Stilton was saying ‘Yes, love.’ It was what he always said when he didn’t much want to listen to what his wife was trying to tell him. He picked up the ‘phone.
‘Boss. It’s me. Bernard.’
Instinctively Stilton looked at his watch. It was past ten. He tried to remember where Dobbs was supposed to be. Where he had left him. He ought to know and he didn’t.
‘Yes, lad.’
‘I been outside the Marquess of Lincoln. Waiting for Fish Wally.’
Oh bugger – he’d forgotten to pull Dobbs off watch when he’d received the tip-off about Fish Wally. The poor sod had been standing there for the best part of a week, and for the last few hours, at least, to no purpose.
‘Aye, well you can knock off now, Bernard. I found Fish Wally hours ago.’
‘I’m not there now, boss. I trailed him.’
‘No, Bernard, I said, I’ve already talked to Wally. Go home, lad. get some kip.’
‘No, boss, I’m not talking about Fish Wally. I mean the other feller. He came by the boozer at opening time. I followed him.’
‘What other feller?’
‘The one in that sketch.’
‘Stahl?’
‘Yes – Stahl.’
‘Bernard, where exactly are you?’
‘Cleveland Street, boss. Where it meets Warren Street. Corner house.’
Stilton bounded down the stairs, bellowed ‘We’re on again!’ at Cal, grabbed his macintosh off the back of the door and ran back up the stairs.
The speed of it all left Cal standing, half in, half out of his chair, an untouched cup of steaming tea in front of him. An untouched steaming Kitty, too.
‘I ... er ... I guess this means I don’t know what time I’ll be home,’ he said lamely.
‘I know,’ Kitty answered. ‘You’re on again. So we’re off. Thanks. Thanks a million.’