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simply appeal for anyone who had gone missing from home or work in the Tottenham/Edmonton area the previous Tuesday and had not been seen since. A man who walked with a pronounced limp, between fifty and fifty-five, short grey hair, medium height, medium build. August was a thin month for news; the media might carry the item, but not intensively.
    Nevertheless, there was one paper that might give the item a good run and he had a contact on it. He had lunch with the reporter on the Edmonton and Tottenham Express, the local rag that covered the whole area of the Dover Street nick. The reporter took notes and promised to do what he could.
    The civil courts may go into recess for a long vacation in the summer, but the network of criminal courts never ceases to labour. Over ninety per cent of lawbreaking is handled by the magistrates’ courts and the processes of the law have much to go on seven days a week and every week in the year. Much of the day-to-day work is carried out by lay magistrates who take no pay but work as a civic duty. They handle the mass of minor offences—traffic violations, issuing of warrants for arrest or search, drinking-licence extensions, minor theft, affray. And the granting of extensions to police custody or remands to prison to await trial. If a serious case comes before the magistrates’ court, it is the modern custom for a paid stipendiary magistrate, a qualified lawyer, to take the bench, sitting alone.
    That afternoon. Court No. Three at the Highbury Corner court was in the charge of three lay magistrates, chaired by Mr. Henry Spellar, a retired headmaster. The issue was so simple it took but a few seconds.
    When it was over. Price and Cornish were led away and driven back to Dover Street. Burns reported to Detective Superintendent Parfitt.
    “How’s it going. Jack?” asked the head of the whole CID branch at Dover Street.
    “Frustrating, sir. It started fast and well, with an excellent witness who saw it all. Start to finish. Respectable shopkeeper across the road. Good citizen. No hesitation at ID and prepared to testify. I am short of the missing wallet taken from the victim. Plus forensic linking Price and Cornish to the time and the place. I’ve got Price’s broken nose and the treatment of that nose in St. Anne’s just three hours later. It tallies perfectly with the eyewitness statement.”
    “So what is holding you?”
    “I need the wallet, linkage to the thugs; I need forensic to hurry up, and I’d like to ID the victim. He’s still a UAM.”
    “Are you going to charge them?”
    “If Mr. Patel picks them out of the line tomorrow, yes sir. They mustn’t walk on this one. They’re both guilty as hell.”
    Alan Parfitt nodded.
    “All right. Jack. I’ll try and chivvy forensics. Keep me and the GPS informed.”
    At the Royal London dusk fell again but the man in ICU did not see it. It had been forty-eight hours since the operation; the effects of the anaesthetics were long gone, but he did not flicker. He was still far away in his own world.

DAY FOUR
    FRIDAY
    The newspaper came out and it had given Luke Skinner a good spread. The story was the second lead, front page. The reporter took the angle: Limping Mystery Man—Who Is He? Police Ask. There was a description of the assault and reference to two local men who were ‘helping the police with their inquiries’. This is one of those much-used phrases comparable with hospital bulletins that describe people in absolute agony as being ‘comfortable’. It means the opposite and everyone knows it.
    The reporter gave a good description of the victim, his height, build, short grey hair and that giveaway limp, then ended with a query in bold capital letters: DID ANYONE SEE THE LIMPING MAN? D S Skinner grabbed a copy and took it to his canteen breakfast. He was pleased with the coverage.
    A small sidebar mentioned the renewal of custody and a further twenty-four hours.
    At eleven. Price and Cornish were taken by van to the St.