‘Have you been to the Golder’s Green Hip this week?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Gently. Me and Olive went on Tuesday.’

Then he went to his room, where the table was set. His mail and his papers always lay beside his plate. There were the usual bills and perhaps a letter from his sister; he would conscientiously read it first before turning to the news.

For six days in the week it went on like that, whenever he wasn’t called out on a case. It formed a sort of hors d’oeuvre, an appetizer to the day, and he was always irritable if something interrupted it. And now, very delicately, something had. That business about the Johnsons had taken a hold on his imagination. It had occurred in the district on which he was regarded as a specialist, and more and more he had the feeling that the case belonged to him.

It belonged to him — but he wasn’t going to get it! At least, that was the impression he’d received since Tuesday. There was nothing in the press reports to suggest that the local police were flagging, and really, it looked an open and shut case against the husband. He didn’t have an alibi that held any water. He was admittedly estranged from his arty wife. They lived together in a flat about a mile from the scene of the crime, but they lived in separation, sleeping and eating in separate rooms…

‘What would you like to follow, Superintendent?’

That was something else which took a little swallowing. Though he had known it was coming for several months in advance, his promotion had nevertheless caught him off-balance. In a number of subtle ways it was affecting his personality. He no longer felt entirely at home with himself. Shamefacedly, he had bought some new suits and an expensive trilby, while he was thinking of parting with the old Riley in the garage. How was it that an external like rank had this effect on him?

‘Some of the liver you were frying… were there any letters for me?’