Sergeant Wield's ugliness was only skin deep, but that was deep enough. Each individual feature was only slightly battered, or bent, or scarred, and might have made a significant contribution to the appeal of any joli-laid hero from Mr Rochester on, but combined in one face they produced an effect so startling that Pascoe who met him almost daily was still amazed when he entered his room.

‘Thanks for the membership card,' said Pascoe, tossing it on the desk. 'Maurice Arany, what do you know about him?'

'Hungarian,' said Wield. 'His parents brought him out with them in 'fifty-six. He was thirteen then. They settled in Leeds and Maurice started work in a garage a couple of years later. He has no formal qualifications but a lot of mechanical skill. He got interested in the clubs and for a while he tried pushing an act around, part time. Bit of singing, juggling, telling jokes. Trouble was he couldn't sing and his jokes never quite made it.

Arany spoke near perfect English, but he couldn't quite grasp the subtleties of our four-letter words. So he jacked it in and got involved in other ways, lighting and sound to start with, but eventually a bit of dealing, a bit of management.'

'Who'd he manage?'

'Exotic dancers mainly. No, it wasn't like that. Most of these girls have mum to mind them, so there's no room for a ponce. Arany just smoothed the way, made contacts, arranged bookings. Now he's got his own agency. Small, just an office and a secretary, but he does a lot of business.'

'And how'd he get involved with Haggard?'

Wield shrugged.

'God knows. He just appeared, as far as I can make out. There's no trace of a previous connection, but then we never had any cause to keep a close watch on either of these two.'

'Kept his nose clean, has he?'