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silent trinity.
    It is the habit of policemen when they are in any way uneasy – as Mulholland was with the roasting he was expecting from his inspector, Roach with the realisation that the persecution of Ballantyne had unearthed a streak of cruel intolerance in his nature that he had himself suffered from greatly under the rigid edicts of his long dead father, and McLevy with inappropriate ribald images still surfacing from his dream – that they will displace the emotion in accusative form upon the first member of the general public unfortunate enough to swim within the murky depths of their oceanic authority.
    And so they stood. Not one regarding the other, all focused on a stranger in their midst.
     ‘Whit’s that in your poche?’ said McLevy out of the blue. He had noticed a suspicious bulge to the right side of the stranger’s reefer jacket. ‘No’ a revolver I hope?’
    The young man looked down at the pocket and frowned; this encounter was not turning out the way he had seen it in his heroic imagination. He plunged his hand into the deep recess of the garment and brought out the suspicious shape.
    ‘A cricket ball,’ he declared.
    ‘Ye indulge at the cricket?’ asked McLevy, as if it was a sign of anarchist leanings.
    ‘I play cricket, football, hockey, swimming and rugby,’ was the proud response.
    ‘What about golf?’ queried Roach.
    ‘A splendid pastime.’
    Roach nodded approvingly but McLevy was not yet finished with his line of enquiry.
    ‘I’ll wager ye also try your skill at boxing?’
    A look of surprise flashed into the stranger’s eyes.
    ‘I do.’
    ‘Last night I’ll be bound.’
    ‘Indeed.’
    The young man hesitated but curiosity got the better of him as the inspector knew it would.
    ‘What draws you to that conclusion?’
    ‘The skin on the knuckles of your right hand is somewhat abraded,’ McLevy remarked. ‘Of course ye could have received such chasing a ball, but there is also a bruised discolouration indicating impact and I also note the marking of a mouse under your left eye.’
    The inspector pursed his lips and assumed the manner of a discriminating deductor.
    ‘It is therefore my premise that your opponent had a hard head and got lucky wi’ a swipe or two.’
    Mulholland and Roach exchanged perplexed glances; this was not McLevy’s usual mode of speech or behaviour. The young man, however, let out a burst of spirited laughter.
     ‘By God you are right, sir. He did indeed have a frontal skull bone fit for a granite quarry. And I made the error of aiming down.’
    ‘Ye should aye punch up,’ said McLevy. ‘More leverage.’
    He was enjoying the looks of bafflement on the faces of his lieutenant and constable so decided to put another dent in their brainpans.
    ‘I also surmise,’ he pontificated, ‘that such a wealth of sporting activity and the leisure time available to pursue such, can only point to one vocation – that of a university student.’
    This time when the young man laughed the face expressed merriment and humour but no sound emerged, as if the laughter was choked at source.
    ‘Almost exactly so, sir, except,’ and here he stepped up before McLevy with some purpose, almost as if he was about to engage him in a bout of fisticuffs, ‘that I have not long before attained my degree.’
    ‘In medicine, no doubt,’ the inspector punched up as his opponent towered over him. ‘Ye have the natural arrogance necessary to the medical profession but not enough brains tae disport yourself in the legal.
    ‘Besides,’ he continued, as the young man let out a puff of air as if slightly winded, ‘you would seem tae me to lack the requisite treachery to succeed in law.’
    ‘You represent the law,’ came the shrewd response.
    ‘And I am steeped in perfidy,’ the inspector replied urbanely. ‘You, on the other hand, are jist beginning.’
    A blink of the eye showed the blow to have gone home and McLevy decided that was enough deductive intuition for