But it was a police-car.

Connon swore to himself as the car pulled ahead of him and flashed 'Stop'. He drew carefully in to the side and switched off his engine. Its throbbing continued in his head somehow and he rubbed his temple, in an effort to dispel the pain. Out of the car ahead climbed two uniformed figures who made their way towards him slowly, weightily. He lowered his window and sucked in the fresh air.

'Good evening, sir. May I see your licence?'

Silently he drew it out and handed it over with his insurance cover-note and test certificate.

Thank you, sir.'

The gears in his head were now grinding viciously together and he could not stop himself from rubbing his brow again.

'Are you all right, sir?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Have you been drinking?'

'No. Well, no. I had one whisky but that's all.'

'I see. Would you mind taking a breathalyser test, sir?'

Connon shrugged. The policeman accepted the negative result impassively and returned his documents. 'Thank you, sir. You will hear from us if any further action is proposed concerning your failure to halt at the traffic lights. Good evening.' 'Good evening,' said Connon. The whole business had taken something over fifteen minutes, making him still later. But he drove the remaining five miles home with exaggerated care, partly because of the police, partly because of his headache. As he turned into his own street, his mind cleared and the pain vanished in a matter of seconds. He drove carefully down the avenue of glowing lampposts. It was a mixed kind of street, its origins contained in its name, Boundary Drive. The solid detached houses on the left had been built for comfort in the 'thirties when they had faced over open countryside stretching away to the Dales.