“Yes, wot is it?” Her voice squeaked.

“I’ve come to see your lodger,” Rollison said. “It’s all right, Ma.” He slipped a pound-note out of his pocket and rustled it. The door opened and a skinny hand shot out. Rollison put his foot against the door, to prevent it from being closed in his face. “A young fellow who hasn’t been here long. Is he in?”

“You ain’t a copper, are you?”

“Did you ever know a copper who paid for information in pound notes?”

“Notes?”

He laughed, added another pound and held both lightly.

“Is he in?”

“Yeh.”

“Alone?”

“Yeh.”

“Which room?”

“Top, right.”

He gave her the two pounds and said: “Go back into your room, Ma.”

She looked at him through thin lashes with watery, bleary eyes and shuffled into the front room. A stale smell of vegetables and dampness met Rollison who thrust the door wide open and looked up the stairs. He paused. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He beckoned Snub who came in and closed the door, making the passage dark. Rollison called:

“Mellor!”

A clock with a tinny bell struck the half-hour.

Rollison reached the foot of the stairs and peered upwards, then began to mount. Snub stayed behind, still watchful but he knew that Rollison did not really expect an attack, was afraid only of what he might find here. The stairs creaked under Rollison’s light tread, the landing boards groaned.

Rollison went up the next flight and tapped on the door to the right. There was no answer. He tried the handle and pushed the door but it was locked. He pushed it again, frowning. Doors in this type of house were of flimsy wood and shook and rattled under pressure— but this one was curiously tight fitting.

Snub whispered: “All okay?”