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British Grenadiers’, ‘The Vicar of Bray’, and then the Gilbert and Sullivan ditty ‘Three Little Maids from School’.
    The crowd was warming up, stamping their feet and singing the lyrics falsetto. Someone bought Pike another ale and placed it on the piano for him. And then, just as the music was beginning to work its magic, a firm hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned without breaking rhythm and found himself looking up into the pinched young face of Constable Wilde from the Hastings police station.
    ‘It’s time, Chief Inspector, sir. We’ve found ’im.’
    Pike stood with his companions in the porch of the crumbling terrace house. Behind them in the darkness, the sea sucked at the shingle beach. Above the roar, seagulls cried and wheeled.
    Five and twenty ponies trotting through the dark;
    Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk.
    Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
    And watch the wall my darling while the gentlemen go by!
    Ever since he had been handed the case, Pike had not been able to get the galloping rhythms of Mr Kipling’s Smuggler’s Song from his head. Well, soon, with any luck, this assignment would be concluded, his part in the case closed, and the poem banished for good.
    He pulled his revolver from his pocket, cracked the barrel then snapped it shut. They were taking no chances. The fellow had already killed one policeman and a few more would make no difference to him; a man could hang only once. ‘Sergeant Gibbs, take an officer with you around the back,’ he said.
    Sergeant Gibbs gestured to one of the constables and they made their way off.
    Pike counted to twenty in his head, time enough for them to get around the building and cover the rear. Their quarry occupied the ground-floor flat so there would be no desperate leap from an upstairs window.
    ‘Ready?’ he asked Wilde and a beefier, older lad whose name he couldn’t remember. They nodded and stooped to pick up the battering ram. Pike stepped aside. ‘On the count of three. One … two …’
    The front door gave way to the sound of splintering wood. The constables rushed in. Pike picked up the lantern and followed. They found themselves in a high-ceilinged hallway with nothing in it but a filthy rag mat. A light flashed from under one of the doors. They heard the thump of feet on floorboards. Pike set the lantern down and tightened his grip on the revolver.
    ‘Police! Stay where you are,’ the officers cried as they shouldered the door open.
    From the bed, a wild-haired African woman screamed. A naked white man turned from the sash window and loosed a shot. Pike flinched as plaster pattered onto his bowler. He returned fire and struck his target in the foot. The man cursed and fell, his pistol skidding across the boards.
    The woman continued to scream, filthy bedding pulled up to her neck. The older constable slapped her hard across the face. ‘Shut yer cake-’ole, black bitch.’
    Pike looked up and frowned. ‘Steady on, that’s no way to treat a lady.’
    Wilde sniggered; he thought Pike was making a joke.
    He wasn’t.
    Pike handcuffed the injured man, then paused to knock the plaster from his bowler — a new hat, confound it.
    ‘That’s no lady, that’s Darkie Doris, Chief Inspector,’ the older man said, adding with a wink, ‘We all know Doris, don’t we, Wilde?’
    The younger man squirmed.
    ‘Question her at the station, then let her go. We have no proof that she’s involved.’ Pike gave the constable a sharp look and spoke quietly but forcefully. ‘And no rough stuff — clear?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ the constable sulked.
    From outside, Sergeant Gibbs tapped on the window. Pike motioned to him to join them. Voices and the sounds of doors opening and closing reached them from the hallway. Wilde left the room to pacify the alarmed residents.
    Pike hauled the man onto the bed, ripped up a pillowcase and bound his gushing foot. Beneath the bed covers the whimpering woman struggled into her