He thought about it now as he walked by the morning Thames, but somehow a little of the glamour seemed to have departed from the prospect. He knew he was being childish to want the Johnson case made over to him: he couldn’t help it, the habit was stuck there — once, he would have got it automatically.

On the stairs he was passed by Pagram, who carried a box-file under his arm.

‘The AC’s looking for you — he wants the dope on Jimmy Fisher.’

‘Anything come in from the country?’

‘If it has I haven’t heard about it. Hoskins was briefed for that job at Plymouth, but I dare say you heard that yesterday.’

‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘Hoskins has got a flair for hold-ups.’

Gently went grumpily on his way. Hoskins was a young-and-coming Inspector. He had made a name for himself in a case where a sub-postmistress had been coshed to death, since when he was number one for any business of that description. And there were several young- and-coming Inspectors in Homicide, all eager to grab any plums that were going…

He banged into his office and pulled down the file on Fisher. This was the sort of job which they were finding for him these days! A long, complicated affair that revolved round the warehouse rackets, becoming Homicide’s pigeon only when a hot suspect was shot. It had been going on now for a couple of months, raids, tip-offs and a few unimportant arrests. Pagram and he were both working on it, and, it seemed, half the Metropolitan Police besides. Routine wasn’t his strong point, and the AC ought to know it… How did they expect him to get his teeth into a diffuse business of this kind?

‘Ah, Gently. Is that the Fisher file?’

The Assistant Commissioner was looking pleased with himself. He was a spare, genial man with horn-rimmed spectacles, and had always reminded Gently of an amiable schoolmaster.