He didn’t come along the main road towards Beddoes, but turned into Tamplin Walk, the narrow alley at the corner of which the Derby Arms was built. The far end would join Goswell Road, thought Beddoes, sauntering after him. This was probably the quickest way to Bright’s Row. But did Ivan want to go back to what he’d fled, the squalid room and the dead grandmother? Perhaps he’d forgotten. Perhaps his feet had of long necessity grown independent of his head, and carried him willy nilly in the right direction from any pub in the district. If he did go home, the division could look after him. And the best of luck, thought Beddoes, viewing with disfavour the alternative prospect of snailing round Islington till the small hours. He wouldn’t risk losing sight of Ivan by phoning for someone to take over, and as he could recognise none of the divisional detectives except the man he’d relieved at the Derby he couldn’t hope to meet help on the road.

Come on, Vanya, get a move on, he muttered under his breath, watching Ivan’s unsteady progress down the ill lit lane. Vanya’s hide, unlike his own, appeared to be seasoned by drink and impervious to cold. That rum had been a good idea. Two would have been even better. Nightingale, no doubt, was still toasting himself in the jeweller’s armchair. Beddoes waited a moment; then, at enforced leisure, strolled through the set of iron posts which marked the end of Tamplin Walk and which Ivan had encountered with some confusion.