Billy Stein moved inside and closed the door, propping a large bomb against it to keep it shut. Stealthily, he picked his way between the swastika banners and the rows of breastplates, swords and guns. From upstairs he heard music: Bach played on a solo guitar. He looked inside the back room which was almost filled with cardboard boxes. Beyond them there was a cobbled yard no larger than a phone b.ooth and on the far side of it the door of an outside WC. There was a dirty sink there, spattered with red stains.

Billy Stein went back through the shop and ascended the stairs as quietly as he could. The music seemed to be coming from the floor above. At the landing he paused. The music stopped as he listened outside the door. A man’s voice said, ‘That was Bach’s Suite for Lute, No 2 in A minor, played by Carlos Bonell.’ He realized that it was a BBC announcer, coming from a radio, and turned the knob carefully to open the door.

It was a large room, looking out over the slate roof of the downstairs toilet to where a stunted little tree fought for sunshine in a yard which looked exactly the right size and shape for an execution. There was a lot of furniture in the room-several old armchairs and a large sofa with a spring visible through the torn fabric. Leaning against the fireplace were half a dozen very large, gold-painted picture frames, and a faded red sun umbrella advertising Coca-Cola. Everything smelt of cats and cooked cabbage.

He went through the room to the door of the next one. It was a heavy door, buried under layer after layer of cheap paint. Someone with yearnings for the creative arts had drawn wavy lines using a comb on the wet paint in an attempt to simulate wood graining. He leaned against the heavy panelled door. It was locked but the key was on the floor. He picked it up and fitted it in the lock. Through the door he could hear the guitar music starting again.

Whatever he expected to see in the room it was not two men lying full length on the bed. Almost everything in the room was covered in blood, including two workmen’s overalls which had been bundled up and pushed into the fireplace with the brass fire irons.

The men on the bed were dead. One was Paul Bock and the other was Jimmy. Billy Stein had no way of knowing who they were, because their killers had hindered identification by cutting off and taking away the hands and heads of both men.

Billy stood in the doorway speechless. He was not sure how long he stared at the two headless men on their blood-soaked eiderdown but he suddenly heard the radio announcer state that the next piece of guitar music was by Albéniz. He backed out of the room and closed the door more forcibly than he intended. He sat down in the ancient armchair and felt his heart beating as if his whole body was about to explode. Subduing his panic, he retreated the way he had come, closing each door behind him. He could still hear the guitar music.

Billy realized how much an investigation would be hamstrung by the absence of dentistry evidence, or the fingerprints of the victims, but there was something diabolical about men so malevolent that they could hack off heads and hands of their victims.

It was an hour afterwards, while Billy Stein still wandered aimlessly through the grubby back streets of King’s Cross that he realized that his own fingerprints would be liberally distributed at the scene of the murder. But he had no intention of returning there. He asked a passerby to direct him to Park Lane. He had walked as far as Warren Street underground station in light rain before he was lucky enough to find a taxi. Once inside the cab he buried his head in his hands. It was hard to believe that yesterday he’d had no problem more pressing than whether to change the oil filter on the engine of his plane.

The duty London field controller phoned Boyd Stuart at 1423 hours on Friday, July 20. He was on an internal scrambler line so he could speak freely. ‘Stein went there,’ said the duty controller.

‘And where is he now?’

‘He went back to the hotel. He was as white as a sheet He walked the streets as though he didn’t know where he was going. Then he saw a taxi cruising past, hailed him and arrived back at his hotel about forty minutes ago. He’s shaken.’

‘So would I be,’ said Stuart. ‘Still no sign of the police there?’

‘The German lad told his bank that he wanted a few days off. They probably won’t even report him missing until Monday. The other boy has no close friends or relatives so far as I have discovered.’

‘How long was Stein inside?’

‘Twenty minutes, maybe less.’

There was a long silence during which Boyd Stuart drew a series of boxes on his blotting pad. Then he carefully drew crosses inside each square until the design was complete, ‘Are you there?’ said the duty controller.

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘This would be the time to do it, sir. Our man tailing him said Stein seemed to be in a terrible state.’

‘Thanks,’ said Stuart. ‘Keep me in touch.’

He hung up the phone and reached for his hat. Like Billy Stein, he decided that the weather was not good enough for him to go without his raincoat.

‘I’m calling on Mr Stein,’ Boyd Stuart told the hotel receptionist. ‘I want to surprise him.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but… ’

Boyd Stuart’s hand reached out and grabbed the wrist of the man at the desk before it got near to the house-phone. ‘I want to surprise him,’ said Stuart again, this time flipping open the Metropolitan Police warrant card he kept for such occasions.

The clerk stared at the identification. ‘I’ll have to get the manager.’

‘Get no one,’ said Boyd Stuart, ‘or I’ll have you inside on a charge of obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty,’ He was speaking very quietly but he held on to the man’s wrist with enough force to make him wince with pain ‘I’m just going upstairs for a nice quiet chat. You understand?’

‘I understand.’ said the man. Boyd Stuart released his grip and walked quickly across to catch the doors of the lift. By the time the reception clerk looked up from rubbing his wrist. Stuart had gone.

Room 301 was next to the lifts. Such 01 rooms were always next to the lifts, and experienced travellers tried to avoid them, Stuart wondered why Stein didn’t have a suite. According to the results of the check they had run on the family’s credit and level of spending, it would be well within his means. Stuart switched off the light in the corridor and then knocked at the door.

‘Yes.’ It was Billy Stein’s voice.

‘Room service.’

‘What do you want?”

‘I’ve got a packet for you-from somewhere abroad. It’s got foreign postage.’

‘Put it under the door.’

Stuart smiled. He remembered being caught out like that before. ‘It’s a packet, I said. It won’t go under the door’ There was another long silence and then Stuart heard the lock being turned. He knew he would have to be fast, and hoped fervently that Stein didn’t put the chain on the catch.

Billy Stein opened the door a fraction and Stuart lowered his shoulder and charged it with all his weight. Stein was prepared, but not prepared enough. He went reeling back into the room; Stuart followed, stumbling over Stein’s baggage, and saving himself from falling only by steadying himself on the bed end. By that time Stein was sitting on the floor and Stuart was facing him with a Smith & Wesson Magnum held twelve niches from his nose.

‘Freeze,’ said Stuart and the young man froze. It was not the first time Stuart had selected from the armoury this big gun that only just fitted into his shoulder holster and weighted him to one side. But he had seen the way its.357 Magnum bullets could go through the metal of car bodies, and he had also seen the way the sight of it stopped men in their tracks, as now it froze Billy Stein sprawled on the bedroom floor.