‘How’s that? Stimulating company, I know.’

‘I’m not going to lie down under this. I’m forty-three, I’ve been in the force for twenty years. I like the work. I’ve got a bloody investment in it. And they owe me.’

I nodded and let him talk.

‘I’m going to make a stink. That’s where you can help me. Tit for tat.’

‘Charmed. How?’

‘I’d like to have a session with your journo mate, Harry Tickener. I could tell him a thing or two.’

‘Jesus, Frank, don’t just jump into that. Think hard about it.’

‘Would Tickener be interested?’

‘He’d give an arm and a leg.’

We got up and left the pub. Parker pushed the door out and I followed him on to the street. It was early evening, still very warm and the traffic was light. People had got to where they wanted to be. Parker stepped off the kerb to anticipate a break in the thin stream of cars. As he did, a shout of ‘Hey, Frank!’ came from across the street. Parker’s head lifted to look for the shouter, but he kept moving forward. I was a step-and-a-half behind. A green Mazda with hooded headlights left the kerb ten metres away and roared towards Parker like a blinded, pouncing beast. I jumped, and clawed at Parker’s shoulder, digging my fingers in, twisting and pulling him back. We both stumbled and he fell back on top of me. I grazed my hand breaking the fall. The Mazda screamed past.

Parker rolled off me on to his back; he lifted his head off the road. ‘I forgot to tell you’, he said. ‘There’s someone trying to kill me.’

I went to the Noble Briton that night and on the next night, which was Saturday; both visits had their interest for a student of human nature, but neither Ray Guthrie nor Liam Catchpole showed. I made some discreet enquiries around the Cross but came up with nothing. One of the girls said she thought Dottie Williams had gone interstate for a while but was back now. Big help.