As he was taking details, Wells was annoyed to see the Chief Constable pause to have a few morale-boosting words with young Collier, who ought to be answering bloody phones instead of fawning on the top brass. Behind Collier, the Divisional Commander, all atwitter, greeted the honoured guest and escorted him upstairs where the raucous noise had mysteriously abated.

And all the time this damn old man was droning away in his ear about the sports car and the inefficiency of the police who were never around when they were wanted. “I don’t suppose you managed to get its registration number,

Mr. Hickman?” he asked when the caller ran out of breath.

“No,” replied the old man, ‘but you’ll be able to trace him. His licence plate fell off when he hit the dustbins.”

“Right, Mr. Hickman, thank you very much,” said Wells, scribbling out the details. “We’ll send a car over there right away.” He jotted down the time of the call… 10.53, and slid the note through to Control.

Ridley, the controller, checked his wall map. Arberry Road. Charlie Alpha would be the quickest. He depressed the microphone button. “Control to Charlie Alpha. Come in please.”

The old man in the call box replaced the phone and dug his fingers hopefully into the coin-return receptacle in case there was any money there. There wasn’t. He shivered as a gust of wind found the broken pane in the kiosk door. He was still in his pyjamas, with his overcoat as a dressing gown and his sock less feet uncomfortably cold in his hastily laced shoes.

That hooligan in the sports car. It was the second night running the residents had had to put up with it. Screaming tyres, the horn blasting away, speeding round and round the flats as if it were on the Silverstone racing track. Tonight was even worse. The car had left the road and had ripped up lawns and flower beds as it took a short cut.