‘Don’t pay attention to all you hear! You’ll find them much the same as the rest.’

‘But you’re the expert on these parts-’

‘You’ll be one too, before we’ve finished the case.’

And Stephens, biting on his pipe, tried to look as though he believed he would.

At Police HQ, Superintendent Walker was waiting for them. Gently introduced Stephens to him and there followed the usual bout of shaking hands. A constable was dispatched to summon Chief Inspector Hansom, who, two minutes later, appeared still eating a ham sandwich.

‘I thought they’d have sent someone else, now that you’d reached the giddy heights!’

Gently shrugged, finding a seat for himself beside Walker’s desk. Between himself and Hansom there had ever been an armed neutrality; they were antipathetic towards each other, and yet, oddly enough, exerted a mutual fascination.

‘You’ve had Hansom’s report, Gently… where would you like him to begin?’

It was very nearly lunchtime, and the Super was eager to get to their business. Hansom, eating largely to get rid of the sandwich, had dumped himself clumsily at the other end of the desk. There wasn’t a chair for Stephens and so he was obliged to remain standing; he stationed himself behind Gently, where he kept uncomfortably shifting his feet.

‘I’d better begin at the beginning, which was about six a.m. on Tuesday. Sergeant Walters, who was on the desk, saw this old fool, Coles, hanging around. He’d been out there for half an hour, just loitering about and doing nothing; every time Walters went to the window he turned his back, or fiddled with a shoelace…’

Gently knew the type referred to and had given them a private cognomen: they were the ‘angry old men’, of whom every town could show some examples. Seedy, shabby and without any friends, they haunted the market places and busiest streets; they wore an expression of angry surprise, as though perpetually indignant at their age and poverty. And always, if anyone caught their eye, they furiously frowned and turned away…