‘Nonsense. I am not a rich man, I cannot afford to keep wooden-legged canaries in idle luxury.’

‘He’s a singer, Mr Charlie, not a bleedin’ dancer. Oh, yeah, and Mr Davenant and Mr Breakspear are waiting for you downstairs.’

‘Oh dear, oh Christ, are they really? Er, they seem in a jolly sort of mood, I dare say?’

‘Bloody diabolical.’

‘Oh. They’ll have heard about the new incident, then?’

‘Yeah.’

Jock’s gift for language had not failed him: ‘diabolical’ was the only word to express the moods of George and Sam. They stared at me, as I good-morninged them, as though they were a brace of Lady Macbeths confronted with one of the less acceptable kinds of damned spot. I crinkled my mouth into a wry smile. Their mouths stayed grim. I toyed with the idea of telling them a funny story, then discarded it.

‘Drinks?’ I asked. ‘Scotch? Gin and tonic? Bottled beer?’

‘Mortdecai,’ said George, ‘you are a four-letter man.’

‘D’you know, I’ve never quite known what that meant.’

Sam told me; in four letters. I allow no one to speak to me like that.

‘Sam,’ I began heavily.

He repeated the word.

‘Well,’ I conceded, ‘there may be something in what you suggest. But consider: the rapist – if this incident is his work – may not have had time to read yesterday’s Jersey Evening Post; it had not been long on the streets.’

‘Then how do you account for the word Sécaire?’

‘Oh. You heard about that bit.’

‘Yes, we heard. And it seems to us that your perverse and crack-brained scheme has nor only disgraced us and put us in jeopardy of gaol but, worst of all, it has not worked. The man is clearly laughing at us.’

‘Early days to be certain of that, surely? I mean, it’s just possible that it might really work, you know. In his subconscious or something …’ I tailed off lamely.

‘Rubbish. We must simply resume the ambushes – every night from now on. The new incident confirms our view that the targets are always likely to be Englishwomen in their thirties and living in this neighbourhood. It’s just a matter of time now, and vigilance.’

‘And staff-work,’ grunted George.

‘And loyalty.’

‘I see. Very well. We start tonight, I take it? Or do we leave its night to let the chap re-charge his, ah, batteries?’

‘Tonight,’ they said with one voice.

‘I suppose you’re right; chap like that probably doesn’t run off batteries – glands like nuclear reactors, I should think.’

‘Unfunny. And I suppose you know that we’re all due at the Police Station in forty minutes: I dare say you might care to offer us a drink before we leave.’

I opened my mouth and shut it again. It was clear that I could do no right that morning.