'Things have certainly changed. It's a thriving coal port now. Superintendent Stockdale was telling me how the population has trebled in the time he's been living here. Inevitably,' said Colbeck with a shrug, 'it's meant a sharp increase in the amount of crime.'

Pugh was rueful. 'The worst excesses occur in Butetown – that's the dockland area. It's a vile place, filled with the dross of humanity who believe they were put on this earth to do nothing but drink, fight, gamble and enjoy carnal pleasures in sordid dens of wickedness. You'll not want to be in Butetown when foreign ships come in,' he warned. 'It's like hell on earth. You'd expect a murder there but not,' he continued, spreading his arms wide, 'in a respectable hotel like this. Oh, Inspector, please tell me that you'll be able to catch the villain who inflicted this horror upon us.'

Colbeck was confident. 'I think I can guarantee it, Mr Pugh.'

Jeremiah Stockdale was not looking forward to the visit. Being the bearer of bad news always made him feel uncomfortable. Since the bad news had to be passed on to Clifford Tomkins and his wife, Stockdale had reason to be even more uneasy. He steeled himself to bear the onslaught of anger, bitterness and criticism that was bound to come. Winifred Tomkins, a plump, pampered middle-aged woman, dripping with expensive jewellery, led the attack. No sooner had he given them the salient details of the crime than she pounced.

'My coffee pot has been stolen!' she cried, outrage making her already bulbous eyes move even further out of their sockets. 'How on earth could you let this happen, Superintendent?'