Roger opened his door and Danizon jumped up from a small desk jammed into a corner.

“Sir?”

“Tea and sandwiches, please,” Roger said. “I’m famished.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Anyone been after me?”

“No one in particular,” answered Danizon. “The sureties failed to put up the money for Rapelli, so he’s been taken to Brixton.”

“Can’t say I mind,” Roger said, but he was puzzled. After making such a plea in court, why hadn’t Rachel Warrender provided the sureties?

“Did you have any luck?” Danizon asked.

Roger shook his head and went back to his own room.

There were a few messages, mostly from the divisions, one notice of a Police Union meeting, one advance notice of the Metropolitan Police Ball, which would be early in October. There was a pencilled note across the corner of this. “Care to be M.C.?” In this mood I wouldn’t like — to be Master of Ceremonies at a five shilling hop, Roger thought, scowling; then he realised the absurdity of his own mood, and grinned. He was still smiling broadly, without knowing that it made him look quite startlingly handsome and carefree, when the door from the passage opened and Coppell strode in.

Roger had no time to change his expression, which froze into a set grin as Coppell slammed the door behind him.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot to be happy about,” he growled. “I expected you to be in tears.”

There wasn’t any doubt about Coppell’s mood; he was out for blood. And there wasn’t the slightest point in answering back in the same tone. The best way to answer Coppell was earnestly.

“What should I be crying about, sir?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

Roger hesitated, rounded his desk, and pushed a chair into position so that Coppell could sit down. But Coppell preferred to grip the back of the wooden armchair, in much the same way as Rapelli had gripped the rail of the dock that morning. His heavy jowl looked fuller than usual, his mouth was tightly set, his deepset eyes sparked with irritation.