be his patch and approached the car. He was wearing a military-style greatcoat festooned with gold cord, and he addressed the superintendent with smiling aggression.

“Oy, you! Mister! Round the back, if you wouldn’t mind! Bad for business, police cars. And this heap’s got ‘rozzer’ written all over it.”

MacFarlane was all amazement. “Naw! I’ll tell you what’s bad for business . . . a bag of wind got up in a pantomime uniform. A toy soldier who goes about annoying the customers.” A left fist shot out with the speed and directness of a jackhammer, smashing into the doorman’s solar plexus. MacFarlane ignored the spluttering and the wheezing and turned to his driver. “Did you see that, Sarge? Clumsy oaf fell right onto my fist! Must be drunk! Stay where you are and fetch me if he stops breathing. I may be some time.”

A whistle, a beckoning finger and a cheerful guffaw greeted him as he approached and sized up the barbering salon. “We’ve all wanted to do that, Mister! Or should I say, Superintendent? Ralph Merriman at your service. And watch yourself with me! I’ve got army training, too! Come on through. Rita—that’s my wife—has got the kettle on.”

In the office behind the salon, Ratty found him a chair, cleared his desk and got down to business at once. “I should have come to you. Made contact. Years ago. But with old mates, it’s not easy to know the right things to do. Anyway, Ernest dying like that . . . He was murdered, you know. To shut him up. I think Ernie’d gone too far and threatened to go to the police. He was talking about it. Or he may have been trying to blackmail someone. I’m talking about Ernest Jessup, ex-Corporal Jessup. We were close in the South African business. Kept in contact after we got back to Blighty. He was doing well for himself. The last time I saw him, which was in London, he told me he’d gotten a promotion at the firm—he was an accountant in civvy street—and had been given a really top-notch client to work on. With assistance, of course—it was a sort of training spell for Ernest. He was out to make an impression, you can imagine, and he was always careful anyway. He saw something he didn’t much care for in the new account. Things didn’t add up.”

“And you can’t be doing with that in accountancy,” offered MacFarlane.