“He's quite right.” Harold stepped to the passenger side window and peered in. Both demons stopped their bickering to peer at him.
“What do you mean?” Sefskapoi prised a pound note out of the driver's hand. “Which of us is right?”
Harold couldn't remember when he'd last seen a pound note. Sometime in the eighties, probably. He had a vague recollection of he and Alastair Camberley winning a bridge match during their final year at Oxford once, and their opponents, a despicable lad from the chemistry department and a lad studying law, had paid their winnings with a pound note. Not needing the money at the time (since his business ventures were generally lucrative and he'd run a rather successful scheme of importing large amounts of fine Belgian chocolates which he hocked at a large profit to the English department) he's ripped the pound note in half and given the other half to Alastair. Alastair had pinned his to the communal noticeboard but Harold, since he'd kept the half with the serial number, exchanged his for a replacement note at the bank.
“The driver, of course.” Harold gave him a nod of admiration. “The longer he stops at traffic lights, the larger the fare becomes.”
“Is that so?”
“I just said it, didn't I?” Harold jerked his head toward Jasfoup. “Now get a move on, there's work to be done.”
The driver snatched back his pound.