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Dawlish screwed up any last chance, what with his official car and uniformed driver, and the bowler hat and Melton overcoat. To say nothing of the tightly rolled umbrella that Dawlish was waving. Plastic raincoats are
de rigueur
for the rainy season in Barons Court.
    â€˜Not exactly a playboy pad,’ said Dawlish, demonstrating his mastery of the vernacular.
    Even by Dawlish’s standards that was an understatement. It was a large gloomy apartment. The wallpaper and paintwork were in good condition and so was the cheap carpeting, but there were no pictures, no books, no ornaments, no personal touches. ‘A machine for living in,’ said Dawlish.
    â€˜Le Corbusier at his purest,’ I said, anxious to show that I could recognize a cultural quote when I heard one.
    It was like the barrack-room I’d had as a sergeant, waiting for Intelligence training. Iron bed, a tiny locker, plain black curtains at the window. On the windowsill there were some withered crumbs. I suppose no pigeon fancied them when just a short flight away the tourists would be throwing them croissants, and they could sit down and eat with a view of St James’s Park.
    There was a school yard visible from the window. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining. Swarms of children made random patterns as they sang, swung, jumped in puddles and punched each other with the same motiveless exuberance that, organized, becomes war. I closed the window and the shouting died. There were dark clouds; it would rain again.
    â€˜Worth a search?’ said Dawlish.
    I nodded. ‘There will be a gun. Sealed under wet plaster perhaps. He’s not the kind of man to use the cistern or the chimney: either tear it to pieces or forget it.’
    â€˜It’s difficult, isn’t it,’ said Dawlish. ‘Don’t want to tear it to pieces just to find a gun. I’m interested in documents – stuff that he needs constant access to.’
    â€˜There will be nothing like that here,’ I said.
    Dawlish walked into the second bedroom. ‘No linen on the bed, you notice. No pillows, even.’
    I opened the chest of drawers. There was plenty of linen there; all brand new, and still in its wrappings.
    â€˜Good quality stuff,’ said Dawlish.
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ I said.
    Dawlish opened the kitchen cupboards and recited their contents. ‘Dozen tins of meat, dozen tins of peas, dozen bottles of beer, dozen tins of rice pudding. A package of candles, unused, a dozen boxes of matches.’ He closed the cupboard door and opened a kitchen drawer. We stared at the cutlery for a moment. It was all new and unused. He closed it again without comment.
    â€˜No caretaker,’ I said. ‘No landlady, no doorman.’
    â€˜Precisely,’ said Dawlish. ‘And I’ll wager that the rent is paid every quarter day, without fail, by some solicitor who has never come face to face with his client. No papers, eh?’
    â€˜Cheap writing-pad and envelopes, a book of stamps, postcards with several different views of London – might be a code device – no, no papers in that sense.’
    â€˜I look forward to meeting your friend Champion,’ said Dawlish. ‘A dozen tins of meat but three dozen bars of soap – that’s something for Freud, eh?’
    I let the ‘your friend’ go unremarked. ‘Indeed it is, sir,’ I said.
    â€˜None of it surprises you, of course,’ Dawlish said, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
    â€˜Paranoia,’ I said. ‘It’s the occupational hazard of men who’ve worked the sort of territories that Champion has worked.’ Dawlish stared at me. I said, ‘Like anthrax for tannery workers, and silicosis for miners. You need somewhere … a place to go and hide for ever …’ I indicated the store cupboard, ‘… and you never shake it off.’
    Dawlish walked through into the big bedroom. Blantyre and his sidekick made