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'Yes, but he's dropped out of sight. Hardly surprising with Operation Motorman in full-swing.'

'And what's Morgan up to tonight?'

'Seems to have something going for him with Doctor Riley, the psychologist from Cambridge. She's staying at a flat in Douro Place. Morgan picked her up at eight-thirty. They were both dressed for what looked like a big night out.'

'And where did they go?'

'I don't know, sir. My man lost them.'

'How amazing,' Ferguson said. 'Is that what we pay him for, to play the incompetent idiot?'

'Look, sir, this kind of thing is Morgan's business. He's been at it for years now, you know that. Malaya, Cyprus, Aden, now Ulster. He can smell a tail the moment he steps out of the door. He has an instinct for it. It's the only way he kept alive all those years.'

'All right, Superintendent, cut the eulogy. What you're really saying is that there's no way he can be followed if he doesn't want to be.'

'Not unless I put a six-car team on him, sir, with full radio control from Central.'

'No,' Ferguson said. 'Don't do that. In fact, do nothing. Pull your man off completely. Let's give Asa his head for a day or two. Then we'll see where we're at.'

He put down the receiver and at the other end, Harry Baker buzzed through on the intercom to the sergeant in the outer office.

'George, you can pull Mackenzie out of Gresham Place.'

'Right, sir. Any further orders on that one?'

'I'll let you know.'

Baker put down the receiver, sighed heavily then started to work his way through the pile of paper that littered his desk.

9

Not that any of it mattered for at the very moment Mackenzie received word on his radio to go home, Morgan was hailing a cab at the corner of Pont Street after leaving the flat by scaling the wall of the rear courtyard.

He had already carefully reconnoitred the situation in daylight earlier that afternoon and knew exactly what he was doing. He told the driver to drop him at St Mark's College on the King's Road. From there, Chelsea Creek was only a brisk five-minute walk.

The paint factory of Wetherby and Sons stood on a pier jutting out into the Creek on the other side from the power station. Morgan paused in the shadows, tightening the soft black leather gloves he wore, took a balaclava from the pocket of his reefer and pulled it over his head.

The front gates were barred and flooded with the glare of security lights. There was also a sign warning of dog patrols, although that could mean something or nothing.

He'd already established the way in during an afternoon visit. There was a concrete weir, water pouring over it, stretching towards the maze of steelwork propping up the pier on which the factory stood.

He went down the bank and started across, taking his time at first, gauging the force of the water. But it wasn't anything he couldn't cope with, rising half-way up his calves, and the apron of the weir was broad enough, although green with slime and treacherous underfoot.

It took him no more than a couple of minutes to reach the far end. He paused for a moment, then climbed the maintenance ladder to the pier above, reaching the yard at the rear of the factory.

There was a fire escape to the first floor. The door at the top was held fast with an iron bar, a padlock on the end. Morgan produced a two-foot steel jemmy from inside his left boot, inserted it into the clasp of the padlock and twisted. It snapped instantly and he was inside.

From now on, he was into uncharted territory. Didn't even know what he intended next, for he was not sure what he would find.

He used his torch with care, noting that this floor held the bottling plant. There was a heavy smell of liquor to everything. He unscrewed the cap of one of several drums he found at one end of the room and sniffed. Industrial alcohol. So Jago was cutting good Scotch with more than water. With the kind of poison that was known to make people go blind.

From a window he could look down into the main courtyard. There was a hut by the gate and he could