The sudden isolation and suspicion did not come as a shock. Like Vicky Jones, he knew that success was temporary and precarious. But he was a fighter, and he was not prepared to let it go easily. There was something exhilarating in the danger. He felt younger, and all his senses were sharper. He saw a man in a navy anorak standing outside his office with his back turned to the blustery wind and knew instinctively that he was a policeman. Barnes looked forward, too, to the excuse for violence. Since he had become outwardly legitimate, there had been little opportunity for that, and he realised now that he missed it. In this state of readiness and tension he saw Rosco as his only enemy. If he could prevent Rosco from appearing in any court case against him, he would be safe. Later he was amazed that he considered the thing so simple, but at the time it was the simplicity of the danger facing him which was exciting. The thrill took him back to the gang fights in the dance halls of his youth.

When Barnes made his phone call to Cornwall, no one listened to the conversation. It had taken longer than the police had expected to have the monitoring of his calls approved. The deputy chief constable had, for some reason, not been keen.

Barnes spoke to the housekeeper who cared for his house there. He tried to speak with something of the grace of the landed gentry and imagined himself, as he was talking, in his country uniform of Barbour jacket, hunter Wellingtons, and cloth cap. It reminded him of what he had to lose.

He had a favour to ask, he said. It was rather urgent, or he would not consider troubling her. He knew her husband’s business took him to Porthkennan. Could he please take a message to a business contact there?

“Just ask him to phone me,” Barnes said. “Tell him it’s vital. A matter, actually, of life or death.”

Smiling, he replaced the telephone receiver.