“You need to focus on the task in hand,” Pynne told him. “That’s what I came to remind you. Where’s Benny Manors? Everything else, that’s background static. Find Benny Manors, and do it quickly. Or all this, crappy as it is, comes to an end.”

“What did Benny do?” John wondered. “Or what did you do that he found out about?”

“Task in hand,” Pynne repeated.

“You’re not as threatening as Edward. You need to work on your menacing skills.”

The younger man stood, and John’s heart thumped faster. But all Pynne did was stoop and collect the cat. He put it back on its shelf, then stepped back to admire the collection as a whole, the bits and bobs that accumulate during the years spent standing still. “I don’t need to be menacing,” he said. “All I need do is make one phone call. And then you’re back sleeping in your car. If they don’t lock you up.”

“I never slept in my car,” John said, though he’d come close. And there’d been snow on the streets then, and would be again before long. The winters rolled round faster than they’d used to.

“Just find him.” Pynne put a hand on his shoulder; took a brief grip on his collar. “You’ve got one more day.”

And then he left, leaving the flat’s front door wide open, so John had to follow after him and close it.

It seemed a childish form of aggravation.

But the whole encounter had lacked point. True, his heart had been thumping for a moment, but only because a large young man had got to his feet unexpectedly, and John—let’s face it—wasn’t built for confrontation. Still, though, why had Pynne bothered coming, if that was all he had to offer? He’d have mused on this more if his phone hadn’t rung. Private number, the screen read. He was prepared for Taverner’s voice before he answered.

“Your missing friend.”

“Let me guess,” he said.

Taverner paused.

John said, “He’s in Newcastle, isn’t he?”

“. . . Where?”

“Newcastle upon Tyne.”

“What the hell are you on about? No, he’s not in Newcastle upon Tyne. He’s in Seven Dials. Or that’s where he’s been using his plastic.”

John wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Are you still there?”

“You don’t have an actual address?”

“You’re supposed to be a spook, John. A clapped-out, useless one, true, but still a spook. Try to get in touch with what’s left of your ambition.”

John Bachelor’s main ambition was not to wind up homeless.

Di Taverner said, “Have you got a pen?”

“Sec.”

He found one on the little hall table, next to Solly’s landline, which still rang occasionally. Cold calls; wrong numbers. There was a neat little notepad too.

Lady Di read him a list of places where Benny Manors’s credit cards had been lately, and rang off without wishing him luck.

John Bachelor went to find the peach brandy. It had been a long morning.