He forced himself to speak calmly.

“Will you please look at her right shoulder and tell me if there’s a mole on it?”

The plain-clothes man said: “Take him downstairs, you two, and ask Dr. Gillik to come upstairs at once. If the squad car has come with him, tell them to be very careful what they touch and to start on that downstairs window. I’ll send for them when I want them. Oh, I’d better have the photographer up at once.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris and his companion pulled at Roger’s arms.

A mole—and it was Janet. No mole—not Janet.

Roger got one arm free, and then sensed what was coming. He turned his head. A ham-like fist smashed into his nose, blinding him with pain and tears. The woman and the plain-clothes man became shapeless blurs. He felt himself dragged out of the room. Then one man took his arm and bent it behind him in a simple hammer-lock, and pushed him downwards. The other followed. There were men in the hall, including a middle-aged man with greying hair and carrying a black bag; “doctor” was written all over him.

“Inspector Hansell would like you to go straight up, doctor, please.” .

“What’s this all about?”

“Very nasty business, sir.”

Cold grey eyes scanned Roger’s face. The doctor didn’t speak, but couldn’t have said more clearly: “And you’ve got the man, good.” Roger was thrust into a small front room, where a lamp burned, then pushed into a chair.

“That’s too comfortable for him,” said Harris. “Get up— sit on that chair.”

“That chair” was an upright one.

Roger didn’t move.

“I told you to get up!”

It wasn’t worth arguing. He stood up, then sat on the other chair, which was near a big, heavy, old-fashioned standard lamp. He didn’t realize what Harris was at until cold steel pressed into his wrist, and a lock snapped. He was handcuffed to the standard lamp.