“Shall we go and talk to Judith?” he suggested mildly.

He slid his right hand into his pocket and poked the gun against the cloth, near the big shoulders.

There was a moment of stillness, of challenge. Then the stocky man relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes were dull and his mouth slack.

He said: “You’ve asked for plenty of trouble.”

“I don’t want to have to deal out any more yet,” said Rollison. “Come along.”

He half-expected the man to cut and run for it; but after a pause the other gave way and climbed out of the car. Rollison gripped his arm tightly; he felt the powerful, bulging muscles and knew that it would be no fun if this man turned on him. He kept half a pace behind, still holding the arm, and they crossed the road in step and walked towards Number 23. Outside were two cement-covered posts where a gate had been fixed before scrap iron became a weapon of war. As they reached these Rollison felt the muscles tense, knew that the escape attempt was coming and pulled the man round. At the same time the man back-heeled. Caught on one leg, he stumbled and nearly fell. Rollison stopped him from falling, pulled him upright and bustled him into the porch. The front door was unlocked. Rollison thrust it open and pushed the man in front of him.

He said: “Don’t do that again.”

Keeping his hand in his pocket, he jabbed the gun into the small of the other’s back. They went upstairs slowly, footsteps firm on every tread. A door on the first landing opened and a faded-looking woman appeared, carrying a shopping-basket. She stared into the glowering face of Rollison’s prisoner and started back.