Since then he’d had his picture in the papers. I hadn’t. I knew him but there was no reason to think that he’d know me. Anonymity is an asset in my game, and I was careful to preserve it. I took a quiet sip of the beer and surveyed Catchpole’s companions. Ray Guthrie wasn’t hard to spot although he’d put on weight since he stood, proud and free at the wheel of the Satisfaction, for the camera. He’d also grown a face-brutalising, droopy moustache. He looked prosperous in a blue silk shirt and his hair was expensively cut and styled. He was drinking beer, probably the source of the extra weight, and he’d lost his outdoors look. The woman sitting next to him was Dottie Williams. I’d once seen a blurred newspaper photograph of her and it was enough to confirm the judgement. She had a mass of light red, curly hair, a soft round face and a double chin. She was wearing earrings that dangled near her shoulders and a frilly white blouse.
