TWENTY-EIGHT
Peter and I stood in the shadows on the opposite side of the road from Bruce Horsefield’s mother’s house. Like all other dwellings in the road it seemed to be in total darkness. This was a result of the blackout curtains or shutters which not only deceived the Hun, but a weary private detective and his eager young assistant also. The problem was how to ascertain whether Horsefield was inside the building, resting his wounded leg and receiving succour from his mother without alerting the occupants of the place – whoever they may be.
‘I could go and listen by the front room window and at the kitchen round the back,’ said Peter. ‘I might be able to hear voices.’
‘You might hear voices, but it’s unlikely you’ll hear what’s being said and whether Horsefield is one of the speaker
