He clamped his fingers over her wrist like a handcuff and they ran from the house looming over the hedge, and from the smoking hole in the lawn. She knew those things for sure; all the rest was only a chain of vague impressions. At first it had been hard to run, and then it got easier because they were going downhill. They turned, and then turned again. Gray houses with high stoops and drawn green shades seemed to stare at them like blind pensioners. She remembered Lonnie pulling off his jacket, which had been splattered with that black goo, and throwing it away. At last they came to a wider street.

‘Stop,’ she panted. ‘Stop, I can’t keep up!’ Her free hand was pressed to her side, where a red-hot spike seemed to have been planted.

And he did stop. They had come out of the residential area and were standing at the corner of Crouch Lane and Morris Road. A sign on the far side of Morris Road proclaimed that they were but one mile from Slaughter Towen.

Town? Vetter suggested.

No, Doris Freeman said. Slaughter Towen, with an ‘e.’

Raymond crushed out the cigarette he had cadged from Farnham. ‘I’m off,’ he announced, and then looked more closely at Farnham. ‘My poppet should take better care of himself. He’s got big dark circles under his eyes. Any hair on your palms to go with it, my pet?’ He laughed uproariously.

‘Ever hear of a Crouch Lane?’ Farnham asked.

‘Crouch Hill Road, you mean.’

‘No, I mean Crouch Lane.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘What about Norris Road?’

‘There’s the one cuts off from the high street in Basing-stoke…’ ‘No, here.’

‘No – not here, poppet.’

For some reason he couldn’t understand – the woman was obviously buzzed – Farnham persisted. ‘What about Slaughter Towen?’

‘Towen, you said? Not Town?’ ’Yes, that’s right.’

‘Never heard of it, but if I do, I believe I’ll steer clear.’