“OK, thanks, I’m all right.”

Sweeper made more tea and said,

“It was left on my doorstep. One of my children could have opened it.”

I knew it was pointless but made the play, asked,

“The guards, have you called them?”

He made a hissing noise through his teeth, like a spit articulated, asked,

“Did you yourself not meet with the top man himself only yesterday?”

“How did you know?”

“You work for me, it is my business to know how you conduct that work.”

I wasn’t real hot on “You work for me”, no better opportunity to get that squared away. Put the mug down, said,

“We better get something straight, pal. I’m helping you out. I don’t work for you; you are not my boss; I am not an employee. Are we clear?”

He gave a thin smile.

“You are a proud man, Jack Taylor. I understand pride. Here, take this.”

He produced a cloth bundle. I said,

“You unwrap it.”

He did. It was a 9mm Browning, Hi-Power. He said,

“It’s the push-button release, see?”

He flicked his hand and the clip popped out. He continued,

“There are thirteen shots, one in the chamber. Here is the safety. To check it’s on, cock the hammer.”

He put it down on the table. I asked,

“And I’m supposed to do what exactly with it?”

“For protection.”

“No, thanks, I don’t do guns.”

He rewrapped the weapon, moved to the sink and opened the press beneath. Reaching behind the pipes, he inserted the package, said,

“You never know.”

“Have you any idea who’d want to kill your people?”

“Watch the news. Everybody hates the tinkers.”

“That’s a help.”

I needed a suit and I needed to connect. Oxfam has priced itself out of the market. In London, once, I’d gone to their branch at High Street, Kensington. Jackets were chained like the most paranoid Regent Street outlet. What’s that about? No, thanks. Went to Age Concern, found a dark blue, looked too big but I could bulk up. Pack the gun and any suit would fit. The price was a fiver with a navy shirt and worsted tie. The assistant, English of course, said,