1

      They released Marlowe from Wandsworth shortly after eight o’clock on a wet September morning. When the gate was opened he hesitated for a moment before stepping outside and the man on duty gave him a push forward. ‘See you again,’ he observed, cynically.

      ‘Like hell, you will,’ Marlowe said over his shoulder.

      He walked down towards the main road, a big, dangerous-looking man, massive shoulders swelling under the cheap raincoat they had given him. He stood on the corner watching the early morning traffic and a flurry of wind lifted cold rain into his face. On the opposite side of the road was a snack bar. For a moment he hesitated, fingering the money in his pocket, and then he took advantage of a break in the traffic and crossed over.

      When he pushed open the door, a bell tinkled in the stillness. The place was deserted. He sat on one of the high stools at the counter and waited. After a few moments an old, white-haired man emerged from a door at the rear. He peered over the top of steel-rimmed spectacles and a slow smile appeared on his face. ‘What would you like, son?’ he said.

      Marlowe’s fingers tightened over the coins. For a moment he was unable to speak and then he managed to say, ‘Give me twenty cigarettes.’

      The old man was already reaching for them. For a brief second Marlowe looked at the packet and then he quickly opened it and took out a cigarette. A match flared in the old man’s hands and Marlowe reached forward. He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke with a great sigh. ‘Christ, but I was waiting for that,’ he said.

      The old man chuckled sympathetically and poured strong coffee from a battered metal pot into a mug. He added milk and pushed it across. Marlowe reached for his money and the old man smiled and raised a hand. ‘It’s on the house.’

      For a moment they looked at each other steadily and then Marlowe laughed. ‘How can you tell?’ he said.

      The old man leaned on the counter and shrugged. ‘I’ve kept this place for twenty years. Nearly every day during that time someone has walked down the street opposite and stood on that corner. Then they see this place and it’s straight in for a packet of cigarettes.’

      Marlowe grinned. ‘You can’t blame them can you?’ He drank some of the coffee and sighed with pleasure. ‘That tastes good. After five years of drinking swill I’d forgotten what good coffee was like.’

      The old man nodded and said quietly, ‘That’s a long time. Things can change a lot in five years.’

      Marlowe looked out of the window. ‘You’re damned right they can. I’ve been watching the cars. They all look different somehow. Even people’s clothes look different.’

      ‘They are different,’ the old man said. ‘And the people inside them are different too.’

      Marlowe laughed bitterly and swallowed the rest of his coffee. ‘Aren’t we all?’ he said. ‘Everything changes. Everything.’

      ‘More coffee?’ the old man asked gently.

      Marlowe shook his head and stood up. ‘No, I’ve got to get moving.’

      The old man produced a cloth and carefully wiped the counter. ‘Where are you going, son? The Prisoners’ Aid Society?’

      Marlowe laughed briefly and a flash of genuine amusement showed in his cold grey eyes. ‘Now I ask you. Do I look the sort of bloke that would apply to those people?’

      The old man sighed and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘You look like a man who would never ask anybody for anything.’

      Marlowe grinned and lit another cigarette. ‘That’s right, Dad. That way you never owe anybody anything.’ He opened the door. ‘Thanks for the cigarettes. I’ll be seeing you.’

      The old man shook his head. ‘I hope not.’

      Marlowe grinned again. ‘Okay, Dad, I’ll try to oblige.’ He closed the door behind him and began to walk along the pavement.

      The rain had increased in force and bounced from the pavement in long solid rods. It soaked through the cheap raincoat within a few seconds and he cursed and hurried towards a bus shelter. The traffic had slackened down to an occasional truck or car and the pavements were deserted. As he approached the shelter a large black saloon turned into the kerb slightly ahead of him.

      As he moved alongside the car a voice said, ‘Hallo, Hugh. We’ve been waiting for you. It’s been a long time.’

      Marlowe stood quite still. The skin had tightened over his prominent cheekbones, but otherwise he showed no emotion. He approached the car and looked in at the man who sat behind the wheel. ‘Hallo, you bastard!’ he said.

      A rough voice snarled from the rear seat. ‘Watch it, Marlowe! You can’t talk to Mr Faulkner like that.’

      The man who had spoken was thick set with the coarse, battered features of a prizefighter. Next to him sat a small wiry man whose cold beady eyes were like holes in his white face.

      Marlowe’s gaze flickered over them contemptuously. ‘The old firm. It must smell pretty high in there when you have the windows closed.’

      The large man made a convulsive movement and Faulkner cried warningly, ‘Butcher!’ He subsided, swearing violently under his breath,