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where the system did not allow for it. He had sailed pretty near the wind at times, but the strain of the chancer in him was allied to a shrewd intelligence, and it was to the credit of the police service that someone had seen his potential. Malone had got into CID very quickly, three years before Rushton made the transition from uniform. But he had subsequently volunteered himself for the dangerous role of an undercover drugs investigator. The combination of high excitement and high risk, which would have undone Rushton in a week, was much to Danny Malone’s taste.
    This thought passed through both of their minds as they sat looking at each other. So did the thought that it was Rushton, careful and career-conscious, who had made Detective Inspector, while the maverick Malone, who lived his life in danger and took physical risks his contemporary would never have countenanced, had stuck at Sergeant.
    They exchanged a few thoughts about the modern police service, savouring the language of old sweats now, throwing in a little professional cynicism to show how far they had left the trainee days behind them. But the common bond of being cadets, at the mercy of the same training officers, was far behind them, and there was little in their personalities to make them soulmates. Danny Malone, who had always found it easy to win the attention, even the devotion, of girls, was still unmarried, despite a string of relationships. Chris gave the briefest of details of his own marriage and divorce, smiled sourly at the suggestion that he was a newly released Lothario among the women of the district.
    After an awkward silence Chris said, ‘Do you fancy a quick drink? We can go into the golf clubhouse; they said we’re welcome to use the facilities.’
    Danny glanced down at his soiled jeans and grinned.
    ‘Not dressed for it, am I? This is working dress for me, but I don’t think the Establishment of the golf club would welcome me in.’ He looked round to make sure that even police ears could not overhear him; secrecy was a habit with him by now, one of the tools of survival. ‘Anyway, I didn’t come just for a chat, though it’s nice to see an old mate getting on so well.’
    Chris looked at him closely, but as usual he could not be sure whether there was a touch of irony in the soft Irish voice. ‘This is business?’ He reached automatically for his notepad, then checked the movement.
    Danny Malone caught the action and grinned. ‘Record it if you like, me careful old friend. But you’ll have to sit on it until you get permission to move.’
    Rushton knew what he meant: you couldn’t jeopardize the safety of an undercover drugs officer by following up information he had given you. If you charged in with heavy police feet, it might cost him his cover, even his life. ‘Is it connected with the death of this girl Kate Wharton?’
    Malone nodded. He was suddenly deadly serious. ‘It might mean nothing or it might mean everything. Do you know yet that she was dealing drugs?’
    ‘No. I know that she had a boyfriend who was an addict. Or had been: we haven’t managed to contact him yet.’ Chris yearned to tell him that this was his discovery, that he wasn’t just a dutiful, desk-bound automaton. But he was too professional for that. He was being offered new, possibly vital, information and he must get every detail he could.
    ‘I don’t know about the boyfriend. But I did know Kate Wharton and I know she was dealing. The usual story, I think: she got the habit and they used that to persuade her to deal. She was fuelling her own use with free supplies in return for dealing. We could have picked her up several times in the last few months, but it wasn’t worth it. She might have led us to bigger fish.’
    There was no room for sentiment, for normal human emotions such as pity, in the world in which Danny Malone dwelt. He mourned not the pointless loss of a young life but the loss of a contact who might have led him to