A more appropriate question might have been, ‘How long is a piece of elastic?’ Four days later, they had tramped, as Walter so accurately put it, the streets, cafeterias and public houses of Putney – meeting suspicion, hostility, curiosity and, on occasion, hospitality – to no avail. Cal could not conceal his sinking spirits. He could not tell, any more than he thought Stilton could, whether these motley refugees of Mittel-Europa were co-operating or lying. No one had seen Fish Wally. No one would admit to having seen Fish Wally.
They crossed the river with a sense rising in Cal that in fanning out, their chances had been thinned and diminished. He wondered if they were ever going to find this Fish Wally, and if they did, would they ever find Wolfgang Stahl?
They sank a pint, as Walter termed it, in the World’s End public house at the foot of the King’s Road – through Fulham and almost out the other side into Chelsea.
‘Walter. We’re on a hiding to nothing.’
‘No. We’re not. This is what it’s like. Not all police work is like a shoot-out with Clyde Barrow. This is what it’s like. Routine. Often as not, routine is what pays off.’
The routine of his days was not matched by his nights. He could not predict when Kitty would turn up. On the fourth night she was already in his bed when he got home.
‘The maid. She’s taken a liking to me. Used her pass key.’
Kitty lay underneath a single sheet. She wasn’t wearing a nightdress. He could see her nipples pushing up the sheet, the dark patch of red pubic hair. They still hadn’t ‘talked’ – she tossed the word back at him as though describing some sort of perversion he wanted her to indulge in. He’d given up all hope of a serious conversation with her. What was the point? The woman was irresistible. He could tumble into Kitty and nothing else mattered.