‘My current abode, sir, is Crowley Borough, the Hollycroft Brow district. But by origin, I’m an inner-Manchester man. Ancoats, to be exact.’

‘Ancoats?’ Pentecost arched an eyebrow. ‘You take elocution, or something?’

‘Not quite, sir … in the early days of my adulthood, I sought a career on the stage.’

‘Ah, another actor.’

‘Only an amateur, sadly. I never had the chance to take it further.’

‘Why was that?’

McGlaglen gave a humble shrug. ‘Lack of ability, I imagine … and there was another reason.’ McGlaglen’s face reddened. ‘A fellow thespian and I collided once, in anger. During a rehearsal … over the attentions of our leading lady, no less. I did not just fall from the stage, but down a stairway connecting to the theatre’s basement bar. I broke my ankle rather badly.’

‘Ouch,’ Pentecost said, without feeling.

McGlaglen cleared his throat. ‘The incident I refer to was long ago – 1979, in fact. In those distant days, when in pain, one was often treated with morphine. Liberal doses of such.’

‘And let me guess, you really liked it?’

McGlaglen gave a sad, foolish smile.

‘You’ve been an addict since ’79?’ Pentecost pursed his lips. ‘I’m impressed you’re still alive.’

‘It has only been an on-off interest, you understand. I have been able to shake the habit on occasion … but, well, when times are hard, it is inevitable that one drifts back.’

‘So … if times are hard, and you never made it as a professional actor, how’ve you been able to afford that habit?’

McGlaglen reddened even more. ‘I have developed other income streams.’

Pentecost finished his glass of wine and dabbed his lips again. ‘And one of those would involve turning in your fellow bottom-feeders to the police.’ He nailed the guest with that bone-chilling stare. ‘Don’t bother denying it, McGlaglen. I already know who you are. I was just interested to see how honest you were prepared to be.’

‘Sir …’ McGlaglen seemed lost for words. ‘I assure you, I would never …’

‘I believe “grass” is the word you’re looking for.’

McGlaglen coughed with embarrassment, but also fear, acutely aware of the heavies still standing on either side of him. ‘Sir … I would never grass on anyone like yourself, though I know my profession is anathema to you even so. Please understand, I’ve had very little option over these difficult years. The morphine quest took me to some terrible places. To acquire it, I several times performed demeaning acts …’

‘Hah!’ Atkins barked. ‘Told you he was a ponce.’

‘Things I’m not at all proud of.’

‘But you are proud of grassing,’ Pentecost said. As before, it wasn’t a question.

‘Not at all, sir. But as you can tell, I am hardly the sort of man to walk into a bank with a stocking over my head, nor to climb through some elderly lady’s window to scrape away what few trinkets she keeps on her mantel.’