She was wearing an oilskin and a sou-wester against the commonplace evening drizzle. ‘Did you guess it was me?’ she asked when she and Davies were walking hunched towards the town. Mod had bidden them good-night and trudged the other way. ‘I mistook you for a small lifeboatman,’ replied Davies. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘I’m going to show you something,’ she said, pushing along in the dark. She seemed very slight at his side. ‘I’ve been looking for you from the window at work but you don’t seem to have been around.’ He did not know why he felt so guilty about her. ‘I’ve been kept busy,’ he said. ‘Inquiries. I’m still on the trail of Mr Ramscar—except there’s no trail. I’ve done the grand tour, strip joints, clip joints, dip joints, places I wouldn’t like to tell my mother about I’ve been to…’ ‘Ramscar’s been threatening my mum,’ she interrupted bluntly. ‘She won’t be able to speak to you any more.’ ‘Ramscar!’ He halted like a guardsman in the road.
