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I flicked my ID, said, 'Department of Health. I wish to see Mr King.'

It's a constant source of amazement that any type of official document impresses people.

She was suitably impressed and said, 'I'll just buzz him, let him know you're here.' Then, with a worried frown, 'There's nothing wrong, is there?'

I kept my expression in neutral.

'That's what I'm here to find out.'

She spoke on the phone for a moment then announced, 'Mr King will see you now. Just go on through.'

I said, 'Don't leave town.'

Freud said, 'The most dangerous thing in the world is an angry baby.'

King looked like an angry baby, albeit a sixty-year-old one. He was completely bald, and seemed to have no eyebrows. There was not a line on his face, yet he had an air of having been round the block many times and each trip having been rough. He sat behind a massive desk and I bet he drove a massive car. He didn't rise to meet me, or offer his hand, just glared at me. I knew it wasn't personal, least not yet. Glaring was his gig. The world had his toys and, by Jesus, he was intent on getting them back.

I flipped the ID. 'Department of Health.'

He took a small container out of his impressive suit jacket, rammed snuff up his nose, least I think it was that. If it was coke, he had me full admiration. Then he did that irritating clearing of his nostrils and I waited.

He bawled, if you can do such a thing with a thin wispy voice, 'What's the problem?'

I sighed – always helps if you're weary too – said, 'We've had a complaint.'

He was on his feet, demanding, 'From whom? About what?'

I took out my notebook.

'I'm of course not at liberty to divulge our source, but I can tell you that some concern has been raised as to what you're exporting.'

He looked ready to explode.

'We export fish delicacies, sealed in tins. I just take delivery of the tins and send them on to our markets.'

I mused on this and then said, 'There's been a suggestion that something . . . erm, something other than fish is going into your product.'

He was on the verge of a major explosion.

'What the hell are you suggesting?'

I could have attempted to mollify him, ease him down a notch, but you know what, I didn't like the bollocks, he was an arrogant prick used to shouting and having tantrums, so I decided to push a little more.

'Our source mentioned you might be using . . . how should I put it . . . canine parts.'

Took him a moment to digest this and then he laughed. Not a sound like most laughter, more a mix of cackle and spite.

'I get it. Jesus H. Christ, that drunk who was here, a total burn-out, trying to say that dogs have been snatched and we're using them for our Asian markets.'

I fiddled with the hearing aid, trying to turn this guy down. He accused, 'Are you tuning me out?'

As if.

So I stayed with the needle, asked, 'And are you using such material?'

He seemed like he might physically attack me, but reconsidered and said, 'That's slander. What's your name again? I'll have your job for that.'

I kept my voice level, said, 'I haven't accused you of anything, simply posed a query. If you're clean, why are you bothered?'

He made a cutting gesture with his right palm, said, 'This charade is over. You want to talk to me again, contact my solicitor. Now get the hell out of my office.'

I stood up.

'Thank you for the coffee.'

Threw him, then he rallied.

'You're some kind of wise arse, that it? You won't be so smug when I get your job reviewed. And that drunk, tell him to stay away from here.'

I said at the door, 'That might be a tad difficult.'

Always wanted to try tad in a sentence, see if it was as priggish as I thought.

It was.

He stopped his pacing, asked, 'Why, is he as deaf as you?'

I let that reverberate then said, 'No, he's dead. But I'll pass on your condolences to his family.'

Back in reception, the secretary was smiling and I saw a cheeky glint in her eye.

I said, 'Nice man, your boss. Must be a joy to work for.'

She looked back at his office. The door was closed and she whispered, 'Know