The lock of the back door clicked, and he withdrew a pick-lock, slipping it into his pocket before turning the handle and pushing. The door yielded. He stepped inside, closing it behind him, and put on a flashlight. The beam stabbed at a stainless steel sink and big metal taps, then moved until it shone beyond the shiny white tiled wall and through the open door. He knew the house well, and found his way easily through the three ground-floor rooms. In the dining-room, he grinned as the white light shone on the littered table, on some half-eaten ham, limp salad in a bowl, a percolator, dirty cups, plates and knives. They hadn’t been able to finish the meal, they’d been, so tired.

Mac went to the table.

He was short, with very broad shoulders, stocky but quick in his movements. His glossy dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, he had small features in a big face, a tawny skin, and unexpectedly clear grey eyes. If one failed to notice the thin lips his appearance, on first sight, was likeable.

He picked up the cups and saucers and took them to the kitchen, putting them on the metal draining-board, then went back for the percolator, which was nearly full. Resting the flashlight on the window-ledge, he washed the cups and saucers, emptied the milk jug and washed this also. He opened the refrigerator, took out a quart bottle of milk, half full, and emptied it. He washed this bottle, too. Next he took a pint bottle of milk out of his pocket, poured it into the empty quart bottle, then poured some from that into the jug.

He poured a little milk and some cold coffee into each cup, swilled it round and spilled a little into each saucer, then put the empty pint bottle back into his pocket. He ran some water to rinse the sink and remove all traces of the opiate which had been in the quart bottle of milk. He put the pure milk into the refrigerator, then carried cups and saucers, jug and percolator back into the dining-room, replacing them where he had found them.