‘That’s great. I’m Aidan, the club manager. If ya want ta join let me know and I’ll get ye the forms ta fill in.’

As they set up the snooker table with the balls, Dabs whispered to Stanley, ‘Did you notice the cut on his forehead?’

Stanley nodded. ‘It looks recent.’

‘We found a blood trail in Woodville Road and on the passenger sill of the Cortina. Jane and I thought it was possible the man who shot at the police car injured himself on the dashboard or window when the Cortina hit a parked car, then braked sharply.’

‘The paddy is obviously Aidan O’Reilly and the barmaid Maria Fernandez,’ Stanley said, and Dabs nodded.

‘You’ve got to admit, this investigation is finally getting somewhere and it’s all thanks to Jane,’ Dabs remarked.

‘I know, but don’t keep looking over at the bar, you twat.’

‘Sorry, I’m not used to all this undercover stuff.’ Dabs got a coin out of his pocket. ‘Heads or tails for who breaks off.’

He flicked the coin in the air and Stanley called tails.

*

Jane and Teflon had a wasted journey to Edgar House. The woman at number 42, who had seen a man visiting Elizabeth Smith, wasn’t in. With time to spare they stopped at an off-licence so she could get a bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey for Kevin Bottomley, the collator, as she’d promised. They then went to Tottenham Police Station and had a light lunch before walking to Bruce Grove to look for suitable observation points and speak to Nick at the Bluebird cafe.

‘I don’t think using the cafe as an OP will work, Jane,’ Teflon said. ‘If the suspects park in Moorfield Road we won’t be able to get photos of them going in or out of the cafe. That newsagent’s on the corner would be better as it overlooks both the cafe and snooker hall.’

‘You’re right. We could see what Nick can tell us about the owner. The closed sign’s up, so let’s go and talk to him.’

Inside, a short, balding man in his late forties was picking up used plates with one hand, while using a cloth in the other to clean the table. He puffed on a cigarette that dropped ash on his food-stained chef’s coat. Jane and Teflon checked no one was coming, especially from the snooker hall, before knocking on the cafe door. The man turned and glared, stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then put the plates down.

‘He looks like Friar Tuck,’ Teflon remarked.

He opened the door a few inches.

‘Madonna mia, can you no read the sign? It a say we are CLOSED!’

He started to close the door.

‘Is Nick in?’

‘Why you wanna know?’ he asked warily.

Jane showed him her warrant card.