‘Raymondo, is that you? What are you doing here?’ It being a Saturday, Raymond Land was attired in civvy clothes, which consisted of the kind of trousers one saw advertised in the backs of local newspapers, and a Marks & Spencer’s shirt that would have looked unfashionable on Denis Thatcher. It was as if, after his brief flirtation with youthful fashion, he had thrown up his hands in defeat and fallen into a sartorial black hole. ‘I couldn’t remember your door number,’ he called up. ‘I needed to see you.’ That was Alma’s cue to head for the kitchen, leaving Bryant to welcome the acting chief of the Peculiar Crimes Unit. ‘If any more of your little pals are going to drop in,’ she called, ‘could you let me know?’ ‘Is it all right to leave my car down there?’ said Land, arriving up the staircase. ‘It won’t get broken into, will it?’ ‘Certainly not,’ said Bryant, ushering him in. ‘This is a semi-respectable neighbourhood.
