She regarded him with undisguised curiosity, realised he wasn’t going to enlighten her and gave a sigh. ‘Only if you promise to be back in time for closing,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my daughter coming over with the grandchildren this afternoon, and it’s a rare treat, so I don’t want to miss a minute of it.’

‘I can’t promise how long this will take. I’m sorry, you’ll have to lock up on your own.’

He was halfway out of the door before he remembered Harvey and Queenie were still upstairs. He dithered, and then decided the animals would be all right shut in up there for a couple of hours.

Hurrying down Camden Road and up the High Street, his thoughts were in a whirl. He couldn’t care less what happened to Ethel, but his old friend Stan must be going through all kinds of agonies.

The police station stood tall and imposing halfway up the High Street, and Ron hurried up the steps and pushed through the swing doors into the reception area where two policemen were trying to deal with a belligerent drunk, while the duty officer attempted to take down the man’s details.

Ron could hear Ethel and another woman yelling blue murder from somewhere in the building; but his whole attention was on Stan, who sat slumped on a nearby chair, his head in his hands, a forgotten cup of tea cooling beside him.

He hurried to him and squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Stan. I’m here now.’

Stan looked up, his face ashen, eyes haunted with despair. ‘Oh, Ron,’ he rasped, gripping Ron’s hand as if it was a lifeline. ‘My Ethel’s in awful trouble and I just don’t know what to do about it.’

Ron was about to question him further when Bert Williams emerged from a nearby room and acknowledged him with a nod. ‘I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long, Stan,’ he said. ‘But there are procedures to go through, and they always take time.’ He cast a glance at the other officers and the raucous drunk. ‘Let’s talk in here where it’s quieter and more private.’

Ron steadied Stan by holding his arm as they traipsed into the small office where in happier times they’d shared a glass or three of whisky and put the world to rights during the long reaches of the night.

The man standing by the window was a stranger to both of them, so Bert made the introductions. ‘This is Colonel John White,’ he said. ‘He’s actually retired from the army, and is now the supervisor of the factory estate, and responsible for bringing Ethel and her crony in.’

He sagged into the well-worn chair which creaked under his weight as the three men guardedly shook hands. ‘I think it’s best if he explains the circumstances,’ he added.