The street lamps, rimmed in dull orange, cast a dim, religious light that was more disquieting than darkness. The detective felt low-spirited. His ribs ached, the abrasions on his cheeks stung in the biting air. After dropping off the Superintendent at Headquarters he had intended to pop back to his flat, pick up a coat, have a drink, even open a tin or two, There were, he knew, a few cans of beans on the kitchen shelf, as well as some packets of a dehydrated chow mein to which, for a month of gastronomic lunacy, he had been unaccountably addicted. But now, the very thought of the Sino-chemical mess turned his stomach. He did not go home. He locked the car, crossed the pavement, and climbed the padlocked gate painfully, listening to his heart thudding against his damaged skeleton. There was a light in the trailer. Jurnet was about to call out something reassuring when the door opened, a slight figure stood silhouetted at the top of the steps, and that voice, sweet and brainless and so unlike any other, inquired, “Joe?”
