Mary damn well could not. 'Stretching regulations is one thing. Ned. A dozen illegal taps is completely another, can't you even see ?'

Ned might have argued that the extra numbers were covered by the existing Home Office warrant but he didn't bother. He phoned me in Pimlico just as I was uncorking the bottle of burgundy with which I proposed to console myself after a dirty day. It's a rather awful little flat and I had the window open to get out the smcll of frying. I remember closing the window while we talked.

Phone warrants are in theory signed by the Home Secretary or in his absence by his Minister. But there is a trick to this, for he has provided the Legal Adviser with a delegated authority to be used only in emergency and accounted for in writing within twenty-four hours. I scribbled out my authority, signed it, turned off the gas -I was still boiling the Brussels sprouts - clambered into a cab and twenty minutes later handed the authority to Mary. Within the hour the telephones of Barley's twelve contacts were covered.

What was I thinking as I did all this? Did I think Barley had done away with himself? No, I did not. His concerns were for the living. The last thing he wished to do was leave them to their fate.

But I considered the possibility that he had broken ranks, and I suppose my worst fantasy was of Barley loudly clapping as the Aeroflot pilot announced that his plane had re-entcred Soviet airspace.

In the meantime, on Ned's orders, Brock had persuaded the police to put out an emergency call for any metropolitan cab-driver who had picked up a tall man with a saxophone on the corner of Old Compton Street at five-thirty, destination Knightsbridge but probably changed en route. Yes, a tenor saxophone - a baritone sax was twice the size. By ten they had their Man. The cab had started out for Knightsbridge but at Trafalgar Square Barley had indeed changed his mind and asked to be driven to Harley Street. The fare came to three pounds. Barley gave the driver a fiver and told him to keep the change.

By a small miracle of quick thinking, assisted by the late Walter's records, Ned made the connection - Andrew George Macready, alias Andy, former jazz trumpeter and listed Barley contact, had been admitted to the Sisters of Mercy Hospice, Harley Street, three weeks ago, see scrawled letter intercept in pencil, Mrs. Macready to Hampstead, serial 47A, and Walter's lapidary comment on the minute sheet: Macready is Barley's guru on mortality .

I still remember how I clung to the grab handle of Ned's car with both hands. We arrived at the hospice to be told Macready was under sedation. Barley had sat with him for an hour and they had managed to exchange a few words. The night matron, who had just come on duty, had taken Barley a cup of tea, no milk or sugar. Barley had topped it up with whisky from a flask. He had offered the matron a dram but she declined. He asked her whether he might 'play old Andy a couple of his favourite numbers'. He played softly for ten minutes exactly, which was what she had allowed him. Several of the nuns had gathered in the corridor to listen, and one of them recognised the tune as Basie's 'Blue and Sentimental'. He left his phone number and a cheque for a hundred pounds 'for the croupier' on a brass collection plate at the door. The matron had told him he could come back whenever he wanted.

'You're not police, are you?' she asked me unhappily as we made for the door.

'Good Lord, no. Whyever should we be?'

She shook her head and would not answer, but I thought I knew what she had seen in. him. A man in flight, hiding from his own actions.

Using the car telephone as we sped back to the Russia House Ned ordered Brock to list all clubs, concert halls and pubs in the London area wherejazz was being played tonight. He should, distribute as many watchers as he could muster over these events.

For good measure I added the lawyer's ten cents' worth. In no circumstances was Brock or any watcher physically to restrain Barley or close with him. Whatever other rights Barley might have waived, he had not waived his right to defend himself and he was a powerful man.

We were settling for a long wait when Mary the head listener rang, this time all sweetness and oil. 'Ned, I think you ought to get round here a tiny bit fastish. Some of your eggs have hatched.'

We tear back to Russell Square, Ned leaning the car against the curves at sixty rr~iles an hour.

In her cellar ]air Mary received us with the doting smile she reserved for moments of disaster. A favourite girl called Pepsi stood beside her, dressed in green overalls. A tape .recorder turned on the desk.

'Who the hell's that at this hour?' a stentorian voice demanded and I recognised immediately Barley's formidable Aunt Pandora, the Sacred Cow whom I had entertained to lunch. Hiatus while coins were fed into the machine. Followed by Barley's courteous voice.

'I'm rather afraid I've had it, Pan. I'm kissing the firm goodbye.'

'Don't talk cock,' Aunt Pandora retorted. 'Some fool girl's been getting at you again.'

'I'm serious, Pan. This time it's for real. I had to tell you.'

'You're always serious. That's why you're such a fraud pretending to be frivolous.'

'I'm going to talk to Guy in th e morning.' Guy Solomons, family solicitor, listed Barley contact. 'Wicklow, the new man, can take it over. He's a tough little runt and he's a fast learner.'

'Did you trace the phone box?' Ned asked Mary as Barley rang off.

'No time,' said Mary proudly.

From the tape we heard the renewed ring of a phone. Barley again. 'Reggie? I'm having a blow tonight. Come and play.'

Mary handed us a piece of card on which she had written, Canon Reginald Cowan, drummer and clerk in holy orders .

'Can't,' said Reggie. 'Bloody Confirmation class.'

'Ditch thern,' said Barley.

'Can't. Buggers are here with me now.'

'We need you, Reggie. Old Andy's dying.'

'So arc we all. All the bloody time.'

As the tape was ending, Brock came through on a live call from the Russia House asking for Ned urgently. His watchers had reported that Barley had looked in on his Soho drinking club an hour ago, drunk five whiskies then moved on to the Noah's Arch at King's Cross.

'Noah's Arch ? You mean Ark.'

'Arch. It's an arch under the railway line. Noah's an eight-foot West Indian. Barley's joined the band.'

'Alone?'

'So far.'

'What sort of place?'

'Diner and boozer. Sixty tables, stage, brick walls, whores, the usual.'

Brack thought all pretty girls were whores.

'How full?' said Ned.

'Two-thirds and rising.'

'What's he playing?'

'"Lover Man", Duke Ellington.'

'How many exits?'

'One.'

'Put together one team of three men and park them at a table near the door. If he leaves, straddle him but don't touch him. Call Resources and tell them I want Ben Lugg to get his cab over to the Noah's Arch immediately and wait with his flag down. He'll know what to do.' Lugg was the Service's tame cabby. 'Are there any public phones in the club?'

'Two.'

'Have them occupied till I get there. Has he seen you?'

'No.'

'Don't let him. What's across the road?'

'A launderette.'

'Is it open?'

'No.'

'Wait for me in front of it.' He swung round on Mary, who was still smiling. 'There are two phones at the Noah's Arch, King's Cross,' he said, speaking very slowly. 'Have them faulted now . If the management's got its own line, have that faulted too. Now . I don't care how short-staffed the engineers are, fault them now . If there are phone boxes in the street outside, fault the lot. Now .'

We abandoned the Service car and hailed a cab. Brock was waiting as ordered in the doorway of the launderette. Ben Lugg was parked at the curbside. Tickets were five ninety-five at the door. Ned led me past the watchers' table without a glance and shoved his way to the front.

Nobody was dancing. The band's front line was taking a break. Barley was standing ccntre stage in front of a gold chair, playing with the gentle backing of the double bass and drums. A brick arch made a sound chamber over him. He was still wearing his publishing suit and seemed to have forgotten to remove his jacket. Rotating coloured lights wandered over him, occasionally closing on his face which was running sweat. His expression was nerveless and remote. He was holding the long notes and I knew they were a requiem for Andy and for whoever else was occupying his beleaguered mind. A couple of girls had sat themselves in the band seats and were staring at him with unblinking eyes. A line of beers was also awaiting his attention. Beside him stood the immense Noah with his arms folded across his chest, listening with his head down. The piece ended. Deliberately and tenderly, as if he were dressing a friend's wound, Barley cleaned out his sax and laid it to rest in its case. Noah did not allow applause but there was a scuffling noise while everyone snapped their fingers and there were calls of 'encore' but Barley didn't bother with them. He drained a couple of the beers, gave a wave round and picked his way delicately through the crowd to the door. We went after him and as we stepped into the street Ben Lugg drew alongside with his flag up.

'Mo's,' Barley ordered as he flopped into the back seat. He had another flask of Scotch from somewhere and was unscrewing the cap. 'Hullo, Harry. How's love at a distance?'

'Great, thanks. I recommend it.'

'Where on earth's Mo's?' Ned asked as he settled beside him and I parked myself on the jump seat.

'Tufnell Park. Underneath the Falmouth Arms.'

'Good sound?' Ned asked.

'The best.'

But it was not Barley's false cheerfulness that alarmed me. It was the remoteness of him, the deadness of his eyes, the way he kept himself confined inside the fastness of his English courtesy.

Mo was a blonde in her fifties and she spent a long time kissing Barley before she would let us sit at her table. Barley played blues and Mo wanted him to stay, I think for the night, but Barley could stay nowhere long, so we went to a music pizza house in Islington where he played inother solo and Ben Lugg came in with us to have a cup of tea and a listen. Ben was a boxer in his day and still talked about the fight game. From Islington we crossed the river to the Elephant to hear a black group playing soul in a bus garage. It was four-fifteen but Barley was showing no sign of sleep; he preferred to sit with the group drinking spiked cocoa out of pint-sized china mugs. When we at last gentled him towards Ben's cab, the two girls from Noah's reappeared from nowhere and sat themselves either side of him in the back seat.