Killing the Lawyers

"And you're sure she was watching you? I mean, not just taking a casual interest 'cos maybe there wasn't anything more interesting to look at?"

"No, definitely watching us. Or not us. Watching little Fee-lie. First time I noticed this woman was when I was sitting on a bench throwing crumbs into the water. Feelie was playing on the grass behind me and she must've taken a tumble, 'cos suddenly I heard her cry and when I turned, she was sitting on the ground with this woman stooping over her like she was going to pick her up and comfort her. Well, I know it's something that anyone might do, but I was taking no chances, you hear such things these days, and I got there quick, and grabbed her Feelie, I mean. The woman turned and walked away pretty smart and I thought, oh hell, I've probably offended her. But I would have spoken to her nice and polite if only she'd hung around."

"But she did hang around. You say you've noticed her again."

"Oh yes, many times. And at first I might have spoken. But she always took good care never to let me get close. If she was on a bench she'd get up as we approached and move away. But always within sight, her sight of us, I mean. And even if I couldn't see her, I got to feeling she was still watching."

"You tell anyone else about this?" asked Joe. "Like the police? Or your daughter?"

"No," admitted Molly. "I mean, what are the cops going to do but make me feel like a neurotic woman on the change? As for Dorrie, I don't want to start her worrying over what's probably nothing. But I think maybe I ought to say something to put her on her guard when she takes Feelie home."

"She doesn't live with you then?" said Joe.

"No," said the woman rather shortly. "Likes her independence." Then, relenting of her critical tone slightly, she added, "Me too, if I'm honest. Though, God help us, neither of us is a very good advert for independence, me married three times, her up the stick at seventeen!"

"It would still get my vote," said Joe, looking at her appreciatively and wondering what her husbands had died of. "So what do you want from me?"

"I thought mebbe you could come down to the park one day, see what you think of this woman, follow her home mebbe and check her out. Turns out she's got a family of five and she comes to the park to get away from them, then it's me who's the loonie, right?"

"Right," smiled Joe. "Listen, don't sound to me like there's anything to worry about. If she had any notion of snatching little Feelie, she'd have come on nice to you, got your confidence. You gave her the chance, right?"

That I did. You're probably right, Joe. But I'd still appreciate it if you could take a look."

"OK," said Joe. "Here's my number. Give me a ring next time you're taking her to the park and I'll see if I can get down there."

"OK. Probably won't be till next week when we all get back to work. Thanks, Joe. You're a prince."

No, thought Joe. I just know how it feels to be under the eye of a dangerous woman. He'd noticed Daph emerge from behind her counter to collect plates and now she was looking his way with an ill-boding frown.

"Gotta leave you now, Molly," he said as the caff owner started heading towards him. "Heavy schedule. See you!"

He scooped up Whitey and headed for the door.

Behind him Molly called, "Hey, Joe, I didn't pay you for my choc and Danish."

Joe paused and turned, not because of the money but because there was something else he wanted to ask her, or would want to if he could just hang around a little. When the Great Technician in the sky had doled out components, some folk got Pentium chips, some got transistors, and some had to make do with old-fashioned valves. They got you there in the end, but you had to wait a bit longer till the picture came up on the screen.

Joe was an unconvertible valve man, and today there was no time to wait for warm-up. Daph was almost on him and definitely not in one of her animal rights moods.

I'll put it on your bill," he called to Molly. "See you soon."

He hit the pavement running, with Whitey on his shoulder hurling defiant abuse behind him.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" gasped Joe as he fell into the Magic Mini. "You want a fight, you pick on someone your own size. Or slightly smaller!"

Fifteen.

Sycamore Lane was a bit down market from Beacon Heights but none the worse for that. Here there was space enough for private living but also proximity enough for community. Give a man too much ground and his boundaries become frontiers to be fought over instead of fences to talk over.

So, a good place to live, if this was the kind of life you wanted. Wouldn't do for me, thought Joe. He liked the sense of wraparound humanity the high-rise gave him. But chuck in a wife and family, and maybe he'd start thinking different... Fat chance! Way things looked, Whitey was the closest he was going to get in that direction. Sometimes he felt guilty about keeping the cat in a flat. Maybe that was a reason he should think in terms of a house and garden, a bit of space for Whitey to roam free in.

"What do you think?" he said aloud as he turned into the road where the Otos lived.

"Chase birds and all that crap instead of being driven around by my personal chauffeur? You must be mad!"

At least that's what Joe hoped the lash of the cat's tail meant.

He was glad to see Mary's Metro had vanished. He'd probably need another close encounter with the sister before he was through, but not yet. Also his ruse of leaving his donkey jacket behind was likely to get it thrown in his face if she'd answered the door. As it was, when Mrs. Oto heard his apologetic explanation, her expected reply was, "Come on in, Mr. Sixsmith. You must be chittered without your topcoat. Will you warm up with a cup of tea?"

So far so good, he thought as he followed her into the kitchen. Now all he'd got to do was get her telling him the things he wanted to know without her knowing he wanted to know them.

Alternatively he could try the direct approach which consisted of looking straight into the other person's face and saying, "OK, cards on the table. Why don't you tell me exactly what's going on?"

Except that Mrs. Oto was there before him, uttering those precise words as she filled his cup with tea.

"Sorry?" said Joe.

"You aren't really a baggage handler, Mr. Sixsmith. Or if you are, Zak ought to ask for a refund. I asked a few questions round the shops this morning. Only Sixsmith anyone had heard of that came close to you was some private detective. You he?"

"Yes, I am," admitted Joe. "Though I don't have a system of snouts like you, Mrs. Oto. Maybe we can come to an arrangement?"

She smiled. She had a quality of stillness, like a queen on public display, so when she smiled, it was like being invited behind the scenes.

Well, that was where he wanted to be.

He smiled back and said, "Your daughter's hired me, so I can't tell you anything she doesn't want me to tell you. But you've brought her up to be a lovely girl, so I'm sure she'll come clean if you ask her when she gets home."

Mrs. Oto said, "No need to try and flatter me about my children, Mr. Sixsmith. I know exactly what each of them is, and I don't need any help from outside to make me love them. What kind of trouble is Zak in?"

Joe felt himself wriggling inside and tried not to let it show.

He said, "No trouble, just some people trying to use her."

"Use her? How?"

Joe drew in a deep breath, still uncertain what words were going to come out of it.

The door opened and Eddie came in. Joe saw at once he'd been listening because his face wore exactly the kind of I-haven't-been-listening face he himself assumed when he had.

In his hand were some computer print-outs.

"That stuff you wanted," he said, handing them to Joe.

"Thought you were working for my family. I didn't realize you'd got my family working for you," said Mrs. Oto.

"Just some figures Eddie said he'd run through his computer," lied Joe. "I don't understand these things."

He glanced down at the print-out and realized the reason he'd been able to lie so glibly was that he wasn't altogether lying. The figures he'd got here meant nothing to him. He'd need the boy's help to interpret them.

"Let me see!" commanded Mrs. Oto.

Joe hesitated.

The woman said, "Mr. Sixsmith, this is my house and there's nothing comes out of my son's machine that I'm not entitled to look at."

He handed over the sheet. She glanced down it.

To Joe's amazement she said straight off, "So what's the race?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I work at Stan Storey's, Mr. Sixsmith. I know a numbers sheet when I see one. Only this has got the runners coded. So what's the race?"

Stan Storey was Luton's best-known bookie, who by sharp odds and appeals to local loyalties had managed to survive the attempts by the big national firms to squeeze him out. So this was Mrs. Oto's little job which she'd kept on to preserve her independence. He tried to see her in the context of a betting shop, but couldn't.

"It's Zak's race at the Plezz," said Joe.

"Zak's race? But that's crazy." Her face tightened. "Eddie, you tell me exactly what these figures mean, you hear me?"

At least she had the sense not to ask me, thought Joe.

The boy said, There's a lot of money going on the race. On Zak losing."

"Where is this? Singapore?"

"Mainly. Other places out East too, but mainly Singapore."

"Why'd you say that, Mrs. Oto?" asked Joe.

"Because you can get odds on anything out there. Sometimes folk come to Storey's wanting to bet on something Stan can't see his way to making a book on. So he'll get odds from Singapore, give himself a margin, accept the bet and lay it off East."

"Nice one, Stan," said Joe. "Where's this money coming from, Eddie?"

"UK, mostly," said the boy.

"But none of it through Storey's?" said Joe.

"What are you saying?" demanded Mrs. Oto.

"I'm just saying you'd have noticed if there'd been a lot of betting against your daughter through the place you work at," said Joe placatingly.

"Yes, I'd have noticed and I'd have been asking, what the hell's going on? Which is what I'm asking now, Mr. Sixsmith."

Suddenly he could see her quite easily in a betting shop, able to deal with and subdue any bad loser looking for someone to blame.

He glanced at Eddie, giving his mother the option of getting him out of the room, also giving himself a bit more time.

Mrs. Oto said, "Eddie, I suggest you go upstairs and spring clean that machine of yours. However you got this stuff, it wasn't legal. You may be smarter than me with computers, but you I can read like a book. When I come up there after I'm finished with Mr. Sixsmith, I'm going to ask you if there's anything else illegal you're hooked up to. And if you say no and I don't believe you, I'm going to take a hammer to that machine of yours, you hear me?"

"Yes, Ma," said Eddie.

Looking about five years younger than when he'd come in, the boy left.

"Right, Mr. Sixsmith, you got a professional association?"

"Yes, ma'am." Like Eddie, he felt himself getting younger by the minute.

"What'll they do to you if they hear you're in trouble for getting a minor to perform illegal acts?"

She made it sound unspeakable but Joe knew better than to protest.

"They'll expel me," he said.

"So, you want to stay in work, you'd better start talking," she said.

There were times when he'd had Sergeant Chivers's mad eyes glaring into his from six inches and still been able to burble about client confidentiality. But not now.

By the time he'd finished, she was back to the old Mrs. Oto, serene and polite.

"So how's your investigation proceeding, Mr. Sixsmith?" she asked. "Any suspects?"

Was this the time to tell her he thought her other daughter might be in the frame? Maybe not.

He said, "I gotta suspect everyone till I learn different, Mrs. Oto. Like the guys who come into Storey's, I study the form then I make my choice."

"That's a bad example, Mr. Sixsmith. Most of those guys are dedicated losers. Is that how you see yourself? A loser?"

He met her steady gaze steadily.

"No. I'm more like the guy who's doing this fix on Zak. I don't like putting my money on anything but a certainty."

She nodded.

"Fair enough. OK, ask your questions."

"Questions?"

"You didn't leave your coat here just so's you could come back and sample my tea, which you've let go cold anyway."

In a world full of people smarter than I am, how come I chose this job? Joe asked himself, not for the first time.

Because, he answered himself as always, it's being just smart enough to put smarter folk to work that makes millionaires.

He said, "So who do you think could be behind all this, Mrs. Oto?"

Instead of making a crack about doing his work for him she considered the question seriously.

"Someone with a load of money," she said. These are big sums being laid."

"Yeah, but they're just blips on a computer screen, right? It's not like anyone had to go to a counter with a sackful of bank notes."

"You ever tried opening an account with Stan?" she said,

looking him up and down. "No offence, Mr. Sixsmith, but I doubt you'd get more than a fifty limit. Sure, they're just blips on a screen, but there's got to be a lot of other blips on another screen saying you're good for the money before anyone's going to take any notice."

"OK," he said. "Don't bookies get worried if a lot of money starts chasing an outsider? Is there enough here to start alarm bells ringing out East?"

"They'd be jangling like Christmas at Stan's," she said. "But things are different out there. They assume any result can be and probably has been fixed, so it's almost built into the odds. Over here, if we get suspicious, usually we blow the whistle. Over there, they may just start looking for ways of covering their backs."

It was funny. You see a person nicely dressed in a nice house in a nice area, even when you know it hasn't always been like this for them, it's hard not to think this protected life was what they were born to. But not so many years ago, the Otos had been living on Hermsprong. Joe knew what that was like because it was still like it graffiti on the walls, crap in the lifts, lights all busted so even the police didn't care to be there less than mob-handed after dark, plus a hardcore of red, white and blue racists calling themselves the True Brits dedicated to making life unbearable for anybody whose face didn't fit their perverted view of things.

So why feel surprise that Mrs. Oto who worked at Stan Storey's knew a thing or two? Come to think of it, moving into Grandison was probably no bean feast. They might not ride motorbikes and wear Union Jack T-shirts round here, but there were still plenty of good solid citizens ready to spray graffiti on people's minds.

He said, "You ever have any trouble round here, Mrs. Oto?"

"Trouble?"

"You know. Resentment that you're here and Zak's doing so well."

"Oh, that kind of trouble. Nothing we haven't been able to handle. Why?"

"Just thinking that maybe as well as the money thing, somebody could have something personal against Zak."

"And want to humiliate her by making her lose in front of her home crowd? Now that's a bit fanciful, wouldn't you say? I mean, I brought my kids up to know that in this life, nobody wins all the time. So long as you're doing your best, that's all that matters. Who cares about a bit of embarrassment?"

"Yes, but she wouldn't be doing her best, would she?" said Joe.

"She'd be doing her best for her family, and you can't do better than that," said Mrs. Oto fiercely.

"No," said Joe thoughtfully. "Don't suppose you can. I'll be on my way now, Mrs. Oto."

"Don't you want to know what I'm going to do now I know what's going on?" she asked.

"Sure I'd like to know," said Joe. "But first, I doubt if you'll know till you've talked to your husband and to Zak. And second, no way you're going to tell me unless you want to. So why waste my breath asking? I'm just the hired help."

She laughed and said, "Maybe Zak didn't choose so badly after all, Mr. Sixsmith. Don't forget your coat now."

Back in the Magic Mini, Joe sat for a while looking out at the house. He glimpsed Eddie's face momentarily at an upstairs window. No need for the boy to come bursting into the kitchen like that. He must have known his mother would ask questions about the print-out. Also that when she looked at it, she'd know what it was about. So he'd done it deliberately. Why? Because he wanted her to find out what was going on without doing any direct sneaking? Or maybe he wanted to find out more for himself, so he set up a situation where his mother would get it out of Joe while he listened at the door? Could he be that devious? Why not? The thought processes of the young made politicians look straightforward!

And as for Mrs. Oto ... "That woman's seriously worried, Whitey," said Joe.

You were looking after my daughter, I'd be seriously worried, yawned the cat.

"Yeah, yeah," said Joe.

He drove slowly away along the quiet suburban street. No getting away from it, this was peaceful living. And they wanted to keep it that way. He'd spotted a couple of Neighbourhood Watch signs. Ten to one somebody had already clocked him and was ringing in about the suspicious-looking lowlife cruising the area in his way-out car. He must have taken a wrong turn because instead of the main road back into the town centre, he found himself on the rural edge of Grandison where the developers were still biting into the green belt, though from the look of it they'd bitten off more than they could chew. Here was a sign advertising yet another small exclusive executive estate. Only the small exclusive executives must be getting thin on the ground as half the houses were unfinished with precious little activity around them to indicate the builders were in any hurry to complete the job. Their design was very like that of the Oto house, and when Joe spotted a Sales Office sign, he pulled over.

A middle-aged man with pouchy cheeks and a drooping moustache sat behind a desk reading a tabloid. His gaze registered Joe and rated him as unlikely to be doing more than enquiring where he should make a builder's delivery. But with times in the trade so hard, he couldn't afford to take chances, so he dropped the paper, switched on the smile and said heartily, "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"

"Hope so," said Joe. Thinking of moving so thought maybe I'd pick up some literature, check out a few prices."

"Well, you're in luck there, sir. We happen to be offering special deals on the few remaining properties, just for a limited period, you understand. Substantial cuts, five thousand off the four-bed Montrose, three and a half off the three-bed Elgin. Plus a very advantageous mortgage arrangement with the Luton and Biggleswade, subject to status, of course."

Things that bad, are they?" said Joe sympathetically. "Nice-looking houses too. They remind me of the one a friend of mine bought a few years back. Sycamore Lane."

"Sycamore Lane? Yes, they were ours. Back in eighty-seven to eight-eight. Those were the days, people buying them as fast as we could build them."

His eyes were moist with nostalgia.

"Well, Henry Oto was well satisfied," said Joe.

"Mr. Oto? Your friend's Mr. Oto? It was me who sold him the place. Didn't know then of course I was dealing with a celebrity family. That girl of his is a real credit to the town, ain't she?"

"She certainly is," said Joe. "But I expect prices have shot up since then, eh?"

"Now that's where you're wrong, Mr. er ... ?"

"Chivers," said Joe.

"Mr. Chivers. The bottom fell out of the market not long after we sold Sycamore Lane. Prices took a tumble. Well, we're well over that now, of course. Everything's on the up and up now with recent developments. Another boom on the way by the look of things, so now's your time to buy. But the thing is because we had those few bad years, and because we've got this special offer on, in fact you'd be paying very little different from what your friend Mr. Oto paid all those years ago. Here's a price list. I'll just get the key to the show house and give you the conducted tour."

"No time today," said Joe quickly. "I'll just take the literature and call back when I've had a chance to study it." He grabbed a handful of brochures at random and headed out. He didn't look back. Life was full enough of disappointment without feeling guilty about other people's.

As he drove away, his abacus mind worked out figures. When they moved Zak would have been coming up to secondary-school age but Mary would already have passed it. Which meant she must have started at Hermsprong Comp. which its critics described as Alcatraz with permanent home leave.

Maybe it wasn't favouritism, maybe it had taken them that extra couple of years to scrape together the deposit on the new house, but would Mary have seen it any other way than Alcatraz was OK for her, but something had to be done to keep her precious sister out of its clutches?

He glanced again at the prices as he drove and whistled. If the salesman was right and these bore any resemblance to the late eighties prices, even with Mrs. Oto full time at Storey's, they must really have struggled.

But who ever knows anything about other folk's economy? he asked himself reproachfully. Just because a guy who works in a prison and a woman who works in a bookies get their hands on enough cash to put down on a posh house, you don't have to start thinking nasty thoughts.

You don't? came a telepathic echo from the passenger seat. In that case maybe you'd better get yourself another job!

Sixteen.

Luton Royal Infirmary is, according to The Lost Traveller's Guide, a jewel in the National Health Service's crown.

The Victorian chutzpah in selecting the design which made it look most like a royal palace has got to be envied by our own cautious age, and if the long corridors, high-vaulted chambers, and sweeping staircases pose certain problems of speed, heating, and access, these are obstacles not insuperable to the will to heal, the vocation to serve. That the Lost Traveller in Luton is statistically more likely to find him or herself in need of hospital treatment than the Lost Traveller in, say, Littlehampton is undeniable. But once admitted to this noble edifice, the invalid can relax in the certainty of receiving here a quality of care which in other parts of the country not even private health insurance can buy."

Visitors outside visiting hours, however, were not so sure of such a gentle reception.

If Joe had known which ward Felix Naysmith was in, he would have attempted to bypass the Enquiries desk. But ignorance plus the suspicious gaze of a mountainous security man drove him to the counter where the receptionist looked carved from the same granite. Joe had hoped for someone he knew, but this was a stranger, and she didn't look programmed to dish out gratuitous information to casual enquirers, let alone admit them to the wards.

Without looking up from the ledger she was filling in, she said, "Yes?"

Joe made a resolve to practise this way of saying "Yes' in front of the bathroom mirror. It contained a greater negative force than his own most vehement "No way!" thrice repeated.

"Joe!" said a voice behind him. "How're you doing? You come to see Beryl?"

He turned to see Iris Tyler, a staff nurse he'd got to know through Beryl Boddington.

"Well, no ..." he began to say as his wireless-set circuits worked out that Beryl must be back on duty, which he ought to have remembered because Mirabelle had mentioned at least twice daily the train she was likely to be arriving on the previous evening with the sure addition that it was always so nice to be met at the station by someone with a car. Joe had refused to take the hint publicly, but mentally he had pencilled in the engagement, only to have it completely erased by the events of last night.

'... which is to say, yes, at least, I mean I thought I might catch her on her break, have a quick word, say hi, welcome home ..."

To his finely tuned ear it came out as unconvincing as a druggie's promises, but he'd forgotten that ninety per cent of Luton womanhood were plugged in to Aunt Mirabelle's personal Internet.

"Can't wait, huh?" said Iris, smiling on him fondly.

She murmured a few explanatory words to Granite-Face on the desk, whose features instantly dissolved into that knowing complicitous smile which, as sure as a masonic handshake, showed she was a paid-up member of the Mirabelle Tendency too.

Iris hurried him towards a lift with Joe still uncertain just how grateful he ought to be to God for offering him this cover story. Two possibilities lay ahead. Either Beryl would believe him when he said he couldn't wait to see her, which was another large step on the way to admitting they were an item. Or she wouldn't, in which case he had a lot of explaining to do.

Then the lift opened and he knew exactly how grateful he was.

Standing there were D S Chivers and D C Dildo Doberley.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sixsmith?" bellowed the sergeant.

"Just visiting," stuttered Joe.

"Visiting who?" demanded Chivers.

Joe said, "A friend," which might hardly have satisfied the sergeant if Iris hadn't intervened.

"Mr. Sixsmith is here to see Nurse Boddington," she said wrathfully. "And I would ask you to moderate both your voice and your language. This is after all a hospital."

Chivers looked ready to kill her but she stared him down and he growled, "I need a pee, or is that too strong for you, Nurse?" and marched off towards the gents.

Joe said, "Give us a minute," and took Dildo aside.

"Anything new?" he asked.

"More than my life's worth to talk about a current case, Joe," said Doberley virtuously.

"OK," said Joe. "How about you check out these names for me? Nothing to do with any of your current cases."

He scribbled some names on the back of an old lunch bill.

"God, you eat cheap, Joe," said Dildo, studying the bill. "I don't."

"Why don't I treat you at the Glit sometime. Best grub in town," lied Joe.

"You wouldn't be trying to bribe me, would you?" said Dildo indignantly.

Joe put on his shocked look. Chivers emerged from the loo and bellowed, "Doberley, move your ass! You're as much use as a doctored cat!"

"Six o'clock in the Glit," murmured Dildo. "And I'll be hungry!"

"I bet," said Joe, getting into the lift which the impatient nurse had been holding open.

On the third floor, Iris left him in a waiting room. A few moments later the door opened and Beryl Boddington came in, her strong handsome face anxious.

"Joe," she said, 'what's wrong? It isn't Desmond, is it?"

"No," he said. "Nothing's wrong. I just dropped by to say, welcome home."

She went immediately for Option 2, which was both reassuring and somewhat disappointing.

"Bull," she said. "I got more chance of a visit from the Angel Gabriel telling me I'm a pregnant virgin."

Time to come clean.

"There's a patient I want a word with. Iris showed while I was making enquiries and things got sort of confused. But I'm real glad to see you. You look great."

She did too. Joe had no particular fixation on uniform, nor did it occur to him to try to analyse how come a woman so solidly built as Beryl Boddington could hit his hormones more resoundingly than many a more conventional cent refold shape. He just knew she looked great and he really was glad to see her.

It must have showed. It usually did. Beryl grinned broadly and said, "One of these days I'm going to find a way of being really offended by you, Joe. So who's the patient?"

"Lawyer called Naysmith. Came in last night, got attacked at home."

"Wait here. I'll check."

It didn't take long.

"He's on the top floor. Room to himself, and there's a cop sitting outside. No visitors but family and close friends with a chitty. Woman tried to get in earlier, refused to give her name and got bounced. Word is he's a bit concussed still, he got a lot of bruising and cuts about the head, but no real problem. His wife's in there with him now. And she came along with that lawyer friend of yours from Bullpat Square. She's in the waiting room up there."

She spoke a touch coldly of Butcher. OK, her heart was in the right place, but she seemed to encourage Joe to persist in this crazy PI business. Also there was no need for Joe to go on about her as if the sun shone out of her affidavits! His face was lighting up now.

"Butcher? That's right, she said she was a great mate of Mrs. Naysmith's. I'll get up there and have a word with her. No one guarding the visitors' room door is there?"

"No, Joe. You got free access there. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Maybe. What exactly is dyslexia?"

She looked as surprised at hearing the question as he felt at hearing himself ask it.

"Dyslexia? It's a sort of word blindness, you know, finding it difficult to recognize written words. It covers a whole range of things from just confusing some letters that look alike, such as p's and q's, to having huge difficulty in learning how to read and write. Why do you want to know?"

"No idea," he replied honestly. "Just came into my head."

"Plenty of space," she grinned. "Now get out of here and don't let Sister see you."

She stood aside as he moved towards the door. He paused as he passed her.

"It really is good to see you," he said.

"I was only away for a week," she said.

"Yeah, well, it seemed longer."

She regarded him, smiling and shaking her head at the same time.

"How come the old lines sound so new when you say them, Joe?" she said. "And if you're so glad to see me, shouldn't you shake my hand or something?"

Joe might be slow but he could take a hint when it was less than a foot away and smelt delicious.

He drew her towards him and for too short a moment forgot dead lawyers and threatened runners and gas-filled rooms in the warm moist depths of her lips.

She pushed him away saying, "OK, so you missed me, I believe you. But we'll have to continue this out of working hours, Joe. If continuing it's what you had in mind?"

"Oh yes. Please."

"Then drop by sometime. I'll be at home tonight if that suits. Don't be late or you'll miss Desmond, and you know how he really likes to have you visit."

Always the little sting in the tail, he thought as he climbed the stairs to the next floor. A lot of marriages might be made in Mirabelle's apartment, but Beryl had made it clear from the start she didn't dance to anyone's tune but her own.

In other words, if we get something going, it'll be down to us, not to the Luton Matchmaker. And by us, I mean you, me and Des.

O K by me, thought Joe as he ran lightly up the stairs, his muscles energized by the electricity of that kiss.

"Oh God," said Butcher, looking up from an ancient copy of Reader's Digest. "I thought at least I'd be safe from you here. Or are you just moonlighting as a porter?"

"Came to visit Mr. Naysmith," said Joe. "Heard you were here so thought I'd say hi."

"Hi," said Butcher. "Joe, I thought we agreed, there's nothing but hassle in this business for you, so you were going to stay clear."

That was till I got hired," said Joe smugly.

"Hired? So that's why you're really here. Visiting your client in the psycho wing!"

Joe said, "Ha ha. My client, Mr. Pollinger, is very well, thank you."

"Darby Pollinger's hired you to look into who's killing his partners?" said Butcher on a rising note of incredulity that might have offended a less modest man.

"That's the strength of it."

"He just rang you and said he wanted to hire you? Joe, it's a joke, one of your dickhead chums at the Glit winding you up."

"No, he didn't ring," said Joe. "We bumped into each other at Penthouse, and I've got cash money to prove it."

"At Penthouse? What was he doing at Penthouse?"

"I tell you what he was doing there," said Joe, suddenly remembering he had a grievance against Butcher. "He was visiting one of his firm's clients, a little fact you forgot to mention when you sent me on that wild-goose chase to consult with Potter. What kind of advice did you think I was going to get when it was one of their own biggest clients I wanted to mess with?"

"Is that right? Joe, I'm sorry, I really didn't know. And I don't think I mentioned the name of the firm when I rang Peter

"I mentioned it soon as I saw him," said Joe. "And he didn't say, Sorry man, I can't help you, I've got a conflict of interest here. No, all he did

It occurred to Joe for the second time that it was a bit naff getting het up about the professional standards of a dead man, who'd also once been a good mate of Butcher's.

"Sorry," he said.

"What for?"

"You know, day mortuary, that stuff."

"De mortui, nisi bonum, you mean? Frankly, I don't think Pete Potter would give a damn. But I'm surprised that, soon as you mentioned Penthouse, he didn't say enough, no more, this thing may not be."

"Well, I suppose he had a lot on his mind," said Joe generously.

"Like being just about to get murdered?" said Butcher.

"Like being in the middle of finding out someone had been ripping off the client accounts," said Joe.

"So that's what this is all about?" said Butcher, smiling. Thanks, Joe."

"Shoot! I never said that. Butcher, you tricked me into saying that!"

"Saying what you never said?" she laughed. "Joe, you're too complex for me. But don't worry yourself too much about client confidentiality. From what I've picked up from Lucy Naysmith, I'd pretty well worked it out for myself."

"Why? What's she say?"

"Come on, Joe. I'm not about to act as your snout, particularly not where my friends are concerned."

"Must be a good friend to get you here reading about your wonderful glands while there's people getting downtrodden out there."

"Yes, well ... Joe, what precisely are you getting at?"

"Nothing. Just find it odd that you went on so much about me keeping my nose out and now here I find yours buried deep."

"I see. So what's your conclusion, Sherlock?"

Joe took a deep breath and said, "Well, maybe you're more involved here than I thought. You said you and Potter had once been ... close."

"Close sounds like it's in inverted commas, Joe. Better spell it out."

"Well, you know, cherry-picking close

"You mean like, he was my first lover when we were students together?"

Her mouth trembled and for a second he thought he'd hit the mark. Then she began to shake with laughter.

"Oh Joe," she gurgled, "I thought I made it clear way back that I'd support you as a PI just so long as you promised never to engage your powers of ratiocination! I'm very sorry Pete got killed, but I'm not carrying some adolescent torch for him, believe me!"

"Yeah. OK. Sorry," said Joe. To tell the truth he was rather relieved to be wrong. To see Butcher romantically distressed would have been like seeing light through a pint of Guinness.

"But you do have a point," she went on, recovering her seriousness. "Not many people whose hands I'd hold on a hospital visit when I've got work to do. But Lucy's special. She hates hospitals in general, this one in particular. She was in the maternity ward here a while back, had a hell of a time, lost the baby, can't have any more. It takes a real effort of will for her to drive past the place, let alone step inside. So when she asked, I couldn't say no. But also I do admit I've got a professional interest. If some nut's going around offing lawyers, I'd like to be sure I wasn't on his list."

Joe recognized the attempt to depreciate her unselfish kindness but was happy to go along with it.

"Looks like you're pretty safe if you don't belong to Pollinger's firm," he said.

"It's a consolation," she said. "Also it narrows the suspect field considerably."

"Only if it's got something to do with this client-account thing," said Joe. "No guarantee of that."

"Now you would say that, wouldn't you?" she said maliciously. "Because that would mean the most likely candidates must be the remaining two partners, one of whom is skiing in the Alps, while the other is your client. Hiring someone to investigate his own crime is just the kind of sharp move I'd expect Darby Pollinger to make. I hope you got all your money up front Joe. You prove Darby did it, I don't expect he's going to be keen on paying your bills from Luton Jail."

The fact that she grinned as she said it didn't make it an any less uncomfortable proposition. Joe had already got there himself and had been wondering how he could ask his own employer if he actually had an alibi for the two murders and the attack on Naysmith. The other thing to discover was whether the police had yet made contact with Victor Montaigne.

He said, "When we were looking at that photo of the partners, you said that Montaigne was known as Blackbeard the Pirate. Is that just because of the way he looks?"

Butcher didn't answer because she was looking over his shoulder at the door which had opened silently. Joe turned to find himself facing a tall slender woman. Her pale drawn face, lack of make-up and short brown hair which looked like it had been cut with a meat-axe couldn't hide the fact that she was very beautiful. Indeed, if anything, these apparent drawbacks actually emphasized her beauty, like a movie star still managing to be box-office radiant despite being beaten, bashed and buffeted by everything six exciting reels could throw at her. Perhaps this was what made her look faintly familiar, thought Joe, who dearly loved a good exciting thriller with a happy ending.

She said, "Who the hell are you? One of those crap merchants from the press?"

Butcher said quickly, "Lucy, this is Joe Sixsmith, the investigator."

"Oh. The one who was on the phone when Felix got attacked?" Her tone became marginally less aggressive. "I gather you went rushing round to try and help. Thanks for that. Sorry about the cock-up. It was just hearing you asking questions about Victor ... why are you asking questions, by the way?"

She was regarding him suspiciously once more. This was not a lady to mess with, thought Joe. Being a mate of Butcher's should have forewarned him of that.

He said, "Mr. Pollinger has retained me to look into the case, Mrs. Naysmith."

Honesty was usually the best policy, particularly as anything else required careful thought.

"Which case is that?"

"Well, the case of Mr. Potter's and Ms Iles's murders and the attack on your husband."

That sounds like three cases to me, unless you know different."

She was right, of course. While for them not to be connected seemed to require too long a stretch of coincidence, he of all people should know just how elastic coincidence could be.

Butcher said, "How's Felix, Lucy?"

"Oh, pretty well. Still a bit concussed and not able to remember much after answering the phone. But the damage to his head is mainly superficial, they say, though when I saw him bandaged like a mummy, I thought he must have lost an ear at least."

She managed a wan smile. Her teeth were perfect.

Joe said, "Any chance of me having a few words with your husband, Mrs. Naysmith?"

He thought, short of a chitty from Willie Woodbine, Lucy Naysmith's approval seemed the likeliest route to passage past the guardian cop.

"Why?"

"Just to ask a few questions," he said, trying to sound laconically purposeful.

She said, uncertainly, "I don't know... Felix is still sedated. What he needs is lots of rest. And I can't see how you can get anywhere the police aren't going to get a long way ahead of you. Incidentally, you were asking questions about Victor Montaigne when I came in. Why was that?"

"Because if this is one case, not three, then the other two partners could be in ... danger."

He'd been going to say involved, and he might as well have spared himself the effort at diplomacy because she said, "You mean you think Victor could have had something to do with this?"

She didn't sound as if the idea was either novel or out of court.

He said, "I don't know him, Mrs. Naysmith. That's why I was asking questions. What do you think? Is he the kind of guy who could have got mixed up in this sort of thing?"

This sort of thing being murder and embezzlement. Condition of service for lawyers, Big Merv would say.

She was considering it seriously. Or perhaps she'd already considered it seriously and was now considering whether she wanted to share her conclusions.

"What would you say, Cherry?" she compromised.

Cherry was Butcher. At what point she'd decided that Cheryl wasn't a name that did much for a crusading lawyer's crusade-cred Joe didn't know. But he did know that his accidental discovery via another old acquaintance of what the C stood for gave him one of his very few vantage points in their relationship.

"Yeah, how about it, Cherry?" he said.

She gave him a promissory glare and said, "I don't know him all that well but he does have a reputation of being a top dirty-tricks man."

"Eh?"

"He practises law to the outer limits of legality," said Butcher.

"In the firm Felix says that they never decide a case is lost until Victor says it's lost," said Lucy Naysmith. "He likes to claim he's descended from Michel de Montaigne."

"Who?"

The essayist. Over his desk he's pinned the quotation, No man should lie unless he's sure he's got the memory to keep it up. It sounds better in French."

It sounded pretty good sense to Joe in English.

"And he's got the memory, I take it?" he said.

"That's right. Phenomenal. In law he can remember things the rest of us don't even know we've forgotten."

"I was forgetting. You're a sort of lawyer too, right, Mrs. Naysmith?" said Joe.

"I am, or rather I was, a legal secretary," said the woman rather shortly.

"Who needs to know more about the law than any solicitor," said Butcher supportively. "But all this begs the question:

Could Victor be ruthless enough to kill, always assuming he's clever enough to be in different places at the same time?"

She thinks he probably could, thought Joe. Otherwise she wouldn't be taking the question seriously.

"I don't know," said Lucy Naysmith wretchedly. "And it makes me feel dirty standing here talking about the possibility. He's a friend for God's sake!"

"Most criminals are someone's friend," said Butcher. Joe looked at her approvingly. It was nice having someone around to say the things you thought but didn't quite dare say.

"Anyway," said Lucy Naysmith, suddenly brisk and matter-of-fact, 'it's rather beside the point until the police establish whether or not Victor actually is in France."

"Or Felix remembers who attacked him," said Butcher.

"Yes, that too," said the lawyer's wife.

Joe felt a gentle tingle in his ear. As a small boy subject to the tyrannies of larger lads like Hooter Hardiman, he had developed a defensive sensitivity to linguistic nuance and could differentiate at a hundred yards between the 'come here!" which meant 'so's we can thump you!" and the 'come here!" which simply meant 'come here'. It seemed to him now that there was something a bit too throwaway about Mrs. Naysmith's 'that too'. As if maybe she didn't expect her husband to remember? But, shoot! the guy only had a concussion, not major cerebral trauma. Or as if maybe he's remembered already and told her he had reasons of his own for keeping quiet? Or maybe the poor woman was just in a real panic to get out of the hospital.

She certainly didn't look too well, but he forced his sympathy down and said, "I'd really appreciate a few words with your husband, Mrs. Naysmith."

She stared at him for a moment then said, "OK, I'll see ... but I'm pretty certain ..." then turned and went out.

Butcher said angrily, "For Christ's sake, Sixsmith, can't you see that all the poor woman wants is to get out of this place?"

"Yeah, sorry," said Joe.

He stepped outside just in time to see Lucy Naysmith turning a corner in the corridor. He followed her and peered cautiously round. About six feet away and fortunately with his back towards him was a tubby figure he recognized even from behind. It belonged to PC Dean Forton, whose view of Pis in general and Joe in particular was that they were a waste of space. Any vague thought he'd had of getting in without the woman's say-so vanished.

He returned to the waiting room where he and Butcher sat in silence for two or three minutes till Lucy returned.

"Sorry, no, he's asleep," she said. "Now, please, can I get out of here before I collapse and the bastards try to keep me in as well!"

She took Butcher's arm and the two women left.

Joe picked up the Reader's Digest. Hospitals didn't bother him. In fact, he felt safer in here than almost anywhere out there. And this looked like quite an interesting article on The Most Charismatic Person I Ever Met'. But he knew it was an illusory safety. Sooner or later PC Forton or the mountainous security man would winkle him out.

With a sigh, he hurried after the women.

Seventeen.

It was the second last night of the year and as if in rehearsal for tomorrow's Hogmanay Hoolie, the Glit had started jumping early.

By half seven most of the tables were taken, the air was heavy with smoke, and the rising tide of chatter was close to drowning even Gary top-decibel ling "Another Rock'N'Roll Christmas' from the juke box.

For Joe, however, half seven wasn't early but late. He had no firm commitment to be at Beryl's flat by any particular time, but she'd mentioned putting Desmond to bed and Joe would hate her to think he'd deliberately hung back till he was sure the youngster was safely tucked away. What was keeping him here was his appointment with Dildo Doberley. Six o'clock, they'd arranged. Where the shoot was the guy? Anyone else, and Joe would have been long gone, but his job was hard enough without messing up his main contact in the local constabulary. OK, Willie Woodbine had the rank and authority to dish out the real gems, but he only cast his pearls on the waters when he felt a bit clueless and reckoned Joe might return them after many days. (Or something like that. Despite the combined efforts of Aunt Mirabelle and Rev. Pot, Joe was a pretty mediocre Bible scholar.) Dildo, on the other hand, might be a mere hewer of wood but at least he tried to carve out what Joe needed to know.

But where was he? Merv had just come in with Molly McShane glowing on his arm. She spotted Joe, disengaged herself and headed towards him.

"All alone?" she said. "Shall I give that friend I mentioned a ring?"

"No, it's OK, I'm waiting for somebody."

"Should've known," she said approvingly. "Good-looking chap like you can pick his own girl."

"No, well, actually, it's a fella ..."

Her eyes rounded in lunar amazement.

"You don't say? Well, Joe, that really amazes me, I'd never have guessed."

"No! I don't mean ... I mean it's not ... he's just a ..."

Joe's confusion faded as he realized she was shaking with laughter. With her splendid figure, in a clinging silk blouse, it was a sight worth paying cash money to see.

"It's OK, Joe," she said. "When you've been around as long as I have you can tell if a guy's AC or DC from a hundred yards."

"Oh, my date's definitely DC," said Joe, appreciating his own wit. "How's that lovely granddaughter of yours?"

"Oh, she's grand. It's her mother that bothers me. An hour, she said! She was so long coming back I wondered if I'd get away tonight. Then she has the cheek to ask me if I'd watch the little girl tomorrow! I sometimes think she must have been a changeling!"

"No way," said Joe. Those're designer looks she's got, not off the peg."

"Now that's a sweet tongue you've got there, Joe. No wonder you drink Guinness. You need the bitterness to stop your mouth tasting of sugar candy all the time."

"Hello, hello, not sure if I like the drift of this conversation," said Big Merv, whc 'd turned up with a couple of drinks. "Joe, I don't mind you picking up my cast-offs, but I object to you trying to cut me out."

"Cast-offs, is it?" said Molly. "You mean there's been women you got tired of before they got tired of you? I don't believe it. I've only been going out with you six months and already I know most of your taxi stories off by heart."

"Six months? It's more like three," protested Merv.

"Is that all? Seems a lot longer," said Molly, winking at Joe who laughed and said, "Walked into that one, Merv."

"Not to worry. Just wait till it really is six months, she'll be thinking they passed like last night's beer. Mind if we join you, Joe?"

"Well, actually, my date's just arrived."

Merv turned to see DC Dildo Doberley heading their way.

"Bloody hell, Joe," said Merv. "I know Beryl's been away, but surely you're not this desperate! Come on, doll. There's a table over there."

Before Molly followed, she stooped to Joe and said, "What we were talking about, I thought I'd take Feelie to the park tomorrow. If you can manage it..."

"Can't promise," said Joe. "Hey, I thought you were going to come down hard on Dorrie?"

"I'm like you, a big softie," she said, ruffling his hair. "See you, I hope."

Dildo glanced after her as he slumped in a chair and said, "I could fancy some of that. But not now. That bastard Chivers could work the dick off a blind donkey."

Joe took this as an apology for being late. He also noted to his relief that the DC and his sergeant hadn't spent the afternoon building bridges.

"Yeah, I know the type," he said. "You do all the work, he takes all the credit. Got you running around on this lawyer case, has he?"

"Running? More like galloping! My bet is that this wanker Montaigne is going to turn up smiling after spending a week up some sodding Alp with the local mayor's wife."

"Oh," said Joe trying to sound casual. This was better than he'd hoped, finding Doberley pissed off enough to talk about the Poll-Pott case. "You haven't found him yet then?"

"No, that's the bloody trouble. No one's got an address in France for him. The Frogs got in touch with his mother but seems she just shrugged and said, you never can tell with our Victor, says he'll probably drop by sometime over the holiday, but if the skiing's good, or something better turns up en route

"At least you can check if he actually left the country. Can't you?"

"We can try. According to the couple who live in the next apartment, he was flying out of Heathrow on the twenty third. We had all the likely flights to France checked and sure enough, there was a Victor Montaigne booked to Grenoble but he was a no-show. Trouble was, it turns out this plane was held up for five hours by engine trouble and there were quite a lot of no-shows, probably meaning people found out before they checked in that they were going to be hanging around forever, so shot off to find alternative routes."

"Such as?"

"Cancellations on other flights. The Chunnel. Ferries. Or maybe some of them just went home."

Joe considered this then said, "So you've had to check every other possibility to see if he really went."

"And to see if he slipped back in in case we do find out he really went. And of course, this time of year, on the ferries in particular, there's no real way of ever being sure whether he sailed out or sailed back in or anything!"

"A real problem," said Joe. "Anything else developing on the Potter case?"

He tried to make it sound like just another sympathetic-ear question but this time Doberley was on to him.

"Hey, Joe, I haven't come here to fill you in on current case business. I've probably said too much already. You want more, ask your friend, the super. Or better still, ask Sergeant Chivers!"

"You can just see me doing that, can't you?" said Joe. "You look like you could do with a drink. What's it to be?"

He returned a few moments later with a pint and a menu. The bar was getting busier by the minute but Dick Hull, the manager, could spot cops at fifty yards and made sure they were never kept waiting. "Quicker you serve 'em, sooner they drink up and piss off," was his precept.

Dildo sank half a pint in one draught and said, "That's better."

It always fascinated Joe that his speaking voice was light and rapid and indelibly stamped with the vowels and rhythms of Luton, while his singing voice was a fine basso prof undo which might have come straight from the depths of Russia.

He said, "Rev. Pot says there's a rumour LOS are after you for Emile de Becque in South Pacific."

LOS was the Light Operatic Society, whose approach to one of his choristers was in Rev. Pot's eyes like seeing a randy soldier climbing over the walls of a convent school.

"Yeah, I thought about it," said Dildo. "They've got this bird I really fancy singing Nellie. Knockers on her like watermelons. But they're planning a whole week's run in the spring and there's no way I'm going to be able to manage that, not without taking leave."

Whereas the one or at most two performances of the oratorios the Boyling Corner Choir specialized in were more easily accommodated into aCID officer's schedule, particularly as the Chief Constable's wife was an aficionado of the genre in general and Rev. Pot's choir in particular.

"Well, Rev. Pot will be glad to hear that you decided the Elijah was more important," said Joe. "Aunt Mirabelle too."

Mild threat there. He let it register, then went on, That stuff I asked you, you manage anything there, Dildo?"

"I did as a matter of fact," said the detective, downing the second half of his pint and placing the glass significantly in front of Joe. "And I'll have a Glitterburger and fries. To start with."

"Thirsty work, snouting," observed Dick Hull as he pulled another pint.

Joe said, "You complaining, Dick? We can go elsewhere. Only I'd have to say why."

"Joe, you've got to learn to take a joke. This one's on the house."

"He wants a Glitterburger and fries. That on the house too?"

"Yeah, yeah. Make sure you tell him."

Joe did and Dildo raised his glass to the manager.

"I like it here," he said. "Friendly. Like me. Those names you gave me, Joe, I had a word with our collator. Nice girl. Pity she's married to the divisional cruiser weight champion. She came up with some interesting stuff. First, Mr. Starbright Jones. You want to tread carefully there, Joe. Couple of years back he was a bouncer at Miss Piggies, out Dunstable way.

There was a bit of trouble. Ended with Starbright putting a customer in his car. He got six months for assault."

"Seems a bit strong," said Joe.

"Maybe. Except he put him in through the sun roof. Without opening it. He's been working as a minder since he came out. He's kept his nose clean, except for doing the ton on a bike down the M1 last year. Likewise Jim Hardiman, nothing but traffic, speeding mainly. Got disqualified on a drink-driving charge last year but got off on appeal when there was that cock-up about some of the breathalyzers being wrongly calibrated. Shouldn't have mattered in his case, he was so far over, but there was the usual overkill. Douglas Endor. Back in the eighties he looked set to be one of your loadsa-money lads. Whole series of small-time communications companies, glossy brochures, big promises, small results, usually went bust but as they were always limited liability, Endor came out smiling and set up the next. Moved into PR about seven years ago and started concentrating on sports management when he spotted Billy Bream playing snooker in his local club. Did Billy a lot of good by all accounts. Won a few tournaments, nothing really big but enough to get him into the top ten, and Endor got a lot of sponsorship. Endor started collecting a little stable of up-and-coming sports people. All above board so far as we know. Endor takes a hefty percentage, but there haven't been any complaints. So far."

He looked interrogatively at Joe who shook his head.

"Just checking," he said. "Honest."

"I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't. Finally the Otos. Nothing on any of them. OK, Joe. Like to tell me what's going on? How come you're checking on Zak Oto's family, her business agent, her minder, and her ex-trainer?"

"Just routine enquiries," said Joe, trying for a wide-eyed innocent look, feeling it come out shifty and settling for concealing his face in his glass.

"You sure there's nothing you want to share with me?" said Dildo.

"Dildo, it's just a little job Zak's hired me to do, and all I want is to be sure there's nothing iffy going on around her."

"I hope you're telling the truth, Joe, 'cos you know how that girl's regarded in Luton. Anything unpleasant happens around her, you could find yourself very unpopular with a lot of people."

"I'm her greatest fan," said Joe fervently.

"Not while I'm around," said Dildo. "Isn't she gorgeous? The thought of all that highly trained flesh and muscle ..."

He shook his head, bit deep into his burger, and through the succulently anonymous meat went on, "In my dreams. How's your love life doing, Joe?"

Joe glanced at his watch. It was after eight.

"Disasterville," he groaned. "Dildo, I gotta shoot."

"Saturday night is nookie night, eh?" laughed the younger man sympathetically. "I'm hoping to score myself later. Thanks for the grub, Joe. Though on second thoughts if it's on the house, you still owe me. What's good for afters?"

"Cherry cheesecake," said Joe, rising. "Thanks a lot, Dildo. Anything I can push your way, I won't forget."

"Couldn't push your cabbie friend's woman my way, could you?"

"Sorry. But you might like to take a look at her daughter. Cheers."

He started to move away, then paused and came back.

"Jones, where'd he do his time?"

"The Stocks I expect. Why?"

"Just wondered. Stay honest. "Bye."

The Stocks, thought Joe as he went out into the chill dark night. Where Henry Oto had been a prison officer for the past fifteen years. Must've recognized him. It wasn't as if Starbright was someone you soon forgot! And he can't have been all that chuffed to find his daughter was being minded by an ex-con. So why hadn't he said anything? Or perhaps he had and ... and what? Could this explain Mrs. Oto's antipathy for the guy?

He got in the Magic Mini and set off for Rasselas. He was trying to rehearse apologies to Beryl but his mind refused to focus. Was that a motorcyclist in his rear-view mirror? Did the helmet gleam red under the slippery silver of the street-lamps? What was it Dildo had said about Jones being clocked doing the ton on his bike on the M1 ... ?

He looked again. No bike. Overactive imagination. Not one of his most common failings!

On reaching Rasselas he parked in his usual spot in Lykers Lane, which was handy for his own flat but a good half mile from Beryl's block. He could have saved himself a few minutes by driving straight there, but the trouble was Aunt Mirabelle lived in the same block, and while he might just about escape observation by slipping in through the janitor's door at the rear, the presence of the Magic Mini parked anywhere close would be reported instantly by one of MI6, which in this instance stood for Mirabelle's half dozen ever alert close cronies and informants.

Not that she'd come bursting in. On the contrary, she'd probably post an armed guard on the lift to make sure the visit was in no way disturbed! But it did nothing for Joe's libido to know that the length of his stay was being monitored to the last significant second by his aunt's stopwatch.

On foot the only danger was running into one of Major Tweedie's vigilante patrols who would of course recognize him as a friend, but also recognize he was heading in the wrong direction, and another alert would be sounded down the line.

So he skulked his way from one block to the next, like a prisoner trying to escape from Colditz. At one point he thought he heard the growl of a motorbike engine and dived into the shadow of a doorway till all was silent again. Not that the silence was really silent. Just as in the darkened countryside, sounds of nature's nightlife start crackling and snuffling all around you, so here in the suburban jungle distant footfalls, a window opening, a car door closing, a snatch of laughter, a dog's bark, a blast of rock, all merged together in a sinister symphony which to Joe's musical ear seemed to be crescendoing to some explosive climax.

"You got to get your head together, man," he admonished himself. But so strong was his sense of menace, that he almost abandoned his plan of going in through the back in favour of entering via the much better lit front entrance.

"Shoot! You a man or a mouse, Sixsmith," he said aloud, and kept on his chosen course.

One thing, under the major's benevolent despotacy, even the service areas of the tower blocks were no longer the foul-smelling, rubbish-littered rodent runs they once had been and still were across on the Hermsprong. The huge wheelie bins were lined up like motor pool vehicles on inspection and even the lights, albeit dim, all actually worked.

Emboldened, Joe set out for the janitor's entrance. It was of course kept locked, but one of Joe's most closely guarded secrets was that as a result of a helping hand he'd been able to offer the janitor's daughter when she got out of her depth with a bunch of teenage pushers, he had his own personal key.

He had almost made it to the door when the figure stepped out from behind one of the big metal bins and hit him with some kind of club. It was a savage, full-blooded swing which would have split even his hard head like a melon if it had connected direct. But Joe's senses hadn't been alerted for nothing and a saving moment before his mind signalled ATTACK! his body was into evasion. Even then the best it had time to manage was shoulder up and head down as the club came whistling round. The shoulder took most of the blow, leaving his arm numb and paralysed, while the weapon went onward and upward, clipping the top of his skull with a glancing but nonetheless stunning blow.

He went down. His body was divided between evasion and defence, but his mind advised submission. Do like an overmatched cat would. Lie on your back with your legs in the air, let the guy take your wallet must be all of twenty quid in it! then raise the alarm and wait for the paramedics.

Except that this guy didn't know cat's rules. Mind was still saying, "Hey look, fella, I'm out of this!" while body was twisting sideways as the club crashed into the ground where his head had just been with a force that sent splinters of concrete into his ear.

He tried to roll and scuffle away. He could hear a medley of noises. Voices shouting distantly. An engine approaching fast. The cavalry? Or more Indians? His desperate attempts at evasion brought him up against something solid. His blurred vision assembled it into a leg. It was wearing a biker's leather boot. He grappled with it. It was like embracing a telegraph pole except that it bucked and kicked as it tried to shake him off. Grimly he hung on. It had to be Jones, who else could have a leg like this? To let go was to die. To hang on could only be to delay matters, but at least it made it awkward for the murderous bastard to take another full-blooded swing. In fact, he didn't seem to be taking any swings at all. The voices closer now. One of them sharp, clipped, authoritative. The major! He was saved. Thank the good Lord, he was saved.

He let go of the leg and lay on his back waiting for others to take over the struggle. He doubted if even three or four of Tweedie's irregulars could deal with Jones, but at least the Welshman would probably run for it.

Only he didn't. He stood there removing his bright red helmet. Yes, it was Starbright, no doubt about that. What was his plan, to kill the whole lot of them? And he could probably do it. He tried to shout out a warning to the major, but the old fool was kneeling down beside him, exposing his back and head to the full fury of Jones's attack.

"How're you doing, soldier?" said Sholto Tweedie.

"Not a soldier," croaked Joe. "Look out behind you!"

That's the spirit. Bit of a pantomime, eh? Just take it easy till I get things sorted."

The major stood up and said, "Well done, my man. Good job you happened along. Pity you couldn't have got a hold of the blighter though."

"Would have done," said Starbright, 'if this tosser hadn't got a hold of me? How's he doing?"

"Bit of bleeding from the head. Better call the bone-cart."

"No," said Joe. "No ambulance. Arrest him. He attacked me."

"Sorry, old chap, you're getting confused. Saw it all from level two. Fellow knocking hell out of you. Too far away to do anything but shout. Then our friend here comes roaring up on his bike, chap trying to smash your head with what looked like a mashie-niblick takes off, and our friend here would have gone after him if you hadn't tackled him round the knees. Brave but a bit counterproductive. Now I'll see about that ambulance."

"No," said Joe again. "Get me up to Beryl's ... she'll take a look."

"Miss Boddington. Of course. Trained nurse, just the ticket. But if she says ambulance, no argument."

Joe got to his feet, staggered and would have fallen if the strong right arm of Starbright Jones hadn't steadied him. He tried to push it away but even at full strength, he'd have had a problem. So, comforting himself with the pragmatic thought that having Jones hang on to him was as good as him hanging on to the Welshman, he let himself be guided into the lift and up to Beryl's floor.

Eighteen.

The Lost Traveller's Guide says:

"The citizens of Luton are natural Samaritans. Perhaps long exposure to trial and tribulation has made them more than averagely sensitive to the misfortunes of their fellows. If you find yourself in real trouble, knock on any door, and in nine cases out of ten help with be forthcoming. Of course, in the tenth case, you will probably be brought to a realization that your previous trouble was inconsequential in the extreme."

Anyone knocking at Beryl Boddington's door would have thought they had arrived at the court of the Queen of Samaria.

Confronted by the bruised and bleeding figure of Joe Sixsmith, all she said was, "Oh Joe, the things you'll do for a bit of sympathy." Then she made him lie down on her bed with a towel under his head while she examined and cleaned his scalp wound. His shoulder was throbbing painfully but movement had returned to his arm. After a couple of painful tests she announced she didn't think anything was broken.

"And with that thick skull of yours, I doubt if there's anything cracked there either. But better safe than sorry. Let's get you down to the infirmary for X-rays. Also you'll need a couple of stitches. And how's your tetanus status?"

"All right there. Got done when the Morris got wrecked."

He didn't want to go to hospital but the arrival of Aunt Mirabelle, alerted by one of her spies, persuaded him.

"What've you been up to now, Joseph? Dripping blood all over that nice new carpet of Beryl's. When are you going to put all this nonsense behind you and get yourself a real job again? Haven't you heard, this recess thing is just about over, heard a man on the telly say so the other night, soon going to be jobs for everyone that wants them, no excuse to be playing at chasing gangsters any more, what do you say, Beryl?"

"I say we ought to be off to Casualty. Mirabelle, could you stay here to look after Desmond?"

Joe shot her a glance full of admiration and gratitude. With her skills of management and diplomacy she ought to be Queen.

Starbright helped Joe down to the car and showed no sign of wanting to make good his escape. Joe was beginning to admit reluctantly that maybe he'd got it wrong. The other vigilantes all agreed with the major that the Welshman was his saviour, though they couldn't achieve a similar unanimity in their descriptions of his attacker, who ranged from a tall thin man in a brown overcoat to a medium-sized fat man in a gaberdine. But all agreed he wore a hat of some kind and was masked. "Sort of whitish," said the major. I'd say a ski mask." "More like a cream-coloured balaclava," said one of the others. "No," said a third. "It was a scarf wound round to hide his face."

One for the police to sort out. Joe's passage through the Casualty sausage machine was expedited by Beryl's presence and he was stitched up and confirmed bruised, bloody but unbroken, in record time. He gave a statement to a uniformed constable he didn't know and did nothing to correct the assumption that it was a routine mugging with robbery as the sole motive. The hospital waiting room, with Beryl, the major and Starbright in close attendance, was not the place to start talking about a series of attempts on his life.

The major, who was acting as chauffeur, drove them back to Rasselas. Here Beryl assumed that she'd have the job of seeing Joe safely into his flat and let her surprise show when he said, "No, that's OK, Starbright here will see me up."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You'll want to get back to Desmond. Do me a favour.

Tell Aunt Mirabelle I'm tucked up safe and what I need is twenty-four hours undisturbed sleep."

The last bit's certainly true."

"And Beryl, thanks a million. I'm really sorry I mucked up your night. And your carpet."

He offered to kiss her but she stepped back.

The carpet's easy to put right," she said. "Good night, Joe. Good night, Mr. Jones."

"Fine-looking woman," said Starbright in the lift. "Not often I get preferred to something like that."

"Not even in prison?" said Joe.

The Welshman didn't reply and they completed the journey in silence. In the flat Whitey came out of the bedroom (bleary eyed) to inspect Starbright, decided he was harmless and food less and yelled angrily at Joe for his supper.

Joe winced as he pulled open the fridge door.

"Here, I'll do that," said Starbright. "What's he have?"

There's some pork pie. That'll do," said Joe. "And help yourself to a beer."

"No, thanks. Not when I'm riding. Cuppa tea would be nice."

"Be my guest," said Joe.

With Whitey provided for and tea and biscuits set with a domestic neatness on a tray, the Welshman took a seat opposite Joe, who was draped like a Roman emperor along his sofa, and said, "So what do you want to say to me?"

"Just wanted to thank you for saving me from that mugger."

"I didn't," said Starbright.

For an awful moment Joe thought he must have got it right all along and the Welshman was about to finish the job. But the man was sipping his cup of tea most delicately, his little finger crooked according to the best tenets of refinement, and generally looking as un menacing as a man of his size and aspect could.

"Sorry?" said Joe.

"I mean, that joker wasn't mugging you, he was trying to off you," said Starbright.

"Why do you say that?"

"All the difference in the world between putting the fright-eners on to get at your wallet, or even giving a good kicking to warn you off, and what he was doing. Lucky for you he wasn't a pro."

"He felt professional enough to me," said Joe, wincing in memory.

"What I mean, isn't it? He'd been a pro, you'd have felt exactly what he wanted you to feel, which if it was a contract would be nothing. Crack, you're dead."

He said it very mildly in that light high-pitched voice of his, but Joe still shivered.

"So that guy you got sent down for assaulting, he just got exactly what you wanted to give him, did he?" said Joe with an effort at boldness.

"You've taken some trouble to find out about me, haven't you? I'm flattered."

"No need. What I really want to know is why you've been following me around?"

"Have I?"

"Yes. Don't deny it. I spotted you."

"Not completely useless then," said the Welshman half to himself. "All right, I admit it. Wanted to find out what you're up to, didn't I?"

"But you know what I'm up to. I'm working for Zak."

"No. I know I'm working for Zak, I don't know who you might be working for."

"But you were there when she came round to see me," protested Joe.

"Sure I was, but what I don't know is who recommended you. I mean, she didn't just pick you out of a hat, did she? Maybe someone planted you."

Joe digested this, then said, "OK. By the same token, she didn't pick you out of a hat either. In fact, you were definitely picked by somebody else. Doug Endor, wasn't it?"

Jones eyed him coldly and said, "Doesn't matter who picked me. Zak's my bod."

"Your what?"

"Bod. Body. The one I look after. That's what I get paid for. While she's in this country I'll earn my wages. And no one's paying me anything more to do anything else. Can you say that, Sixsmith?"

If you mean, is anyone but Zak paying me, the answer's no. And if you mean am I doing anything in regard to Zak other than what Zak is paying me to do, the answer's still no. And if anything that's happened in this crazy tailing operation you've set up suggests different, that's because your mind's crooked, not because I am."

It was a spirited response coming from an overweight unathletic invalid to a professional bouncer built like a concrete pill-box, but it provoked nothing more violent than a snapped bourbon cream.

"So we're both honest men," said Starbright with a faint air of surprise.

"I haven't been to jail," retorted Joe.

"I didn't go for dishonesty," said Starbright.

"Just poor judgement," said Joe, trying for a sneer.

"No. Judgement was perfect. Like you said before, the guy got exactly what I intended to give him, which was what he deserved."

"Meaning?"

"He was drunk. He started a fight. I threw him out. He got abusive. I told him to go home. He told me he was going to get a few of his mates and come back and sort me out."

"So you got your retaliation in first?"

"No. Sticks and stones, water off a duck's back. I watched him stagger to his car. Souped-up sports job. Pissed and pissed off, he was going to kill somebody. I thought of ringing the pigs, but by the time they got their act together, there could be blood on the highway. So I followed him out, suggested he shouldn't be driving."

"Which he didn't like?" said Joe, interested now.

"You could say that. Told me to piss off. So I took his key off him and bent it in half. Then I set off back to the club. Only he came after me, jumped on my back, tried to strangle me. And all the time he was shouting that he wanted to get into his car, I had no right to stop him getting into his car. He could have been right. So I put him in it."

Through the sun roof. Which wasn't open."

"It was a canvas top with a plastic panel. Good fart would have blown it out," said Starbright. "But it turned out his daddy was a lawyer. Hate bloody lawyers. Should shoot two or three every week to encourage the others."

"There's a guy loose who would agree with you," said Joe. "OK, so you were a victim of a miscarriage of justice ..."

"Didn't say that," said Starbright. "I was in the right till I dumped him through his car roof. Then I was in the wrong. Not six months in the wrong though. Fifty-quid fine and bound over in the wrong. But the magistrate was probably in the same lodge as the lawyer. Hate bloody masons. Should shoot'

"Yeah, yeah," said Joe.

He was finding it hard to adjust to the shift of Starbright Jones from Personal Enemy Number One to ... what? Ally? He couldn't really believe that. But then his life was fuller than Paul of Tarsus's of instances of having to swing through one hundred and eighty degrees of belief.

He said, "Do you always take this much interest in your clients?"

"What the hell does that mean?" said Starbright, suddenly very aggressive.

"Hey, cool it. All I mean is, you're being paid to keep Zak free of hassle from press, photographers, or any nut that might come along, right? Nothing in a minder's job description which says he's expected to check out everyone who comes in contact with her. That's detective work."

"Too clever for me, you mean? I got seven "O' levels. How many you got?"

"Makes no difference if you got a degree from Oxford University. All I know is, if a carpet fitter starts painting the ceiling, I get to wondering why. Must've been something which made you think Zak needed protecting from more than just the tabloid boys."

Starbright sipped his tea, his small sharp eyes studying Joe over the rim. It occurred to Joe that he was probably having the same difficulty shifting his old viewpoint.

He made a decision and said, "Zak's been told she's got to lose the race at the Plezz or else nasty things are going to happen to her family. She doesn't want to go to the cops cos she's worried it might turn out someone in the family is implicated. So she's asked me to sniff around, see if I can come up with anything before Monday."

Starbright nodded. Thought it might be something like that."

"Yeah? Well, anyone ever asks you, say you worked it out yourself. This is client-confidential info. I could get shot for telling you."

"So why are you telling me?"

"Because I've only got till the day after tomorrow to come up with a result. Any help anyone can give me, I'm in the market for."

Starbright nodded again, this time as if he too had made a decision.

"It's that sister of hers," he said. "I've seen her watching Zak training. She looks ... hungry."

"Hungry?"

"That's right. Like a half-starved kid watching a banquet through a window and knowing it can't have any."

The Welshman was getting poetic, but not precise.

"And that's it?" said Joe. "Nothing more?"

"Of course there's more," snarled Starbright. "She's not in it alone. Down the Plezz, day before yesterday, Zak had gone to have a shower after training. I saw Mary go into the gents' locker room, looking like she didn't want to be seen. I went to the door and listened. I heard her saying stuff like, "It's all fixed, no problem, you'd have been proud of me, I'm playing it really cool." And a man's voice saying, "That's great, let's go for it," something like that, it was all pretty faint."

"Is that all you heard? Nothing more?" persisted Joe.

"No. Then I heard ..."

Starbright hesitated. His face changed colour slightly and for a second Joe thought he must have got a bourbon stuck in his throat.

Then the incredible thought occurred to him that this slab of Cambrian rock was actually blushing! It was like dawn on a slag heap.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Noises like they were ... doing it ... you know

"Humping, you mean?"

"Yes. That. In the gents' changing room!"

It was clearly the location as well as the activity which offended him. Joe could guess why. He'd spent most of his schooldays bunking off from games, not because he didn't like sport (he had a season ticket for Luton Town and he'd been the craftiest leg spinner the Robco Engineering works cricket team had ever seen), but because the macho atmosphere of the locker room provided both opportunity and encouragement for the likes of Hooter to pursue their sadistic pleasures. It was a place to boast about sexual exploits in, but a real live woman would be as out of place there as Ian Paisley at High Mass.

"So who was the guy?" demanded Joe. "Hardiman or Endor?"

"Neither," said Starbright. "It was that American. Schoen-feld. Zak's coach."

"Abe Schoenfeld?" said Joe incredulously. "But that's ... I mean, Mary doesn't ... didn't know him."

"She knows him now," said Starbright. "But you're right, she's still going around acting like she's only just met him and doesn't much like him either."

"So you thought, there's something going on here, and when Zak called me in, you got to wondering if I was part of the problem rather than the solution? So who else have you got in the frame, Starbright?"

"Don't know. Wouldn't surprise me if they were all in it," said the Welshman darkly.

"You mean, like a conspiracy? To do what?"

"To rip Zak off, I'd've thought that was obvious!"

"Yes, but they're not ripping her off, are they? I mean, they, whoever they are, aren't after Zak's money direct, they just want to use her to make a bunch of cash for themselves."

"Same thing," said Starbright obstinately.

But it wasn't, thought Joe. Zak was already a big earner, was going to be even bigger. Anyone who got themselves an inside track on her appearance and promotions money would be able to fill their boots. Whereas the betting coup was a one-off.

This needed the application of a seriously incisive detective mind backed up by all the powers of modern technology.

But failing that, it was left firmly in the lap of a small, balding, overweight PI with a stitched-up head and a shoulder which felt like he'd be bowling underarm all next season.

Starbright said, "I gotta go. You take care of yourself."

"Couple of aspirin and a can of Guinness will put me right," said Joe, touching his stitched-up wound with modest bravery.

"Don't mean that scratch," said Starbright with the scorn of one to whom assault with anything less than an Exocet was probably like being bitten by midges. "I mean, lock your door and don't open it till you know for sure who's outside. Remember what I said, that guy was trying to kill you."

It occurred to Joe that though he'd heard the full range of vigilante descriptions, he hadn't heard the Welshman's.

"You got closest," he said. "What did he look like?"

Starbright screwed up his eyes in the effort of memory.

After a full minute he said, "Beefy sort of guy. Face wrapped up. Had a hat on."

"Beefy? Like what? Schwarzenegger?"

"No. More like that geezer at the Plezz. Hardiman. Well built."

"Hooter? Do you mean there was something positive? Or just general build?"

The long, thinking pause again.

"No. Could've been any of that lot down there. Endor. Or Schoenfeld. Or Hardiman."

"But what makes you think it was something to do with the Plezz?" demanded Joe anxiously.

"Don't think that," said Starbright. "Lots of reasons why you might piss somebody enough to give you a kicking, but an offing is usually down to someone wanting to get rich or to stay safe. You don't look to me like the type who could know enough to put somebody away for a long time without telling the fuzz. So most likely it's down to money. Which is what this business with Zak is probably all about. So, watch your back. Some nasty people out there."

Joe mulled this over as he walked Starbright to the lift. He was still not sure about the minder. OK, Zak was his bod, he was contracted to protect her from physical hassle. But his involvement seemed to go a lot deeper than that.

He said, "One thing more, when you were banged up, you ever hear any whisper among the cons about Officer Oto, you know, liking a drink, that sort of thing?"

"Zak's dad? On the fiddle? And mixed up with this? What kind of mind have you got, Sixsmith? That's really disgusting! You upset Zak with any of that kind of crap and I'll pull your tongue out!"

The Welshman was regarding Joe with such menace, he took a step back.

"Sorry. Of course I won't say anything. But I've got to check out all the angles, OK? For her sake. You must see that."

"Yeah, OK. But you tread gently or I'll tread on you."

The lift door closed and Joe returned to his flat, his head swimming with the mixed pain of retreating anaesthetic and advancing speculation. The Welshman's reaction to his question about Henry Oto meant little. He'd only been inside a few months, and it had been a long time after the period when the Otos had needed some real money to move out of Hermsprong and into Grandison. Once take a bribe and things might stay quiet for years, but, ninety per cent of cases, sure as eggs it would come back to haunt you.

But the fierceness of the minder's reaction to the thought that Joe might upset Zak with such ideas about her dad did suggest an answer to the problem of his apparent deep involvement.

"Know what I think, Whitey?" said Joe to the cat, who'd finished the pork pie and was waiting for afters. "I do believe that Starbright Jones is in love!"

Nineteen.

And now the Old Year opened its bleary weary eyes for the very last time.

Joe knew how it felt.

It was the phone that had woken him and when he reached out for it, his head and shoulder drowned its clamour with their own discords of pain.

"Shoot!" said Joe.

The pain settled to a steady continuo. The phone was still ringing.

He picked it up.

"Morning, Joe. You all right?"

"Morning, Beryl. Hey, I'm really sorry about last night. And about asking Starbright to see me into the flat. Thing is, I really need to'

"Forget it, Joe. None of my business. I'm just checking on your state of health."

"Fine, fine," he assured. "I mean, as well as can be expected. Bit of pain. Any chance of you coming round to check me out... ?"

He essayed a persuasive little groan, but all he got in reply was a rich bubbly chuckle.

"Good try, Joe, but no way. I'm at the hospital. Some of us have got real jobs to go to."

"Sure. Look, maybe I should drop by to have my stitches looked at.."

"Your stitches will be fine, Joe."

"Maybe. But I never got to see that lawyer guy yesterday

"Mr. Naysmith? Sorry again, Joe. I peeped up there to see if the fuzz were still in attendance I heard you didn't get in yesterday but the bird has flown. Seems he discharged himself not long after you'd been here. If there's a connection I could get you a job. Our manager just loves a quick turnover of beds. Word is she used to run the old Hothouse on Bacon Street."

"Wouldn't know such places," said Joe. Tonight then, you fancy the Hoolie down the Glit?"

She said, "You're asking me to celebrate New Year in the unhealthiest atmosphere since the Black Hole of Calcutta with a guy who's likely to be so beaten up he can't move, if he manages to get there at all, which on recent performances seems unlikely?"

"I think you've just about got it summed up," he said.

"OK," she said. "What time will you pick me up?"

"Eight," he said. "No, better make that nine. To be on the safe side."

"Joe," she said. "Sometimes I wonder which side you're really on, but one thing's for sure. It ain't the safe! "Bye!"

He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. Under a scalding spray the shoulder reluctantly agreed to resume a limited service. Two aspirin and the Full British Breakfast brought the head back to almost normal use, but normal wasn't enough to help him decide which way to go next. With Zak's race now only twenty-four hours away, that was clearly the number one priority. If, as seemed likely, the effort to kill or at least put him out of commission were connected with this case, then he must be doing something right. But all he had were a few theories and a confusion of evidence implicating apparently everybody! Time to start stirring the pond a little more energetically perhaps. Certainly time to have a serious talk with Abe Schoenfeld and Mary Oto.

Whitey, who was finishing off his plateful of the Full British, coughed. Probably a bit of fried bread got stuck but it sounded like a haven't-you-forgotten-something? kind of cough.

Joe gave it full memory focus for a minute then said, "Oh shoot. Pollinger's office manager, what's her name? Mrs.

Mattison. Going to be at Oldmaid Row this morning."

The cat washed his whiskers, looking insufferably smug.

"You want to watch it," said Joe. "No one loves a smartass. So let's go!"

Fifteen minutes later he was standing on the doorstep of the Oldmaid Row chambers.

The woman who answered his ring was on the tasty side of dumpy with a round rosy face, intelligent grey eyes and a nice smile which replaced her initial suspicious glare once he'd announced who he was.

"Come in," she said. "Mr. Pollinger said you would be calling."

He crossed the threshold where Sandra lies had pinned him down and followed her to the stairs.

"Mr. Pollinger here himself?" he asked.

"Not yet," she said. "Though he promised he would be."

Her tone was briskly neutral but Joe's antennae caught a something.

He said, "Must've got held up. Sure he wouldn't have wanted you to be here by yourself after what happened."

She shot him a glance over her shoulder as if to check his motives, saw nothing but real sympathy and smiled again.

"Mr. Pollinger is often too busy to be considerate," she said. "But thanks for the thought. You look as if you've been in the wars, Mr. Sixsmith. Car accident, was it?"

"No, just a bit of bother in the line of business. You worked here long, Miss ... Mrs.... sorry, never know what to call ladies these days. Even get into trouble for calling them ladies sometimes!"

"I have no objection to lady," she said firmly. "And Mrs. Mattison will do. I've worked for the firm for nineteen years now. Started as a typist."

"And now you're in charge," said Joe admiringly.

"I'd hardly say that."

They had ascended to the first floor. Joe glanced up the stairs, recalling the only other time he'd been here. As he came down the stairs, was Peter Potter already being killed?

If he hadn't arrived when he did, would Potter perhaps still be alive?

"Mr. Sixsmith, you coming in?"

He realized he was rubbernecking up the stairs like a ghoulish tourist.

"Sorry," he said, following her into an office where a welcoming smell of coffee came from a percolator bubbling in the corner. "Just that I was here the night it happened, you knew that?"

"Yes, I read about it," she said. "Milk and sugar?"

"Black, three spoons," he said. "So are you one of them legal secretaries, or what, Mrs. Mattison?"

"Or what," she said. They're called legal executives nowadays. And they have their own institute and examinations. I just make sure everything in these chambers runs right, Mr. Sixsmith. I don't concern myself with things I'm not qualified to deal with."

Touch of acid there?

Joe said, "Mrs. Naysmith, she was one of these legal things, wasn't she? Was that in this office?"

"Oh yes, that was how Lucy and Felix met Mr. Naysmith, I mean." Brightly neutral now.

"But she didn't stay on after they got together?"

"Not when it reached the point of marriage," she said, making point of marriage sound as unlikely as Joe being raised to the peerage. She went on, "Mr. Pollinger didn't think it ... appropriate. He likes a well-defined chain of command and having a partner married to a member of staff who would be working for other partners blurred matters."

"This cause any resentment from the happy pair?" asked Joe.

"Certainly not. The wedding was a real office occasion. We were all there ..."

Her eyes filled for a moment. Joe recalled the photograph. He thought he could picture Mrs. Mattison in the group. And she was obviously thinking of the two who were now missing ... wasn't she?

"Anyway," resumed the woman, "Lucy wanted to have a family. They started very quickly ... but it all went wrong

"Yes, I know," said Joe. "I was talking to her yesterday at the hospital."

"You saw Felix, did you?" she said eagerly. "I wanted to go, but was told no visitors."

The woman who'd tried to get in and made the fuss?

"No. He was sleeping. So I just talked to Lucy. He discharged himself, so I presume he's home."

Joe sipped his coffee. It was very tasty. He hadn't expected anything else.

He said, "Were all the partners working here when you came?"

She laughed out loud and said, "You did say you were a detective, Mr. Sixsmith? Mr. Pollinger aside, the average age of our partners is ... was early thirties. I'm thirty-five. I was sixteen when I came here. Lawyers start work a little later."

"Sorry, wasn't thinking. So who was the last to arrive?"

That would be Victor, Mr. Montaigne."

"He hasn't been in touch yet, has he?" said Joe. "I know the police were keen to let him know what's been going on."

"Not so far as I know. But it doesn't surprise me. The other partners made a point of leaving a contact number whenever they went away. He made a point of not leaving one. He said he didn't want his holidays spoilt by some idiot client making a fuss about nothing."

She clearly didn't approve. Joe said, "Yeah, puts a lot of responsibility on the others when one opts out."

"Precisely. A team needs internal loyalty. I mean, it doesn't matter what the members say about each other so long as they're loyal. But without that

"Bit mouthy, was he?" said Joe. "I know the type. Little cracks, nothing to take offence at, but very irritating."

He wasn't being clever, he really did know plenty of folk like that, but if his sincerity made her talk ... "You're so right. He had these nicknames for us all, German, from some opera. You know, the kind of thing a lot of people pretend to like because it's fashionable. I prefer a good musical myself, but Sandra once explained it all to me. He said the one thing that held us all together was gold, meaning money, I suppose. Mr. Pollinger was Wotan, the King of the Gods.."

"Wagner," said Joe. "The Ring."

Rev. Pot was an enthusiast and on one of the choir's annual outings, he'd organized a trip to London to see Das Rheingold. Aunt Mirabelle had walked out after Act One, denouncing it as pagan nonsense. But Joe had quite enjoyed it. He hadn't seen any of the other operas in the cycle, but he'd borrowed the Rev."s discs partly because he liked a lot of the singing, but mainly because he couldn't bear not knowing how it all turned out.

That's right," said Mrs. Mattison. "He called Mr. Naysmith and Mr. Potter Fas and Faf, after two giants. They'd played rugby together, you know, and were still very athletic and interested in sport. And the girls who worked in the office he called Rhinemaidens. And me he called Briinnhilde, because I was in charge."

"And what about Ms lies?"

"Freia, because he said she was determined to stay young forever. Sandra didn't seem to mind."

"And the others? Did they mind?"

"Apparently not," she admitted. "Perhaps I was the only one who really minded, but it wasn't for myself. I could see it was disruptive. But the others just pretended they thought it was rather clever."

Joe noted pretended again. Like a lot of people with strong opinions, Mrs. Mattison couldn't really believe any sensible person could disagree with her without some hidden agenda.

"Did Mr. Montaigne have a part for himself?" he asked, trying to recall the legend.

"Sandra sometimes called him Logic, I think it was."

Of course. Loge, the crafty god, the wheeler-dealer.

"But why are you asking me all this, Mr. Sixsmith?" she said, looking at him shrewdly.

He said, "No harm in asking a good-looking woman about her work, is there?"

"Oh, I see. What they call chatting up, is it?" she asked, laughing.

Joe was professionally pleased though personally unflattered by her amusement. One thing for him to say, "No harm," another for her to show she thought him harmless.

He said, "Mr. Pollinger's taking his time."

She said, "He could have come in the back way and gone straight up to his office, I suppose."

Joe said, "He asked you to come in special because of what's happened?"

"Well, it does mean there's a lot to do," she said vaguely. "But I would probably have come in today anyway, just to make sure everything was ready for the New Year. Dates changed, machines serviced, stationery stocks high, that sort of thing. In the run-up to Christmas it's easy to let things slip."

"Don't believe it," said Joe smiling. "Not you. You in charge of stationery, you say? That would be Freeman's?"

"Yes. How do you know that?"

Joe wasn't sure how he knew.

He said, "Girl I know works there. Or rather, daughter of a friend. Doreen McShane. You ever come across her?"

Though that wasn't how he knew. He'd hardly exchanged more than two words with the girl, all of them unfriendly.

Mrs. Mattison wasn't looking all that friendly either.

"Flighty-looking young woman with a lot of make-up?" she said shortly. "Yes, I remember her. She used to come with deliveries. Haven't seen her for a while."

"I think she works in the office now," said Joe.

"You surprise me. My impression was she could hardly spell her own name."

An understandable if uncharitable impression, thought Joe, seeing Sexwith in his mind's eye.

"She's dyslexic, I think," he said.

Mrs. Mattison looked embarrassed.

"I didn't realize. It's a shame." Then with a resumption of her previous disapproval, "I hope they don't let her near our letterheads. We're going to need a completely new one, of course, now that ... well, we will. Which reminds me, I

must ring them tomorrow to cancel our ongoing order or else we'll end up with a stack of unusable sheets."

She made a note on a pad. Joe said, "Tomorrow?"

"No of course, it's Bank Holiday, isn't it? The day after."

"They won't be working today then?"

"No. Like us and most people nowadays, their break stretches from Christmas Eve to January the second."

"But..." said Joe.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." At least, probably nothing. Joe was recalling the messages coming over Naysmith's answer machine. Freeman 's Stationers. Your order is ready for collection. Something like that. But Freeman's was closed for the hols. In fact, he'd known that already from his encounter with the McShanes in Daph's Diner. How many times did he need something pointed out to him? More than the normal detective, anyway!

He said, "Does Mr. Naysmith have anything to do with the stationery? You know, overall supervision, something like that?"

She looked at him as if he'd asked what kind of cleaner the Queen used to get beneath the rim of her toilet.

"What on earth makes you think that? Do you know how much his time costs?"

Joe wondered whether what had really stung was the idea that a partner's very expensive time could be used on such unnecessary trivialities or the implied reflection on her own efficiency.

He said contritely, "Sorry. Being on my own, I don't know how these things work in a big office."

She smiled forgivingly. It really was a nice smile. This was one attractive woman. Then he saw the skin between those intelligent grey eyes crinkle in faint puzzlement as she said, "So you're a one-man operation, Mr. Sixsmith?"

Implied was, in which case how the shoot you got this job working for Mr. Pollinger?

I've got all the assistance I need," he said mysteriously. Like one cat and a lot of friends who were sometimes more trouble than help. The cops have finished upstairs, have they? If so, I'd like to take a look around."

"Yes, they said they were done. They left the place a real mess. I've got the cleaners coming in later. By all means go ahead, Mr. Sixsmith, though I doubt ... just give a shout if there's anything you need."

She'd been going to say she doubted if he was going to chance upon some vital clue the cops had missed, he guessed. But she hadn't said it. Nice lady. And she was right too. Endo Venera would probably have noticed half a dozen things the fuzz had ignored, but Joe didn't rate his own chances.

He went up the stairs to the next floor, carefully opened the door to Potter's secretary's office, and paused while he recalled his brief and bad-tempered exchange with the dead man. He hadn't known the guy but it still upset him to think the last words he'd hurled at him, perhaps the last words he'd heard anyone say, had been so negative.

He went through into Potter's room.

It was nice in here, had once been a bedroom, he guessed, when the house had been the domicile of Simeon Littlehorn, the Luton Warbler. There was an elegant marble fireplace and a tall sash window with heavy deep-blue velvet curtains looking out over the long rear yard. Around the ceiling ran a gilded cornice, its ornate design picked up in the central boss from which hung a small chandelier, and on the shabbily expensive Persian carpet stood a heavy mahogany desk. Joe took a deep breath. You could smell the money. He compared it with the only other lawyer's office he knew well, which was Butcher's. That was a transport caff, this was Maxim's. If you didn't know it when you went in, you'd surely spot it when you got the bill!

There were paintings on the wall, shepherdesses and stuff. They looked real, not just prints. One photo. He'd seen it before in Naysmith's study. A rugby team. The two biggest men in it standing side by side at the back. Potter and Nay-smith. Fasolt and Fafner, Wagner's giants. Whoever had broken Potter's neck must have been pretty hot stuff at the old martial arts.

He tried to picture what had happened. Potter is in here checking things out on his computer. At some point, his suspicions aroused, he tries to ring Naysmith. Can't get him at the cottage, rings him at home, leaves a message on the answer machine, carries on with his investigations. Some time later, just as he's leaving, I arrive. We have a row. Which is interrupted by the phone. Naysmith has accessed his answer machine by his remote and got straight on to Potter. They make their date. Potter chucks me out. He goes back into his office to finish his conversation. And now something he says indicates to the listening killer oh shoot! let's call him Montaigne indicates to Montaigne that Potter is as good as on to him. But how is Montaigne listening?

Joe looked for a hiding place. The curtains were floor length, and looked full enough to hide a man. He went towards them to check. Failing that there was a door in the wall opposite the fireplace. A cupboard? A closet? Perhaps Montaigne had been in there ... knocked something over and attracted Potter's attention ... perhaps he hadn't intended to show himself and kill his partner but, once discovered ... this was a ruthless man.

The curtains would do at a pinch, Joe decided. But not the best of hiding places. He turned towards the door, then paused, turned back, looked out of the window.

Parked in the yard below was Darby Pollinger's white Merc.

"Oh shoot," said Joe. He was having one of his feelings that had nothing to do with reason and logic but had served him far better than either of those two shifty customers.

He knew that when he opened that door he was going to find Pollinger's body. Then he'd have to ring the cops. With his luck, he'd probably get Chivers. Then it would be all to go through again. And again.

Much simpler to head downstairs, thank Mrs. Mattison for her coffee, and leave.

Leaving that poor woman to stumble across Pollinger by herself?

No, he couldn't do that, not to anyone. Well, perhaps to Chivers. Or PC Forton. But not to someone like Mrs. Mattison.

Taking a deep breath, he flung open the door.

He'd been right. He'd found Pollinger's body.

It was standing over a toilet bowl, having a pee.

With no sign of surprise other than a slight arching of his left eyebrow, the lawyer said, There you are, Mr. Sixsmith. Be with you in a jiffy."

Twenty.

The closet turned out to be a fair-sized bathroom not much smaller than Joe's bedroom, shared between Potter's room and Pollinger's next door.

"So you can get from your room into Potter's without going outside?" said Joe, after the lawyer had washed his hands and led the way into his office which, rather to Joe's surprise, was very modern hi tech.

"Very perspicacious of you," observed Pollinger dryly. The same applies to Felix Naysmith's and Victor Montaigne's rooms along the corridor. Sandra has ... had her own facilities, as I understand they're called nowadays, downstairs."

Was it sexist to dump a female off the partners' floor simply because of the sanitary arrangements? wondered Joe. One for Butcher.

"Are the doors kept locked?"

"Only when in use. Chap in occupation, so to speak, makes sure the door to the next room is locked, and of course unlocks it when he's done so next door has access if necessary."

"You didn't lock it," said Joe.

"In the circumstances, I didn't anticipate interruption from that direction," said Pollinger. The police, I should point out, have been through all this with me. Sorry to be a wet blanket. Have you met our Mrs. Mattison? Good. How did you get on?"

"Fine," said Joe. "She seems a nice lady."

"Indeed. And useful?"

"Eh?" said Joe.

"I assume you used the opportunity to get her views on recent events."

"Yeah, well, they did come up. Naturally. Got a vague impression there could've been some tension between Mr. Montaigne and the other partners."

"I hope there was," said Pollinger, unsurprised. "Victor was the latest to join us. Felix and Peter I took on together seven or eight years ago. Part of their function was to shake up Ced and Ed, that is to say Cedric and Edward Upshott, my two rather elderly partners who were getting a little set in their ways. Since then one has retired, the other died. Natural causes, in case your detective mind scents a pattern. Upon Ced's retirement, I offered a partnership to Sandra. I felt we needed a woman on board. Also her appointment gave Peter and Felix a bit of a jolt, just in case they thought they were a little more in charge than they really were."

"And the same with Mr. Montaigne's appointment?" said Joe.

That's right. When old Ed, my remaining senior partner, died, I thought it would be good to bring in a young Turk to complete the freshening-up process."

"And the others didn't like it?"

"Yes and no. There's nothing like a natural superiority for getting on people's nerves, is there? But he was clearly an asset to the firm. Since his arrival there's been a significant rise in our partnership profits. And lawyers, as I'm sure you know, will object to everything except more money."

"So," said Joe, 'if I asked you which of the partners would be clever enough to rip off your client accounts and juggle the figures around so that no one noticed, you'd say Montaigne?"

Pollinger showed no surprise or indignation at the question but said, "I hope that anyone I employ would be bright enough to get away with it for a while, but to get away with it for a long period and in the large amounts which seem to be involved, yes, I'd have to back Victor. Are you saying that he is seriously in the frame, as they put it on the telly?"

"Until the police can track him down and establish his movements, he's got to be," said Joe.

Pollinger frowned and shook his head.

"I still find it hard to believe," he said.

"Because he was so honest?" wondered Joe.

"Because I think he would have been too clever to get caught with his hand in the till," said Pollinger. "When it1 came to insurance law, Peter was tops, and in matters of making and breaking contracts, I'd back Felix against all comers, but when it came to doing a balancing act with figures, they weren't in the same league as Victor."

"We all have our off days," said Joe. "And if you take too much money, there has to come a time when there's not enough left to patch the gap."

"Then why kill?" wondered Pollinger.

"You catch people on the hop, they lash out, even clever people," said Joe.

"Maybe," said Pollinger, as if he doubted the possibility in his own case. "So is there anything else I can help you with?"

Joe considered then said, "Mrs. Mattison, how much does she have to do with the actual legal work of the firm?"

Pollinger gave him an old-fashioned glance then sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers like some ancient actor playing the family solicitor in one of those British black and white movies on TV.

"I would say that Mrs. Mattison is privy to all our intimate secrets," he said. "And probably capable of dealing in a proper legal manner with anything that might come up in regard to them. Certainly I have never known her mis field any query or problem that has come her way."

"She said she doesn't like messing with things that ain't her business," objected Joe.

"And so she doesn't. But I assure you, if a client came to see me in a tizz, and I was in bed with flu, and the other partners were on vacation, or in court, Mrs. Mattison would be able to display a detailed knowledge of their case and offer reassuringly sound advice till such time as I was back in the saddle. She has proved this on many an occasion. But it is not her job, she always protests. And so it isn't, though I think she gets some private satisfaction from being in many ways more expert than our official legal executives."

"Yeah, she didn't seem to rate them," said Joe. "That's what Mrs. Naysmith was, right?"

"Lucy? Yes, indeed. Mrs. Mattison mentioned her?"

"I think maybe I did. Got the impression there was maybe something a bit more personal there?"

"Very astute, though totally irrelevant. Only fair to put you in the picture, I suppose, so you don't let yourself be distracted by red herrings. Felix, that's Mr. Naysmith, is what used to be called a bit of a ladies' man. Basically a rather simple soul, he has the great attraction of complete sincerity. He always believes himself deeply in love. How a man should be able to maintain this belief during a succession of liaisons, some of which cannot have lasted more than a fortnight, I do not know. His passage through our secretarial staff when he first joined us was a kind of erotic blitzkrieg."

"How did you feel about that? Office romances, I mean."

"I held a watching brief, not in any voyeuristic sense, you understand, but merely to make sure the smooth running of the firm was never compromised."

"You didn't worry about the girls then?" said Joe.

"I assure you, Mr. Sixsmith, that as a lawyer I am fully aware of the implications of sexual harassment," said Pollinger rather acidly. "Felix's attentions were never of that kind. His technique, if technique it can be called, is to show a shy and respectful admiration till the female concerned understands that if she wishes to encourage his attentions, she must herself offer a signal to advance. Happily, on the whole Felix showed he was as adept at disentangling himself as he was at getting entangled in the first place. I think you will find across the range of Luton's legal practices and their support industries a sorority of Felix's exes exists without bitterness or recrimination, freely sharing their experience and comparing their trophies. He is a most generous man."

"But Lucy pinned him down?"

"Indeed. She got pregnant. I do not suggest she did it deliberately, but Felix is a sucker for children. Lucy too was genuinely keen to have a large family. They were devastated when she miscarried. Then she got pregnant again. Perhaps too soon. I do not understand these things. This time there were serious complications which resulted in Lucy learning she could never have children. Hard to come to terms with, but they seem to be coping. Anyway, this is all irrelevant except insofar as sometime before his fancy lit upon Lucy, he had actually added Mrs. Mattison to his conquests."

"Shoot," said Joe. Isn't there a Mr. Mattison?"

"She was divorced some years back. We acted for her, of course. Got a first-rate settlement. I thought after that she was far too sensible to get involved with someone whose imperfections were continually under her gaze. But women are unpredictable creatures, aren't they? Even the most down to earth of them. She fell. I was seriously worried. A flighty eighteen-year-old secretary is neither here nor there. The job centres are full of them. But someone like Mrs. Mattison ... For the first time I spoke."

"To her?"

To him. I said that, were his intentions honourable, I would be happy to give the match my blessing, though of course there could be no question of Mrs. Mattison remaining in the firm if she became Mrs. Naysmith. On the other hand, if anything occurred which meant we lost her services without her becoming Mrs. Naysmith, I would be most distressed. Upon which hint he acted. I think he was ready to act in any case, but this time he was even gentler than usual in his disentanglement manoeuvres, and all was well."

He spoke with some complacency. Joe shook his head internally. Mr. Pollinger might be hell on wheels as a lawyer, but when it came to women, he was an also-ran. OK, your eighteen-year-old in a world of shifting relationships might be happy to swop experiences of Felix with her friends, but no way would someone like Mrs. Mattison fit into that scene.

Still, it wasn't relevant. Which implied he could recognize what was. In his dreams maybe!

"So what progress have you actually made in your investigation, apart from cross-questioning me, of course," added Pollinger now.

"Well, there hasn't been a lot of progress. I mean, it was only yesterday

"Yes. Yesterday. And now it's today. And I presume that you will be charging me for the hours between, so presumably you have been doing something pertinent in that time?"

This was a bit rich coming from a guy who almost certainly charged hourly even when he was having his after-lunch snooze. But he had paid cash money up front

"Well, I went to see Mr. Naysmith in hospital."

"And what did he have to say?"

"Nothing. I mean, I didn't actually get to see him. Still a bit groggy."

"Really? Seemed quite OK when I called in."

"Well, I spoke to Mrs. Naysmith and she seemed to think it was better if he rested a bit longer."

"So you're going back today?"

"Well, no," said Joe. "I checked first thing and seems he discharged himself last night."

"So not so groggy after all," said Pollinger, regarding Joe doubtfully.

He thinks I'm pulling his wire, thought Joe.

He said, "Look, Mr. Pollinger, the hours I work on your case will be fully accounted for when I do the final bill. I don't charge for more than one job at a time, and I do have other clients, and sometimes I even get to stop to eat and drink and sleep

"And fight too from the look of it," said Pollinger disapprovingly.

"No," said Joe. "I haven't been fighting. I've been getting beaten up by someone who thinks I'd be better off dead."

"Good Lord," said Pollinger, taken aback. "You mean, in the line of business. Nothing to do with my case, I hope?"

"Probably not," said Joe negligently. No harm in letting the guy think he might be putting himself in the way of physical harm to earn his pay.

"I'm glad to hear it. I couldn't countenance you putting yourself at risk on my behalf," said Pollinger earnestly. "I'm paying you to investigate a crime, not to become a victim. There's been quite enough mayhem already."

Whoops. Time to back pedal. Lot of harm in prompting your client to pull the plug just because he thinks there might be danger.

"Oh, no. It started before I got on your case, Mr. Pollinger," said Joe firmly. "So it's definite there's no connection. In fact, I've got a very good idea who's behind it. Another case entirely. Look, if there's nothing else, I've got to go. Lots of things to do ..."

"On my case or on this other case entirely?" said Pollinger.

"Mr. Pollinger, if I want the best lawyer, I don't pick a guy who's got no other clients," said Joe. It was a good line. He wished he could remember where he'd read it. Then, mindful that high horses were notoriously expensive to feed and stable, he added in a more conciliatory tone, "One thing you could do for me, ring Mr. Naysmith, say you'd like for me to interview him so that I don't get no hassle when I call."

"Surely," said Pollinger.

He picked up his phone and dialled. Joe wandered to the window and looked down into the yard at the white Merc. Must be nice to afford wheels like that, he thought. But there was no real envy in the thought. A man shouldn't waste time coveting what wasn't his due. But those things that were his due, like freedom, respect and, in his own case, an old Morris Oxford, he should be willing to fight to the last drop of blood for.

He heard Pollinger say, "Oh hello, Lucy. Darby here. Listen, I've got a chap called Sixsmith in my office, private investigator I've hired to watch out for our interests in this terrible business. I believe you've met him ... yes, that's the one. Well, it would be useful if he could talk to Felix ... how is he, by the way? Resting ... very wise so would it be all right for Sixsmith to call round some time ... yes, of course he would ... fine, of course, you get back to the invalid. Give him my best. "Bye."

He put the phone down. Joe turned to face him.

"OK, is it?" he said.

"Yes. I spoke to Lucy. Felix is taking it easy, it seems, resting in bed, though from the sound of it he's not making a very good patient. Banging on the floor to get her attention! Anyway, she says it will be fine for you to call, but could you ring before you go, just to make sure Felix is up to it?"

"Sure," said Joe.

"You'll need his number. He's ex-directory."

Not if you want a taxi, he's not, thought Joe. But it didn't seem worth the effort of explaining.

Pollinger scribbled the number on a piece of paper. Joe took it and put it in his wallet.

I'll be on my way," he said. I'll check back with you the minute anything turns up. See you, Mr. Pollinger."

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Sixsmith."

On his way down the stairs he met Mrs. Mattison coming up.

He said, "He's up there."

"I thought he must be," she said. "He might have let me know."

"Things on his mind," said Joe with masculine solidarity. "Nice to have met you, Mrs. Mattison."

"You too," she said.

He went past her but had only descended another three or four stairs when she called, "Oh, Mr. Sixsmith

"Yes?"

He turned and looked up at her. Handsome woman. More important perhaps, she looked like she was going to tell him something.

Then she smiled and said, "Nothing. Just Happy New Year, Mr. Sixsmith."

"And the same to you," said Joe.

Twenty-One.

This morning the Plezz was buzzing with activity as teams of workmen laboured to make it fit for the Grand Opening the following day.

The main public ceremony would take place in the stadium just before the athletics meeting. The mayor would make a speech, an Olympic-style torch would be carried in by a young runner, and the whole shooting match would be declared open. In the evening, a civic reception was to be held in the new art gallery. Invitations were harder to get hold of than pickled onions in a narrow jar. It was rumoured that many of the uninvited had arranged holidays abroad to support their claims to have sent their apologies. Joe, on the other hand, felt neither surprised nor humiliated at not being on the list. In fact, if an invitation had dropped through his letter box, he'd probably have binned it as a bad forgery and a worse joke.

He ran in to Hooter Hardiman as he entered the stadium. He looked harassed.

"You still around, Joe?" said the man, making it sound like another straw on his already overladen back.

"Nice to see you too," said Joe. "You had any more thoughts about who might have been planting those notes? Someone in the Spartans, you thought, maybe."

A nonstarter, he reckoned. This thing was way beyond a nasty practical joke. But so long as Hooter stayed on his suspect list, he might as well keep him lulled. And just because Starbright had caught Abe and Mary humping was no reason to revise the list.

"Don't you think I've got other things to keep me occupied than worrying about some hacked-off half wit demanded Hardiman. "Every other bugger responsible for getting things organized for tomorrow seems to think I should be doing his job. I don't see why I've got to take on yours as well!"

He strode away. Genuine irritation or heavy play-acting, wondered Joe. Didn't matter which. If Hooter was a player, he reckoned it was a support role, not a lead. Find Alberich and the Rhinegold was safe. Why the shoot was his mind running on Wagner? Of course. Mrs. Mattison telling him about Montaigne's little joke. Good baritone part, Alberich. There'd been some talk of Boyling Corner putting on a concert version of Das Rheingold with the Luton Operatics, and there'd been a heady moment when Rev. Pot, musing on the problems of casting, had let his eye dwell speculatively on Joe as he referred to the malignant dwarf baritone.

Well, it had come to nothing, and if it had materialized, Joe didn't doubt he'd have ended up in the chorus as usual. But no harm in dreaming.

He essayed a few remembered phrases from Alberich's opening exchange with the Rhinemaidens, and was amazed when one of them sang back over his shoulder. True, it was in a tenor falsetto, but perfectly phrased for all that. He turned to find Starbright Jones standing behind him.

"Hey, man," he said. "You never said you could sing."

"Can't really. You should've heard my old dad. But he had me at it soon as I could open my mouth without burping. You do more than karaoking?"

You really have been following me around, thought Joe.

He said, "I'm in the Boyling Corner Choir."

"You are?" He sounded impressed. "Hear they're pretty good."

"You?" said Joe.

"Was when I was younger. Sort of drifted away. Who're you after?"

Thought I might have a chat with Abe Schoenfeld."

Jones nodded approvingly.

"He's your man," he said. "He's around somewhere."

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on Zak?" asked Joe.

"She's showering."

Joe thought of making a joke, remembered Starbright's secret passion, decided against it.

"Finished training already?" said Joe looking at his watch.

"She's got a race tomorrow, remember? Just a light workout is all she needs today. Listen, you get this sorted quick, see? If your way don't work, then I'll have to try mine."

He walked away, looking as menacing in retreat as he did advancing. A high melodic line which didn't sound as if it could have any connection with him came drifting back. Joe thought he recognized it as Siegfried's outburst as he confronted the giant Fafner now turned into a dragon.

Time I got this sorted, thought Joe. Unless I want the blame for letting Starbright loose on an unsuspecting world.

He wasn't sure how best to play it. Or rather he was sure how best to play it, which was with subtle questioning and clever verbal traps to trick Schoenfeld into admitting what was presently only a nasty suspicion in Starbright Jones's mind. Trouble was, he didn't really know the rules of that subtle questioning game. Also it was worth remembering that if Schoenfeld was the guy behind the betting scam, then he was also the guy who reacted to interference by trying to cancel the interferer's ticket.

Maybe the best way to proceed was Starbright/Siegfried's after all! As Aunt Mirabelle used to say as she dragged him to the dentist, little bit of pain never hurt anyone.

He was into the warren of corridors connecting the offices and the changing areas now. Ahead of him a door opened and Mary Oto came out, clutching what looked like a length of fax paper. She didn't look in his direction but turned the other way. He paused till she turned a corner then hurried after her. The room she'd come out of was Hardiman's office. Cautiously he peered round the next corner and glimpsed her vanishing through another door. When he reached it he saw that it led into the men's locker room. This he recalled was where Starbright had overheard the activity which caused him such embarrassment. Chances were the woman had come in here to meet her boyfriend once again. What other reason? Joe didn't mind a classy strip show but he was no voyeur. He wanted to be in there before talking stopped and the action started. There wouldn't be just a single entrance to the changing rooms, would there? Fire regulations would demand at least one alternative. He went on down the corridor and felt a glow of satisfaction at being proved right. Cautiously he opened the door and peered in. No one in sight but he could hear the sound of a shower at the far end.

He stepped inside and made his way towards it.

Mary Oto was standing before an open shower stall. Abe Schoenfeld was just visible through a cloud of steam. The hiss of the water was going to make eavesdropping difficult, thought Joe. Fortunately it meant they had to raise their voices too, so he cautiously edged closer, keeping a central row of lockers between himself and the couple, and by dint of standing on a bench so that his head was above the locker level, he began to pick up the conversation.

"So that's it then. All set," said the man.

That's it. After the race, we're home and free."

"She won't like it."

"You know what they say about omelettes and eggs," said the woman indifferently.

Shoot! thought Joe. This was one callous lady!

His indignation and rise in water sound as the man increased the shower pressure made him miss the next bit of the exchange.

"She will do it, won't she?" the man was saying as he turned the jet down. "One thing I've learned about your sister is she hates not being in control."

"The other thing you should have learned is, she's not stupid. She'll dig her heels in, but she won't cut herself off at the ankles to keep them dug."

"I guess so. Hey, come on here, give me a kiss to celebrate."

"Piss off, you idiot, I'm getting soaked!" cried Mary, but she didn't sound really angry and Joe thought, time to get out of here if they're going to start slapping their meat.

He turned to go, stepping gingerly off the bench, then paused and climbed up again as the woman disengaged herself and said, "So that just leaves the little gumshoe to worry about."

"Yeah, he's persistent, ain't he? You got a line yet?"

"No. But whatever, now we've got this far, he can't be any bother to us, can he?"

"None in the world. Come here!"

They re-engaged. Joe turned once more, only this time he completely forgot he was standing on the bench, and his first step sent him crashing to the floor.

"Oh shoot!" he said, pushing himself to a sitting position and feeling for broken bones. But there was no time for first aid.

"What the hell was that?" cried Schoenfeld. And the next moment he was round the end of the row of lockers and glaring with angry disbelief at Joe.

Some folk might say that there's no way a stark naked man, however big, can take on a fully clothed man, however small, without feeling his disadvantages.

Joe, however, wasn't brought up to take advantage of the unprotected. Indeed, when he accidentally brushed against Schoenfeld's private parts as he rose to his feet, where a lesser man might have grabbed hold and twisted, he flushed and said, "Hey, man. I'm sorry."

The only reward for his forbearance was a left hook to his temple which sent him reeling sideways.

"So what's your game, dickhead?" demanded Schoenfeld.

Doubting whether the guy really wanted an answer, Joe did the only thing a sensible PI could do in the circumstances and ran.

He made it out of the door at such a speed he went straight into the wall opposite and bounced back into Abe Schoenfeld's waiting arms. The same arms instantly put him in a headlock which he recalled from Mr. Takeushi's classes. Pity he couldn't recall the counter to it. As the blood flow to his head became seriously interrupted, his principal feeling was of shame. Surely the conquerer of Marble-Tooth of the S AS in all his finery could deal with a mother-naked Yank?

Schoenfeld was screaming something about "the truth" but he couldn't make it out over the roaring of his blood, and anyway he doubted if it had much to do with the truth that would set him free.

Then another voice spoke.

This anyone's fight, or are you two just in love?"

Joe twisted his head round, or rather Abe twisted it round, so that he found he was looking at Douglas Endor.