kincaid stood looking at it, neither man wanting to touch it.

"he was trying to catch a bus to edinburgh," kincaid said. "a p.c. spotted him at the ticket office and asked for his identification. he dropped his suitcase and ran. a woman bus conductor hit him over the head with her ticket machine. he took ten minutes to come around."

"let's have a look at him " bloggs said.

they went down the corridor to the cells. "this one," kincaid said.

bloggs looked through the judas. the man sat on a stool in the far corner of the cell with his back against the wall. his legs were crossed, his eves closed, his hands in his pockets. "he's been in cells before," bloggs remarked.

the man was tall, with a long, handsome face and dark hair. it could have been the man in the photograph, but it was hard to be certain.

"want to go in?" kincaid asked.

"in a minute. what was in his suitcase, apart from the stiletto?"

"the tools of a burglar's trade, quite a lot of money in small notes, a pistol and some ammunition, black clothes and crepe-soled shoes, and five hundred lucky strike cigarettes."

"no photographs or film negatives?"

kincaid shook his head.

"balls," bloggs said with feeling.

"papers identify him as peter fredericks, of wembley, middlesex. says he's an unemployed toolmaker looking for work."

"toolmaker?" bloggs said sceptically. "there hasn't been an unemployed toolmaker in britain in the last four years. you'd think a spy would know that. still..."

kincaid asked, "shall i start the questioning, or will you?"

"you."

kincaid opened the door and bloggs followed him in. the man in the corner opened his eyes incuriously. he did not alter his position.

kincaid sat at a small, plain table. bloggs leaned against the wall.

kincaid said, "what's your real name?"

"peter fredericks."

"what are you doing so far from home?"

"looking for work."

"why aren't you in the army?"

"weak heart."

"where have you been for the last few days?"