‘Well … that is essentially it. I could not press her for too much information. That would have made her suspicious, but at present she is following an unusual and rather interesting lead concerning charitable donations in the town. I have no clue how this may be connected to your trouble. But she appears to have made a firm link between that and the murder of Andrew Northwood. Doubtless she knew more, but was not prepared to say.’

Pentecost mulled this over. ‘What’s this detective’s name?’

‘Clayburn … Lucy Clayburn. As I say, she is part of …’

‘Yes, Crowley CID.’

The ex-actor could do nothing more now than fidget while they thought this through.

‘I reckon you might just have bought yourself some extra time, Mr McGlaglen,’ Pentecost said. ‘You want extensions on that time, though, you come back to us whenever it’s something good … you hear?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ McGlaglen produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his sparkling brow. ‘And may … erm, may I thank you profusely … for your kind understanding of my circumstances.’

Pentecost sat back and examined his fingernails, while his guest, still mumbling his incoherent gratitude, was steered away through the curtain by Atkins.

Spicer waited and watched his boss, who finally glanced up at him.

‘That one,’ he said, ‘just divulged all his deepest secrets, and through fear alone. He didn’t even want paying for it … he’d just got spooked. That makes him altogether too talkative, even though he did, in his own way, try to help us.’ He paused to think. ‘Never been much of a fan of risky situations. No, we need to put Mr McGlaglen on a close-observation list … let’s see exactly how much he’s worth to us. He may not realise it, but from here on he’s got to earn the right to survive.’

‘What if his intel’s sound?’ Spicer asked. ‘I mean about the cop?’

‘That, we also need to discover.’ Pentecost sat forward again. ‘First job … call Benny B. Tell him we may have something.’

Chapter 32

Lucy retreated across the passage until her back struck the wall. The figure, which was bulky and only half-distinguishable in the gloom, lurched awkwardly towards her, and jammed something like a pole or lance across the passageway, smashing it end-on into the plaster on her right, forming a horizontal barrier in front of the door.

The fanlight admitted just enough radiance to show who she was facing. He was a heavyset man in gloves and an overcoat, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down to his brows. But she could see enough of his face to make out fat cheeks, piggy eyes and strands of sweaty, gingery hair. His complexion was a sickly greyish-white.

He’d frightened her at first because he’d ambushed her, but clearly he was in a bad way.