Before the Lancia reached Piccadilly Circus, now sordid as a hangover in the Sunday sunshine, it was apparent that Wykes could handle a car with that complete authority which is as comforting to the passenger as the performance of a prima ballerina seen from an orchestra stall.
He drove with zest, foreseeing every opportunity and taking each of them with the majesty of a shark moving through a shoal of John Dorays. Fifty yards behind, the Jaguar followed, nip and tuck, equally purposeful.
“The man is good,” said Wykes dispassionately, one eye on the mirror. “A stylist. We won’t lose him in traffic. Where are we heading?”
“In principle, the Newmarket Road. If you have your private system of back doubles now is the time to exhibit it.”
In his own element Wykes became a more credible and
