“So they tagged him till they could dunk him in the canal,” said Beddoes thoughtfully. “Why let him go from Vanbrugh Street at all? In fact, you’d think that was their real reason for making the assignation, to nab him. Perhaps he took fright and shot out into the Strand before they could catch him. They must have followed him to Bright’s without getting a chance in the crowds—strange luck for him. But again, why not grab him as he charged out of the house? I mean, that must have put the wind up them. An exit like a human cannon ball means something amiss. All the more reason to snaffle him before he bubbled. Remember you thought he’d run out to tell them? I think he was making for us. You know how Russians love to confess.”

“Then why did he go to the Derby Arms? To drink himself up to it?”

“Maybe.” Beddoes paused. “Poor blinking scarecrow.”

Nightingale was surprised by this, from Beddoes. He made no comment. “Have you heard about Richborough?” he asked.

“Tentatively. Who pipped?”

“Pink. That reminds me, I must remember to see that he gets his paltry due.”

“Did he tell you it was the Hampstead lot?”

“Well, he made a point of the name Hampstead, and he always knows what I’m working on. Very considerate.”

“Favourites. How do you do it?”

“I overlooked him once, years ago, when I was taking up a batch. I was as green as a crocus leaf. The point is, he didn’t realise it was an oversight.”

“And he’s gone on being grateful. What time’s the show?”

“Six-thirty. Kent are going into position as soon as it’s dark. That means a long wait, but the thing mustn’t be scotched by the untimely twinkling of a silver button. Do you know this Richborough? I’ve passed through, or by. It’s part of the Stour estuary marsh—nothing but labyrinthine drainage ditches, river cuts, derelict wharves and sheds from the old war, and a few raw factories. They’re trying to bring it to life again, I think, as some kind of port. There’s a tiddy railway, power cables, and the castle, originally a Roman fort. According to Pink, that’s where the helicopter’s due—or nearby. So Kent will concentrate in that area.” He sighed.

“Cheer up,” said Beddoes. “Their coppers are better than their cricket.” He smiled with as much complacency as if he personally could take credit for Surrey’s place in the championship table. “What now?”

“Pink. I mustn’t forget Pink. Rather sullies the purity of his gratitude, doesn’t it? One day I’ll introduce you by phone, then I can bequeath him to you when I go.”

“Boil me! Old Pink’ll be peaching on the Devil by then, won’t he?”

“He’s not that old. Besides—” Nightingale paused. “Suppose I were to resign?”