A man in his forties stood there, dressed in a waistcoat, pants suit, white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was plain looking, not one feature to distinguish him, a face in the crowd. Full head of neat brown hair, regular features, average height. Slim build and a tension now in his body. To be expected, anyone opens the door to cops, you’re tense. He said: ‘Yes?’ Polite quiet voice but with confidence in it. They showed their warrant cards, gave their names, said: ‘We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquires, and your name came up.’ He studied them then asked: ‘What enquiries are those?’ Porter looked back at the street, asked: ‘Sir, might we do this inside?’ He nodded, stood aside, and they went in. The main characteristic of the place was how silent it was. He led them into a study lined with books, hundreds of them, shelves covering every wall. Brant said: ‘You like to read.’ Crew put his hand through his hair, said: ‘Who’s got the time?’ His voice was subdued, cultured, but with a trace of authority.
