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low enough to cause me to duck.
    The bedroom matched it, the window even smaller, the beams sloping to the roof-line. The bed was iron with brass knobs, but he had a candlewick spread on it. There was a chest of drawers that had a varnished surface, now worn down to bare wood. But there was no wardrobe.
    I started in the bedroom and worked my way back to the butchered door. I was hoping for some notes, at least, of the lines his enquiries might have been taking. But I found nothing. In the living-room there was a kitchen cupboard against one wall, and in the left-hand drawer I found a loose-leaf binder with notes on electronic circuits. There was a whole run of radio manuals and text books in a low bookcase beside the fireplace.
    Beneath the loose-leaf binder was a manilla envelope, eight inches by three. I picked it out by the edges only and squeezed it to open its mouth. A letter fell out. It was dated two months before and was from a firm of solicitors in Wolverhampton called Fiston & Greene. Mr Greene was writing. He said he enclosed a letter from Paul’s father, which the coroner had now released. There was no enclosed letter, but there was a paper clip where it had been.
    I put it all back, then put out the lights and went away. Paul had been a tidy lad. It was a pity his death had been so messy.
    It was nearly one o’clock. My first case had lasted around nine hours, and I’d lost my client. Keep it short, Finn had said. He couldn’t have had it much shorter than that. I decided to go back and tell him, watch the pleasure seep into him, and I wondered whether he would forget he had said I wouldn’t lose by it.
    The Beeches was still bouncing with activity. It was only one-forty when I drove in there again. I parked in the same spot. The 3 litre Rover wasn’t where it’d been, but I wasn’t sure it was Finn’s anyway. I had a quiet look round, but there was no dark, large car that bore impact marks. It was time to go on in, I decided. No it wasn’t. There were the old stables over the other side still to be investigated.
    I limped round. My ankle was aching a little; nothing that mattered. I knew just where the stables were, because we’d parked in front of them the day I’d brought Crowshaw. This side of the house was where they had their front door. They had changed the stables into a row of eight garages with wooden doors. The first four were locked, so I left them alone. I tried the other four. The end one had something big crouching in the gloom. I closed the doors quietly behind me and searched for a light switch by touch. It turned out to be a length of cord with a knot in it. A naked bulb sprang into life.
    It was the grey Rover. There was a dent in the front bumper—off-side—and a score along the bonnet. The doors were locked. I couldn’t see any red Mini paint in the score. I turned to reach for the knot.
    Troy had the door open a yard or so and was leaning on it with one hand level with his shoulder, preserving the plum-coloured jacket from contact. ‘I wouldn’t hang around here,’ he said. ‘It could be dangerous, Mr Mallin.’
    It was the nearest his voice had approached to warmness, just a shimmer of water on the icy surface.
    ‘ I must have lost my way.’
    He nodded. ‘Some of the boys might have drifted round. They’re very rough, the boys.’
    ‘ I was looking,’ I said, ‘for a large, dark car with scores along the sides.’
    ‘ Were you?’ He stood back for me to leave. I heard a slight tinkle from the chain on his wrist. ‘A pity you didn’t find it.’
    I agreed. ‘You didn’t give me time.’
    ‘ If I find one,’ he promised, ‘I’ll let you know.’
    ‘ Thank you.’
    ‘ If you’re around.’
    He lit a small cigar and watched me walk away. I took it steady, a prickly feeling between my shoulders. But nothing happened to the back of my head, and I arrived safely at the club entrance.
    Feeney Keston was still on duty. He looked shocked on seeing me. His eyes