Near Roehampton he pulled into the side of the road, leaned over to the back of the car, and took a flask from a pocket behind his seat. He unscrewed the cap, and put the mouth of the flask to his lips. He took three or four gulps, then took the flask away, and screwed on the cap.

He took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette and examined each corner of the case; there was a faint red stain on one.

He got out of the car, wiped the case on the grass, slipped it back into his pocket, tossed the cigarette away, and took the wheel again. He sat still, thinking intently, then moved suddenly, rubbed his pigskin gloves over the door where Halliwell had touched it.

He was reversing when he saw the headlights of a car coming from Roehampton, and was in the middle of the road when he noticed the blue-and-white sign: POLICE.

He waved the driver on. The police car passed, only to swing across his hood. He put on the brakes, staring at the two uniformed policemen who jumped out and hurried back.

He opened his window.

“Good evening, sir,” said one of the men. “Are you Mr Paul Raeburn?”

“Eh?” On the instant Raeburn’s voice became thick and hoarse, and he looked bleary-eyed as he peered at the man. “Whassat?”

“I said, are you Mr Paul Raeburn?”

“ ‘Smy name. No business of yours.” Raeburn hiccuped. “Every right to drive if—hic—I want to.”

“Of course you have, sir,” said the policeman, soothingly. “You’re not feeling well, are you?”

“Feel wunnerful,” muttered Raeburn. “Wunnerful party—hic. Want to go home.”