The man who got out was large and rather fleshy with hair so pale that it was almost white. He wore a single-breasted suit of dark grey flannel that was straight out of Savile Row, a white gardenia in the buttonhole, and carried himself with the habitual arrogance of a man who believes that he exists by a kind of divine right. The small man said something to him and they all turned and glanced at Lazer and Miller.

“Friends of yours?” Miller said as they moved across the grass.

Lazer shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. The fancy boy is Max Vernon. Came up from London about four months ago and bought out Harry Faulkner. Took over his betting shops, the Flamingo Club — everything.”

“What about his minders?”

“The big boy’s called Carver — Simon Carver. The little guy’s the one to watch. Stratton — I don’t know his first name.”

“Have they been leaning on you?”

Lazer bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Nothing quite so obvious. Let’s say I’ve got a very nice little business and Mr. Vernon would like a piece of the action. For a consideration, of course. All nice and legal. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in selling.”

Vernon paused a couple of yards away, Carver and Stratton on either side of him. “Hello there, old man,” he said cheerfully. “I was hoping to find you in. Time we had another little chat.”

“Not in my book it isn’t,” Lazer replied.

Carver took a step forward, but before anything could develop, Miller said quickly, “That’s an Old Etonian tie you’re wearing, did you know that?”

Vernon turned, his smile still hooked firmly into place. “How very gratifying. You’re the first person to recognise it since I’ve been here. Of course, we are a little far north.”