I told him and he shrugged. ‘That’s it, then. You’ll have to give backword on Buckingham Palace, go for something more compact, like a cardboard box.’

He was starving too, so we left the river and trogged north for pizza. It was dusk already. We ate in a doorway and he said, ‘How’d you like a proper kip tonight, Link old son – roof over your head, the works?’

I looked at him. ‘Sally Army or something?’

‘Naw!’ He shook his head. ‘Bad news, them places. Full of raving head-cases. Spent a night in one once – scared me to death. No – I was thinking of Captain Hook.’

‘Who?’

‘Captain Hook.’

I looked at him. ‘Go on then – I’ll fall for it. Who’s Captain Hook?’

He shook his head, grinning. ‘It’s not a put-on, mate. He’s a real guy. Get us a quick coffee and I’ll tell you all about him.’

Daily Routine Orders 9

Three is a significant number. It crops up in all sorts of places. Three cheers. The Three Musketeers. If I had three wishes. Three blind mice. The Blessed Trinity. The three armed services. The three little pigs. A significant number.

I have three recruits now. When I had one I was a murderer, two, a double murderer, and now that I’ve got three I suppose I’m a mass-murderer – what the Yanks call a serial killer. If they caught me now, which they won’t, they’d probably make a film about me.

Naturally, I’ve arranged them the Army way – tallest on the left, shortest on the right and they look quite smart – especially now that I’ve cut their hair. I’ll have to try to get them some boots, or at least proper shoes – something which will take a shine. At the moment they’re all wearing those manky trainer things.

Last night’s bit of business – signing up recruit number three – gave me particular pleasure. You’ll know why presently, but let me start at the beginning. It was about 20.00 hours and I’d just begun my nightly patrol. It was an unpleasant evening – wind and sleet – exactly the sort of evening one needs in my line of work. I’d walked into Gloucester Avenue and down the steps on to the towpath of the Grand Union Canal, intending to stroll along by Camden Lock to see what I could see when I spotted him. He was a miserable looking creature – thin and round-shouldered with rat-tails of greasy hair halfway down his back. He had some pieces of cardboard which he was arranging on the ground under the stairs I’d just descended. It was fairly dry there and it was obvious he was setting up a billet for the night. I had on my do-gooder’s rig and I approached him, looking concerned. ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you don’t intend spending a night like this in a place like that?’