Killing the Lawyers

Joe said, "Arrghh."

Schoenfeld said, "You want a fight, you got it," and hurled Joe towards the agent. Joe had never worn a thousand-pound mohair suit but he knew it was worth every penny if it felt as comfortable on as it did against his face as he embraced Endor for succour and support.

Endor said, "Easy there, Abe. Let's sit down and talk about this."

Schoenfeld said, "Too late for talking," and balled his fists.

Joe closed his eyes and prepared for a renewed attack. Good Samaritans were OK for succour, but you couldn't really expect them to take on your fights. He only hoped Endor would have the sense to run off and call Security.

Then Mary's voice said, "Abe."

She was standing in the changing-room door.

Endor said, "Mary? What's going on?"

She glowered at him angrily then pointed an accusing finger at Joe.

"Ask your little friend," she sneered.

"Joe?" said Endor.

His tongue had just about deflated to a size where speech was once again possible. He croaked, "It's over. OK? It's over."

The man and woman exchanged glances. Then Abe said, "That's right. It's over. Come on, sweetheart." And putting his arm over Mary's shoulders, he urged her back into the changing room.

"Now what the hell was that all about?" demanded Endor, gently distancing Joe from the mohair.

Joe croaked something noncommittal. In fact he felt tempted. He had decisions to make and it would be good to talk. But in the PI game, whoever was paying the piper should be the only one entitled to hear the tune.

Endor said, "Joe, if it helps, I know who you are. And if you're thinking, it's none of my business, then remember, Zak is my business. So talk to me."

Same line as Hardiman, thought Joe. Except his first concern was for the Plezz, while Endor's interest in Zak herself went as deep as his pocket.

And with the end in sight, didn't he have the right to know his percentage of what had been going on?

Talk to anyone who buys me a cup of coffee," he croaked.

They didn't go to the stadium restaurant, for which Joe was glad. He didn't want to run into Zak till he'd got his thoughts straight. Still less did he want to see Mary and Schoenfeld again. So they went to the stripped-pine-and-carrot-cake cafe next to the art gallery which wasn't officially open, but quickly succumbed to Endor's Cockney charm.

"Rehearsing for tomorrow," he said as he put a cup of coffee in front of Joe. "Told 'em you was a Caribbean coffee taster. If you liked it, the mayor would love it."

Joe liked it. He'd have liked muddy water if that was all there was to lubricate his still painful throat.

"Now, Joe," said Endor. "About this investigation of yours..."

"You the one who recommended me to Zak?" asked Joe.

That's right," grinned Endor. "But don't be too grateful. I'd read about you in the local rag after that boy-in-the-box affair, so when Zak asked if I knew any Pis locally, I didn't want to lose my reputation for infallibility."

"She give you any ideas what it was about?"

"Not her. And I didn't press. One thing I've learnt about Zak, she makes her own decisions. So while I want to know what's going on, don't tell me anything you think she'll be pissed at you telling me."

Joe said, "I've thought about that. Ongoing, my lips are sealed. But it's over, and after what you saw, you ought to know. In fact, considering you employ Mary, you've a right to know."

Briefly he outlined what had been going on.

Endor was gob smacked

"Jesus," he said. "If I'd even suspected it was something serious as this, I would never ... I'd have called in the Old Bill straight away."

He would never have recommended me is what he was going to say, thought Joe without resentment. Shoot, first thing I said to her was you ought to ring the fuzz!

"She was worried from the start someone in her family might be involved," he said. "Seems she was right."

"God, yes. Mary. I blame myself there."

"You do? How come?"

"This sounds to me like one of them two-to-tango things," said Endor grimly. "If I hadn't let Zak talk me into taking Mary on in the first place ... All it was really was a way of Zak paying Mary's salary without her working directly for Zak, know what I mean? Should've known better. Only reason to hire anyone is they can do the job."

"And couldn't she?"

"In fact, she could. Pretty nifty at it as it turned out. That was my second mistake, I began to forget the background ... you know, the accident, all that."

"I know."

"At first I kept her busy on my other accounts, not Zak's. But when these Vane University geezers got in touch, I wanted to check the place out, get the feel of things, look at the small print. It was peanuts commercially, but in terms of development, it could be crucial. Zak was very keen. Didn't want to lose touch with her art interests. Wise girl. Always keep the day job open is what I tell my clients. So I went over first. I like people to sell things to me, then I sell them to my clients. Saves a lot of aggro. And I took Mary with me. It was Zak's idea. Said she deserved a trip and could suss things out from the woman's point of view. Big mistake."

"Because she met Schoenfeld?"

That's right. I could see Abe was making a play for her. I put it down to the guy being so keen to get his hands on Zak, athletically speaking, that he thought it wouldn't do no harm to soften up the sister. How wrong can you be!"

"No way you could guess how it would pan," said Joe with the sympathy of one who spent a great deal of time being amazed at how wrong he could be.

"That's right," said Endor, glad of the comfort. "When Zak went over herself to take a look-see, Mary went with her. I didn't. So I didn't have a chance to see how things were developing there. And she went out again in the autumn, allegedly to help Zak settle in. But I didn't see them together again till Abe turned up here, earlier this week. And I got the impression things were pretty cool between them now."

"An act," said Joe. "If they'd been able to keep it up, if Jones hadn't heard them at it in the changing room

"No, I reckon from the sound of it, you'd have got on to them eventually, Joe," said Endor.

It was pleasant to meet someone who had such confidence in his ability.

"Maybe," said Joe modestly. "But I still don't understand how they came up with such a crazy idea in the first place."

Endor pursed his lips, looked grim and said, "OK, this is the way I see it. With Mary, it's obvious. Not just the money, maybe not even the money. I reckon the sheer kick she'd get out of seeing her sister lose in front of her own home crowd would be motivation enough. As for Schoenfeld, well, he must have got the message he don't have no place in Zak's long-term plans. OK, they've got a good programme going over there, I made sure of that. But Abe's nothing but a college coach. Zak's in the market for one of the top pros. And when she finds the one that suits, it'll be like poor old Jim Hardiman all over. Bye bye, Abe. So why not make a killing while he can?"

Joe sipped his coffee and examined the hypothesis. The way Endor put it together it all made real sense. He'd been right to talk to the agent, use his cool calculating way of looking at things.

He said, "So what do we do now?"

"We?"

"Hey, she's your client as much as mine. More. I mean, I know what my responsibility is. Find out the facts and report them to her. Only question is how and when. Don't want to upset her more than necessary."

"You're going to have to do that sooner or later," said Endor. "I take it the police are still right out of the picture?"

That'll be down to Zak. No cops unless she says so. But what I meant was, how might it affect her if I gave her the full story now?"

"Take your meaning," said Endor. The race. That would be a real turn-up if solving the problem upset her so much she lost the race anyway!"

"But I've got to tell her. She's got to know, otherwise she won't know how to run, will she?"

"You don't think there's any danger any more?"

"No. Listen, it was the threat to her family that really got to her, and I don't reckon Mary's going to start offing the others just to get at Zak. But even if I just say it's OK, there's no need to worry any more, she's going to want to know it all. Don't know about you, Doug, but I ain't got the machinery for saying no to a lovely girl like Zak."

"You got yourself a problem, Joe," said Endor. "You could always send her a note."

"A note?" Joe considered. "No, that would look, I don't know, impersonal. Like I thought it didn't matter. This needs someone talking to her

He drank more coffee, contemplating the prospect, and incidentally Endor, gloomily over the rim of his cup. Endor looked rather uncomfortable under the gaze and finally burst out, "Now see here, Joe, there's no way I'm going to do your job for you!"

"What? No, I didn't mean ... but hey, that's it, that would solve everything!"

"No way," said Endor. "She's going to come at me hard as she'd come at you to get the details, and like you, I just know I'd have to tell her."

"But no, you wouldn't," said Joe eagerly. "Listen, you can say you met me and I asked you to pass the message on, it's OK, everything's taken care of, no more problem. Tell her I was absolutely sure, but I had to shoot off on another case, very urgent, life and death. And I'd contact her for a debriefing soon as I got back. Probably tomorrow. You'd be in the clear. You can't tell what you haven't been told, can you?"

The agent didn't look convinced.

"OK, suppose I did it," he said. "What do I get out of it?"

"Spoken like a true agent," said Joe with a grin. "What you get is a happy client who gets a good night's sleep and breaks the European indoor record tomorrow. Then I'll appear and tell her it's all down to her big sister and crooked coach."

"Who are doing what in the meantime?"

Tacking their bags and checking the flight schedules if they've any sense," said Joe. "I wouldn't want to be around when Zak finally hears the truth."

"Me neither," said Endor. "OK, Joe, you're on. But you owe me. I ever want a prospect checked out, you're my freebie. Deal?"

"Deal," said Joe. They traded skin on it and stood up. As they left the cafe, Joe noticed Hooter Hardiman standing by the art gallery entrance, watching them, but as they walked towards him he turned and moved away.

Joe headed straight for the car park, eager to minimize the risk of being spotted by Zak or indeed Jones.

He felt good. There was a public phone on the edge of the car park. Ride your luck, he thought. He picked up the receiver and dialled Naysmith's number, etched forever on his memory. Lucy Naysmith answered. She didn't sound overjoyed to hear his voice, but clearly Pollinger's wish was his employees' and ex-employees' command.

"All right, you can come, Mr. Sixsmith. But you mustn't tire him. I don't know what that hospital was doing letting him out like that. He's still far from well."

"I'll be gentle as a lamb," promised Joe.

What he hoped to get out of the interview, he still wasn't sure. But he'd learnt long since that when things were going his way, the only tactic was to go with the flow.

Usually the sight of the Magic Mini was an instant mood depresser, but as he approached it now, it had the opposite effect.

He'd spent much of the sixties in short trousers, so most of the ideology had passed over his head. But one thing was for sure, no one painted such way-out stuff on a piece of machinery without they thought they could see a big bright light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe hope was all we had,

all we needed. And when had hope ever had anything to do with reason?

With a smile that would have had Ram Ray raising his eyebrows and his prices, he patted the Mini on the bonnet, slid inside, gave an amazed Whitey a big hug, and drove away.

Twenty-Two.

An hour later the Magic Mini was puffing its way up Beacon Heights. Houses here were set too well back for curtain twitching, but Joe did not doubt that some kind of early-warning system operated and wouldn't have been surprised to find his way into Naysmith's drive blocked by old Marble-Tooth of the S AS bearing a horsewhip. Instead, all he found was a young Scottish PC called Sandy Mackay looking bored in a Panda.

Mackay's soul was still up for grabs between the instinctive belligerence of officers like Chivers and Forton, and his own natural friendliness. True, he'd once nicked Joe on suspicion of being a hospital flasher, but Joe, who believed in building bridges rather than burning them, greeted him enthusiastically.

"Sandy, my man, how're you doing? Hey, they're not keeping a man with a claymore in his sporran on duty over Hogmanay, are they?"

He only had a faint idea what claymores and sporrans might be but the notion tickled Mackay who grinned and said, "No way. I've got tickets for the ceilidh at the Cally. You coming, Joe?"

"No, I'm going to the Hoolie at the Glit. May see you in the streets later. Sandy, I'm expected here, you want to check?"

"No, Mrs. Naysmith told me you were coming when she brought me a coffee out. Nice lady. You can take the cup back if you like."

"Glad to, but sure you don't want to hang on to it so's you've an excuse to knock at the door later on when you fancy another cup?"

"Good thinking," said the youngster appreciatively. "Hey, Joe, I heard them saying down the nick that you probably knew more about this lot than you're letting on. Do you think there's much chance of this geezer Montaigne having another go?"

Joe's ears twitched. The reference to Montaigne sounded a bit stronger than just a precautionary assumption.

He said, "If he's got any sense he'll have got out of the country again."

"Again? From what we've been told he never left it in the first place. Not unless he swam."

He looked at Joe speculatively as if it was dawning on him he was giving rather than receiving information.

Joe said hastily, "You'll have got a good description, I suppose?"

"Yeah, medium size, hook nose, black beard."

"Yeah, well," said Joe. "But don't forget."

He made a cutting motion at his throat with his index finger.

"You reckon he might've topped himself ?"

"No," said Joe. "Shaved himself. See you."

The door opened as he approached and Lucy Naysmith greeted him politely rather than warmly and repeated her telephone reservations.

"He's still very weak, Mr. Sixsmith. Please don't overtire him. He's stubborn and will probably go on as long as you want to talk to him, so I'm relying on your good judgement."

She herself looked a lot better today with her hair in some kind of order. But there was still a lot of strain showing and she still wasn't bothering her make-up bag.

She led the way up the stairs into a roomy, overheated bedroom. The curtains were drawn back, but there were Venetian blinds on the windows half closed, ploughing furrows of light across the bed. This, with the heat and a faintly musky perfume, gave Joe the weird impression that he'd strayed from an English winter into the kind of old-fashioned colonial set-up you sometimes saw on the movies.

Should maybe have worn my houseboy gear, he thought.

Naysmith was sitting up in bed, propped against an avalanche of pillows. He wore a bandage round his brow and had a dressing taped from his left cheek across his nose with a lot of bruising seeping from under it. With the memories, not to mention the pain of his own recent assault fresh in his mind, Joe regarded the man with considerable sympathy.

"Mr. Sixsmith, I'm glad to have a chance to thank you at last."

The man's voice was strong but had an odd lisp to it. He smiled as he spoke and Joe saw where the lisp came from. His top front teeth were missing.

"I didn't do much, well, nothing actually," said Joe. "All over by the time I got here."

"You tried," said Naysmith. "And if I'd listened to you a bit longer on the phone, I probably wouldn't have opened the door."

"Yeah. You remember that now, do you?"

"Not clearly," admitted Naysmith. "I think it's coming back, but I'm not sure how much I'm being influenced by the police, who are obviously very keen for me to remember that it was Victor Montaigne. I keep getting flashes of Victor but that could be autosuggestion, don't you think?"

"Maybe," said Joe, who was something of an expert on the way certain cops could keep on dropping ideas in your mind during questioning till you didn't know where your thoughts ended and theirs began. "I did hear you say What the hell are you doing here? like you knew the guy. And we have established that Montaigne never actually left the country."

Willie Woodbine was never backward in taking credit from Joe, so no reason the process shouldn't be reversed.

"Is that so. Good Lord. Victor! But no, I'll need to get my own memory back loud and clear before I can accept that, and even then it won't be easy."

Good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon loyalty, thought Joe. Or Anglo-Saxon arrogant assurance in the infallibility of his own judgement?

He said, "No one's jumping to conclusions, Mr. Naysmith. Listen, when you spoke to Mr. Potter on the phone and he said he wanted to meet with you because there was trouble in the firm, did he actually mention Mr. Montaigne?"

Naysmith hesitated then said, "I'm not sure if I should talk about this with you, Mr. Sixsmith. Superintendent Woodbine seemed pretty keen I shouldn't discuss my statement with anyone but the police."

Joe smiled. Willie Woodbine was a big card to play, but even the biggest bowed to the Ace of Trumps.

"Yeah, well, that's Willie," he said negligently. "On the other hand, old Darby is pretty keen I should get the full picture."

For a second he thought Naysmith was going to challenge his right to sound so familiar, but, like a good -lawyer, he decided to play safe.

"Yes, he did urge me to be frank with you," he admitted. "All right. Yes, Peter did mention Victor. But only inter alia, among others. He felt the same distaste as I did, still do, for suspecting any of our staff or colleagues, particularly those who were, are, close friends. All he knew for certain was there were discrepancies. What he hoped to do before we met was pinpoint their source. Till then, little though he liked it, he wasn't excluding any possibility."

"No? That mean Mr. Pollinger himself was on the list."

"Yes, he was."

"And Mrs. Mattison?"

"Everyone," said Naysmith firmly.

Then why'd he ring you?" asked Joe.

The man's eyes rounded in a shock of indignation.

"Perhaps it's hard for someone like yourself to understand," he said, his toothless lisp exaggerated by his effort at control. "But Peter and I had been friends since school, we were like brothers, twins even. If one of us had been in the kind of trouble which could only be solved by big money, the other would have known. It's not a question of either of us being incapable of crime, it's a simple statement of fact.

We would have known. That answer your question?"

"I reckon," said Joe, thinking, Fafner and Fasolt, the twin giants, big, lumbering, simple-hearted souls. Montaigne might be a crook but he had a good nose for character!

The door opened behind him and Lucy Naysmith said, "You all right, dear? Anything you need?"

I'm fine," said Naysmith rather irritably. "And I really don't see why I should have to be treated like a terminal case. I always found when I got injured playing rugger that the longer you lay in your sick bed, the weaker you became."

"Yes, dear, we've all heard about the time you and Peter finished playing a match and you found you'd got three broken ribs and Peter had cracked his femur. Oh shit. Sorry, I shouldn't have said ... Mr. Sixsmith, when you're finished, do come down and have a coffee before you go."

The door closed. Signs of strain, thought Sixsmith. That's the trouble with the dead. You keep on forgetting they are, and each remembering is like losing them all over.

He said, "Think that's enough for now, maybe, Mr. Nay-smith. Thanks for seeing me."

"Any time, Mr. Sixsmith. The sooner they nail this bastard, whoever he is, the better. I hope to be up and about very soon, so perhaps the next time we can meet at the office. The further I can keep Lucy from all this, the better. It's always the ladies who suffer most, isn't it?"

This guy's upper lip is so stiff, it's a wonder Montaigne, or whoever, didn't bust his fist on it, thought Joe as he left the room. He needed a run-off, so making an inspired guess he pushed open the most likely door.

So much for inspiration. Not a bathroom but a nursery, all gleaming bright with cartoon characters on the walls, a cot and a rocking horse.

But Mrs. Naysmith had lost her baby and couldn't have any more, wasn't that what Butcher had said?

So this room, once lovingly prepared for new life, had become a memorial to a life that had never really begun.

"Oh shoot," said Joe guiltily. Closing the door he headed downstairs.

"No, I won't have a coffee," he said to Lucy Naysmith, thinking of his thwarted bladder. "Got to be somewhere."

"I hope that was worthwhile, Mr. Sixsmith," she said. Implied was, bothering an invalid on his bed of pain.

"I think so. And I thought he seemed pretty fit considering."

"Considering he's been murderously assaulted by a man he thought of as a friend?" she replied sharply.

"Yeah, well, the physical damage, I meant really. That'll soon mend."

"You have a medical qualification, do you?"

"No, ma'am. Just some practical experience," said Joe, gingerly touching his stitched-up skull.

For the first time she seemed to notice that he too was damaged.

"You've been in an accident," she said.

"Sort of," he said. "But I was luckier than your husband. At least I didn't lose any teeth."

"Teeth?" she echoed.

"Yeah. You know. His top fronts. That must be really painful."

To his surprise she laughed and said, "Oh no. That hasn't just happened. Another rugby souvenir. He always takes the plate out while he's sleeping. You mean, he's been talking to you without it in. That makes him sound like Violet Elizabeth Bott!"

"Don't know the lady," said Joe. "But I'm glad that's all it was. Look, try not to worry too much, Mrs. Naysmith. I really don't think there's any more danger."

"Really?" she said sceptic ally "Why not?"

"Because your husband was presumably attacked to keep him quiet. Now he's had plenty of chance to speak to the cops, no point any more in trying to shut him up, is there?"

She thought about this, then the nearest he'd yet seen to a smile touched her lips.

"You could be right, Mr. Sixsmith. Thank you. Thank you very much."

He left, feeling pleased with himself for having brought a little cheer into Lucy Naysmith's life. Always good to do good. Even if it took a lie.

Whoever it was, Montaigne or anybody else, who'd tried to silence Naysmith, he'd done it after the guy had talked to the police, so whatever reason he'd got could still be valid.

Also, until Naysmith got his memory back fully, switching it off forever could seem very attractive.

"Sandy," he said to the young cop in the car, 'if Sergeant Chivers checks you out, he's going to want to know how often you took a look round the back of the house too."

"Yeah, yeah," said the Scot with an attempt at a teach-your-grandmother inflection.

But as Joe drove away he was pleased to see in his mirror the young man climbing out of his car and heading up the drive.

Twenty-Three.

The year seemed eager to anticipate its own end. The sky was so overcast that early afternoon was already shading to dusk and a sharp blustery wind whipped leaves and crisp packets around Joe's ankles as he walked across Bessey Park.

The only other occupants seemed to be a man with a dog and a pair of youngsters in the bandstand, their hands deep into each other's clothing. Who needs central heating? thought Joe.

He'd made up his mind that Molly and Feelie had had more sense than he had when he saw them by the pond. The little girl looked impervious to weather as she scattered crumbs on the bank, then retreated shrieking as the hungry ducks advanced to peck them up. Her grandmother sat hunched on a bench, gloved, scar fed booted and hatted, and still looking cold.

"Joe, there you are, I'm sorry you've been dragged out on such a day, and all for nothing."

"No sign of her then?" said Joe.

"No. She may be mad but she's not stupid," laughed Molly. "Probably sitting at home with a cup of cocoa and a good book, which is where you and me ought to be. Come on, darling, or you'll catch your death and then what'll your mammie do to me?"

The child left her ducks with great reluctance and only after a promise of ice cream.

"Ice cream!" said Molly. "Oh what it is to be young."

As they walked out of the park, they talked of many things. She was an easy woman to chat with and Joe felt attracted to her on many levels, from basic lust up. Not that he was going to do anything about it. While not yet sure if his relationship with Beryl Boddington had passed the fidelity marker, he had no doubt about his relationship with Merv Golightly. In any case, even if the code of the Sixsmiths had permitted him to try and cut a friend out, Molly spoke of Merv with such obvious affection it didn't look a possible strategy.

"Will you come on up and have a cup of tea, Joe?" she asked when they reached the door of her flat.

"Don't think I've got the time," said Joe with genuine regret.

She opened the door and the little girl rushed in and started gathering up some advertising leaflets which had been pushed through the letter box.

"That's right, darling, see if there's any coupons. By the way, Joe, those leaflets Merv got Dorrie to run off, they doing you any good?"

For a second Joe imagined a sexual innuendo, then he remembered that Merv had been adamant that he didn't want Molly to know about the Sexwith cock-up.

"Early days," he said, recovering. But the second had been significant.

"Something wrong with them, Joe?" she said suspiciously. "Come on, I'm a country girl, I can smell bullshit two fields away."

"Well, not really, just a bit of bother with the spelling," he said.

"You mean Dorrie? You mean Merv didn't double check? I told him to make sure she'd got it absolutely clear in her mind! It's not her fault but she sometimes gets things jumbled, especially names. What did she put?"

Joe told her. She kept her face sympathetic long enough to check that he wasn't particularly put out, then she burst out laughing.

"Joe Sexwith! Mebbe you should have let it run, Joe, see what it brought you in! I'm sorry, but it is funny. But it's also a nuisance. I'll be talking to that Merv, never you fear! Some favour."

"Well, it didn't do him much good either," said Joe defensively.

"No? How was that?"

Oh shoot, thought Joe. Me and my big mouth.

But now he had to tell her about the telephone number.

She seemed to think it was poetic justice and Joe tried to extend the light-hearted moment by adding, "Yeah, and the really funny thing was, the number that did get printed turned out to be the ex-directory number of a lawyer who's probably going to be getting calls asking for a taxi for evermore!"

He saw at once he'd hit stoney ground.

"A lawyer?" said Molly, all smiles fled. "You sure of that, Joe? How do you know that?"

"I rang the number," said Joe. "By coincidence it was a guy I happened to know. Or know about, anyway."

No reason to go into the complicated and messy details. But Molly wasn't satisfied.

"What's his name?" she demanded.

"Look," he said. "Don't think I can tell you that. Not without knowing why you're so interested."

"His first name is all I need," she insisted. "That can't harm anything, can it?"

Joe couldn't see how it could, so he said, "It's Felix," and even before her gaze moved from him to the little girl playing on the hall floor, he had made the connection. Feelie, short for Felicia. Naysmith, the legal Lothario; Mrs. Mattison's reaction when he'd asked if she remembered Dorrie McShane from Freeman's; the irritated message on Naysmith's answer machine Your stationery order is ready for collection in a week when Freeman's was closed down for the holiday. That was what had been niggling at the back of his mind when he met the McShanes in Daph's Diner. Funny how inside a head which couldn't by any stretch be called big, the distance from the back of his mind to the front could sometimes be a trans-Siberian trek!

Inside the flat a phone rang.

Molly said, "Excuse me. Keep an eye on Feelie, would you?"

He squatted on the floor and took the leaflets the little girl handed him.

Felicia. Named by Dorrie after her lover. Who next time he got someone pregnant had married her. That must've been a slap in the face.

Up till then, Dorrie had probably convinced herself she was a modern liberated woman, able to take care of her own kid, though seeing no reason why her lover shouldn't shoulder his share of responsibility by paying for a nice flat and using his influence at Freeman's to get her a promotion. She might even have got her head round things if Naysmith had been married when first they met. But for him to get married after the event... The guy must have done some real sweet talking to keep her quiet. But left alone at Christmas, thinking of him and his wife, that had been too much, provoking the irritated message with its implied threat. See me, or else.

And the telephone number ... genuine error because Merv's happened to be close to Naysmith's? Or spotting the closeness, had she deliberately put Naysmith's as a small act of revenge for real and imagined slights?

None of his business either way. Keep out of domestics, unless very well paid.

Molly was talking in the background. She sounded agitated. The phone went down and she came back into the hallway.

That was Dorrie," she said. "Telling me not to worry, she might be a bit late to collect little Feelie."

"Yeah, well, youngsters

But her face told him this was more than just the usual lack of consideration.

"She's down at the nick, Joe," she burst out. "She was picked up trespassing in someone's garden, I can guess who's. Joe, why the hell should they be hanging on to her just for trespassing? I think there's more to this than she's saying."

Oh shoot, thought Joe, remembering his wise advice to the lad Sandy to patrol round the back of Naysmith's house. Why didn't he keep his big mouth shut? On second thoughts, it was probably better this way. If she'd made it to the house,

who knows what would have happened. Lucy Naysmith might have brained her!

Wise thing now was to play dumb, make sympathetic noises, walk away from it, none of his business, keep out of domestics.

Molly McShane wasn't even asking for help. But her warm confident face was suddenly careworn with uncertainty.

He said, "No, it's OK. She's just walked into something that doesn't have anything to do with her, but the police will be hoping to squeeze something out of it."

He gave a brief expurgated outline and Molly said, "Oh Jeez. That's my Dorrie, if there's a complication she'll get tangled in it. I'd better get on down there."

"Bad move," said Joe. "Especially with the little girl. All they'll do is start questioning you and get the Social in to take care of Feelie. No, Dorrie needs a lawyer."

"You're joking! That's how all her trouble started in the first place!"

This time we'll try a woman," said Joe.

He was lucky. Butcher had decided to close at midday because it was New Year's Eve, which meant that she was just about finished halfway through the afternoon. Her first response was No wayl but when she heard the details she said, "Oh hell. Poor Lucy. OK, I'll come."

He met her outside the police station to fill her in on detail he hadn't wanted to bring up in front of Molly.

She said, The bastard. I always knew he thought with his dick but I let Lucy persuade me he was beginning to give his brain a chance."

This did happen before he got involved with Lucy," Joe pointed out. "And at least he didn't walk away from the girl when she had his kid."

"And that makes it OK? Joe, look at the facts. He takes care of Dorrie and the child, uses his influence to make sure she stays in work, sets them up in a nice flat, probably picks up a lot of the tabs. So why's she ringing him up and going round to his house and trying to see him in hospital that was her tried to get in, I bet why's she doing all this, Joe?"

"Yeah, I got there too," said Joe. "He's still banging her and feeding her the one-of-these-days-we'll-be-together line."

"That's right. Whether he's serious or not, either way he's a lying conniving bastard, and after all Lucy's been through, losing the baby, the operation, everything, what is this going to do to her when she finds out, think about that!"

"I've thought about that," said Joe. "Wouldn't surprise me if she doesn't know already."

"Sorry?"

He told her about the woman in the park watching Molly and her granddaughter.

"Not much of a description, but it fits Lucy Naysmith," he said.

"Come on, Joe, it fits Maggie Thatcher too, and Princess Di," said Butcher. "You're really reaching. I know Lucy. She's not the type to go stalking her husband's mistress through the park."

The mistress isn't there," Joe pointed out. "Maybe that's significant too. It's the baby she wants to see, her husband's baby. Maybe seeing her without seeing Dorrie, she can imagine it's her baby too, the one she lost."

"Jesus, Joe, have you been reading those women's mags at the dentist's again?" mocked Butcher. But there was no real force in her scorn.

They went inside. The desk sergeant, who knew Butcher, didn't hang about but got on to the custody sergeant straightaway, who, equally alert to the consequences of messing with the fiery little brief, sent word up to CID. A minute later Willie Woodbine himself appeared.

"Joe, how're you doing? And Ms Butcher. What can I do for you both?"

"I believe you're holding Doreen McShane," said Butcher. "I'd like to see her, please."

"Would you indeed? Well, as you know, the important question is, would she like to see you?"

"Her mother has instructed me to act as her solicitor," said Butcher.

Woodbine was on to the second her in a flash.

"Her mother isn't in custody, Ms Butcher," he said, smiling.

"And Ms McShane being past her majority is entitled to nominate her own lawyer."

"And has she done so?" asked Butcher.

"In a manner of speaking. The trouble is, every time the subject comes up, she says she wants Mr. Felix Naysmith, which gives us a problem, as technically speaking he is in fact the complainant here."

"Don't think so," said Joe.

"Sorry, Joe?"

"If you ask him I don't think he'll be making a complaint about trespass," said Joe.

Woodbine's smile grew a little tenser and he said, Thank you for that, Joe, but as you know, the grounds on which we are holding Ms McShane are potentially rather more serious than trespass."

"Superintendent, are you going to tell Ms McShane that I'm here or not?" demanded Butcher.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to bring her along, thought Joe. She was great when she had a legal toehold, but at the moment she had no standing at all. All it needed was Woodbine to go and tell Dorrie that her loving mam had sent a brief along to take care of her fractious child, and that fractious child would probably say, tell her to get knotted! and that was Butcher scuppered.

Joe said, "Quick word, Willie?"

He could see Butcher didn't like it but for once she was going to have to lump it.

He and Woodbine moved out of earshot though not of sight.

Joe said, "Look, you must have sussed it by now, Dorrie McShane and Naysmith had a thing going, still have from the look of it, and she's got herself in a twist 'cos she read that he'd been hurt, and she wanted to see him, that's what this is all about."

"Oh yes, we know all about that because she's been telling us all about it for the last hour," said Woodbine. "Also that she believes he's going to leave his wife and take up with her permanently."

"Yeah, well, that's what guys like him always tell girls like her, isn't it?"

"Don't know, Joe. Haven't had your experience of playing around," mocked Woodbine.

Joe, who knew enough about Woodbine's wife to have made a smart answer, sighed patiently and went on, "I know the girl's mother. Socially. Look, I can't see how this can have anything to do with the Poll-Pott business, can you?"

"Why not? It was you who heard Naysmith say What are you doing here? when he opened his back door. Someone he knew, we guessed. Well, Ms Mcshane is certainly someone he knew. And from the sound of it, someone who might have had good cause to think she was being messed about by Naysmith."

"Come on, Willie," said Joe. "You're not really saying it was her that beat him up?"

"Why not? She's a well-made piece. What was it the poet said? Her strength was as the strength of ten because she'd been given the elbow."

It sounded like Simeon Littlehorn to Joe.

He said, "When Naysmith's memory comes back

"Don't think it will, Joe. Not if he's protecting someone. Or rather, protecting himself by protecting someone. I mean, he'd hardly want to point the finger at the girl if it meant having the whole affair blow up in his face, and his wife's face too."

Joe tried to find a counter argument It sounded like a lot of baloney to him, but finding the words to express his disbelief rationally wasn't easy. Then Woodbine's face relaxed and he laughed out loud.

"You should see your expression, Joe! Yes, I agree, it's very probably bollocks, but when that's all the bollocks you've got, you want to hang on to them."

"Got a moment, guy?"

It was Sergeant Chivers. Woodbine looked at him irritably, as if minded to tell him to take a hike, saw something in his expression which made him change his mind, and said, Try to keep your friend from punching holes in the walls, Joe. Back in a minute."

He went out with the sergeant. Joe rejoined Butcher, who said, "Got it sorted, have you? Just dragged me here for a bit of all-boys-together humiliation, did you?"

"You don't look humiliated to me," said Joe.

"So I'm a good actor. What's going on?"

"Don't know," said Joe. "But from the look on Chivers's face, something big has broken. I'd love to know what."

She looked impatiently at her watch.

Joe said, "I'm sorry. Look, if you've got a heavy date, don't feel obligated. I'll say you've gone to bribe a judge or something. Just the memory of you being here should be enough to persuade Willie to cooperate."

"Thank you for that," said Butcher. "But I'll hang around. I'm curious to see what it is that's going to screw up Lucy's life."

Joe scratched his nose reflectively. Butcher's usual line in maritals was that the man took all the blame with wife and mistress being equally abused. Obviously cases altered when it was your mate's marriage.

"What are you scratching your nose for?" demanded Butcher.

Joe was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Doreen McShane, escorted by Woodbine. To Joe's surprise she looked quite pleased to see him. Though why was he surprised? Luton's old police station was about as user-friendly as the Tower of London. While the walls of the interview rooms weren't actually stippled with blood and festooned with green slime, in Joe's dreams they were. Couple of hours in there and you were glad to see your tax inspector.

"We're letting you off with a caution this time, Ms McShane," said Woodbine rather stagily. "Please to remember that the trespass laws are much tighter now. You can't just go roaming at will over other people's property."

Dorrie ignored him completely and came straight to Joe.

"Hello," she said. "They said Mam sent you. Is Feelie all right?"

"Fine," said Joe. "Your mam would have come herself but she didn't think this was the place to bring the kiddie."

"She's right there," said the girl with feeling. "It's not the place you'd want to bring a sick parrot!"

While the detail of her judgement was blurred, its force was undeniable.

"Who's this?" said Dorrie, looking at Butcher. "You from the Social, or something?"

This was more like her old aggressive mood. To a young single mother, a visit from the Social was on a par with finding algae in your beer.

"No, I'm a solicitor," said Butcher.

"Solicitor!" Dorrie sneered. Joe, who was no good at sneers, observed the technique with envy. It was all in the lips. He rehearsed sometimes while he was shaving but it always came out like an apologetic smile.

"You have something against solicitors?" said Butcher sweetly.

Dorrie looked ready to describe at some length what she had against solicitors, but Joe moved in quickly. Yeah, the girl had a bright future in the slagging-off game, but this was a mismatch which could destroy her hopes of being a real contender.

"Doesn't look like you need a solicitor after all," he said heartily. "Willie, before you go ..."

The superintendent paused in the doorway.

"Something you want to tell me, Joe?" he said.

Joe went towards him. The girl would have to take her chances. Finding out what Chivers had said was more important.

He crossed his fingers and gave Woodbine his best smile. The superintendent was a natural trader. As long as Joe fed him the odd useful bit of information, such as who'd killed who and with what, he went along with the pretence that they were mates. But at the moment Joe had nothing to trade. Except his best smile and a little lie.

"Just wanted to tip you off about Mr. Pollinger," he said. "He reckons you're letting yourself get obsessed with Victor Montaigne. He says he's sure Montaigne will turn up any day now from his skiing trip and you're going to have to start over from scratch. And he said something about going to the same party as the Chief Constable tonight. Thought you ought to know, Willie."

Aunt Mirabelle used to tell him that little boys who told lies would find their tongue turn black and swell up like a rotten squash. He shut his lips tight and hoped the crossed fingers antidote would work.

Woodbine said, "Is that what he says? And I daresay you're happy to go along with it, Joe. I mean, he's only going to keep you on his books so long as there's something to investigate, right? Well, it's back to the Social Security, I'm afraid. We've just heard that Montaigne's car's been found with a body in it in a flooded gravel pit in Nottinghamshire. Tyre tracks straight in. Note in his wallet."

"Shoot," said Joe. "You mean he topped himself?"

"Looks like he took off from here after attacking Naysmith, headed up the Al, got to thinking the game was definitely up now that Naysmith could positively identify him, and said, Sod it! But we'll need a PM and a coroner to confirm that, so not a word, Joe, or I'll have your guts."

"But I can't keep taking Mr. Pollinger's money now I know the case is closed," said Joe, who'd been hurt by Woodbine's implication that he'd milk an investigation for his own profit.

"You'll just have to force yourself. I've told you more than I should have done, Joe. Don't break my trust!"

He turned and left. Some trust! thought Joe. Only told me to put me down after my little white lie about Pollinger and the Chief. Gingerly he touched his tongue. Seemed all right. Maybe lies in a good cause didn't count.

He turned his attention to the two women and was relieved to see no blood. In fact, they looked like they were getting on fine.

He should have known Butcher was no bully, especially when she could get what she wanted by sweetness and light. As he moved towards them he caught the tail end of their conversation.

"People can change," urged Dorrie. "No point in life otherwise."

"Maybe," said Butcher. "OK, yes, we can all be surprised. When he got married that surprised everyone. Of course, I

knew Peter better. I'd have said he was more likely, which just goes to show. But remember what I say, there's another woman involved here. It's you two ought to talk. I can fix that."

So Butcher was being true to her principles after all. Nothing wrong with a man that two women sitting down together and talking couldn't sort out. Except that he didn't reckon Dorrie had learnt much about sexual reasoning and compromise at her mammy's knee.

"I'll see," said Dorrie unconvincingly. "I'd just like to get back to my kiddie now."

She turned to Joe as she spoke, electing him chauffeur. He grinned at Butcher and said, Thanks for coming. Have a great New Year."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, heading for the door. She was already burning rubber out of the car park when they emerged.

When Dorrie realized they were making for the Magic Mini, she said, "Is this yours? Hey, this is really something!"

Joe, more used to you-don't-really-expect-me-to-get-in-something-like-that? reactions, was surprised and pleased. Whitey's reluctance to move from the passenger to the rear seat lowered the temperature a bit, but the atmosphere was still warm enough for him to launch a gentle probe.

"None of my business, I know, but we've sort of crossed tracks, with me being mixed up in this murder investigation. You must be wondering what's going on there."

Offering a trade, see if she'll bite.

"What do you mean, mixed up?" Wary but unobtrusive.

"Your friend's senior partner, Mr. Pollinger, has hired me to look after the firm's interests," he said, laying it on thick. "I was up on the Heights earlier today, interviewing Mr. Naysmith."

"You spoke to Felix? How is he?" she asked eagerly.

"You didn't get to see him then?"

"No! I was just coming out of the woods into the garden when this Scotch git grabbed hold of me," she said bitterly. "I took a swing and ran for it but I tripped over a sodding root."

"You hit the cop?" said Joe, wondering why there'd been no mention of assaulting a police officer, still the nearest thing to a capital offence in the constabulary book.

"Yeah. He should have tartan balls by now," she said with some satisfaction.

Case explained. Young Sandy hadn't wanted the mock sympathy of his macho mates enquiring after his first in-the-course-of-duty injury.

"So Mr. Naysmith's Felicia's dad?" he said casually.

"Who told you that?" she demanded. "Mam?"

"I'm a detective," he said wearily. "Her name. You going along to Poll-Pott's with the Freeman stationery order. Your voice on his answer phone saying an order was ready for collection when your firm was shut down for the hols

"You heard that?"

"Yeah, Willie, that's Superintendent Woodbine, played it to me," said Joe with the negligent air of the private investigator who was brought in by the cops to dig them out of trouble. "You got fed up of being stuck by yourself all over Christmas and thought you'd give him a sharp reminder you still existed, right?"

"Yeah, he's going to leave that bitch, but he's soft. He said he couldn't do it at Christmas, just let him get the holiday over and then he'd tell her, and I said OK, so long as this is the very last Christmas little Feelie spends without her dad. But it was hard, thinking of him with her. He says they don't do it any more but you can't be sure, can you? Not with a guy like Felix, he's always ready, know what I mean? But a deal's a deal and I sat it out Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, without hearing a word. I was sure I'd hear from him the day after Boxing Day, but nothing. So I thought enough's enough, and first thing the next morning I rang. When I got that sodding machine I nearly left a mouthful on it, but I thought, no, girl, play it cool, don't blow it now."

"Didn't want to make him angry, right?"

That's right. Two times men don't think straight, when they're randy and when they're angry," she said, with a throwaway expertise that made Joe feel sad.

"Didn't stop you putting his number on Merv's flier, did it?" he said.

She grinned wickedly and said, "He wasn't going to know that was down to me, was he? I didn't mean it, but when I realized I must have got it wrong, I was a bit pissed with Felix and I thought, so what? let it ride!"

"And my name? That an accident too?"

She looked at him blankly and said, "What?"

So, no malice there. He said, "Nothing."

They were getting close to Molly's flat.

She said, "You haven't told me anything about how he is."

"Nothing to worry about," he assured her. "He got knocked around a bit but just superficial, and he'll be fine. And I can't say any more, but I'm pretty sure he's not in any danger of being attacked again, OK?"

She fell silent till they were drawing up by the kerb. Then she said, "And her, what's she like?"

"Mrs. Naysmith? OK. A bit stressed, I'd say."

"Like he may have told her?" she said hopefully.

"Hey, I've only seen her since he got attacked," Joe said. That would stress anyone, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose. You coming up?"

He hadn't intended to, but there was an appeal in her voice which made him say, "Just for a moment."

Molly met them full of enquiries, but her daughter just pushed by her and went straight to the little girl who was sleeping in the bedroom.

"Kids," said Molly. "You keep boxing clever, Joe. Play the field, don't make commitments."

It was flattering to have his lack of opportunity designated as playing the field.

He said, "I think she'll be OK. The cops know what it's all about. I hope she gets sorted, Molly."

"This fella Naysmith, you reckon he'll play straight with her?" she asked.

Joe shrugged and said, "I really don't know the guy. I've only met him the once."

"That's once more than me," said Molly grimly. "Maybe it's time I made myself known."

"No!" yelled Dorrie from the doorway. "I've told you, Mam, you go anywhere near him, that's the last you'll see of me and Feelie."

This sounded like an old, much used threat, but it was clearly still effective.

Joe said, "You two want to talk. I'm out of here. See you around."

He turned to leave. Dorrie caught up with him at the door.

"Please, Mr. Sixsmith," she said. "Next time you see him, give him this."

She thrust a sealed envelope into his hand. He looked at it doubtfully.

"I've just said I'm sorry for causing a fuss and I know he'll get things right soon as he's fit," she said.

She looked fragile and vulnerable, like a child trying to act grown up.

"If I see him, I'll hand it over," said Joe. "But it won't be till ... I don't know."

That's OK. Any time will do," she said resignedly. "Happy New Year." And gave him a quick kiss.

Shoot! thought Joe as he walked down the stairs. Why did other folks' trouble bother him as much as his own?

And why did what had been intended as a prevarication sit on his conscience like a promise?

Twenty-Four.

And now the year was in its death throes. And if they were anywhere more violent than at the Glit's Hogmanay Hoolie, Joe was glad he wasn't there.

So intense was the crush that he'd had to be lifted over the heads of the crowd to sing his much admired version of "Roamin' in the Gloamin' as the night wore to its Caledonian climax. It was impossible to exist in such conditions without coming into more than usually intimate contact with your neighbour. As Joe's neighbour happened to be Beryl Bod-ding ton he had no particular complaint and she didn't seem to find it too distressing either.

Indeed, as the super amplified voice of Big Ben roared out the twelve notes of midnight it was Beryl who took the initiative in seizing Joe in a wraparound hug and pressing on his lips a kiss whose present fire was almost beyond bearing, but whose incendiary promise might have produced total collapse if there'd been room to fall down.

"You going to eat all that girl or leave some for Old Tom's breakfast?" enquired a familiar voice.

Reluctantly Joe eased back an inch and said, "Happy New Year, Merv."

"You too, my man. And Beryl, a very Happy New Year to you."

Merv Golightly pulled Beryl out of Joe's arms and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her lips. Molly McShane did the same to Joe, and though there was no competition with the hidden agenda of Beryl's embrace, it was, Joe had to admit, a very acceptable also-ran.

"Everything OK?" he asked when he finally surfaced for air.

"Fine. I said I'd sit in with Dorrie but she said no, it was silly the two of us spending the New Year on the shelf, so here I am. But I'll just go and give her a ring now, see she's OK."

"Yeah. Give her my best, will you?"

Think you've given that already, Joe," laughed Molly, glancing at Beryl. "Back in a mo."

She ploughed her way through the seething mob like a stately ship through a choppy sea. Someone struck up "Auld Lang Sync', and hands were joined in a series of concentric circles. The thought of the pressure exerted on those in the innermost ring during the ritornello accelerando made Joe wince, but the screams seemed to have more of pleasure than pain in them. Then out of the juke box erupted the Glit's traditional salute to the incoming year, "Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again!" and the circles were broken and everyone was jumping up and down, which were the only directions permitting the necessary violence of movement.

Back face to face with Beryl, Joe shouted, "How're you doing?"

"I'm doing fine. You got your breath back?"

"From what?"

"From your draught of Irish Cream, of course. Thought you were going all the way in."

For a happy moment Joe thought she was displaying real jealousy, then he saw the smiling mischief in her eyes.

"Not as young as I was," he said, giving a hippo yawn. "Way past my bedtime."

"You don't want to leave already, do you, Joe?" she protested. "And here's me got my sister to look after Desmond all night on the expectation I'd be dancing till dawn."

The mischief still there.

"Only takes two to dance," he said. Two and a bit more room than we've got here."

"In that case, what're we waiting for. Give me your keys!"

"Keys?"

"You don't think I've been drinking apple juice most of the evening so's I can be driven home by a drunken incapable."

"May be a bit drunk," said Joe, 'but there's no way I'm incapable."

"We'll see," said Beryl. "Let's go."

They fought their way to the door, moving out into the comparative calm of the lobby with some relief. Then Molly McShane emerged from under the phone hood and relief faded from Joe's mind as he saw her face.

"Joe," she said, 'she's not there, she's gone. I let the phone ring and ring and then I got worried so I rang the next-door flat' know the couple to say hello to, they've got a youngster and they sometimes trade baby-sits with Dorrie. Well, he went round to knock at the door and he came back and he says the door was open and the telly was on and there was a bottle of vodka, almost empty, and a glass, but no sign of Dorrie or little Feelie ..."

She was close to hysterics. Joe said, "It's OK, Molly, she probably just got tired of being by herself and went round to a friend's, you know, first-foot sort of thing. Or maybe she's even round your place waiting till you get home."

"You think so? She could be. Oh Merv!"

The lanky figure of Golightly had appeared from the bar. She ran into his arms. Merv held her close and said, "Joe?"

"Dorrie and the kid have gone walkabout," said Joe. "I think they've probably gone first-footing. Or maybe to Molly's. Why don't you take her home and if Dorrie isn't there, ring round a few of her friends, see if you can track her down? I've got to see Beryl home, she's not feeling too clever, then I'll get in touch, see what's happening,

OK?"

He kept his voice light and casual but his eyes signalled, "Get her out of here and keep her calm!"

"Yeah, sure, that's all it'll be," said Merv. "Come on, doll, let's be getting you home."

He urged Molly through the door.

"So what's going on, Joe?" asked Beryl. "And why am I not feeling too clever all of a sudden?"

"Didn't want to worry Molly more than she is," said Joe. "I think her girl's got trouble."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope Dorrie had given him and ripped it open.

The note was short and to the point.

You made a promise we'd be together in the New Year. Keep it.

"Any time will do," she'd said. And probably meant it. But sitting alone on New Year's Eve, watching the frenetic gaiety of the TV party rise and the level of her vodka bottle sink, she'd got to thinking, any time won't do. He said New Year we'd be together, and that's what's going to happen!

"I know where she's gone," said Joe. "I'll drop you at home first."

"No way," said Beryl, holding up her key. "I haven't stayed sober to see you driving off drunk, like some boozy Sir Lancelot. Where you go, I go, or nobody moves at all, right?"

"Hey, no argument," said Joe, surprising her. This ain't no war zone I'm heading for, this is just another unpleasant little domestic. Let's go."

En route he gave Beryl a quick picture of what was going on. She laughed when she read the Sexwith flier he pulled out of his pocket, but when he finished she said seriously, "Joe, this is unpleasant, OK, but I can't see how come you're so involved. I mean, the case you were working on's pretty well closed by the sound of it. Like you said, this is just a domestic involving people you hardly know, and none of them's paying you anyway. So why aren't we in my kitchen, sipping cocoa?"

"Was that what you had in mind?" said Joe. "Glad I didn't stay. Hey, keep your eyes on the road when you're hitting me! No, listen, you're right, none of my business. But it's the kiddie I'm worried about. I got this nasty feeling this woman in the park who's been stalking Molly and the kid may turn out to be Lucy Naysmith."

"You mean, she's known about her man and Dorrie all along and could be thinking that if she can't have a kid of her own, next best thing is one her husband's fathered on someone else?"

"It happens. And fighting over a kid's always nasty, but if the fighting's physical and the kid's actually there, it could be dangerous. Also I feel a bit responsible."

"Jeez, Joe, you and that conscience of yours! One of these days you've got to tell me what exactly you did to start the Second World War. How the hell are you responsible for any of this?"

"When Dorrie asked me how he was, I told her fine, nothing but a couple of superficial scratches. Also I told her there was no risk of him being attacked again."

"So?"

"So if I'd let her think he was in no fit state to make any decisions about their future, and also there was a permanent police guard on the house, maybe she wouldn't be on her way there now!"

"Joe," said Beryl gently. "We don't know for sure that's where she's heading. And even if it is, there's nothing in the rule book says you've got to go around telling lies to people to keep them out of trouble, specially when the trouble's not going to go away whatever you do or say."

Joe digested this. He knew she was right. But it didn't help.

It didn't help at all.

Twenty-Five.

It was party night on Beacon Heights. Every second house was ablaze with light, and music filled the air. The Woodbine residence was jumping. Either Willie had decided that the body in the gravel pit could wait another day for his personal inspection, or Georgina Woodbine was having a great time in his absence. Marble-Tooth of the SAS's house was in darkness. He'd had his bash the other night and was presumably flashing the molars at someone else's ceilidh.

There were lights on in the Naysmith house, but no sounds of music or merriment. And as Joe had anticipated, there was no sign of a police car on watch. In these cost-cutting times, police overtime was too expensive to waste an unnecessary second of, even on the Heights.

"Wait here," he told Beryl. "I shouldn't be long."

"Joe, maybe I should come with you."

"If it's not my quarrel, it's surely not yours," he said. "I need a nurse, I'll holla."

He gave her a kiss, which reminded him what his crazy conscience was making him miss. Then he set off up the drive.

The front door was ajar and his heart sank. Somehow he didn't think it had been left open deliberately in anticipation of first-footers.

He stepped inside. Natural instinct was to call out, "Hello, anyone there?" or some such implied apology for trespass, but he suppressed it. Anything he could hear to give him a pointer on how things were going before he got involved would be useful.

Except he could hear nothing.

A partially open door into the hallway spilled a line of light across the floor. He pushed it open. It was the room he was most familiar with, the study. The light came from a lamp on the desk, as if someone had been sitting there, working on the papers scattered across its leather surface. But the room was empty.

He went forward to the desk. According to Endo Venera, a sharp eye never missed a chance to read private papers on the grounds, you never knew when knowing something other folk didn't know you knew might come in useful.

A brief glance told him they were concerned with Poll-Pott, something about a partnership agreement.

What a more than brief glance might have told wasn't an option because at that moment he had a stroke. No other explanation for the way his head suddenly seemed to explode and he fell forward across the desk.

He seemed to be destined to come into close contact with this desk, he thought as he tried to force himself upward.

There were voices in the room now, or were they just inside his skull? He managed to get a few inches of space between his face and the woodwork, and twisted his neck in search of the source of the voices.

His blurring gaze found it, or the possible source of one of them, or maybe not. Lucy Naysmith's lips didn't seem to be moving. In fact, her whole face was unnaturally still. You'd think a woman swinging a golf club at your head would show some emotion. What kind of club was it? he found himself wondering as survival instinct and buckling knees combined to have him falling away from the next stroke. (Stroke. Perhaps that's where the word came from, ho ho.) Maybe it was a mashie-niblick, where'd he heard that phrase recently? The club head caught him on the chest this time and clipped his chin in passing. Lady needed to practise if she was going to improve her handicap. But she had the time, he acknowledged as he hit the ground and lay there, still as a ball on a nice lush fairway.

The voices were still talking ... something familiar about them ... Shoot! He must've hit the answer-machine button as he fell against the desk and these were the same un scrubbed messages he'd heard last time the Christmas greetings, the guy after a taxi, the pissed off client, Potter urging him to ring back, Dome's hidden threat... voices on the air, empty of meaning ... except that Endo Venera said that ninety per cent of what people said told you ten per cent more than they intended, so the sharp Eye was also a sharp Ear.

And he was right, realized Joe. The blow which had unscrambled most of his senses had sharpened that always pretty sensitive area of hearing that dealt with intonation and accent and sequence and all the other things which made listening so vital to a good gumshoe.

That's great, interposed another more cynical area of his brain. But shouldn't we be concentrating on why this nice ordinary lady is so keen to kill us and trying to find some way of dissuading her?

He said, "Feelie

The club upraised for the possibly final blow, paused.

He said, '... not yours ... hers ... Dome's ..."

"She promised," said the woman. "She promised ... in the New Year ... I thought that was why ..."

No, he thought, he promised in the New Year, not she. But it didn't seem a good time to correct a lady. In fact, the sensible thing to do was to agree with everything she said. The customer was always right even when she wasn't a customer and was also clearly teetering on the edge of her trolley.

"She will keep her promise," he said. "That's why I'm here. I'm Joe Sixsmith, remember! We met earlier. It's all under control. That's why Felix asked me to come."

A man could get addicted to this lying business, he thought. Specially when it kept your head from having a divot taken out of it.

"Felix asked you?" she said, lowering the club gently so that it rested on his chest. "He didn't tell me."

"Just in case of emergencies," said Joe. "And you've got an emergency, right?"

It seemed reasonable to assume that whatever was going on in this poor woman's mangled mind could be labelled an emergency.

"Yes," said Lucy Naysmith. "You see, I thought when I saw her she'd brought my little girl round like she'd promised. But when I tried to take her she started screaming at me. Felix told me he had to talk to her alone, and he took her upstairs, and I was in the kitchen getting a drink when I heard you and I thought it might be ... I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Mr. Sixsmith. If only Felix had told me you were coming. Let me help you up."

Suddenly she had become very middle-class hostess, full of concern for her guest's comfort. Joe let himself be pulled to his feet and though he would have preferred to remain upright in case she had another change of heart, he was so weak at the knees he couldn't resist when she eased him into one of the high-backed leather armchairs. He touched the side of his head. There was blood on his fingers. She poured him a glass of whisky from a crystal decanter. He drank it then reached for the decanter, soaked his handkerchief in the Scotch and gently bathed the broken skin. It felt very tender but his guess was no worse. He had, as attested by surviving many hard falls in his accident strewn childhood, a very hard head.

Finally, after another internal application of the very smooth Scotch, he said, "So Felix is upstairs with Dorrie and the kid, right?"

That's right. It will be OK, won't it, Mr. Sixsmith? I mean, I don't think I could stand any more

Her good-hostess veneer was very fragile. Beneath it she was crazed in every sense, her whole being ready to fly apart in unpredictable fragments.

Joe tried to bend his mind to the task of keeping her together long enough to regain his strength and find out exactly what was going on. But his mind kept veering back to the answer-machine tape. Dorrie's voice ... your order is ready for collection... and Dorrie telling him I was sure I'd hear from him the day after Boxing Day but nothing. So I thought enough's enough and first thing the next morning I rang.. He dragged himself back to here and now.

: "It must have been hard finding out Felix had fathered a child on Dorrie when you couldn't have one," he said

! sympathetically.

"Yes. At first I just wanted to kill them both," she said, very matter-of-fact. "But once Felix explained ..."

Explained what? This was important, but all he could think of was that the next morning had to be the morning of the twenty-eighth. But the message from Potter saying how urgent it was that Naysmith should come to town and meet

! him the next day hadn't been left till the afternoon of the

| twenty-eighth, not long before his own abortive meeting with Potter had taken place. Yet that message came on the machine before Dorrie's His head felt like it was splitting open. But he mustn't let a silence develop into which Lucy Naysmith's sanity might fall. He opened his mouth and discovered that miraculously not thinking about what was important had shown him what it was.

"Felix explained to you that he had made an arrangement for Ms McShane to hand over the child to you for upbringing," he said. It was quite obvious as he said it. Funny how all the best deductions felt like that, not triumphs of logic but so clear you'd have to be brain dead to miss them.

He had no problem accepting that even a bright, educated woman like Lucy could have been taken in. Man might need a degree in psychology to understand why these things happened but to recognize that they did happen all he needed was a bit of observation and a lot of human sympathy. He recalled his cousin Mercy who got sent down for fourteen days by some dickhead magistrate for shoplifting dolls after she lost her baby. They got her out on appeal, but the magistrate, who was quoted as saying that it was far too easy for criminals to hide behind a screen of psychiatric disability, was still up there, regretting they no longer chopped off hands for petty theft.

He found that this diversion from the mystery of the tape messages had allowed another deduction to pop up like a piece of toast. Maybe he should patent this not thinking. Endo Venera, eat your heart out! Peter Potter was in his chambers on the evening of the twenty-eighth because that was when he had his appointment to meet Felix Naysmith.

Except that was really crazy, a real not-thinking conclusion. He'd been there himself and heard Potter talking to Naysmith on the phone. And the police had checked that the call came from the Naysmiths' cottage in Lincolnshire.

No, the fault had to lie in his interpretation of the phone message ... the first phone message, that was, not the call he'd overheard ... though if one why not the other ... but how ... ?

Back to the present!

Lucy was speaking.

'... and she'd be happy with me, I know she would. I've seen her often in the park, you know. She always knows when I'm watching and gives me a smile as if she's saying, yes, I'd love to come and live with you. She knows how much I'd love her. I'd always take her for walks myself, I wouldn't let some other woman have her while I was running around somewhere else, I'd be a real mother ... what are they doing up there, Mr. Sixsmith? If you've really come here to help, you'll go up there this minute and tell them I'm tired of waiting ... he said in the New Year and that's where we are, isn't it?"

Oh yes. In the New Year. Felix Naysmith had been pretty free with his promises of what he'd do in the New Year.

But which promise would he keep? And how would he keep it?

Time to go upstairs and ask him, thought Joe.

Uneasily he rose to his feet, clinging to the arm of the chair for support.

Lucy was standing looking at the wall behind the desk.

"He always keeps his promises ..." she murmured. "I was pregnant, you know. It doesn't show ... perhaps if I'd let it show..."

What the shoot was she looking at? A photo on the wall ... a wedding photo ... a bride with long blonde hair which the wind was whipping across her laughing face ... but that was Potter's wedding, that was Mrs. Potter ... with Naysmith as best man ... Naysmith who'd surprised his friends by getting married, whereas Potter ... I'd have said he was more likely which just goes to show... Butcher's voice ... This tremendous surge of crazy thoughts made Joe's head so heavy he almost sat down again. But, doubting if he'd ever manage to rise again, he resisted. Till a voice from the doorway said, "So you're here too. That's nice and handy." At which he turned, saw that he was being addressed by a dead man, and stopped resisting.

Twenty-Six.

Peter Potter came slowly into the room.

It wasn't of course Peter Potter, but Felix Naysmith with the face-concealing dressings removed.

"Darling, why are you doing that to Mr. Sixsmith?" asked Lucy as Naysmith/Potter wrapped a length of fishing line round Joe's chest and bound him to the chair. "I thought he'd come to help."

"No, dear, far from it. And Mr. Sixsmith is like one of those black beetles in the conservatory. You keep stamping on them but he keeps scuttling away!"

"It's you been trying to kill me," said Joe.

"Certainly. You see, while I knew you were stupid enough to mistake me for Potter, and stupid enough for me to use you to give me an alibi when Lucy got so impatient she rang from the cottage an act of folly also, but one which in the event turned out very well I didn't believe that such monumental stupidity could keep me safe forever. Of course, when you rang me ... why did you ring me, by the way?"

"Believe it or not, it was an accident."

"Oh, I believe it," laughed Naysmith. "But it really frightened me for a second. Then I realized here was a marvelous chance to lay another red herring and also give me an excuse to cover my face up till I'd succeeded in disposing of you. Injuring myself so it didn't look self-inflicted was a bit of a bore, but we all have to suffer in a good cause. How's that? Too tight, I hope?"

"Darling, where's Feelie? Why haven't you brought her?" asked Lucy.

"She's upstairs in the nursery saying goodbye to her ... to

Dorrie. I felt she deserved that at least. She may be giving up the child but she's not entirely without feeling."

Joe shuddered. Looking at Naysmith's track record, it was entirely possible poor Dorrie McShane was indeed entirely without feeling. But he hoped not. This was a man who did not hesitate to kill in order to remove obstacles, but in this case, which obstacle did he want to remove?

He said urgently, "Mrs. Naysmith, Dorrie McShane doesn't want to give up her baby. Your husband's been lying to you. She loves the child dearly."

"No," she said. "All she's interested in is the money. That's all she's ever been interested in. That's why Felix had to keep on taking it."

"Keep on taking it?" echoed Joe. "Oh, shoot. You mean he'd started dipping his hand in while you were still working at Poll-Pott? I bet you helped him, right? No wonder he changed the habit of a lifetime and actually got married to you!"

"I resent that!" exclaimed Naysmith indignantly. "I love Lucy dearly, she knows that. All that I have done has been for our future happiness and that of our family."

He thrust his face close to Joe's as he spoke, but his expression didn't match his tone. A complicitous grin played on his lips and he gave Joe a big wink. This was a really cold piece of work, thought Joe. And it's only that coldness which is keeping me alive, and hopefully Dorrie too, while he works out how best to develop this situation.

Concentrate on the woman, he told himself. She's your best hope.

"He murdered Victor Montaigne, did you know that?" he said. "What happened, Felix? He too sharp for you? Got wind of what you were up to, so you offed him?"

Get him to admit it, see what her reaction was.

"Certainly. He was bright, dear Victor. But not bright enough to make his accusations in public. No, he waited till we were alone in the office after the Christmas party. I thought at first he wanted to propose taking a cut which would have been fine. But no, he just wanted me to know that he knew, and rather than spoil his skiing trip having to hang around and make statements to the police, he was postponing the revelation till after the hols. So I spoilt his skiing trip for him anyway."

"Meaning you killed him! You hear this, Mrs. Naysmith?"

"For heaven's sake," said Naysmith irritably. "You don't imagine you're telling Lucy anything she doesn't know? Who do you think drove my car up the Al while I drove Montaigne's with his body in the boot? Of course, when I made it look like suicide, I'd no idea how long it would take the pigs to find him. Worked out rather well."

They'll be able to tell he's been dead a week, not just two days," declared Joe with all the expertise of a man who'd read Venera's chapter on dating a body.

"After immersion in icy water? Hardly," said Naysmith. "But even if they do, so what? I never said he was the one who attacked me, did I? I'll leave recovery of that particular memory till everything's signed and sealed."

You had to give it to him, thought Joe, admiring what he knew he most lacked, the ability to think on his feet, to change direction in midair. No simple straightforward giant this, but a man wily as Loge. Yet he'd been like Wagner's Fafner in one respect in his lust for gold he hadn't hesitated to kill his fellow giant, Fasolt.

"And Potter? Your old mate. How come you had to off him too?"

"Yes, that was hard," said Naysmith, frowning. "Poor Peter had stumbled on something. Maybe Victor had dropped a hint, can't see him getting there himself. Of course, the first person he confided in was me, because I was the last person he would suspect. Silly ass then spent most of Christmas in the office puzzling things out. Didn't have much else to do, I expect. Rather a lonely type since all his sporting chums had got themselves married or partnered at the least. Deep down I think the dear chap was a repressed shirt-lifter, though he would have punched your nose in if you'd dared suggest it. Red hot on insurance claims. You ever get that problem of yours sorted, by the way?"

"I'm working on it," said Joe. "So what happened?"

"He rang me, suggested we meet. I came. He showed me what he'd worked out. It was clear as the nose on your face really. Everything pointed one way, I was the chap with his hand in the till. Only Peter was determined not to see it. But the others wouldn't let old friendship blind them, even if they felt it! So I thought, with Victor out of the way, there was a ready-made scapegoat if things got hot. No one knew I was here, eventually they'd find out Victor had never left the country, too good an opportunity to miss, so I did it."

Joe glanced towards Lucy. She'd wandered to the doorway and was looking anxiously up the stairs. No hope there, even if she had been listening, he guessed. While he didn't care to believe that her biological imperative would drive her to kill for herself, clearly it had taken her far beyond the point where anything her husband did for her alleged benefit bothered her.

"And Sandra lies?" he prompted.

"Sandra? When she got home after calling the police and giving her statement and all that crap, she rang the cottage to tell me what had happened. Lucy fielded the call, said I was down at the pub. Sandra gave her a blow by blow account. She really thought you'd killed poor Peter at that point. So when she mentioned some papers of Peter's she'd removed, she wasn't at all suspicious. She just thought they looked a bit confidential and didn't want some nosey cop taking them in as evidence and breaking our client confidentiality. I'd rung Lucy from a call box on my way home to say all was well. But when she told me this, I got to thinking that maybe once you got yourself off the hook, Joe, Sandra might start having silly thoughts. I didn't know what it was she'd taken, but I couldn't risk it leading to me. So I turned round and headed back into town."

To kill her on the off chance she'd seen something? Shoot, you really get off on this stuff, don't you?"

"No, indeed," denied Naysmith indignantly. "All I wanted was to double check."

He glanced at his wife who was clearly in a world of her own, then dropped his voice confidentially.

"I had a key to her flat, you see. We used to have a little thing going, you know what I mean. I let myself in and took a look around. I found the papers, quite innocent as it turned out. But alongside them I found a copy of our partnership agreement which she'd clearly just been studying. How's that for cold blooded? She finds one of her partners dead and heads off home to see how this will affect her own situation."

He sounded genuinely indignant.

That why you killed her, to teach her a lesson in etiquette?" said Joe.

"Don't be frivolous. The silly cow woke up and found me there what else could I do?"

"Yeah, I see how it was forced on you," said Joe.

"Funny thing is, I've been looking at my own copy of the agreement tonight. In the unlikely event Darby died before we took on anyone else, leaving me as the sole surviving partner, I would assume absolute control, wouldn't have to buy anyone's estate out or anything. It was a sort of protective device against some unforeseen disaster which might mean a sole survivor would find himself forced on the street. Interesting, that."

Not if you're called Darby Pollinger, thought Joe. This was a guy who now saw no situation which someone's death couldn't improve. Only reason he hasn't killed me yet is once he does that he's got to make his mind up who goes next. He could, of course, just make a run for it, change his identity, live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, but that option probably took all of two seconds to get the thumbs down. Not a real choice unless he'd got so much loot stashed away he could set up real security and live in style. But that would take millions rather than tens of thousands.

No, Joe guessed he'd decided to stay and play the game out. With Montaigne set up as patsy, nothing to worry about but Joe. And one of the women. Couldn't keep them both happy. Lucy was going to run amok if she didn't get the little girl, and she knew everything. Dorrie wasn't about to sit quiet either if she didn't get her man. OK, she presumably knew nothing about the killings, but she certainly wasn't about to give up her daughter. Not while she was alive. But dead, what more natural than that the natural father should hold his hand up and accept responsibility?

So one of them had to go. That was the debate raging in Naysmith's mind.

But which one?

And why am I worrying about them when I don't have no either/or working for me? thought Joe.

Time to try this thinking-on-your-feet game. Except he wasn't on his feet, he was on his butt with several yards of fishing line digging into his chest and arms, holding him to the chair.

Naysmith was regarding him almost sympathetically.

"Joe, you're not so stupid you can't see there's no way out of this for you, are you?" he said.

"You could gag me and make a run for it," suggested Joe without hope.

"No. If I'd got my hands on really big money, I might think about it. But all I've had is peanuts really, and a hell of a lot of it's been spent already. Being a fugitive doesn't bother me all that much, but being a poor fugitive, now that's something else."

To hear his own logic so emphatically confirmed was no joy to Joe. Being right was no fun if it meant being dead along with it.

Naysmith was moving behind the chair. Joe recalled Potter's broken neck and Sandra Iles's too. He felt those strong broad hands caress his hair. Had Mr. Takeushi told the martial arts class anything about resistance of fatal head holds when bound in a chair? If so, Joe hadn't been paying attention.

He thought of telling Naysmith that Beryl was sitting waiting for him in the Magic Mini, but aborted the idea almost before conception. Either Naysmith wouldn't believe him. Or he would check, and Beryl would be pulled into this mess by his side. Road accident, easy to fake, particularly when the driver had so much alcohol swilling around inside his veins.

The hands were taking, a grip on his head.

He said, "Which one of them goes?"

Lucy had come back into the room and poured herself a whisky. Her expression was still faraway, dreamy. She was probably planning outings and birthday parties and

Christmas treats. She was so certain of her future now that she could afford to be patient and wait for the final farewells to be taken upstairs.

Naysmith said, "Don't know. To be honest, it's not a choice I want to make. All the others, there really was no choice. But this ... look, what would you do?"

"Me. I expect I'd ring the Samaritans," said Joe.

"That's why you'd never have made a half-decent PI, Sixsmith," said Naysmith, tightening his grip on Joe's head. His hands felt really strong, which was a comfort. One quick twist and it should be over.

The telephone rang.

"Leave it!" snapped Naysmith.

But it was too late. Lucy had picked it up.

She listened and said, "Someone wanting a taxi."

The hands relaxed, let go of his head.

Naysmith said, "Give it here," and went to the desk.

Joe shouted after him, "Promise me you'll look after my cat."

Naysmith took the phone, said, "Piss off!" into the mouthpiece and banged it down.

"What did you say about your cat?" he asked.

"Just wanted to be sure someone would take care of it," said Joe.

Touching. Me, I can't stand the brutes," said Naysmith, moving back towards him.

Figures, thought Joe, casting round desperately for something else to keep the guy talking. Nothing came to mind. Fortunately his mind had a mind of its own.

He said, "One more thing, the phone reminded me, there was a message, couple of days back. Sounded like a guy I know. Doug Endor, the sports agent."

"So what about it?" said Naysmith, puzzled.

Joe didn't know what about it. His meandering mind which seemed incapable of fixing on his very real and immediate problems had just casually registered whose voice the call had reminded him of.

He said, "Nothing really. Just like to know, if we've got a moment to spare, what it was he wanted. Sort of last request, like in the movies."

Naysmith shook his head and began to laugh.

"Sixsmith, I'll be almost sorry to lose you. I swear if I was really rich, I'd dress you in motley and keep you around as my clown. But OK, last request. It will only take a minute to tell you and what difference is a minute going to make now?"

As it happened it made a great deal of difference to all kinds of people. Principally to Joe Sixsmith whom it kept alive.

This was because it gave sixty more seconds to Beryl Boddington who, growing tired of waiting, had strolled up Naysmith's driveway, noted Dorrie McShane standing at an upstairs window with her daughter, wandered along the side of the house, glimpsed Joe through a crack in a curtain sitting in an armchair with his head bleeding, ran across the road to Willie Woodbine's villa, demanded to speak to anyone sober in the house, and while she was waiting picked up the phone, dialled Naysmith's number from the Sexwith flier, and asked for a taxi. When she heard Joe's voice in the background asking for someone to take care of his cat, she had rounded on Woodbine with a sobering ferocity and ordered him to accompany her across the road. His wife, Georgina, opposed the move strongly on the grounds that it had taken her best social endeavours over many years to persuade her high-class neighbours that they need feel neither ashamed nor afraid of having a flatfoot in their midst. All this good work, she averred, would be destroyed if he marched into someone's house unannounced at dead of night, to invite them to help with his enquiries. "Point taken, Georgie," declared one of the hard-drinking senior officers who were inevitably the principal survivors of the party. "But it is New Year, isn't it?"

Upon which hint they acted; and over the road in Naysmith's study, as the big lawyer finished satisfying Joe's curiosity, and tightened his grip on his head prior to sending him in search of cosmic clues as to what it was all about, the door burst open to admit a gaggle of drunken cops, many of them clutching bottles in one hand and lumps of coal in the other, who cried, "First-foot! Happy New Year to one and all!"

To which Joe replied, from the top of his head and the bottom of his heart, "And a Happy New Year to all of you also!"

Twenty-Seven.

The eastern sky was growing pale and Joe Sixsmith had long been sober by the time he got to bed.

Making things clear to the police had never been one of his natural talents, and when the police in question were drunk as skunks, it seemed as if it might be quite impossible.

Naysmith was charming, urbane, a touch surprised, a mite indignant, and admitting nothing. Joe's bleeding head and fishing-line bonds he put down to his wife who, he explained to Woodbine, had been in an excitable if not to say unstable condition ever since the arrival of Dorrie McShane and the child. These two were found, locked in the nursery, a necessary precaution, Naysmith claimed, until he had calmed his wife down.

Joe kept on repeating over and over, "He was there at Poll-Pott's pretending to be Potter," but no one seemed very inclined to take in this piece of clinching evidence. Indeed, at one stage it seemed possible (though Woodbine later claimed he was hallucinating) that he would be locked up and Naysmith would go over the road to join the party. Then Lucy saw Dorrie and Feelie leaving the house.

Her explosion of fury, grief, despair, shocked everyone sober. Finally she flung herself at her husband's feet, clasped her arms round his legs and pleaded, "You promised, you promised, you promised

"Sorry about this," said Naysmith to the silent onlookers. "As you can see, she needs help. Come on, old girl. Pull yourself together. How about a nice cup of tea?"

Which was his fatal mistake. He should have chosen his words for his wife, not for his audience.

Lucy went very still, then slowly pushed herself upright and said in a level controlled voice, "You bastard. It's all been one of your little juggling acts, hasn't it? He likes to juggle women, money, murder because it confirms how much cleverer he is than the rest of us. I knew, I knew, really I always knew, but I let myself be fooled because I wanted so very, very much to have

For a moment it looked as if she would break down again, then she regained control and said, "So which of you gentlemen do I make my statement to?"

The police might have hung on to Joe even longer if Beryl hadn't insisted that he needed medical treatment and driven him away.

He got the treatment, not at the hospital but from the Magic Mini's medical kit in the car park of the Kimberley Hotel.

"Bet we look like a kinky courting couple," said Joe.

"Bang on the head doesn't improve your jokes," said Beryl. "That'll have to do. Now tell me what the hell we're doing here?"

"Someone I need to see," said Joe. "Call it first-footing."

It took a deal of hammering to bring Abe Schoenfeld to the door of his room. He didn't look pleased to see Joe, but it was Mary Oto who appeared behind him who really verbalized their displeasure.

Joe hadn't been brought up to indulge in slanging matches with women, especially not mother-naked women, so he stood there silent, waiting for the storm to rage itself out. But Beryl had no such inhibitions.

"Listen, sister," she said. "Why don't you button your lip and cover your butt? My man's vegetarian and can't stand the sight of raw meat before breakfast."

Joe registered my man and quite liked it. Mary stopped in mid word. Guessing this pause might be only temporary, Joe quickly got in, "I don't work for Endor. I do work for Zak. All I want is for her to win and be happy. If that's what you want too, we ought to talk."

Abe looked at him for a long moment then said, "OK. You got five minutes. Come in and talk."

It took longer than five minutes and long before he finished, Mary Oto had put on a robe and taken off her expression of implacable distrust.

At the centre of Joe's discourse was what Felix Naysmith had told him about Doug Endor.

"Remarkable chap," he'd said with apparently genuine admiration. "Next to no education, yet he can run rings round most people. You haven't been tangling with him, I hope, Mr. Sixsmith. I imagine he could walk rings round you."

"He recommended me for a job," said Joe defensively.

"Really? Then I imagine it was a job he didn't want done," laughed Naysmith.

You reckon? thought Joe. Well, I got this close to you, didn't I?

Which, when he came to examine it, was little consolation.

Keep him talking, he heard Endo Venera urge. Good advice. And besides, he was getting very bad feelings about Mr. Douglas Endor, that cheery Cockney vulture.

"You act for him then, do you?" he enquired. "He didn't sound like he thought you were doing such a hot job."

"Alas, even I cannot always mend what someone else has broken," said Naysmith. "In his early days he employed some East End shyster who was probably OK for small-time fiddles. I glanced at the contract he drew up between Bloo-Joo and this girl athlete, Oto. It creaked and groaned, but it did permit Endor to cream off an extra two or three per cent on top of his agreed commission without too much chance of detection. But Endor is bright enough to know that he needs a really expert hand to work on this new contract he's negotiating now the girl's hitting the big time, so naturally he came to me."

"That would be the Nymphette deal?"

"You know about it?" said Naysmith, surprised. "Then even you will have worked out it's going to be worth really big money and our friend, Endor, wanted to be sure he could plunge his hands in deep and still be able to face it out if anyone started asking questions."

"How does that work?" said Joe.

Despite his own desperate situation, he was genuinely interested and perhaps it was this plus Naysmith's delight in his own cleverness which made Naysmith carry on.

"What you have to understand is that all that Nymphette are concerned about is those parts of the contract which tie the girl up to do exactly what they require of her. They know exactly how much they're paying, of course, but the way that money is distributed is none of their concern."

"Even if they suspect her agent's a crook?" said Joe indignantly.

"Please, Mr. Sixsmith. He is her agent. They have already paid him a large sweetener in the form of a retainer in return for his guarantee that she will sign up with them."

"And here's me thinking putting in new gaskets was dirty work," said Joe. "What did you have to do to earn your money, Mr. Naysmith?"

"Me. Oh nothing really. Just design a whole chicane of riders and subclauses, addenda and annexes, which would make it virtually impossible for any two experts to agree just how much money there should be in any given place at any given time. Really fine legal work. I'm sorry I shan't get the chance to complete it."

"You mean you're doing a runner after all?" said Joe with sudden hope.

"Don't be silly," he said, touching Joe's head almost affectionately. "I shall be around, but I doubt if Mr. Endor will, at least as far as completing the Nymphette deal is concerned. When the girl signed up with him she was not so naive as to agree to anything more than a three-year contract, renewable only by mutual agreement. Of course if I'd had the writing of it, it would still have taken her ten years and the House of Lords to get herself free. But his shyster did it. Too late he asked me to look at it. Just before Christmas I sent him my reply, saying if she wanted out, there was no way to stop her and his best hope was to make sure the girl loved him so much, she stayed. From the tone of his message, I get the impression the girl has got wind of what an irredeemable crook he is and unless he can bind her in legally,

which he can't, she'll be off, and the only thing he'll be getting from Nymphette is a solicitor's letter asking for the sweetener back."

"Oh shoot," said Joe. "What a mess!"

"What a kind-hearted man you must be," said Naysmith curiously. To be so concerned about such an unworthy fellow when your own situation is so parlous."

"It's not Endor I'm concerned about," said Joe.

"Anyone," said Naysmith. "I almost feel a sense of moral pride at being the one to put you out of your altruistic misery."

"At which point," said Joe, looking towards Beryl with heartfelt gratitude, 'the cavalry arrived."

But the two lovers weren't very interested in his marvelous escape.

"Will Naysmith testify to this?" asked Mary eagerly.

"Doubt if he'll be able to spare the time," said Joe. "But who needs his testimony? I'll tell Zak."

Beryl regarded him with fond pride. Here was a guy so honest he couldn't grasp that other people might not accept what he told them as gospel. And he was right! What got him out of much of the crap he kept falling into with the police and others wasn't hard evidence, good alibis, or smart lawyers, it was that light of honesty which burnt in him, steady as the flame in a storm lamp. She'd shifted her judgement of the lovers, especially Mary, into neutral till she saw where Joe's exchange with them was taking him. Now she watched for their reaction, poised for either reverse or forward.

They exchanged glances, then Abe nodded and Mary said, "I think that should do the trick OK. But just give it her plain. I've tried coming at it sideways, which turned out to be a mistake."

"Don't know any other way but plain," said Joe. "What exactly is it you've been trying to tell her anyway?"

That Endor's ripping her off and she ought to dump the bastard first chance she gets!" declared Mary.

Her story. She and Abe had fallen for each other almost the first time they met and it was from Abe she discovered that Endor had asked for and got a substantial sweetener for advising Zak to accept the Vane University offer. This had prompted her to start looking more closely at the financial detail of the agent's relationship with Zak.

"He plays things like this pretty close to his chest, but I had a secret weapon. Our Eddie. He accessed Endor's private accounts and the Bloo-Joo account and I got a lot of pointers to what was going on, but nothing so definite I could show it to the law. Or even to Zak. Trouble is she's a really loyal person. I know that better than most. That was the mistake I made. "Stead of talking to her straight, I started trying to persuade her in simple commercial terms she'd be better off with someone else. At least two of the top sports agencies in the world are keen to sign her up, and with them the sky's the limit. But all that that did was push Zak's loyalty button. Endor had taken her on when she was nobody and it would be a pissy thing to do to drop him soon as she started making it big. As for me, I was being disloyal too, ratting on the guy who was paying my wages. More I argued, more I must've sounded like sourpuss Mary, the lousy loser."

Joe thought he could see how this might happen. Zak was no dumbhead, she knew what a deal of resentment must be swilling around inside her sister, which was why she had this deep down fear she might be mixed up in the betting scam. So anything Mary said about Endor would be looked at sideways and backwards. But now Mary claimed that she'd finally got copies of papers in Endor's private files which proved beyond doubt that the agent was on the fiddle.

That's what you were celebrating when I listened in on you in the locker room?" grinned Joe, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mary blush. "OK," he went on. "One thing's clear, Endor knows you're on to him else he wouldn't be getting so het up that Naysmith couldn't find a way round Zak's get-out option. Wouldn't have mattered too much if he could have got the Nymphette deal through before they split. I'd guess that an agent still keeps collecting for the old deals he set up even after he's been fired. But someone else will get the benefit of all his wheeling and dealing there and that must really have hurt. That's what probably pushed him into this gambling fix. Zak might be waving him goodbye, but at least he'd make a killing by getting her to throw the race, plus the satisfaction of seeing her humiliated before her home crowd."

They considered this analysis for a moment.

Mary said, "I guess I wasn't as fairy-footed as I thought, tiptoeing around his records."

"Don't blame yourself. He's really sharp," said Joe.

Like Naysmith, he thought. Both top guns in their villainies. Both guys with the kind of brains which worked out how to land soft even as they were falling off a skyscraper. And Joe Sixsmith nailed them both!

With a little help from his friends, he added modestly.

"So what do we do now?" said Abe. "We'd decided we didn't want to lay this stuff on Zak before the race. Now it makes even more sense to wait. Ironic if explaining why it's OK to win should upset her so much she loses."

This was more or less what Endor had said, recalled Joe. Sharp cookie.

"Could she lose?" he asked.

"This is no knock-over," said Abe. "She's up against some top names who wouldn't be unhappy at knocking the home favourite off her perch. She'll need to be close to her best."

"OK," said Joe. "I'll talk to her. Tell her it's all sorted, no problem, all details later."

And I'll make sure she understands none of her family are involved, except on her side, he added to himself.

"And Endor?" said Mary. I'll talk to him, shall I? My pleasure."

"No," said Joe. "I'll do that too. Better not to let it look personal, OK?"

Mary looked ready to give him a row but when Abe said, "He's right, lover," she caved in. Oh, the power of true love, thought Joe.

That just about wraps it up," he said. "Now we'd better all head for bed else none of us is going to be around to see Zak run!"

At the door, Mary came up to him and said, "All that crap I spewed out earlier, I'm sorry, OK?" And kissed him.

In the lift he felt Beryl looking at him. "What?" he said.

"Nothing," she said. "Just that for a short, balding guy without regular employment, you sure get a lot of kisses." "I had a deprived adolescence," he said. "Come here."

Twenty-Eight.

Unlike the lifts on Rasselas, which moved so slow a man could write a couple of chapters of his memoirs between floors, the Kimberley's hit the ground too quick for the embrace to develop into anything. But there was a moment outside Beryl's flat when a kiss that started as Good night was rapidly transmogrifying to Hellol Then Beryl gently but firmly pushed him away.

"Rain check, Joe boy. You did good tonight. You don't want to mess it all up by sleeping in in the morning."

"You seen the time?" he said. "It is morning!"

But she was right. He went home, set every alarm clock in the house, climbed into bed and fell into a sleep which was instantly disturbed by the telephone ringing.

"Just thought I'd make sure," said Beryl.

He looked at his bedside clock. Three hours had passed. He felt worse than he had before.

A hot and cold shower put him on the road to recovery and the Full British Breakfast left a passable imitation of normality.

The streets were unnaturally quiet as he made his way to the Oto house. Luton was obviously groaning under a gigantic communal hangover. Leaning on the gate post outside the house was a familiar figure.

"You look terrible," said Starbright. "You're too old to be up all night celebrating, boy!"

"Don't the Welsh recognize New Year then?" said Joe.

"Don't be silly. Can't recognize what you've never seen before, can you?"

Starbright was obviously in sportive mood.

Joe said, "You'll be glad to know, that business, we've got it sorted."

Thought we had it sorted yesterday," said the Welshman suspiciously.

"We were wrong," said Joe. "It wasn't Mary and Schoenfeld. In fact, they're the good guys. It's Doug Endor."

Starbright chewed over this for a while but, rather flatteringly, required neither evidence nor explanation. Finally his face cleared.

"That's all right," he said. "Never did like that slimy bastard. It'll be a pleasure to rearrange his face."

"Fine," said Joe. "But not till after the race, promise? Don't want to upset Zak."

He saw he'd found the magic formula and headed up the path.

Mrs. Oto opened the door to him with a big smile.

"Joe, come on in. You're our first-foot, we had a nice early night last night what with the race and all."

Joe hesitated, saying, "Shouldn't I be tall, dark and handsome with a lump of coal or something?"

"Not going to quarrel over a lump of coal, are we?" said Mrs. Oto. Which when Joe worked it out was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him.

He went in. She gave him a kiss. Henry Oto appeared and shook his hand. Eddie, on his way up to his computer said, "Hi, Joe." And last but by far the best of all, Zak herself came running down the stairs and when she heard Joe was their first-foot, insisted on kissing him also.

This felt like it might turn into a good year.

She said, "Come upstairs. I've got something for you."

He took the opportunity as they ascended of passing on the good news.

"It's all OK," he said. "It's all taken care of. I'll save the details till later, but there's no threat, you can run as fast as you like, so long as you whup the rest of them."

And now came a surprise which was that she didn't show any.

"Yeah, that's great, Joe. Doug told me yesterday but it's good to have it confirmed."

"Doug?" he said stupidly.

That's right. Like you asked him to, that's what he said. He didn't jump the gun, did he?"

"No, no. Just told you it was all sorted, no more problem, is that right?"

That's it." She was looking at him puzzled and he forced a smile.

"So what's the routine?" he said heartily.

"Few exercises this morning, nothing heavy. Light lunch about midday. Get down to the track couple of hours before the race. Nice gentle warm-up. Last long suck at the old Bloo-Joo to bring my energy level back to top line. Then out in front of the fans, take the cheers, get them all inside me, forget about the people, focus everything I've got on what's to come, ready steady go, and run like hell!"

"Sounds easy," said Joe. "Maybe I'll try it. You said you had something for me?"

That's right. Here we go."

She handed him an envelope. He opened it. It contained two tickets to the mayor's reception that evening.

"Hey, these are for VIPs," he protested.

"Joe, you're my VVIP," she said. "Where would I be without you? This is your evening as well as mine in many ways. Promise you'll come."

"I promise, I promise," said Joe, who'd have promised to sign the pledge if she'd asked him with that smile.

But his concern about Endor's tactics was strong as ever. He left Zak's room and knocked at Eddie's door. The boy invited him in.

"Eddie, do me a favour. Those bets you tracked down the other day, can you check if they're still on?"

"Easy peasy," said the boy. "First time takes time. After that, you know the way."

It took a few minutes all the same.

"Still there," said Eddie. "Plus there's a lot more money."

"Laid on Zak losing?"

That's right."

This made things even more puzzling. OK, so Endor had decided he was so close to being rumbled, his best move was to play innocent, bluff it out. And OK, so it might not be easy to withdraw a bet once made. But this putting more money on, that was crazy. Unless it wasn't Endor?

He found himself looking with renewed suspicion at Mary when she turned up with Abe, then scolded himself. No one could be that devious. Could they?

He told her what had happened and was glad to see that either she was as taken aback as he was, or the greatest performer since Gary.

"He's a devious bastard, we'll need to watch him," she said.

"If he's around to watch," said Joe, thinking that in the same circumstances he personally would be long gone.

On the way to the Plezz he watched Zak carefully to see if there was any sign that she'd been got at again. When they got out of the car, he let her stride ahead and whispered to Starbright, Tick up her locker key. Check out that it's OK, no little messages."

"You think there might be?"

"Just a precaution," assured Joe.

The Welshman hurried away. Joe caught up with Zak and thought of some excuse to delay her, but found he didn't need it. As they entered the building the first person they saw was Douglas Endor.

"Zak, my girl, you look gorgeous. Happy New Year."

He kissed her cheek then grabbed Joe's hand and shook it enthusiastically.

"And you too, Joe. Happy New Year."

This is crazy, thought Joe, looking at his friendly, smiling face. Either this guy's got religion or he's on something.

They stood for a few moments while Endor described a party he'd been at the previous night which had ended with his two snooker proteges playing a challenge match on the municipal bowling green.

It was a good story and Zak went on her way, laughing.

That's the way to do it, Joe," said Endor. "Some people need hyped up. With Zak, I never mention the race, just tickle her fancy with a joke or two. If she goes off laughing, I know that chances are she's feeling good enough to win."

This was getting too much.

Joe said, "Mr. Endor, it's over."

"Mr. Endor? Doug, Joe. Thought we'd got that settled. What's over?"

The game. We know what's going on. Zak knows there's no danger any more."

"Yeah, I told her. You asked me to, remember? You done a really good job, Joe. I know it's Zak who's paying you, but I'd like to give you a little bonus."

He put his hand into his inside pocket. If he pulls money out, I'll have to hit him, thought Joe unhappily. It was his experience that people who got hit usually hit back. But it wasn't bank notes, Endor produced, but a pair of the ornately engraved invitation cards to the mayor's reception.

"Hottest ticket in town," said Endor. "Can't make it myself and it seems a pity to let them go to waste. Bring your best girl."

He walked away with that jaunty, bouncy step which told all the world, Here comes the most successful guy you 're likely to meet in a long day's walking.

What the shoot's going on? wondered Joe, putting the invites with the others. Either I got it all wrong or this guy's a runner for the Best Actor Oscar.

It was deeply worrying. From what Mary had said, Endor made big bucks but he spent as big as he made, and most of his bets if they were his bets would be in electronic money. Once he lost, however, the bookies would look to see it turn into hard cash. And if it didn't... he recalled one of Aunt Mirabelle's more fearsome exhortations Better you owe money to a Chinese bookie than you risk the wrath of the Lord. He doubted if his aunt had had much experience of the profession, but anything that came even a distant second to her angry God was best avoided.

He went along to the viewing cafe and ordered a whole pot of black coffee. The place was bustling with early arrivals, but he found a table to himself at the highest level right under the big TV screen. ITV was carrying the meeting and from time to time they flashed up shots of the Plezz with hyped-up trails of the excitements to come. There was a recorded interview with Zak on screen when Beryl plumped into the seat beside him.

"Gets everywhere, don't she? But she is beautiful," said Beryl.

"Yeah."

"Hey, you could try, not as beautiful as you, my love, or some flattering crap like that," said Beryl.

"Yeah. Sorry. Where's Desmond?"

"Where you think? Up at the counter, my sister's buying him some junk food. So why're you looking so miserable, Joe? Thought this would be Sherlock Holmes's finest hour."

"You reckon? When he solved a big one, didn't the villain usually snarl, Curse you, Holmes! and jump over a waterfall or something?"

"Something like that. What's up? Endor not obliging?"

"No. Maybe villains don't act that way any more. Maybe they're like politicians. You get found out, you just move over to a better paying job in the City. I mean, what would you do if you found out your carefully planned and highly profitable crime had been blown?"

"Well, I guess I'd move on to Plan B, and it would be even worse. Hey, my love, you going to eat all of that? You make yourself sick, I'll hose you down with ice-cold water, you hear?"

She was addressing her young son, who came towards them carrying a tray laden with burgers, a banana split, and a glass of liquid so blue it was almost fluorescent.

"No, it's OK, you can eat anything so long as you drink your Bloo-Joo, that's what Zak drinks and it makes you real healthy," declared the boy solemnly. "See."

He looked up at the TV screen where the interview had broken for the commercials, first of which was Zak once more, puffing the virtues of her favourite drink. It ended with her taking a long pull at a bottle, getting down on a start-line and sprinting off into the distance.

"Give herself indigestion if she does it like that," observed Beryl. "And you'll give yourself indigestion if you eat all that. Joe, give the boy a hand here."

But Joe was on his feet. He ruffled the boy's hair and said,

"I expect you can manage by yourself, eh, Des? Me, I've got work to do round here. Beryl, thanks. She's no way as beautiful as you, believe me."

He stooped, kissed her cheek and moved away purposefully.

"Work?" said Beryl's sister, who'd just arrived in time to see Joe leave. "You don't mean he's got himself a job at last?"

She was allied with Aunt Mirabelle in refusing to believe that being a PI was a suitable job for a man. Where they differed was that she reckoned that any alliance with Joe would drag Beryl down, while Mirabelle was convinced it would be his salvation.

"I think he may have," said Beryl, touching her cheek. "But I wish I knew what it was!"

It was a good meeting with many fine athletes and some stirring contests, but for the vast majority of the spectators, it was all hors d'oeuvres in preparation for the main course. At last the moment came. The simple appearance of Zak Oto on the track produced an eruption of applause which far out-decibel'd even that given to the most popular winners so far. She turned a full circle, acknowledging it. Then she shut it off. It was a visible act, like turning off a light, and the roar of the crowd faded in response to the intensity of that self-focusing. Watching her remove her tracksuit was like watching a priestess disrobe for some arcane ceremonial. She was all beauty, not just of feature and shape, but of purpose. Beside her the other athletes looked awkward, angular, flat-footed almost. Not that they were. This was no fixed fight, no mismatch in which the contender knocks over some has-been in the first round as part of a triumphal progress to the big time. Here were champions, record holders, Olympians. And for the first part of the race they ran like that, with Zak always in touch, but never closer to the front than third or fourth, and there was just a touch of anxiety in the encouraging roar of the crowd. Then with two laps to go she emerged, so swiftly, gracefully, effortlessly, that at first it was as if the crowd didn't notice, or couldn't believe what they were seeing. One moment she was nowhere, next she was in front, and with every flowing stride she was going further ahead. The roar of the crowd climaxed, encouraging no longer, but triumphal, celebratory, warm with love and intoxicated with delight, and a touch self-congratulatory also in the knowledge that this wasn't just a here and now event, this was one for all time, this was one to savour around future firesides when you would win the envious respect of fellow sports lovers by the simple declaration I was there.

It came as no surprise to anyone when on the huge electronic Scoreboard there flashed the message WORLD INDOOR RECORD!

Joe, standing high up at the back of the steep tiers of seats overlooking the finishing line, had cheered himself hoarse. Below on the track Zak was being embraced by Abe Schoenfeld.

"The girl done well," said a voice in his ear.

He turned to see Doug Endor standing alongside him.

"She's the greatest thing since ..." Joe's imagination failed him. He went on, "You must be sorry you won't be handling her in the future, Mr. Endor."

Endor said, "Not really. Got my reputation to think of, haven't I?"

This cryptic comment came out like a sneer. It was cutting-the-crap time, Joe decided. Casually he said, Thing puzzles me, the card on her pillow, how'd you manage that?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," said Endor. "But if I had wanted to leave a card in her bedroom, I might have gone up to the John while I was visiting, slipped into her room, stood on her bed, and stuck the card to the ceiling with just enough tack to hold it there a few hours but not forever. Bright-coloured card would never be noticed in the crap she'd got up there already. Of course, I'd need to be really lucky for it to flutter down right on her pillow, but fortune favours the brave, they say."

Joe recalled the mark he'd noticed on the postcard. He'd thought there might have been a stamp there. Idiot! Endo Venera would have been on to that like Whitey on to a pork scratching.

He said, "Brave? Making her think her family might be involved was brave?"

"Nothing personal. Just a way of keeping the cops out. Like recommending some local shoestring gumshoe might have been a good way of stopping her hiring some high-powered, hi-tech firm who could have been really dangerous, if I'd done something, which of course I haven't."

Below Zak had run to where her family were sitting and was joined with them in one huge communal hug.

"Oh, you did it all right, Doug," said Joe. "Only thing that's hard to figure is, how come you're so laid back about falling flat on your face."

"Joe, who needs aggro? Life's nothing unless you take time off to sniff the flowers. Just look at that girl. Isn't that real happiness? And can't I feel proud I had some part in creating it?"

Below, Zak, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses, was doing a lap of honour, pausing from time to time to blow kisses and throw blooms to the adoring crowd. Tears were streaming down her face, but she was one of those rare creatures whose beauty not even weeping could destroy.

They didn't want her to go ever, but after three such laps, Abe took her arm and spoke into her ear and with one last wave she turned and ran down the tunnel.

"Better get down there and say well done," said Endor. "After all, for the next few days I'm still her agent."

Joe followed him down the stairs. They flashed their passes at the security guard and went into the corridor which led to the changing rooms. There was quite a press of people down here too and ahead they could see Zak and Abe outside the medical-examination room, talking animatedly to a group of three men and a woman. After a while Zak shrugged her shoulders, patted Abe on the shoulder and went into the med. room with the woman.

Abe looked round, saw Joe and came towards him.

"What's going on?" asked Joe.

"AAA's drug-testing team," said Abe, avoiding looking at Endor.

"Shoot. Were you expecting them?"

They do random tests. And naturally they're at all the big medal meetings, so the winners can expect to get a going-over. But I didn't think they'd come along to something like this, inaugural meeting, nothing at stake but a town's reputation."

"She did break the world record, perhaps that's it," suggested Joe.

"No. I think there's more to it. From what one of them let slip, they had some kind of tip-off. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Endor? Trying for one last smear before you go?"

He thrust his face close to the agent's, no longer attempting to conceal his dislike.

"Now why the hell should I do that, Abe?" enquired Endor. "Zak's clear, ain't she? You must know that, you're her coach. And if she's clear, what would be the point? Of course, if there's something to hide ..."

Joe moved in quickly as Abe bunched his fists.

"Better get back there, Abe," he said quietly. "I'll look after Mr. Endor."

With one last hating glance, the coach moved away.

Joe turned to Endor.

"I really don't like what I'm thinking," he said.

"And what's that, Joe?"

"You couldn't be so low, could you? Oh shoot, now I see you close up, I believe you could!"

"Could what, Joe? You lot are all the same, you seem to talk English, only a lot of the time us poor natives can't understand a sodding word you're saying."

"I'm talking about fixing for Zak to take in some kind of banned drug, then tipping off the inspection team so she'll test positive. If that happens she'll be disqualified and anyone betting on her not winning will cash in. But there's more than that, isn't there? I bet you were almost pleased to have to fall back on Plan B. This way not only do you get your money, you get your revenge. She'll be finished forever, won't she? And probably Abe with her. That's why you've given me your tickets to the mayor's reception, isn't it? You reckon it's going to be the biggest wake this town has ever seen. Endor, you're so low, you make dung beetles walk proud!"

The agent shook his head in a bewilderment belied by the pleasure in his eyes.

There you go again, Joe. Talking in tongues. If it turns out that Yank has been feeding poor little Zak funny pills to make her run faster, then there'll be nobody more sorry than me. In fact, I may be so sorry that I'll have to sell my story to the papers to let the world know I don't think it's all her fault. Joe, you don't look so well."

Joe had staggered slightly and was leaning up against the wall.

Think I've been overdoing it," he said. "Not much sleep last night, got a bang on my head, all this excitement."

"Shall I get a St. John's man to look at you?" enquired Endor solicitously.

"No," said Joe. "Just need a pick-me-up. Wonder if this stuff will do all that Zak says it does."

He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a bottle of Bloo-Joo.

Endor stood very still, his eyes fixed on the bright blue liquid.

"Yes," said Joe. "I thought, Zak says she always has a swig before a race, last thing she takes. Maybe it's not just any bottle which does her so much good, it's that particular bottle. So I did a naughty thing. I helped myself from her bag. What do you think, Mr. Endor. Something special in that bottle, maybe?"

Endor's hand snaked out and twisted the bottle out of Joe's grip.

"Hey, man, what are you doing? Shoot, some poor sod's going to have to mop up that mess."

The agent had unscrewed the top from the bottle and was pouring its contents on to the floor.

"Sixsmith, you're dead meat, you'd better believe it. I don't know if you're more or less stupid than you look, but I do know you're dead meat."

Joe's eyes opened wide as if at some stupendous revelation.

"Shoot! You're not telling me you really did spike Zak's

Bloo-Joo so that when she was tested she'd respond positive and get disqualified and banned for life? In that case I'm so very, very glad."

"What?" Endor's fury turned to puzzlement. "You're glad? What have you got to be glad about?"

"Glad that I handed the bottle I really took from Zak's bag over to the police for fingerprinting and analysis," said Joe. There's Superintendent Woodbine and his friends now. I think they'd like a word with you. Hey, man, where do you think you're going?"

Endor foolishly made a run for it but, as the corridor led directly out into the tunnel, all that happened was that the crowd was hugely entertained by the last track event of the afternoon which consisted of several men in uniform pursuing a man in a mohair suit. It was no contest. Mohair was out of breath after twenty yards and the first of his pursuers brought him crashing to the ground right across the finishing line.

"Should have drunk up his Bloo-Joo," said Joe Sixsmith.

Twenty-Nine.

As forecast, everybody who was anybody was at the mayor's reception in the Pleasure Dome.

Joe was there with Beryl, who was impressed despite herself by his possession not only of the invitations which got them admitted but a couple of spare ones that got Merv and Molly admitted too. He didn't mention their source but tried to give the impression a man with his connections had an endless supply.

He'd been a little surprised to see Molly.

"Glad you could make it," he said. "Thought you might have to stay at home and baby-sit. Both your babies. How's Dorrie taking it?"

It being the realization that her child's father was a crook and a killer.

"Steady," said Molly. "She's cut up, naturally. But she's a sensible girl. Like her old mammy, it took her a lot of time and tribulation to tell a prince from a prick, but she'd just about got there already. It was pride as much as anything made her head round to Naysmith's. Didn't like to think he might actually choose his wife before her. Now it's dawned on her that he wasn't just making up his mind which of them he should dump, but which of them he should kill, she's starting to realize she came off lucky. It'll take time, of course. The flat'll have to go, so she's moving back in with me. I don't mind. Gives Merv and me an excuse for some long nights baby-sitting in front of the fire. Neither of us getting any younger."

"Speak for yourself, doll," said Merv. "Have you clocked that Zak? Takes twenty years off a man, that does!"

"In your dreams," said Molly. "And then you'd wake up embarrassed."

Darby Pollinger was there, of course.

He approached Joe and said, "Well done, Sixsmith. I had a feeling I could rely on you. Don't stint on your bill now."

"I won't," promised Joe. "Finances looking OK, are they?"

Pollinger raised his eyebrows at this piece of cheek, then said equably, "We'll survive. I'm a little short of partners, that's all. Fortunately I have a key-man indemnity policy covering all of them, in case of sudden death or disability, so that should sweeten the pill till I get replacements."

"Would that be with Penthouse?" asked Joe.

"Indeed." They shared a tasty moment, then he went on, "By the way, I asked my chum there to take another look at your car claim. As I pointed out, can't afford to have a local celebrity as a dissatisfied customer, can he? Daresay you'll hear something shortly. Cherry, my dear, how very timely. I was just telling Mr. Sixsmith how desperate I am for top-flight assistance. How would you like to make an immoral penny temping, as 'twere, for a few weeks?"

Butcher had joined them. Joe did a deliberate double take to register his three-fold surprise: one, that she was present at this elitist, up market event; two, that she was on such friendly terms with Pollinger; three, that she didn't kick him in the crotch for his disgusting suggestion.

She said, "Cost a lot more than a penny, Darby."

The labourer is worthy of her hire," said Pollinger. "I'll ring you."

He moved away.

"Not a word, Sixsmith," warned Butcher.

"I don't know words like that," said Joe. "Listen, how's your friend?"

He'd rung Butcher and put her in the picture about the Naysmiths.

"Badly in need of help and I don't just mean legal. I blame myself a lot. I knew what a bad way she was in after the op." but then suddenly she started to pull out of it, and instead of looking for reasons, all I did was think, thank Christ for that, one less thing for me to worry about."

"Butcher, you're not a trick-cyclist," said Joe gently. "You can't be responsible for everything."

"Jeez, this is the donkey telling the cow it shouldn't crap on the grass," said Butcher acidly.

But she was smiling affectionately and suddenly she reached up, gave him a kiss and said, "You did good, Sixsmith," before moving away.

Across the room he caught Beryl watching him. She made a comic there-you-go-again face.

Joe turned away, smiling, and bumped into something solid. It was Starbright Jones.

"Hi," said Joe. "Enjoying yourself."

"Not here to enjoy myself. Some of us are still on duty."

"Sorry. Look, I was thinking, that voice of yours if you're interested, why don't I introduce you to Rev. Pot who runs our choir? He'd be knocked out, I'm sure."

"Now that's real friendly of you, Joe," said the Welshman. "Only I shan't be around long enough to learn a part, see. Zak's putting me on the payroll permanent. I'm going across the water with her, keep her safe from them heathen Indians and such."

"That's great," said Joe sincerely. "Send me a postcard."

They shook hands, which was a mistake. Joe was still nursing his crushed fingers when Jim Hardiman touched his elbow.

"Hi, Hooter," said Joe. "Oh, sorry."

"Joe, why do you apologize every time you use that old name? I don't mind. Takes me back to those good old days when we were all a lot younger and thought an ulcer was a bit of Ireland, eh? By the way, I hear it's down to you that we missed a big scandal today. That bastard, Endor, who'd have thought it? Just goes to show you can't tell a melon till you squeeze it. Good work, Joe."

Meaning I'm a melon as well as Endor? wondered Joe. And Hardiman too, maybe. Perhaps he really does believe we were all pals together at school. And perhaps he's not so wrong there as I think he is. After all, I had him high on my suspect list from the start, so just how partial was I being the way I looked at him?

"My pleasure, Hooter," he said. "See you around."

He caught Willie Woodbine entertaining a little crowd of admirers with a potted version of how he'd cracked the Poll-Pott murder case. When he clocked Joe smiling from the edge of his audience, Woodbine, like a seasoned trouper, didn't break stride but said, "Joe, glad you could make it," (like he'd issued the invite personally). "Ladies and gents, this is Joe Sixsmith, living proof of just how much us pros rely on the eyes and ears of the great big British public."

Not exactly sharing the glory, but the kind of public endorsement which was worth its weight in parking tickets.

All in all, it was a pretty fair kind of party, he decided, as he accepted another glass of the bubbly wine which seemed to be on endless stream.

As he sipped it, Beryl's voice spoke in his ear like a nun's conscience.

"Joe, I'm not staying on the orange juice tonight. And I said I wouldn't be back late. Sis is good hearted but she don't like to feel overused."

"OK," said Joe. "Let's just see Zak do the opening stuff then we'll be on our way."

The time for the official part of the evening had arrived. In a shallow alcove in the art gallery's main wall, two squares of curtain hung, each with its own tasselled draw cord. The mayor stood at a lectern and gave a brief antenatal account of the Pleasure Dome.

He concluded, There have been those who sneered at the undertaking from the start, those who opposed it on financial and political and even ecological grounds. We have, I think, met all their arguments with better arguments and if any doubts remained, I am sure they were washed away in that great surge of emotion every true Lutonian shared when we witnessed our own Zak Oto's magnificent achievement this afternoon."

Lots of applause, with Starbright's beady eye checking to see if anyone was being a touch languid.

"Zak is, of course, not only the finest athlete of her generation ..." (If you're going to lay it on, lay it on thick, thought Joe.) '... but a trained and talented artist. So when it came to deciding who should perform this final opening ceremony here in the gallery tonight, there was only one possible choice. That lady of all the talents and all the graces, our very own, Zak Oto!"

Even more applause. Zak took centre stage looking very young, very shy, and very beautiful. Her voice, at first hesitant, quickly gained strength and she seemed to know instinctively that what was wanted was quality not quantity of words.

A few quick but vibrantly sincere thanks then ... 'and so it is with great pleasure that I declare this gallery and the whole of this splendid Pleasure Dome open."

She pulled on a tassel and the first curtain slid aside to reveal an ornately carved plaque bearing the Lutonian coat of arms and all necessary details of the occasion.

But it wasn't over yet.

She moved to the second curtain.

"Someone had the bright, or perhaps not so bright, idea that maybe they could hang one of my own paintings here permanently as another mark of the occasion," she said. "Well, one of the things I've learned as a runner is to know myself, to assess how far and how fast I can move. I think I'm making fair progress' Laughter 'but when I apply the same touchstone to my progress as an artist, I know just how far I've got to go. Maybe in ten years I'll have something I may dare to submit to public view here. At the moment all I would be doing is offering a permanent proof, by comparison with the work of really mature artists, of just how much I had to learn. So I said no. But the idea of having a permanent exhibition of the very best of local talent is a good one. And I thought I would set the ball rolling by presenting to this gallery, and to the lovely old town of my birth, a remarkable piece of art by someone whose name may surprise you but whose talent will astound you!

Joe looked fixedly at the un drawn curtain which showed the outline of something standing proud from the wall. Art he knew dick about, but a length and breadth he could gauge to the nearest centimetre, and he didn't like what he was thinking.

Turning to Beryl, he whispered, "OK, let's be getting you back to Desmond."

"No, hang on, she's almost finished."

Zak was saying, "This is, I think, a profound statement of oh so many modern themes. Maybe it's his job, which brings him into contact with life in the raw, that gives him this profound and subtle insight

Joe said, "I don't feel so good. Let's go. Please."

He didn't wait to see the result of his plea but headed out of the door. A few steps on he turned his head to see if Beryl was following. She was. The door opened to let her out just as Zak reached the climax of her address. She pulled the remaining tassel and Joe had the briefest glimpse of the curtain opening on what to his eyes was unmistakably a cat's plastic litter tray with a picture printed on its base. Then the door swung shut.

"Joe," said Beryl as she joined him. "You OK? You shouldn't drink that stuff if you can't take it."

I'm fine. Just needed the air," said Joe.

"Oh good. Funny, I was sure I heard Zak mention your name as I came out."

"Me? Shoot, you could put everything I know about art down on the bottom of Whitey's litter tray," said Joe Sixsmith.

And hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, because it's hard to move fast when you're giggling and kissing at the same time, they made their way to the Magic Mini.

REGINALD HILL was brought up in Cumbria where he has returned after many years in Yorkshire, the setting for his award-winning crime novels featuring Dalziel and Pascoe, whose 'double act... is one of the delights of English crime fiction1 (The Times). These novels have now been made into a successful BBC TV series.

Now Reginald Hill has created a new character, Joe Sixsmith. Born in a short story, the author found writing about him so enjoyable that he felt the redundant lathe operator turned private eye from Luton deserved his own series of novels. The first two. Blood Sympathy and Born Guilty, are also published in Collins Crime.