“Like hell it wouldn’t!”

“I hate to remind you,” said Roger, icily now, “that of the crimes brought to the Yard’s notice in the past four years, over fifty per cent have remained unsolved. Yet barely twenty per cent of those I’ve personally investigated have been unsolved. Aren’t I allowed a failure without being covertly threatened with disciplinary action?”

Coppell turned a dusky turkey-red.

“You’re being bloody-minded,” he rasped. “You may not have a high opinion of me or the Yard’s performance while I’ve been commander, but let me tell you that a lot of people do have a high opinion of me. And you’re the only senior officer around from whom we’ve had any bad publicity.” He clenched his fist and banged it on the folded copy of the Globe. “And that’s the worst kind of publicity.”

He turned on his heel, and strode out; the door slammed behind him.

Roger did not move for some minutes, just sat there like a statue, his face the colour of white marble. His features were set, his full lips drawn very tight, his eyes narrowed beneath the well-shaped brows.

He was not conscious of thought; barely, of feeling. He felt cold, and once or twice a quiver ran through his whole body. A phrase from childhood was the first thought that came into his mind: as if someone were walking over my grave. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, and getting up, he went to the window and looked out at the complex of modern buildings. It was overcast and there was a spit of rain in the air. He opened the window and although the air was cold and damp, he was glad of it. He needed fresh air.

It was several minutes before he went back to the desk, sat down and pulled the Globe towards him.