“Very good, sir.” Jolly went out and Kemp’s gaze followed him, as if he were too good to be true.

“Who is Eddie Day?” he asked.

“Freddie,” corrected Rollison. “He’s the manager of the pub on the corner of Jupe Street.”

Kemp frowned. “I don’t know the licensed victuallers.”

Rollison stared. “The—” he chuckled and went on jocularly: “If you call pub-keepers licensed victuallers, you’ll make your people think they’ve got to learn a new language—it would be easier for you to learn theirs!” When Kemp looked slightly shocked, he went on in a sharper voice: “The pubs are part of your parish, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” admitted Kemp, uncomfortably, “but I—er—I—I always thought—”

“That they were dens of vice and iniquity in the East End,” said Rollison. “Yes, I suppose you would but the quicker you get the idea out of your head, the better. You’ll find the good as well as the bad go regularly for their pint and if you try to make ‘em give it up, you’ll come a cropper. None of which is my business, strictly speaking,” he added, more lightly. “This job is. Have you got anything in mind?”

“I suppose I’d better tell the police,” said Kemp, slowly.

“Why such reluctance?”

“I didn’t get on with them very well before,” said Kemp. “I mean, about Craik.”

“If that were the only reason, I’d say go to see them,” said Rollison. “But it might be a good idea not to tell them yet. They’ll hear about it but unless you approach them officially, they’ll do nothing. If you ask them to investigate, they’ll probably start a round-up and they might pick up half a dozen of the people concerned but your stock would go down with a bump.”

“I wish I could understand you,” said Kemp, after a short pause.

“Taken by and large,” said Rollison, “East Enders don’t like the police. Oh, they rub shoulders and get along all right but it’s an uneasy peace. A man who runs to the police if he’s been beaten up or had his pocket picked doesn’t win much favour but if he finds out who does it and repays him in kind, that’s a different story.”