Parking outside the flat, though, locking the car door, he felt a fresh wave of foreboding wash over him. Harry had killed Paul to stop him saying anything about Zephyr and, more especially, about Argos. Hepton thought of Harry again: I like things neat and tidy. With Paul gone, he knew he himself had become a target. Perhaps the only target left.

He stood at the bottom of the stairwell for a long time, listening. Then he climbed quietly to the first floor. He slowly pushed open his letter box and listened for sounds in the flat. There were none. Then he unlocked the mortise and the Yale lock and opened the door. There was a piece of paper lying on the floor of the hallway. He unfolded it and read: Need to speak with you. Please come to the Coach and Four, 7.30. Nick.

Hepton looked at his watch. It was 7.25. He’d have to hurry; the Coach and Four was a good seven or eight minutes’ walk away. He’d never been to it before, there being two other pubs nearer the flat. He wondered why Nick wanted to meet him. Perhaps he had discovered something. Well, Hepton had things to tell him too, didn’t he? Things about Zephyr and Argos. Things about Paul Vincent. Things about his death.

It hit him then, standing in the hall with the note in his hand. A huge tremor ran through him, and the strength left his body. He leaned against the wall for support and thought he was going to be sick. Was this what delayed shock felt like? He stumbled into the bathroom and ran cold water into the basin, splashing his face and neck. He wasn’t going to be sick; the feeling was passing. He had to be strong, for his own sake. And he wouldn’t be late for his appointment.

There was only one real route to the Coach and Four. It took him up a narrow, cottage-lined street, a street he’d always admired. But the people who lived there these days weren’t farmhands or labourers or even small merchants. They were estate agents and accountants, most of them working in London during the week, coming here only at weekends. And as this wasn’t yet the weekend, the street was deserted. At the end of what might seem to some a cul-de-sac, he turned right into a narrower lane yet, which would bring him out across from the pub. It too was quiet; one side being workshops and garaging, the other the backs of some houses, high fencing protecting the privacy of the gardens. A few brave motorists used this lane as a shortcut, though its surface was rutted and booby-trapped with potholes. He could hear a car now, slowing in the street behind him, turning into the lane. But there was plenty of room for it to pass him.