‘Rather!’ Martin was enthusiastic. ‘We’ll go down there right away, shall we? All of us?’
‘Not Meggie,’ said Abbershaw quickly. ‘No,’ he added with determination, as she turned to him appealingly. ‘You had your share of von Faber’s gang at Black Dudley, and I’m not going to risk anything like that again.’
Meggie looked at him, a faintly amused expression playing round the corners of her mouth, but she did not attempt to argue with him: George was to be master in his own home, she had decided.
The three men set off in Prenderby’s small Riley, Abbershaw tucked uncomfortably between the other two.
Martin Watt grinned.
‘I’ve got a gun this time,’ he said. ‘Our quiet country week-end taught me that much.’
Abbershaw was silent. He, too, had invested in an automatic, since his return to London. But he was not proud of the fact, since he secretly considered that its purchase had been a definite sign of weakness.
They wormed their way through the traffic, which was mercifully thin at that time of night, although progress was by no means easy. A clock in Shoreditch struck eleven as they went through the borough, and Martin spoke fervently.
‘Good lord, I hope we don’t miss them,’ he said, and added with a chuckle, ‘I bet old Kennedy would give his ears to be on this trip. How far down is the place, Prenderby?’
‘Not far now,’ said Michael, as he swung into the unprepossessing tram-lined thoroughfare which leads to the ‘Bakers’ Arms’ and Wanstead.