On the other hand, I knew he wasn’t Dainty’s squeaker the first time he opened his mouth. He spoke with a Norchester street-accent, a debased form of the more vigorous Northshire; no Met officer would have missed it, though Rampant had talked through a dozen scarves. In fact, Dainty had made no mention of accent: a negative point that was slightly suggestive. What accent, or nuance, wouldn’t register with a Met man? Quick answer: his own. Thus the squeaker most likely was a Londoner, though not one with a coarsely cockney accent. A man indifferently educated, perhaps a rival gang-leader – in which case the snouts should be able to finger him. Though they hadn’t, yet. My next move was to ring Dainty, who had no news: he sounded uffish. Lunch. I invited Hanson, but he had got hung up with some petty villainery – two chummies who were impersonating council rent-collectors, and making a good thing of it. I took Dutt to The Princess, a cellar-like establishment in the neighbourhood of the provision market, known to me from that early case involving a Dutch timber-importer and his ingenious manager.
