'Well, spit it out,' ordered Tallis. 'And don't stand there dithering like that – sit down.'

Victor Leeming obeyed, sinking on to the chair in front of the desk. It did not get any easier. No matter how many times he went into his superior's office, he still felt like an errant schoolboy hauled up before a tyrannical headmaster. Tallis had the authority of a man who had spent most of his career in the army, commanding soldiers in war-torn parts of the Empire. Now in his fifties, he was beak-nosed, broad-shouldered and portly, a shock of grey hair contrasting sharply with the rubicund hue of his cheeks. A well-trimmed moustache decorated his upper lip like a third eyebrow. His rasping voice made his question sound like an accusation.

'What have you done since you left here yesterday?'

'I did as you instructed, sir,' replied Leeming, 'and called on Mr Voke. Some interesting facts emerged.'

Tallis issued a challenge. 'Then interest me.'

The sergeant gave his report. Colbeck had taught him to keep a written account of every interview that he conducted so that it could be referred back to at a future date. Leeming had memorised what he had put down on paper yet – unsettled by the basilisk stare of the superintendent – he still stumbled over some of the words. When the report reached the point where Leeming had departed from Wood Street the night before, Tallis wanted to clarify one point.

'And you're sure that you warned Mr Voke that the duplicate set of keys had been stolen?'

'Inspector Colbeck sent me there for that express purpose.'

'Did you examine the premises before you left?'

'No, sir,' said Leeming.

'It never occurred to you to advise him about the security of his premises?'

'I didn't think it was my place to do so. Mr Voke has had that shop for many years. He knows how to guard his stock. A silversmith would not remain in business if he didn't lock all his doors at night.'