Watters wondered how much of his life he had spent watching and waiting for something to happen. In the Royal Marines, much of his time had been off West Africa, on endless patrols hoping to catch slave ships. As a beat policeman, many years ago, he had worn out boot leather on hard paving stones, walking for hours, hoping for something to break the monotony. Now, as a detective, he was once again huddled in a close doorway in Mid Road, watching Scuddamore’s shebeen.
A score of people had entered in the four hours since Watters took his position, and most had subsequently left. None of them had looked even slightly intimidating. Watters marked them as mill workers, male and female, with a couple of engineers, a quarryman and two young lads.
Watters shuffled his feet to prevent cramp. Thi
