There was no point remaining in town, so I braved a tram and headed back to Carlton. I arrived at Clutterbuck’s house just as he was letting himself in. He was wearing his American army uniform again. I felt sure that there was more to this deception than the acquisition of sex and pantry items. ‘Were we running low on cream?’ I asked. He made a small noise of assent and said, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ His words were slightly slurred, as if he’d been drinking. ‘Still, I’m glad you’re here.’ Once inside, Clutterbuck went upstairs to change and told me to help myself to a whisky. I don’t usually drink at lunchtime, but Clutterbuck’s whisky was first rate and a single malt at any time of the day isn’t to be declined. When he came downstairs he was wearing a thick woollen shirt and baggy, casual trousers. I’d never seen him so dressed down. ‘There are some people I want you to meet,’ he said, and brooking no opposition propelled me to his car.
