‘You see how they stick to those same three districts? It all gives support to what Herbie was telling us…’

Stephens, of Homicide, had sat in on the conference, but his failure to contribute to it suggested that he was there for something else. He chewed at his nails and occasionally stared at Gently. As the conference was breaking up he came forward with an expectant air.

‘Oh, Stephens… Gently, hold on a tick!’

The AC rested his hand on Gently’s arm.

‘There’s a job come up in your old hunting grounds. I’m putting Stephens on it, and I thought you could give him some tips.’

As far as Gently was concerned that was the very last straw, and it was no use reminding himself that he had expected it. For an instant, looking at Stephens, he felt all of his fifty-two years: he felt himself pensioned off, to make room for these brisk newcomers.

‘The Johnson case…?’

‘You’ve been reading about it, have you?’

‘I did chance to see something…’

‘Then you’ve got an idea of the set-up. From what I can make out the local police are in a tizzie. They’ve already stampeded themselves into doing something silly. You know about the picture? The damn fools have gone and impounded it, and from what I can hear they haven’t a notion as to why they’ve done it. Now, of course, they want us to carry it, in the old, familiar fashion. I immediately thought of Stephens, who has got a cool enough head on his shoulders.’

Gently leant himself against the desk, feeling the need of its support. Of course, it had to be Stephens — wasn’t it as plain as anything could be? Gently was Jimmy Fisher’s man, the racketeer’s manes were still unplacated. While he was stuck with Lucky Jim there couldn’t be any trips into the country…

‘Three months ago I’d have sent you, Gently.’