He tightened his jaw, breathed in, and steeled himself to take his first look at Jackie Drummond.

With legs swinging, a small fair-haired boy clutching a cycling cape about his shoulders looked up anxiously. An Afghan bag with a broad strap lay at his feet.

“Now, what on earth do I say?” Joe asked himself as they stared at each other. What he did finally say, with relief and a rush of recognition, was: “Jackie! I’d have known you anywhere—you’re very much like your mother!”

The small face, pinched, pale with bruised circles under the eyes, was suddenly lit by a radiant smile. “And you look quite like my dad!”

Joe held out a hand. “Come on then, Jackie, let’s be going. We can talk as we go. I’ll take your bag. Say goodbye to the stationmaster.”

“Goodbye, sir,” said the boy dutifully, “and thank you for having me.”

And, as they left the office, “Say goodbye to Constable Huntingdon.”

In the most natural way in the world, the boy shook hands and lifted his face for a kiss. “Thank you, Constable,” he said politely, “for looking after me.”

“I enjoyed looking after you. See you again soon, Jackie, I hope,” said Constable Huntingdon. “Oops! Perhaps I oughtn’t to say that!” she added, suddenly self-conscious, and seemed pleased with the swift grin of understanding the boy gave her.

Hand in hand they returned to the waiting taxi and set off once more through the slushy streets, gas lamps flickering in the rising wind and reflecting from the wet pavements.

“Have you been to London before, Jackie?” Joe asked.

“Once. Daddy brought me up for shopping. We went to Hamleys and the Tower and Madame Tussauds.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, very.”

“Well, come on, we’ll find you something. I should think you’ve drunk enough tea tonight to float the Normandie.”

The boy smiled shyly. “Yes,” he said, “they kept giving it to me. I don’t really like tea very much.”

“We’ll find something else. Cocoa perhaps? Now, unless I’m wrong about this, you’ve run away from school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect you had a reason?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said you’d killed your housemaster?”

“No, sir. Form master.”

“Oh, all right. Form master. Anybody know where you are?”

“No, sir. I don’t even know where I am myself.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you something to eat, and then we’re going back to my flat, and then either you’re going to bed or you’re going to tell me what’s been happening. Whatever you’ve done or think you’ve done, you’re safe now. Nobody’s following you. Nobody’s going to catch up with you.”

They dismounted at the cabman’s shelter. “What place is this?” said Jackie dubiously, not leaving go of Joe’s hand.

“It’s a cabman’s shelter,” said Joe reassuringly. “They have them all over London though not so many as there used to be. It’s a place where taxi drivers can get something to eat.”

“It looks like a railway carriage.”

Long, low, weather-boarded and painted park-bench green, it had a small black projecting iron stovepipe giving out a smell of coal smoke and food, and a notice saying “Licensed Cabman Shelter no. 402.”

“Yes, it is like a railway carriage and if the cabbies get to know you, they’ll let you eat there. I don’t think they’re supposed to; it’s supposed to be reserved for them. The man who runs this one’s an old friend of mine. I sometimes take people here for a quiet chat. Let’s go on board and see what we can find.”

They stepped from the cold street into a welcoming fug. “Evening, Frank,” said Joe to the whiskered man behind the counter. “Something for this gentleman to eat. He’s hungry.”

“Evening, Captain! Hungry is it? Well, what about shepherd’s pie with onion gravy?”

“Oh, I’d like that,” Jackie said eagerly.

“And to follow? We’ve got spotted dick with a dollop of custard?”

Jackie’s eyes lit on a basin of steaming pudding studded with dark currants, and he nodded.

“I think that would be entirely appropriate,” said Joe. “Make that two of everything, Frank, if you please. We’ll sit ourselves down.”

The boy settled and looked around him with suspicion. “ ‘Captain?’ he asked. “Why did that man call you ‘captain,’ sir?”

Joe could not hide a smile. Whatever else, this was a true colonial he was entertaining to supper. Death, flight and arrest the child was apparently taking in his stride, but the niceties of rank—that was worthy of question by a child reared in the Indian Civil Service.

“I was a very young captain in the Fusiliers when Frank first knew me.… Early days of the war … Mons. I was winged manning the barricades—uselessly—against the first German onslaught on France. My rank did improve,” he reassured the lad, “but it’s the dashing captain image that’s stuck with me. I don’t mind at all. We all need a reminder of where we’ve come from. It’s a compliment.”

There were two other dark figures in the shelter, busy with substantial servings of pease pudding. They greeted Joe. “Evenin’, Guv.” One looked at Jackie and rolled his eyes in a pantomime of alarm. “Cor! That’s a right nasty piece of work you’ve got under restraint, Guv! If ’e makes a break for it, count on us for back-up!”

To Joe’s dismay, the boy began to tremble and look towards the door. Joe leaned forwards and whispered: “Just joking, Jackie. You’re safe here. Food’ll be up in a minute. No rush, but perhaps you could tell me a little bit about what happened this evening?”

At once the boy’s eyes glazed with remembered fear. His hand went to his eyebrow, and he began to rub at it with the knuckle of his forefinger. Accustomed as he was to interrogating suspects to cracking point, Joe recognised the gesture as a sign of acute distress and cursed himself for an insensitive fool. He reached over, seized the little hand, and gave it a squeeze. “There’s no hurry,” he said once more. “Just take your time.”

The boy took a while to pull his thoughts together and then burst out: “Well, it’s Mr. Rapson! I hate him,” he added almost apologetically. “Everybody knows I hate him, and when they find he’s dead they’ll know it’s me that did it.”

“I’m not sure of that,” said Joe, “but go on.”

“Well, they will know because I’ve attacked him before.”

“Great heavens!” Joe said lightly. “Are you telling me you’ve got previous? I mean … that you’re a seasoned beater-up of form masters?”

Jackie gave him a pained smile. “Just once, sir.” And then he burst out: “I hit him! I went for him! Perhaps I shouldn’t have done. But I don’t think I was wrong. There’s a boy in my class called Spielman, and he’s not … not really all there, you know. He makes silly faces. He can’t help it.”

“Silly faces?”

“Yes. Like this.” He gave a demonstration. “And he looks—well—loopy. He’s got big ears—great big ears and sticking-out teeth and everybody teases him. And Rappo’s the worst of all. He’s always going for him, making him stand out in front of the class, and this afternoon he pulled Spielman up by his ears. By his ears! Spielman started crying. It must have really hurt him. He’s only just got over a mastoid. I lost my rag, and I went and hit Rappo.”

“Hit him?”

“Hit him in the stomach. With my fist. As hard as I could manage. That hard, sir.” He held out for inspection a small hand whose knuckles were skinned and swollen. “I got him in his watch chain. And then he went into the usual Rappo Rant. ‘See you in my study after supper, Drummond!’ and all that.” Jackie shuddered and fell silent. “Pretty scary!”

With a flick of a teacloth, plates of shepherd’s pie appeared on the table.

“Mustard, sonny? Ketchup? Cupper tea?”

“No, no cupper tea, thank you, but everything else, please.”

Between mouthfuls, Jackie resumed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have hit him, but I didn’t think Dad would have minded. Once, he saw a soldier, a private in the East Yorks, hitting a little Indian man, and Dad really let him have it! Felled him to the ground,” he added with relish. “And my father’s a … well, you know my father. He said you always ought to stand up to bullies, and this seemed to be the same. Don’t you think?”