'That's very thoughtful of you.'

'Thoughtfulness costs nothing, Dennis.'

'Which reminds me. There's the small matter of my remuneration.'

'As if I'd forget.' He fished a key out of the breast pocket of his expensive-looking suit and chucked it over to me. 'The money's in a locker at King's Cross. The same place as last time.'

I put the key in the inside pocket of my suit, resisting the urge to thank him. There wasn't, I concluded, a great deal to thank him for.

Sensing my continued annoyance, he flashed me a salesman's smile. 'You did a good job, Dennis. It won't be forgotten.'

'No,' I said. 'Somehow, I don't think it will.' After we'd parted company I grabbed a sandwich at a cafe just off the Marylebone Road. They didn't do anything with sushi in it so I ordered smoked salmon, thinking it was probably the next best thing. The sandwich tasted like cardboard, but I wasn't sure whether that was as a result of the poor-quality bread or my own numbed tastebuds. I ate about three quarters of it, washing it down with a bottle of overpriced mineral water, then smoked two cigarettes in quick succession.

On my way back to the station I called in on Len Runnion at his pawn shop just off the Gray's Inn Road. In some ways, Runnion was one of Tomboy's successors. He dealt in stolen goods of pretty much every description, using the pawn shop as a cover. He had none of the class of Tomboy, though. A very short man with a leering smile that made Raymond's look genuine, Runnion had cunning, ratlike eyes that darted about when he talked. And he never looked anyone in the eyes, which is something I can't stand. To me, it means they've got skeletons in the closet. From what I knew of Runnion, and from what I could guess from his general demeanour, I expect he had a whole graveyard in his.