‘Well, kissing goes by favour, dunnit? Specially in Jersey.’

‘I’ve never really known what that means. What do you take it to mean?’

‘Well, say, if the filth’ (by which he meant the CID), ‘is getting a bit too close to you, you ring up one of your mates who was at Borstal with you and he fits the copper up with a corruption rap. Doesn’t matter if it don’t stick: they have to suspend him till it’s investigated and the new bloke they put on your case hasn’t got his contacks, has he, and most of what the first bloke had he kept in his head, didn’t he, so you got a couple of munce to sort things out, see?’

‘I think I see. Goodness. But I suppose it’s the way of the world. I certainly can’t think of anything else. Thank you, Jock.’

I rang up George.

‘George,’ I said in dulcet tones, ‘I really must apologize for my incivility just now. Heat of the moment, you understand. Not myself, eh?’

I accepted his grunt as an acceptance of my apology.

‘It seems to me,’ I went on, ‘that our watchword must be “kissing goes by favour” – we must use our influence, bring gentle pressure to bear, don’t you think? For instance, how well do you know the more august chaps in Jersey; were you at Borst … I mean Harrow with any of them? I mean chaps like the chap you rang up from the Police Station yesterday?’

‘Very well indeed, some of them.’

‘Well, there you are then. Ask them to tea, fill them up with tuck – hot buttered crumpets, little meat pies, cherry brandy – all the nice things they won’t be allowed to have at home – then remind them of your schooldays together, all those innocent pranks, you know the sort of thing.’

‘I am doing precisely that at this moment. Is there anything else?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Good-bye, then.’

‘Good-bye, George.’

The thought of hot buttered crumpets took me by the throat like a tigress: I was racked with desire for them. I strolled into the kitchen, where I found Jock sticking photographs of Shirley Temple into his scrap-book.

‘Jock,’ I said casually, ‘do you suppose there are any hot buttered crumpets in the house?’ He glowered at me.

‘You know perfickly well what Mrs Mortdecai said about hot buttered crumpets, Mr Charlie. “Better without them” is what she said you was.’

‘But this is a special case,’ I whined. ‘I need those crumpets, can’t you see that?’

His face remained stony.

‘Tell you what, Jock; you forget to mention hot buttered crumpets to Mrs Mortdecai and I’ll forget to mention about you pinching her caviare. Kissing goes by favour, you know.’ He sighed.

‘You catch on quick, Mr Charlie.’

I drew up a chair, rubbing my hands like any lawyer.