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for reasons he could have no inkling of. "I'll be there," I repeated. "OK?"

    "Splendid. I just '

    "I've got to go now."

    "You are all right, aren't you, Toby?"

    "Fine. See you later. "Bye."

    I ended the call before Brian had a chance to say his own goodbye and turned round to re-engage chummy.

    But he wasn't there. His stool was empty, his coffee-cup drained and abandoned. Chummy, complete with Orton Diaries and Tintin badges, had vanished.

    Cursing Brian Sallis, I grabbed my coat and rushed out. There was no sign of chummy, but in the narrow, dog-legging Lanes that was no surprise. Choice of direction boiled down to a fifty-fifty guess.

    I looked in through the window of Brimmers as much in hope as apprehension. Jenny had either seen nothing, in which case she couldn't help me, or she'd spectated at a pretty comprehensive balls-up, in which case .. .

    Elegantly trouser-suited and severely unsmiling, brow furrowed in the only gesture of exasperation she could allow herself with customers present, she stared out at me along a narrow line of sight through the windowful of hats. I grimaced. And she inclined her head to the right.

    I turned left, hurried round the next corner and headed on, scanning the shops and side turnings as I went. No glimpse of duffel rewarded my efforts and within a few minutes I was out in North Street, amidst traffic and noise and bustling passers-by.

    Then, incredibly, I saw him, pacing up and down at a crowded bus stop on the other side of the road. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with a stab of his middle finger and squinted expectantly in the direction from which a bus would come. A gathering of bags and folding of buggies amongst his companions at the stop signalled its imminent arrival even as I watched. I glanced to my left and saw a double-decker bearing down on them.

    The bus had stopped and was loading by the time I managed to dodge across the road. I saw chummy stepping aboard and, peering through the window, spotted his desert boots as he took the stairs to the top deck.
    "Where's this bus going?" I asked the harassed mother ahead of me and relayed her answer to the driver when I made it to the front of the queue. "Patcham, please." But there turned out to be a flat fare of a pound. My destination was entirely up to me.

    Actually, of course, it was up to chummy. I sat about halfway back downstairs and awaited his descent. The bus lumbered round by the Royal Pavilion, took on more passengers and headed north.

    Ten minutes slow going took us up London Road to within sight of the Duke of York's Cinema. Several people got up as we approached a stop.
    Then the desert boots appeared round the corner of the stairs. Chummy was on the move. I rose discreetly behind a broad-backed youth and was last but one off the bus.

    Chummy was walking north by then, towards the traffic lights at the junction ahead. I followed at what I judged to be a safe distance, lingering in a shop doorway as he reached the lights and waited for them to change, then hurrying after him as he crossed.

    He was heading east now, along Viaduct Road, where heavy traffic roared past dingy Victorian terraces. He plodded along, head bowed, displaying not the slightest interest in his surroundings, nor any inclination to glance over his shoulder. It seemed to me that if he'd left the Rendezvous so abruptly because I'd aroused his suspicion, he should have been warier. I concluded that he'd more probably left because he was ready to; as simple as that I was irrelevant.

    I saw him dig a bunch of keys out of his pocket a few seconds before he stopped by the door of a house dingier even than most of its neighbours and let himself in. I heard the door clunk shut as I approached. I carried on walking, noting the number as I passed: 77. Then I stopped and doubled back at a slower pace for a second, more lingering look.

    Number 77 was a standard two-up, two-down Victorian working-class dwelling, rendered in a