Roger grinned. “No one gave me second sight, either.”

Arkwright looked as if he could purr. “You know how it is when you’re doing a job like that, sir,” he went on. “It might have taken me a minute to fix the lamp, or it might have taken me five. I managed to get a little light, and started off again. The headlights came on just after that, so I said to myself he’s all right again. I wouldn’t like to swear that he stopped and got out, but I’m pretty sure.”

“Pity, but it’s a lucky thing you got what you did,” said Roger. “Meet anyone else on the Common?”

“A cyclist went by just as I was turning off the main road,” answered Arkwright. “I certainly didn’t see anyone else until the car had disappeared and I was across the Common.”

Roger let him talk for a couple of minutes, then sent him off. Immediately, a sergeant came in to report that Dr Anstruther Breem was waiting downstairs. Breem was the doctor who had been called in to examine Raeburn at die station. He was tall, well-dressed, suave, and determined not to be overimpressed by Chief Inspector West. Yes, in his opinion Raeburn had certainly been incapable of driving. He had not been able to walk along a straight line, his pronunciation of simple words had been distorted, his breath had smelt strongly of whisky.

“He was undoubtedly drunk, Chief Inspector.” Breem held a cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes were half closed.

“Could you swear that he wasn’t putting on an act?” asked Roger.

“I do assure you that I know when a man is drunk.”

“Yes, of course,” said Roger, politely. “Thank you, Dr Breem.”

Back at the Yard, he went down to the canteen with Turnbull, Who had only one piece of news. Halliwell had owned a wholesale grocery business in Southampton and had set fire to warehouses which he had claimed held ten thousand pounds worth of canned and packet goods. The police had proved both arson and fraud.