It struck Kale as odd that a man like Gryffe should have chosen to buy a house in an area like this. He shrugged and took out a cigarette, cupping his hands around the end to light it. He dropped the spent match in the gutter and turned right beneath a covered stone arch that ran under the end terrace. The cobbles here were dry, and his footsteps echoed back off the wall, the light of the street receding behind him. Then he came to the end and back out into the rain, and he turned right again into a long narrow lane that ran along the back of the terraced houses, bounded by high brick walls on either side. Tall wooden gates opened off into back courts. Feeble streetlamps raised themselves above the wall every fifty metres along one side. Kale counted off the gates on his right, walking quickly over the asphalt, and stopped at the twelfth. He glanced either way and then opened it and moved into the back court behind Gryffe’s house.

The yard was sunk deep in shadow, a short sodden lawn, a brick shelter for the bins, and an uneven path of cracked slabs leading to the back door. Kale eased the gate shut and then froze as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching in the lane. He pressed himself hard against the wall of the bin shelter and waited, tense, as the steps came nearer. They passed the gate without stopping and faded down the lane. A thin jet of air escaped Kale’s clenched teeth and he moved back out on to the path. Silently he crossed the yard to the French windows that opened into the back room. They were locked. A lever mechanism worked from a handle on the inside. He crouched down and drew a long thin steel rod from his raincoat, working it carefully in between the two doors, before sliding it up to where the centre bolt ran through the gap. He checked the length of the rod with the position of the handle inside. It would be possible, he decided, and withdrew the rod again.