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you understand.’
    Forced to grovel, Holt confirmed
he fully understood.
    Having thereby scored a
final point, Cut-Glass rang off without asking whether the time was convenient.
She had sounded like the headmaster’s secretary calling him to his study for a
telling off or worse.
    Consequently, the
following evening he arrived outside Symes much too early and to kill time
ordered a coffee at the tiny delicatessen across the street. Sitting outside at
one of the three tables, he watched the goings-on, or lack thereof, in the
street, which was surprisingly quiet for one just off the main thoroughfare of
Piccadilly, with its constant stream of buses, taxis, and other vehicles. Apart
from the odd car, van, or taxi taking a short cut, there was the occasional
pedestrian. Those looking lost were probably tourists seeking the Royal Academy,
slightly further on along Piccadilly, where they were holding one of their
special exhibitions.
    The tailoring
establishment looked just what it was purported to be and, judging by the
amount of wear on the brass nameplate outside, had either been in existence for
many years or had an overzealous polisher – probably both. Looking more closely,
Holt could see an array of CCTV cameras covering not only the entrance but also
the street. Realizing that one was pointing directly at him, he shifted
uneasily in his seat, trying to adopt a suave, sophisticated air as he preened like
he had seen actors do when savouring coffee in TV commercials.
    Just before six thirty,
a tall, smartly dressed gentleman came out from number 45 and stepped into the
street. He clutched a fold-over bag for carrying suits as his long legs carried
him elegantly towards Piccadilly.
    At 6 . 31 precisely, Holt got up and,
conscious of his relatively short legs, walked across the street with what he
considered was a confident, nonchalant gait, for the benefit of the CCTV camera.
For some reason, he found himself thinking how Britain’s most accomplished official
hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, who had executed at least four hundred people by
the time he resigned in 1956, used to peep into the condemned man’s or even
woman’s cell to assess the amount of rope required for optimum results. Was the
tailor likewise covertly sizing up his subjects, or were the cameras for a more
sinister purpose?
    There were four bell
pushes of a modern design out of keeping with the traditional brass nameplate.
The top three had Christian names beside them – Jennifer, Tim, and Hugh – and
it would have all seemed very innocent had it not been for the CCTV cameras.
Holt pressed the bottom one, marked ‘Symes ’.  
    On hearing a loud click,
he pushed open the heavier-than-expected door and stepped inside to find yet
another door. He tried to open the second one but found that only became possible
once the outer door had snapped shut behind him. Inside was a long, narrow hall
with a straight staircase on the left, a long hallway going to the back
alongside it to the right, and a door with a glass window marked ‘Symes &
Co.’ in black letters on his immediate right.
    Just as he was about to
push the door, a hairy hand appeared on the other side and pulled it open for
him. The hand belonged to a portly fiftyish man in shirtsleeves, who, from the
tape measure slung round his neck, was obviously the tailor.
    ‘Mr Holt? Welcome to
Symes. We’ll see what we can do for you. The major said you needed something
snappy yet elegant.’
    Evidently, he had
learnt not to ask clients too many questions – indeed, no personal questions other
than to confirm their name.
    An assistant, possibly
an apprentice, wearing a smart suit much too smart for someone barely twenty, stepped
up to relieve Holt of his jacket with unmerited deference, considering the lowly
object was the reason Holt was there in the first place.
    Once measured in the
usual places, one slightly embarrassing, Holt was escorted to the shelves along
the right-hand wall of the establishment to