“Good morning, Miss. Would you look at this please?”

“Hey, girls—the bobby’s going to show us his snaps!”

“Now, don’t muck about, just tell me if you’ve seen him.”

“Ooh, ain’t he handsome! I wish I had!”

“You wouldn’t if you knew what he’d done. Would you all take a look, please?”

“Never seen him.”

“Me neither.”

“Not me.”

“When you catch him, ask him if he wants to meet a nice young Bristol girl—”

“You girls—I don’t know…just because they give you a pair of trousers and a porter’s job, you think you’re supposed to act like men…”

THE WOOLWICH Ferry:

“Filthy day, constable.”

“Morning, captain. I expect it’s worse on the high seas.”

“Can I help you? Or are you just crossing the river?”

“I want you to look at a face, captain.”

“Let me put my specs on. Oh, don’t worry, I can see to guide the ship. It’s close things I need the glasses for. Now then…”

“Ring any bells?”

“Sorry, constable. Means nothing to me.”

“Well, let me know if you see him.”

“Certainly.”

“Bon voyage.”

“Not bloody likely.”

NUMBER 35 Leak Street, London El:

“Sergeant Riley—what a nice surprise!”

“Never mind the lip, Mabel. Who’ve you got here?”

“All respectable guests, sergeant; you know me.”

“I know you, all right. That’s why I’m here. Would any of your nice respectable guests happen to be on the trot?”

“Since when have you been recruiting for the army?”

“I’m not, Mabel, I’m looking for someone, and if he’s here, he’s probably told you he’s on the trot.”

“Look, Jack—if I tell you there’s nobody here I don’t know, will you go away and stop pestering me?”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because of 1936.”

“You were better looking then, Mabel.”

“So were you, Jack.”

“You win…take a butcher’s at this. If chummy comes in here, send word, okay?”

“Promise.”

“Don’t waste any time about it, either.”

“All right!”

“Mabel…he knifed a woman your age. I’m just marking your cards.”

BILL’S CAFE, on the A30 near Bagshot:

“Tea, please, Bill. Two sugars.”

“Good morning, Constable Pearson. Filthy day.”

“What’s on that plate, Bill—pebbles from Portsmouth?”

“Buttered buns, as well you know.”

“Oh! I’ll have two, then. Thanks…Now then, lads! Anyone who wants his lorry checked from top to bottom can leave right away…. That’s better. Take a look at this picture, please.”

“What are you after him for, constable—cycling without lights?”

“Never mind the jokes, Harry—pass the picture around. Anybody given a lift to that bloke?”

“Not me.”

“No.”

“Sorry, constable.”

“Never clapped eyes on him.”

“Thank you, lads. If you see him, report it. Cheerio.”

“Constable?”

“Yes, Bill?”

“You haven’t paid for the buns.”

SMETHWICK’S GARAGE, Carlisle:

“Morning, Missus. When you’ve got a minute…”

“Be right with you, officer. Just let me attend to this gentleman…twelve and sixpence, please, sir. Thank you. Good-bye….”

“How’s business?”

“Terrible as usual. What can I do for you?”

“Can we go in the office for a minute?”

“Aye, come on…now, then.”

“Take a look at this picture and tell me whether you’ve served that man with petrol recently.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not as if we get hordes of customers passing through…ohh! D’you know, I think I have served him!”

“When?”

“Day before yesterday, in the morning.”

“How sure are you?”

“Well…he was older than the picture, but I’m pretty sure.”

“What was he driving?”

“A grey car. I’m no good on makes, this is my husband’s business really, but he’s in the Navy now.”

“Well, what did it look like?”

“It was the old sort, with a canvas roof that comes up. A two-seater. Sporty. It had a spare petrol tank bolted to the running board, and I filled that too.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“Not really…working clothes, I think.”

“A tall man?”

“Yes, taller than you.”

“Have you got a telephone?…”

WILLIAM DUNCAN was twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten, weighed a trim 150 pounds and was in first-class health. His open-air life and total lack of interest in tobacco, drink, late nights and loose living kept him that way. Yet he was not in the armed services.

He had seemed to be a normal child, if a little backward, until the age of eight, when his mind had lost the ability to develop any further. There had been no trauma that anyone knew about, no physical damage to account for sudden breakdown. Indeed it was some years before anyone noticed that there was anything wrong, for at the age of ten he was no more than a little backward, and at twelve he was just dim-witted; but by fifteen he was obviously simple, and by eighteen he was known as Daft Willie.

His parents were both members of an obscure fundamentalist religious group whose members were not allowed to marry outside the church (which may or may not have had anything to do with Willie’s daftness). They prayed for him, of course; but they also took him to a specialist in Stirling. The doctor, an elderly man, did several tests and then told them, over the tops of his gold-rimmed half-glasses, that the boy had a mental age of eight and his mind would grow no older, ever. They continued to pray for him, but they suspected that the Lord had sent this to try them, so they made sure Willie was Saved and looked forward to the day when they would meet him in the Glory and he would be healed. Meanwhile, he needed a job.

An eight-year-old can herd cows, but herding cows is nevertheless a job, so Daft Willie became a cowherd. And it was while herding cows that he saw the car for the first time.

He assumed there were lovers in it.

Willie knew about lovers. That is to say, he knew that lovers existed, and that they did unmentionable things to one another in dark places like copses and cinemas and cars; and that one did not speak of them. So he hurried the cows quickly past the bush beside which was parked the 1924 Morris Cowley Bullnose two-seater (he knew about cars, too, like any eight-year-old) and tried very hard not to look inside it in case he should behold sin.

He took his little herd into the cowshed for milking, went by a roundabout route to his home, ate supper, read a chapter from Leviticus to his father—aloud, painstakingly—then went to bed to dream about lovers.

The car was still there on the evening of the next day.

For all his innocence Willie knew that lovers did not do whatever it was that they did to one another for twenty-four hours at a stretch, so this time he went right up to the car and looked inside. It was empty. The ground beneath the engine was black and sticky with oil. Willie devised a new explanation: the car had broken down and had been abandoned by its driver. It did not occur to him to wonder why it had been semiconcealed in a bush.

When he arrived at the cowshed he told the farmer what he had seen. “There’s a broken-down car on the path up by the main road.”

The farmer was a big man with heavy sand-colored eyebrows, which drew together when he was thinking. “Was there nobody about?”

“No—and it was there yesterday.”

“Why did you not tell me yesterday, then?”

Willie blushed. “I thought it was maybe…you know…lovers.”

The farmer realized that Willie was not being coy, but was genuinely embarrassed. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Well, away home and leave it to me to deal with.”

After the milking the farmer went to look for himself. It did occur to him to wonder why the car was semiconcealed. He had heard about the London stiletto murderer, and while he did not jump to the conclusion that the car had been abandoned by the killer, all the same he thought there might be a connection between the car and some crime or other; so after supper he sent his eldest son into the village on horseback to telephone the police in Stirling.