Greta swallowed her vodka. “Knock back that whiskey,” she told Roper, “because I know you’re eager to get back to your machines. That’s all he ever does,” she said. “Eats sandwiches, drinks a bottle of scotch a night, smokes, hardly sleeps and plays around on those damn machines.”

“Yes,” Roper said. “It’s a wonderful life.”

“Let’s move it, gentlemen,” Greta called to the military police. “Take it easy, Harry.”

The policemen took the chair out to the special van, loaded it and a few moments later drove off to Holland Park.

“Another one, boss?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’ve got a mind to a bit of action. Remember George Moon?”

“And his boyfriend, Big Harold,” Baxter said.

“A couple of years ago, they tried to run Roper into traffic in his wheelchair.”

Sam Hall laughed. “I remember, the Major shot Harold in the side of the knee and Moon through the thigh. The word to the police was they’d been attacked by muggers. The cops didn’t have much sympathy. They would have been only too glad to do it themselves.”

“So what’s the point?”

“On behalf of a Russian geezer who is no friend of Dillon and Billy, George Moon produced a couple of lowlifes who tried to take out Blake Johnson for two grand.”

“Anybody damaged?” Baxter said grimly.

“One of them left minus half his left ear, and the other one told Dillon the score.”

“So that leaves George Moon in deep trouble.”

“I’d say so.” Harry got up. “So let’s make it a visit to the Harvest Moon, home of the worst pint of beer in London. And make sure you’re carrying.”

TRENCHARD STREET WAS VICTORIAN, and the Harvest Moon even more so. They arrived over cobblestones to the pub, with its half-moon over the door.

Harry told Sam Hall, “Wait by the car. Anything could happen in a dump like this.”