Midnight Fugue

con forza

PRELUDE

Happy days are not even a memory for him. He does not have memories.

Merlin-like, he lives backwards.

He clings to the present, would make it infinite if he could, but inexorably he advances to the past.

Once he woke to flee from dreams. Now he sleeps to hide from visions.

If he pauses to study how he feels, the best answer is he feels safe.

He does not ask safe from what? for knowing what you are safe from means you no longer are.

Forgetfulness is his friend.

For a man in fugue is like a beast of the plains that takes refuge in a dense wood.

He can move but not freely. Trunks impede, roots trip, briar hooks, mire sucks.

He can see but not clearly. The canopy of foliage filters the light and each gust of wind fragments and scatters it.

Forgetfulness is his friend and fear is his companion.

Fear tells him when to move, when to keep still. Fear shows him how to blend with the forest.

He survives by limitation and simple repetition. He makes the unfamiliar familiar by staying in one area. He makes his own existence familiar by following patterns as strict as a square dance.

From time to time a brighter light through the crowding trees tells him he is looking towards the boundary beyond which stretch the sunlit pastures where he once roamed free.

But he looks and turns away, for though he has forgotten who they are, fear tells him there are hunters out there, and he lies very still for fear tells him also that once his presence among the trees is suspected, they will send in their dogs to flush him out.

Yes, forgetfulness is his friend, fear is his protector.

Anything that challenges fear and forgetfulness is dangerous. So the first faint scent of the possibility of happiness sets off alarms like the first faint scent of a distant forest fire. He is not sure what it is, but instinct warns him that it means change and change means movement and movement brings the past closer and the past is pain.

How he knows this he does not know, but he knows it.

But happiness is insidious, it does not make a frontal assault, it creeps up gradually. And because it is gradual, he feels he can control it, just a little step at a time, just the tiniest relaxation with each step, advancing like a wild beast towards the proffered hand, ever suspicious and ready to flee at the breaking of a twig.

And suddenly, without realizing it, he is there, close up, in contact, the hand caressing his head, the fingers combing his hair.

The past is closer now, but no longer does it feel like a pain that must be relived. It begins to feel like a tale that can be re-told.

Then in the space of a few words, happiness explodes into joy.

Joy clears memory but clouds judgment, joy lets him see the sunlit fields but dazzles his eyes so that they miss the hidden hunters.

Joy makes him feel whole again, brings him love again.

But love is his betrayer.

12.00-12.15

Shirley Novello had not been convinced by her boss’s assurance that scruffy was the new smart.

Refreshed by an hour’s sleep followed by an alternating scalding freezing shower that left her skin glowing like a sun-ripened apricot, she had dressed with care. She didn’t overdo it. When you were on a surveillance job it was daft to draw attention to yourself by wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top. But she certainly looked good enough to make the young man checking lunchers on to the Keldale terrace return her smile with more than professional enthusiasm.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Table for two, please.’

One meant you were either a hooker or just sad.

‘Have to be on the upper terrace,’ he said in a rather sexy Italian accent. ‘Garden terrace she is all booked up. Sorry.’

The terrace was on two levels, the upper one protected from the weather by an awning, the lower open to the skies. Today, with little breeze and lots of warm autumn sunshine, it was the al fresco area that was most popular. Already, just after twelve, most of the tables here were occupied. At one of them, in the right-hand corner overlooking the gardens, sat a striking blonde wearing a frock that looked like it would have cost Novello a month’s pay and sunglasses that would have eaten up another week’s. Fat Andy knew how to pick them!

‘That’s fine,’ said Novello, checking the empty tables on the upper terrace. ‘Could I have that one there?’

‘Sure,’ he said, smiling. She smiled back, full beam. His name tag read Pietro, and he was fairly dishy in a Med kind of way. Bit too slender for her taste, but no harm in being friendly.

He led her to her chosen table, which was right at the edge of the upper terrace. From here she had a good view of both levels.

He said, ‘I’ll keep an eye open for your friend, Miss…?’

‘Smith,’ she said. ‘Yes, she shouldn’t be long.’

She opted for she because when no one else appeared she didn’t want him thinking she’d been stood up. A girl has her pride, even a WDC on an op!

A glance at the menu told her Dalziel was right about the prices. She felt quite hungry, but it was probably best to go through the motions of waiting for her imaginary friend and when a waitress approached a moment later, all she ordered was a Bacardi Breezer.

On the lower terrace, the blonde was still by herself. There was a water jug on the table from which she topped up her glass from time to time. Maybe she wanted to keep her head clear for the encounter to come. The only table close enough to permit meaningful eavesdropping was occupied by two couples engaged in a conversation so animated it verged on the raucous. Novello let her gaze slide over the other tables. Apart from the blonde there were no solitaries on the lower terrace and only one besides herself on the upper, a brawny gingery man, yawning his way through one of the Sunday Supplements. As she watched he was joined by a woman who, tight blonde curls apart, looked like the other half of a matched set.

Of course no reason why watchers shouldn’t come in pairs. In fact, Sunday lunchtime, it was solitaries like herself that were going to stick out.

It was nearly ten past twelve when Andy Dalziel swept past her table without the slightest flicker in her direction.

There was something different about him. Like herself, he had smartened up. This morning he had been decently dressed but with little care for colour coordination or the location of creases, and though his face had been in recent contact with a razor, the effect had been that of a badly mown lawn. Now his drumlin chins were smooth as a bowling green and he wore a dazzling white shirt tucked into pale green slacks whose crease fell like a plumb-line on to matching deck shoes.

Novello made a bet with herself that everything below the waist at least had been bought by the Fat Man’s partner, Cap Marvell. She wasn’t quite so confident that Cap would know, or approve, the occasion of what looked like their first airing.

She watched carefully to see how Dalziel greeted the blonde. Disappointingly (not that she bore Cap Marvell any malice, but what a story it could have made!) there was no embrace, not even the airiest of air kisses. So his decision to smarten himself up didn’t seem to be sexually based. In any case, he’d hardly have invited a subordinate to witness the encounter. Unless of course he didn’t trust himself and she was really there as a kind of chaperone…

She grounded these flights of fancy and once again checked out possible watchers over her Breezer.

Dalziel had attracted a few glances as he made his way across the terrace, but that was only to be expected. He had never been one of Mid-Yorkshire’s blushing violets and his close brush with death in the Mill Street terrorist explosion had got most of the local media trailing their prepared obituaries. But none of the lunchers showed any sign of continued interest.

Pietro passed by, ushering a middle-aged couple to a nearby table. The man, hook-nosed and balding, protested that he’d asked for a table overlooking the gardens. Pietro apologized profusely saying there must have been a mix-up but now, alas, all the al fresco tables were booked. Hook-nose, who gave the impression of a man used to getting his way, looked ready to make an issue out of it, but his companion, slightly younger though that might have been down to her make-up, uttered soothing noises and gave him a consoling stroke of the crotch area which, in view of their advanced years, Novello assumed was the result of age-related myopia rather than erotic targeting. But when she observed that under the table the man was responding in kind, Novello closed her eyes in horror. They had to be over fifty, for God’s sake!

‘No sign of your friend then?’

She opened her eyes. Pietro, having disposed of the lusty geriatrics, had paused alongside her.

‘No. Typical. Maybe I’ll start without her. What’re the open prawns like?’

‘Opened fresh every day! I’ll order one for you, shall I? Such a shame a good-looking girl should have to eat alone though.’

‘You trying to wangle an invite to join me?’ she said, smiling.

‘Love to, but I’d get fired,’ he said. ‘Don’t work all the time though…sorry, got to go.’

He headed back to his station where some new arrivals were waiting impatiently.

Doesn’t work all the time, she thought. Unlike me and all the rest of us sailing on the Good Ship Dalziel.

Mind you, she could do with a lot of work like this. The sun was shining, she had the Fat Bastard’s money in her purse, there was even some music drifting up from the garden; not the kind of music she’d have dreamt of listening to normally, but here in this place it fell very pleasantly on the ear.

She found herself wondering what time Pietro got off, then pulled herself together.

He wasn’t her type, and she had a job to do.

Once more she started checking off the other lunchers, one by one.

Result as before. No one suspicious.

Now she let her gaze return to Dalziel and the blonde, and then beyond them to the source of the garden music.

There seemed to be some kind of buffet party going on, with tables set up on a square of lawn at the centre of which stood a gazebo that held the musicians. Occasionally a cork popped; everyone seemed to be having a good time. She felt quite envious. Being a cop could be a lonely business.

Then she saw someone who wasn’t entering into the swing of things. A guy standing on the edge of the lawn. Maybe he just didn’t like that kind of music either. Or that kind of drink. He had ’phones on his ears, a bottle of lager in his hand, and he was nodding his head so that his black Zapata moustache and his matching shag of hair bounced up and down as though in time to a beat from his MP3.

Hard to tell precisely what he was looking at as he was wearing big reflective sunglasses, but he was facing the hotel and there was an uninterrupted line of sight between him and Dalziel’s table on the lower terrace, a distance of twenty or thirty yards.

Maybe she was being over-cautious, but those ’phones were a bit too big for the general air of cool the guy seemed to be trying to project. And the Zapata moustache was a bit démodé too.

She took out her mobile, brought up her phone book and selected Dalziel.

12.10-12.20

Dalziel was not a religious man but he felt grateful to something that a day that had started so badly had taken a distinct turn for the better.

Certainly, sitting in the sun with a good-looking young woman opposite you and the prospect of a tasty meal ahead of you was not the worst way to spend a Sunday lunchtime, not unless you were his old Scots granny, of course. She wouldn’t even have given him brownie points for his visit to the cathedral. A kirk should be small and homely. Those overblown buildings said more about man’s vanity than God’s greatness.

Well, it were twenty years since she’d gone to her long home, so now she’d know for sure if she’d been right. Which she probably had been, according to the eschatological model Dalziel sometimes liked to propound at the end of a long night in the Black Bull. In the Gospel according to St Andy, after death, everybody discovers they’ve been right. In other words, we all get the afterlife we believe in, whether it’s eternal harping or eternal oblivion. Even suicide bombers, except that in their case when they find themselves exploded into the midst of their seventy-two doe-eyed virgins, they find the one bit missing after the reassembly process is their dicks.

But for all his mockery of formal religion, today it somehow felt as if his brief unplanned visit to the cathedral had won him the reward of this lunchtime.

It was tempting just to relax and enjoy it, but how much he could relax rather depended on whether he was working or not. If, as he suspected, someone had been in his house, and if that intrusion had anything to do with this woman, then certainly he was working. But if the phone thing had just been a technical glitch…

Gina said, ‘So did I check out?’

‘Eh?’

‘Come on. Since we talked, you’ll have checked me out to make sure I haven’t been sent by Professor Moriarty to bewitch you into a compromising situation. If you haven’t, then I can’t see you being much good to me.’

Clearly she was completely back in control.

‘Fair enough. Aye, you checked out, more’s the pity.’

‘Why do you say that?’

He gave her his best leer and said, ‘It’s a long while since I’ve been bewitched into a compromising situation. Bothered and bewildered, yes, all the time. Like now. But bewitched doesn’t come round as often as it once did.’

‘I know the feeling. But I know you’ve spoken to Mick. He rang me afterwards. I’m sure he filled out the picture. So why should you feel bewildered and bothered?’

‘I’m a cop, Mrs Wolfe,’ said Dalziel heavily. ‘I catch criminals. Nowt criminal going off here, according to you and Mick. Unless you know something I don’t.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as Alex, your dear departed husband, was definitely on Goldie Gidman’s payroll and getting reunited with him might also reunite you with some large sums of dirty money only he knows the location of.’

He’d seen the vulnerable emotional side of her, now let’s take a look at how she stood up to a bit of rough and tumble.

She regarded him steadily for a moment then said, ‘And if that was my motive, why on earth would I be sitting here talking to the local king of the cops?’

‘Wasn’t your idea to contact me, luv. It was Mick Purdy’s.’

‘So I’m keeping stuff from Mick too?’

Dalziel shrugged and said, ‘All women keep stuff from their men. And vice versa. As you found out. Usually doesn’t matter. No, the big test will come if you find Alex and get faced with the choice: do I take off with the bad cop who’s got the big bucks, or do I stay true to the good cop who’s just got his pension to look forward to.’

‘Is that what you really think might happen, Mr Dalziel?’ she said.

‘How should I know? This show’s been running for seven years and I’ve just strayed in from the wings.’

A waitress who had been hovering said, ‘Are you ready to order yet, or would you like a little more time?’

Gina said, ‘I’m fine. I’ll just have the beef carpaccio with a green salad.’

‘I’ll have beef as well, luv,’ said Dalziel. ‘But I’ll have mine roast with Yorkshire pud and lots of spuds. And we’ll have a bottle of Barolo to wash that down.’

‘Actually I’d prefer a white, a Montana sauvignon blanc, perhaps,’ said Gina.

‘Fair enough. We’ll have one of them too,’ said Dalziel.

They sat in silence for a while after the waitress had gone. There was a buffet party going on in the gardens. The chatter reached them, not loud enough to be distracting, more like a treeful of birds or the babbling of a brook. And there was music, too; classical but tuneful with it and live not canned-this was, after all, the Keldale. He traced its source to a small group playing in the pagoda.

‘That Bach?’ he said.

‘Mozart,’ she said. ‘Mr Dalziel, let’s talk straight. One way and another I know cops. I reckon a good police technique here would be to start with a bit of provocation to see if it would shake anything out of me. Then lull me with a bit of idle chit-chat about music, say. Then try to catch me with some more provocation. Eventually, over coffee, we might get down to some constructive talk. Good technique, perhaps, but it won’t make for a very enjoyable lunch.’

Dalziel’s mobile rang. He took it out of his pocket, glanced at the display then put it to his ear and said, ‘Yeah?’

He listened for a moment then said, ‘Thanks for that. Just keep a close eye on him OK? A very close eye.’

He replaced the phone and smiled at the blonde.

‘You don’t look the shakeable type to me,’ he said. ‘So let’s drink to constructive talk.’

He picked up the heavy crystal water jug and topped her glass up, then did the same with his own. There was still some water left in the vessel, but he raised it above his head and waggled it at a waitress who was serving a nearby table and called, ‘Refill here, luv, when you’re ready.’

Gina Wolfe watched him, puzzled. He didn’t look like a man who made toasts in water. A change in the buffet music from lively Mozart to dreamy Strauss drew her attention to the party in the garden. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. There was a colourful semi-formalism about the way they were dressed. Not a wedding party; no buttonholes, no one in morning suits. Then she saw a woman holding a baby. The child was wrapped in a long white robe that floated in the gentle breeze.

A christening. Her heart made a little movement in her breast and she felt tears forcing their way upwards into her eyes.

Then her breathing stopped and she blinked furiously to try to remove the watery veil through which she was peering.

And at that moment the jug slipped from Dalziel’s fingers and crashed on to the table.

12.15-12.25

The claims to quality made by the Keldale were more than justified by the noise produced by the shattering jug.

No unbreakable plastic this, nor cheap glass which dissolves into powder, but genuine high-tensile crystal that exploded in a scintillation of diamantine fragments, turning heads not only on the terrace but in the garden too.

Peter Pascoe was already on his third glass of champagne and his sixth lobster ball.

‘Enjoying yourself,’ said Ellie, coming up alongside him.

‘You know, I do believe I am,’ he said. ‘These fish fingers are really rather nice. As for the bubbly…you did say you were driving us home, right?’

‘Yes. My turn. I’m measuring the units carefully, which, considering the quality of this stuff, is a real sacrifice. I may expect to be rewarded for my relative temperance when we get home, so don’t go over the top, so to speak.’

‘You interest me strangely,’ said Pascoe. ‘Talking of temperance, I hope Rosie’s sticking to the juice. We don’t want her doing her Gigi act.’

‘No problem. Nothing alcoholic or even bubbly with her performance coming up.’

‘Performance?’ said Pascoe, alarmed. ‘You didn’t say anything about a performance.’

‘Didn’t I?’ said Ellie innocently. ‘It’s just a little clarinet duet Ali put together for Rosie and another star pupil. It’ll give the Sinfonietta quartet the chance to get some refreshment.’

‘Oh God. I need another drink.’

As if in response, Ed Muir approached with a champagne bottle at the ready.

‘Top up, Peter?’ he asked.

‘You bet.’

He watched approvingly as the man took his glass. He’d only met Muir a couple of times previously, hadn’t felt able to relate very closely to him, perhaps because of the gap between his appearance and his manner. With his shaven head and five-o’clock shadow he looked like someone you’d step aside for if you met him on a lonely street. But his quiet speech and self-effacing manner faded him into the background when you met him in a group. Today, however, at his daughter’s christening, he was so full of joy and pride that he generated more warmth than the pleasant autumn sun.

And if any doubt about his clubbability remained, the way he tipped a champagne bottle tipped the balance.

Ali Wintershine had picked well!

‘Great party, Ed,’ said Pascoe effusively. ‘The perfect way to launch little…’

For a moment the baby’s name escaped him. Then he saw Ellie mouthing something at him.

‘…Lolita,’ he concluded triumphantly.

Ellie rolled her eyes upwards in exasperation while Muir looked slightly puzzled as it came to Pascoe that the child’s name was Lucinda.

To correct or not correct? But before he could reach a decision God intervened in the form of an explosion somewhere behind him.

Sensitized by the anti-terrorist briefings which were now a staple of police life, Pascoe span round.

Whatever had happened had happened at a table right on the edge of the terrace. Attention centred on a large fat man and a willowy blonde, both on their feet, she looking a touch damp down the front of her dress, he mouthing what were presumably apologies as he tried to wipe her dry with his napkin.

‘Oh my God,’ said Ellie. ‘Et in Arcadia ego!’

‘What the hell’s he doing at the Keldale?’ said Pascoe, assuming the high tone of the habitué. ‘And who’s that with him?’

‘I don’t know, but if he doesn’t stop trying to massage her tits, I think he might get his face punched,’ said Ellie hopefully.

This entertaining possibility was unhappily brought to nothing by the rapid arrival of a darkly handsome young man who, assisted by a couple of waitresses, smoothly restored calm and order to the table. Pascoe worked out that something fragile and heavy, a bottle perhaps or a jug, must have been dropped and shattered. Andy getting clumsy in old age? That from a man who for his size had always been incredibly nimble and dextrous was yet another cause for concern about the extent of his recovery.

And Dalziel chatting up a young blonde while his long-time partner was away for a few days…

Didn’t the trick cyclists say that a sharp reminder of mortality often sent a man in desperate search for earnests of potency?

No problems himself in that field, he thought smugly. Though with the afternoon stretching ahead of him and the sun warm on his back and Ellie getting that languorous look, he should perhaps take her advice and slow down a little on the bubbly.

But not yet!

He turned to retrieve his glass from Ed only to discover that that particular temptation had been removed. His host had disappeared and with him Pascoe’s refill. Perhaps, he thought charitably, after the explosion, he’d felt constrained to rush and reassure his young wife that all was well.

Ellie, disappointed in her hope of seeing the Fat Man assaulted, was now concentrating her attention on her husband.

‘What?’ said Pascoe.

‘Lolita!’ said Ellie, shaking her head. ‘What are you like?’

‘Your fault,’ he said. ‘The longer I look at you, the younger you get.’

He waggled his eyebrows at her and tried for a salacious leer.

She couldn’t help smiling. But Pascoe’s instincts had been right. The warmth of the sun and the single glass of bubbly she’d allowed herself were combining very nicely to make a bit of salacity seem not such a bad idea.

‘Keep working on it, Mr Humbert,’ she said huskily. ‘Who knows? You may get lucky.’

12.20-12.30

Not all heads had turned at the sound of the exploding jug.

Shirley Novello’s gaze had remained fixed on the black moustached man at the edge of the lawn.

As the jug shattered, she saw his head jerk back and his hand go up to the headphones.

‘Gotcha,’ she said.

Now she turned her attention to the Fat Man’s table and watched the pantomime of Dalziel apologizing to everyone in hearing distance and making ineffectual attempts to dry his lunch date down. In no time at all, Pietro was on the scene, directing operations. Novello wondered idly if he were as efficient in everything as he clearly was in his job. He had the glass cleared, the table re-laid, and Dalziel and the blonde re-seated in just a couple of minutes.

Down on the lawn, the listener seemed to have got over his shock. He was back in his former mode, standing looking vacant, his head nodding as if he were mesmerized by some disco beat. But he had a mobile phone in his hand and, as she watched, he slipped the headphones off one ear and started speaking into the mobile.

She let a couple of minutes pass till the corner table was no longer a focus of interest, then took up her phone once more and thumbed in the Fat Man’s number.

‘Hello?’

‘I was right,’ she said. ‘You’re bugged.’

‘Grand. I’ll sort it.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’

He thought a moment then said, ‘Stick to the bugger. But don’t get close.’

‘I’m on him.’

The bugger had his headphones back on. Then something happened; nothing as violent as the shattering of the jug, but enough to make him remove the ’phones and give them a shake. Service interrupted, guessed Novello. When the Fat Man said he’d sort something, it usually got sorted.

The bugger gave up on the ’phones but now he had his mobile to his ear again, receiving this time, not calling. So he wasn’t a loner, he must have back up. Would he continue as an observer now he could no longer listen in?

Her view was blocked by Pietro, who set an open prawn sandwich and a glass of white wine before her. This guy really was efficient.

‘You serve table as well as clean up?’ she said, smiling up at him.

‘Depends on the table,’ he said.

‘I didn’t order any wine.’

‘On the house. To make up for the disturbance.’

‘So everyone will be getting a glass?’

‘Only the sensitive ones. Any news of your friend?’

‘Definitely not coming,’ she said indicating her mobile. ‘That woman, at the table where the jug got broken, has she been on telly or something? I’m sure I’ve seen her.’

‘Mrs Wolfe? Don’t know. She’s certainly got the looks, but I don’t watch too much telly. I prefer real life.’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘She’s a hotel guest, is she?’

‘That’s right. And the guy with her’s some sort of cop. Mr Lee, the manager, was around when she asked if she could book a table overlooking the garden, and I told her, Sorry, those tables are all taken. And she said, My guest, Superintendent Dalziel, will be disappointed. And suddenly Mr Lee got in on the act and told me he was sure there must be a table available. So I looked again, and there was.’

‘Theirs, was it?’ said Novello, glancing at Hook-nose and his partner. At least the exploding water jug seemed to have distracted them from their heavy petting. Maybe it had reminded them of their stolen table. Whatever, they were now deep in conversation.

‘Shush! Don’t want to start him on at me again,’ said Pietro.

His wish wasn’t granted. The couple rose and headed for the hotel entrance. As they passed Pietro, Hook-nose said, ‘After cocking up our table, the least I expected was efficient service. We’ll find somewhere decent to eat.’

They moved on. Pietro made a face at Novello and said, ‘Better cancel their order. Enjoy your prawns.’

‘Oh, I will,’ said Novello.

But even as she spoke she realized she wouldn’t.

For as Pietro moved away opening up her sightline to the lawn again, she realized to her horror that the man with the ’phones had vanished.

12.20-12.35

Gwyn Jones sank back on the sofa and felt the voluptuously soft leather upholstery embrace his naked flesh.

Life was good. Back home in the sleepy Mid-Wales township of Llufwwadog they would probably still be in the chapel now, perched on pews as narrow and hard as a cliff ledge, listening to an interminable sermon that started at hwyl and built up to hysteria, and made the hell it threatened seem like a welcome deliverance.

Outside it would be raining. He knew the Met Office had declared that there was an anti-cyclone stationary over the British Isles, guaranteeing the continuation of the Indian summer right into the middle of October, but as all natives of Llufwwadog knew, such fair-weather forecasts did not apply to them. When the wind was in the east it pushed the rain clouds over the Black Mountains before they burst, and when it was in the west, it punctured them as they reached the foothills. He supposed there must have been days when the Welsh sky was as perfectly blue as the one he could see now backing the topless towers of Canary Warf, but his memory seemed to have scrubbed them all.

What it hadn’t scrubbed was his waking resolution from an early age-birth, it seemed like now, but that was probably pushing it-to get out of Llufwwadog as quickly as he could. The conventional exit routes for a growing hogyn of sport, art and education were closed to him. He was hopeless at rugby, couldn’t sing or act, and had very little academic ability. So it was either the army or journalism. He had gone for the latter on the grounds that you didn’t have to get up so early in the morning and there was less chance of being shot at.

It had been a happy choice. The disadvantages of a dreadful prose style and an excitable stutter were negated by a huge natural curiosity, a complete insensitivity to rebuff, and an acuity of eye, ear, and nose that took him places others did not care to tread.

After an apprenticeship on his local rag, he had moved to Cardiff, where he rapidly made a name for himself by pulling the lid off a little pot-pourri of financial and sexual improprieties in the Welsh Assembly. This it was that got him his move to London, where six years later he was established as one of the Daily Messenger’s famous team of investigative journalists, his particular remit remaining the political scene.

He was well paid but not well enough to be able to even dream about a pad in Marina Tower, one of the most exclusive developments on Canary Wharf. To do that you needed an editor’s screw, or, failing that, you needed to screw an editor. If she had a bit left over from an extremely profitable divorce, that didn’t do any harm either. This combination of qualities came together in the person of Beanie Sample, the driving spirit behind Bitch!, the glossy mag which for eighteen months now (a long time in magazine life) had contrived to win the hearts, titillate the senses, and open the wallets of readers of both sexes and all ages from eighteen to thirty-eight.

Beanie, known both eponymously and epithetically as the Bitch, had a reputation for devouring young journalists, then dumping them when she’d had enough. Gwyn Jones had no problem with this. As he told his friends, why would a virile youngster want a long-term relationship with a woman twenty years his senior? Nonetheless, since moving into her Docklands apartment, he’d come to the conclusion that maybe long term wasn’t so bad. A man could put up with a lot of this luxury. Also it was within a fit man’s strolling distance of Canary Tower, which housed the Messenger offices. Compared to this, his own flat above a dry-cleaners in Bromley seemed like a particularly remote and ascetic monk’s cell.

Somewhere his phone was ringing. He recognized the ring tone, the opening bars of ‘Cwm Rhondda’, chosen to remind him he need never listen to a male voice choir again.

The ringing stopped and Beanie came out of the bedroom. She had slipped a robe on. That was the difference between twenty-six and forty-seven, he told himself complacently. She was holding his phone.

‘Someone called Gareth,’ she said. ‘Says he’s your brother.’

‘Yeah. Then probably he is.’

He held out his hand for the phone.

‘You never said you had a brother,’ she said as if it were a major infidelity.

‘You never asked.’

She tossed the phone into his lap with some violence.

‘Ouch,’ he said.

That seemed to mollify her a little.

‘I’m going to run through the shower. Some coffee would be nice when I’m done.’

At least the command still came over lightly disguised as a request.

‘Gar, boy,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be praising the Lord?’

Unlike himself, Gareth had been a lovely treble who’d broken into a fair tenor.

‘No, today I’m pursuing the ungodly and watching them in their ungodliness.’

‘What? You’re actually doing it? Great. Rung up for some advice, is that it?’

‘No, I’m managing very well, thank you, bro. But something’s come up I thought might interest you.’

‘OK, boyo, but make it quick. Me and Beanie are on our way to Tris’s party…yeah, Tris Shandy, eat your heart out. So shoot.’

Jones listened for a couple of minutes, hardly interrupting at all. Then he heard the shower stop.

He said, ‘OK, Gar. Thanks. No, I don’t know if it means anything…yeah, sure I’m grateful…How grateful? That depends…’

He listened again and said, ‘Jesus, Gar, if you’re going to be Sam Spade you need decent wheels! OK, I’ll sub you, but you hang on to the bill. Of course I think you’re trustworthy-about as much as I was your age!’

He saw Beanie come into the room, towelling down and concluded hastily, ‘Got to go, Gar. Any developments, keep me posted. Take care now.’

‘So where’s that coffee?’ said the Bitch.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to talking. Family stuff. Kid brothers can be a real drag, eh?’

‘Much younger than you, is he?’

‘Nearly eight years. He was an afterthought.’

‘And he does what?’

‘Wants to be a journalist. In fact, he’s in much the same job I started in.’

‘With his eyes on London eventually, no doubt. Maybe I can help him when he gets here.’

Help yourself to him, you mean, thought Jones. Publicly, his attitude to his brother was one of weary exasperation, but beneath it he was, and always had been, fiercely protective. No way he was going to let the Bitch get her claws into young Gareth till the boy had been properly schooled!

‘Doubt he’ll ever make it,’ he said dismissively. ‘One genius a family, that’s the ration.’

‘Oh, he’ll make it. I know you thrusting Welshmen.’

‘We like a good thrust, that’s true,’ he said, looking at his watch.

‘Man should have what he likes, darling,’ she said, misinterpreting. ‘And it will be another hour before Tristram’s party really warms up…’

She let the towel slide to the floor and slipped on to the sofa beside him. To her surprise he stood up.

‘Beanie,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered. Somewhere I’ve got to be, so I’ll have to give Tris a miss. Say I’m sorry, OK?’

She had learnt long ago never to let a man think he had the power to irritate her.

‘Don’t suppose anyone will notice, darling,’ she said indifferently.

She watched him leave the room. Nice tight bum, lots of other useful accessories. Made you wonder what the nineteen-year-old model might be like.

But while the sensual part of her being was toying with that interesting speculation, the journalistic part was wondering what was important enough to make Jones stand her up. He’d left the phone on the arm of the sofa. She picked it up, brought up the last call number and rang back.

‘Gar,’ she murmured in her most seductive voice. ‘Hi. This is Beanie. Beanie Sample. We spoke briefly earlier.’

She listened, grimaced, but didn’t allow any of the grimace to get into her voice as she said, ‘Yeah, that’s right, Gar. Gwyn’s girlfriend. And he’s told me all about you too. I’m really looking forward to meeting you when you get up to town. Listen, Gwyn was going to ring you back but he has to smarten himself up for this party we’re going to…yeah, Tris Shandy’s do, that’s right, Gwyn told you, did he? Anyway, we were talking about your call and there were a couple of things he wanted to check with you, make sure he got them right. So as we’re a bit pushed for time, he asked me to ring you back, OK?’

12.20-12.35

Apart from a little dampness and a few shards of crystal down the front of her dress, Gina Wolfe had taken no harm from the accident.

‘The sun will soon dry me off,’ she said in face of the Fat Man’s repeated offers to rub her dry.

The mess was quickly cleared up, the broken glass removed, and the table dried off. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared with their wine, opened the white, and asked Dalziel if he’d like to try it.

‘No,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That’s for the lady.’

She watched the waiter pour a taster, downed it all, nodded and drank half the refill.

‘You look like you needed that,’ said Dalziel, taking the red from the waiter’s hand and pouring his own.

‘It was a shock,’ she said.

‘Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t have you down as the nervous type, but.’

His phone rang again. He listened, said, ‘Grand. I’ll sort it.’ Listened again. And said, ‘Stick to the bugger. But don’t get close.’

When he put the phone back in his pocket, his hand did not reappear and she realized he was leaning forward with his arm reaching under the table. She pressed her knees tightly together in instinctive defence against a potential grope, but felt nothing. And now he was straightening up, glancing at something between his finger and thumb, before dropping it to the floor and grinding it beneath his heel.

He said, ‘Bit of glass got stuck underneath. Didn’t want you scratching your knee.’

‘What? Oh yes. Thanks.’

She wasn’t really paying attention. She seemed much more interested in the garden.

He said, ‘You sure you’re all right, luv? You look a bit pale to me.’

Now she met his gaze and with a visible effort at composure said, ‘Yes, really, I’m fine.’

He regarded her doubtfully but once again she was looking down into the garden. He followed her gaze but saw nothing to explain her interest. Then he thought he glimpsed a familiar figure. And the surprise of recognition sparked a suspicion of what might be troubling Gina.

‘It’s not just me dropping the jug,’ he said. ‘You thought you saw him again, didn’t you?’

She didn’t deny it, just nodded.

‘Like you thought you saw him when you were driving around first thing. And there’ll have been other times?’

She didn’t deny it. In fact she seemed glad to talk about it.

‘At first it was every day,’ she said. ‘Then less and less frequently-till today, that is. Before that the last time it happened was nearly a year ago, the start of November…’

Now she paused, and he said, ‘Tell us about it, luv. No need to be embarrassed. Think of me as a priest. Or a doctor. That way I get to take your pulse.’

That should have been worth a smile, but she clearly wasn’t in the mood for smiling. Hesitantly, not looking at him, she went on with her story.

It had been a winter night. Mick Purdy had taken her out for a meal at their favourite trattoria. They had fallen into a regular pattern somewhere between friendship and dating. She’d no idea where it might lead, but she knew she enjoyed his company.

That night perhaps they’d drunk a little more wine than usual. On her doorstep, she’d asked if he’d like to come in for coffee. He said lightly, ‘Better not. I’m up at the crack tomorrow.’ But she’d sensed the real reason behind his refusal was he didn’t trust himself not to try and move their relationship along faster than he thought she wanted. Tonight, though, he’d got it wrong, and when he leaned forward to give her his usual formal goodnight kiss, she’d responded with a far from formal pressure. A few moments later she’d found her hands were inside his clothes and his inside hers, and she’d felt him hardening against her, felt herself softening against him, felt ready to give herself to him, here, now, in the doorway, standing up, like a pair of teenagers with nowhere better to go.

Then over his shoulder in the vaporous wintry glow cast by a streetlight she’d glimpsed a figure, muffled, indistinct, not much more than an outline, but she had known it was Alex.

She’d closed her eyes as Mick’s lips found hers again. When he broke the contact she’d gasped, ‘Let’s go inside before you have to arrest us.’

And as they’d practically fallen across her threshold, she’d glanced along the quiet street once more and of course the phantom figure had vanished. And when she woke in the morning with Mick’s arms around her, she’d felt the past and all its sorrow had vanished too.

But of course it hadn’t. How could she have fooled herself? It had been lurking, in the mist, behind the lamplight, ready to step forward once more when summoned by something as simple as a magazine photo through the post.

She told Dalziel this, or a version of it, bowdlerized, but she guessed he got the picture.

‘And now I’ve started seeing him again,’ she concluded. ‘Crazy, eh?’

Her attempt at being casually dismissive was unconvincing.

‘Can you still see him?’

She looked into the garden and shook her head.

‘Not to worry, luv,’ Dalziel reassured her. ‘Happens to us all. Look at any crowd of strangers, you’re sure to see some guy who looks like some guy you know. I mean, when I looked just now, I saw someone who’s a dead ringer for my DCI.’

The difference being, of course, that Dalziel was absolutely sure it was Pascoe he’d seen, and could still see.

Things had become very interesting, he thought. Had it been the ‘bugger’ Gina had clocked? He could have asked, but at this stage he wanted to keep ahead of the game, particularly now he was certain there was a game, and a complex one at that. And telling her about the bugger would have meant telling her about Novello, and she was a card he definitely wanted to keep up his sleeve.

That the woman might be watched didn’t surprise him. Someone had brought her here, so presumably they’d want to keep an eye on her. But from keeping an eye on someone to bugging them was a large step, suggesting a worrying level of fore-planning.

‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked.

He had detected how troubled she was and from his own reading of the woman and from what Purdy had said about her, she needed an action plan, or at least the prospect of activity, to keep her demons under control.

She said, ‘I’ve thought about what you said this morning. I don’t want to turn my search into a circus that could frighten Alex off. But I’ve got to let him know I’m here so that, if he wants to see me, he can make up his own mind.’

For the moment he let pass her implied assumption that her husband was still alive, and close.

‘Mebbe you don’t need to let him know you’re here,’ said Dalziel casually.

She said, ‘You mean, it might be Alex himself who sent me the picture? But if he wants to contact me, why doesn’t he just pick up a phone?’

‘Mebbe he wants you up here to take a closer look without you seeing him,’ said Dalziel. ‘Check out if you’re likely to be tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.’

At last she smiled and said, ‘Bach, Pal Joey, and now Tony Orlando. You’ve very catholic musical tastes, Mr Dalziel.’

‘You should hear my Al Jolson imitation,’ said Dalziel. ‘So?’

‘So, if that were the case, what form do you think the yellow ribbon or its absence might take?’ she asked.

‘Wedding ring, for a start. Which you’re not wearing. On the other hand, you’re not wearing an engagement ring either.’

‘To see that would mean getting pretty close,’ she said, glancing round uneasily.

‘Nay, good pair of field glasses would do the trick,’ said the Fat Man.

The plaintive wail of some reed instrument came drifting up from the garden.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Clarinet. I love the sound it makes.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Like the bagpipes: fine at a distance out of doors if someone else is paying for it. What’s your weapon?’

‘Piano, mainly. But I play the violin too, and I can tootle a flute if I’m pushed.’

‘A real one-woman band,’ he said. ‘Alex musical too?’

‘Not so you’d notice. I mean, he doesn’t play anything. But he likes to listen.’

‘Good husband material then,’ said Dalziel. ‘So how’d you meet?’

‘At college. I was secretary of a music group. I wanted to book a room in the Union for a concert, Alex was on the Union committee, he was in charge of bookings, he had that kind of head, he was a very good organizer.’

Good enough to organize his own disappearance? wondered Dalziel.

‘So how’d you feel when he let on he wanted to be a copper?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ she said, surprised. ‘Should there have been?’

He shook his head, smiling. He’d been drawing parallels with Peter and Ellie Pascoe. They too had met at university, but from what he’d gathered, the news that Pascoe was joining the Force had been greeted with rather less enthusiasm than if he’d announced he planned to make a living flogging his ring round Piccadilly Circus.

‘This job of yours,’ he said. ‘In a school, is it?’

‘No. I’m what you call peripatetic; that means I’m employed by Education Authorities to go round several schools. I give private piano tutorials too. What about you? Do you play anything?’

He grinned at her and said, ‘Only games that two can play. Thank God, here’s our grub. I’m fair clemmed.’

The waitress had appeared with their order. He checked the level of the Barolo. All this talking must have given him a thirst; it was well down. He was still working his way back to full capacity since his recent little set-back, and if he’d been officially on duty, he might have exercised restraint. But what the hell, this was his day off!

He picked up the wine bottle and flourished it in the air, causing the waitress and Gina a moment of serious alarm.

‘Another one of the same, luv, when you’ve a moment’ he said.

12.20-12.40

When Dalziel dropped the water jug, Vince Delay turned his head to look and said, ‘Clumsy bastard. Probably got the DTs. Only time them cunts hold their hands steady is when they’re getting a backhander.’

His sister said, ‘Don’t swear, Vince. And if all cops were as thick as you think, you wouldn’t need me to keep you out of jail.’

She was facing the garden terrace and had observed the Fat Man’s brief conversation on his mobile immediately before the accident. When, shortly after the table had been reset and the debris removed, she saw him take out his phone again, she leaned back in her chair and took a long pull on her glass of mineral water, letting her gaze drift round the other diners. She spotted three using mobiles, but two of them continued talking after the Fat Man had switched off.

The third was a young woman sitting alone on a table quite close to the Delays at the edge of the upper terrace. As Fleur watched, the Iti waiter who fancied himself approached with a tray bearing an open prawn sandwich and a glass of white wine. He engaged the young woman in conversation, gently flirtatious from his body language, and she smiled back as she replied, but she seemed to be asking questions, one of which made the young man glance across the garden terrace to the couple on the corner table.

Finally he made as if to move away, but the woman, instead of settling down to her lunch, started up from her chair, an expression of dismay on her face. She was looking across the lower terrace towards the gardens where a buffet party was taking place. Then she said something to the waiter and dashed past him into the hotel.

Fleur said, ‘Vince, sit tight. Make sure your phone’s switched on. OK?’

She stood up, nice and easy with no sign of undue haste, but she still moved fast enough for the young woman to be in sight as she went through the door into the hotel.

She followed her out into the car park, digging the VW keys out of her shoulder bag in anticipation of another pursuit. But the young woman ignored the ranks of parked cars and made straight for the exit on to the road. Here she paused and took a mobile out of her pocket and started talking into it. But she hadn’t touched the number pad. She was faking it, Fleur guessed, giving herself an excuse to be standing in the car park.

Fleur worked out the reason simultaneously with having her conclusion confirmed. A man approached the exit on a small motor bike. Most of his features were hidden by his helmet and goggles, but she could see he had a moustache. As he passed the young woman, her gaze followed him. The bike turned left, passing the entrance gap close to where Fleur was standing. She took out a ballpoint and scribbled its number down on the palm of her hand.

Could it be as easy as this? she wondered. She needed to move quick. If, as she assumed, the young woman was working for Tubby, then it would only take a single phone call for her to get all known details of the motor cyclist.

Two could play at that game if you had the right contacts, and one thing Fleur Delay had was the right contacts. The young woman didn’t seem in any hurry to get on the phone. In fact she was standing in the same place, giving every impression of uncertainty over her next move. So there could still be time here to get ahead of the game.

She put a number into her mobile as she walked towards the VW.

‘I need a vehicle check,’ she said. ‘Quick as you can.’

She rang off then speed-dialled her brother.

‘Vince,’ she said, ‘come to the car.’

‘They’re still at the table,’ he protested. ‘And my pudding’s just arriving.’

‘The car, Vince. Now!’

She opened the door of the VW and slid into the driver’s seat.

The young woman was on the phone now but she looked as if she were having a conversation rather than simply making a request.

Vince came out of the hotel, looking sulky.

Fleur’s phone rang.

‘Alun Watkins, Flat 39, Loudwater Villas,’ she repeated.

By the time Vince got into the car, she’d entered the address into her sat-nav.

‘What’s happening, Sis?’ asked Vince.

Fleur started the engine and smiled at him.

‘We may be going home sooner than you think.

12.35-13.15

The Fat Man rarely needed an excuse to be hungry, but this morning he’d been in such a rush that he’d scrimped on breakfast. Now he tucked into his roast beef with relish. And with horseradish too.

Gina on the other hand merely poked her fork at the wafer-thin slices on her plate, but nothing got near her mouth except her wine glass.

Finally she said, ‘If Alex is behind this, then I don’t need to worry about getting his picture in the paper or on the box, do I?’

He said, ‘I’d say not.’

She went on, as if thinking aloud, ‘But I can’t make that assumption, can I? If the photo didn’t come from him, then I’ve got to do everything I can to find him.’

‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

For a second she looked at him as if he’d asked a stupid question. But the look faded as she started to answer and discovered her reasons were not so clear cut as she’d imagined.

‘Because…because I need…because of what we felt for each other…what we went through together…Because I need to know!’

She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to ask, know what?

Instead he said, ‘What about him? Mebbe he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘We don’t know that. He may still be in a state of fugue.’

‘Like old Bach, you mean? Thought you said he weren’t all that musical.’

‘I think you know very well what I mean,’ she said dismissively.

Reckons she’s got my number now, he thought complacently. That was OK. He liked dealing with folk who believed they knew how his mind worked.

He said, ‘So if he’s in trouble, all mixed up, don’t know who he is or what’s gone off or owt, you’d like to help him, right?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘And if you find he’s alive, but not in trouble, what then?’

She took another drink of wine then said, ‘I may just kill the bastard!’

She spoke with deadly emphasis. Dalziel pursed his lips as if pondering the idea before nodding in approval. Now her features relaxed into a smile and finally she laughed out loud.

‘Sorry! What am I like? Mixed feelings is putting it lightly, Andy. Can I call you Andy?’

‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

‘Because Mick says it’s your name. Also because anyone overhearing me call you Mr Dalziel will imagine you’re either my boss or my sugar daddy.’

‘And calling me Andy ’ull make them think I’m your toy boy, is that it?’

She laughed again. A couple of glasses of wine had really loosened her up. What might a third do? It occurred to him that if Pascoe was keeping an eye on him, he might be getting the wrong idea about this lunch date. Serve the bugger right!

Gina said, ‘The thing is, Andy, you’re Mick’s idea, not mine. When he suggested contacting you, I thought that probably it would be a complete waste of time.’

‘And you don’t now? Why’s that?’

‘You’re not the only one who’s done some checking up,’ she said provocatively.

‘You’ve been checking on me, you mean? How’d you manage that?’

‘For a start, I spoke to Mick. I asked him to tell me all about you.’

‘Can’t have been that much to tell, we only ever met the once.’

‘Your reputation seems to have spread pretty widely in police circles, Andy. Do you like cowboy movies?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Mick’s a great fan. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. We often spend a night watching old DVDs. When it’s my turn, it’s The Red Shoes or Tales of Hoffman. With Mick it’s Unforgiven or True Grit. That’s his favourite.’

‘Aye, I’ve seen it. Good movie.’

‘You remember the bit where the girl is looking for a marshal to pursue the man who killed her father? Depends what she’s looking for, she’s told. But if it’s true grit she wants, Rooster Cogburn’s her man. That’s what Mick said about you.’

Dalziel massaged his chins reflectively.

‘I told you already, I don’t kill people, not unless I really don’t like them,’ he said.

‘Same as Rooster, then,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I put together what Mick said with what I’d picked up from you in our short meeting. And I decided I’d be mad not to accept any help you can give me, if you’re up for it, that is.’

Dalziel looked at her over his wine glass. Were Mick Purdy and this woman jerking him around? But he had to admit the True Grit bullshit gave him a warm glow.

‘So what might you want me to do?’ he asked.

She became very businesslike as she said, ‘Well, here’s how I see things. There are only two possibilities that concern me. One, Alex is alive and will want to make contact with me if he knows I’m here. Two, Alex is alive and either won’t want to make contact or isn’t in a fit mental state to recognize me.’

Three, Alex is alive and doing the horizontal tango with some bit of dusky chuff in Buenos Aires, thought Dalziel. Or four, he’s a seven-year-old corpse.

He said, ‘Sounds reasonable. So?’

‘If it’s the first, I can take care of that myself. But if it’s the second, I’m going to have a hell of a job tracking him down on my own. Whereas someone with your experience and resources…’

‘You reckon? Any tips where I might start?’

She produced the envelope containing the page from MY Life.

‘You could start here. There are other people standing around him. I’m sure you’ve got the resources to blow their faces up then set about tracking some of them down. They might remember him, even know him.’

‘Mebbe,’ he said, taking the envelope. ‘Worth a try.’

Though he’d been planning to get the photograph from her so that he could test Purdy’s theory that it was a fake, getting it this way made him feel slightly uncomfortable. But it wasn’t his job to suggest to her that this might all be a put-up job with Mick as the main target. Was it?

He was saved from further debate by his mobile ringing once more.

‘He’s left,’ said Novello.

‘You mean you’ve lost him?’

‘He’s on a motorbike. I’ve got the number. Shall I run it?’

Dalziel took the point without need of elaboration. All requests to run vehicle numbers were logged and an off-duty DC would be expected to explain herself.

He could of course by a mere word turn this from unofficial to official. Even if Purdy’s notion that it was nothing more than a sick joke were right, the fact that their table had been bugged upped the ante considerably. But it could still be either owt or nowt. A couple of months back he could have shrugged off nowt with an even-Homer-nods indifference, but now he felt himself being weighed in the balance of his colleagues’ judgment.

Sod it. He was king of the castle, wasn’t he? And being king meant not having to explain yourself.

He said, ‘Give it to me.’

He scribbled it on his hand.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.

He disconnected, thumbed Wield’s speed-dial number.

‘Wieldy, check this for me. And get back to me soonest, OK?’

He put the phone on the table and smiled apologetically at Gina Wolfe.

She said, ‘This is like being with Mick on his so-called day off. You never know when his phone’s going to ring.’

‘You must have got used to it during your marriage,’ he said.

‘To some extent. But after Alex moved up to DI, he was much more concerned with paper chases than blues-and-twos hot pursuit. It was good for a while. No more long white nights wondering what he was up to. Then we had other reasons for long white nights. And days.’

He said, ‘That must have been a terrible time. Hard to imagine worse.’

‘Mick told you the details about Lucy, did he?’

Her recent brightness had faded. He found he wanted to bring it back, and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t on a date.

He said, ‘Aye. So no need to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

‘No, that’s OK. Talking about it’s better than keeping it all inside, eating you up. That’s what it did to Alex. It ate him up. Which in a way was good for me. Keeping an eye out for Alex gave me a function.’

‘But you left him all the same.’

‘Because he’d gone beyond my help. There was an edge he was close to falling over. I knew if I stayed I’d probably go after him. I left to find strength to come back and save him. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But by the time I came back, he’d gone. Literally. I still wonder…’

‘Nay, lass, don’t. You don’t measure how you feel pain by how you bear it. Surviving don’t mean you’re less sensitive, just that you’re stronger.’

Jesus, Dalziel! he admonished himself. Might not be a date, but there’s no need to sound off like a big-tent preacher!

She said, ‘Maybe. Maybe his weakness has given him the chance to start over from scratch while all my so-called strength does is leave me bearing it forever. Just because I’ve reshaped my life doesn’t mean I’ve escaped from the past, Andy. Not a day passes but I think about little Lucy. But I still find it hard even to refer to what happened directly. I hear myself skirting around. Like in the cathedral.’

‘You’re not skirting now.’

‘No. I suppose in the cathedral I was talking to a stranger.’

‘And now?’

She smiled even though there were tears in her eyes.

‘Now I’m talking to Rooster Cogburn.’

‘You’ll not get me on a horse,’ he said, seeking an escape route from this intensity.

She was glad to take it.

‘Don’t need a horse to be a perfect gentle knight,’ she said, only half mocking.

‘I’ve been called a lot of things, but not that. Here, where’s my grub gone?’

The Fat Man had no problem eating and talking at the same time, but the problem with this simultaneity was that often the food went down without him really noticing it.

She said, ‘You can try mine, if you like. I’m not really hungry.’

He looked suspiciously at her plate.

‘Beef, is it? How’s it cooked?’

‘It’s not.’

‘Bloody hell! My dad used to warn me, never get mixed up with a lass who eats raw meat!’

‘Perhaps you should have listened to him,’ she said. ‘But it tastes fine. Really.’

‘Well, I’ll try owt, except for incest and the Lib Dems.’

He cut off a sliver, chewed it, said, ‘Not bad,’ and pulled her plate towards him.

His second bottle of Barolo was almost gone.

She on the other hand was showing no inclination to push beyond her second glass. Pity, perhaps. But waste not, want not.

He said, ‘The rest of yon white stuff, you’re not leaving that too, are you?’

Smiling she pushed the bottle towards him.

He had made good inroads into the raw beef when his phone rang again. He looked at the display and said, ‘’Scuse me, luv. Private,’ stood up and descended the steps towards the garden before answering.

‘Wieldy,’ he said.

‘That number, I’ve got a name and address,’ said the sergeant.

Dalziel scribbled it down into his notebook.

‘Thanks, Wieldy.’

‘No problem. Owt I should know about, sir? Or Pete, mebbe?’

‘Talk about it tomorrow,’ prevaricated Dalziel. ‘And if I need to talk to Pete, as it happens I’m looking at the bugger right this minute. Thanks, Wieldy. Cheers.’

It was true, more or less. He could distantly see Pascoe’s head among a group of people at the buffet party.

He thumbed in Novello’s number.

‘Ivor, here’s the name and address. Alun Watkins, 39 Loudwater Villas. Listen, see what you can find out, but softly softly, OK? Good girl. No, no need to get back to me. Unless something really important comes up, it’ll keep till the morning. Enjoy thasel!’

He suddenly felt very relaxed. Maybe it was the fact that he’d sunk two bottles of lovely Italian plonk, but relaxing here in the sun looking out over a garden where the glories of summer were enhanced rather than threatened by the first touch of autumn, with that pleasantly mazy music drifting up from the gazebo while behind him, impatient (he hoped) for his return, sat a golden-haired damsel begging him to ease her distress, he found he’d shed all the doubts and concerns that had beset him since his return to work.

And there was still pudding to come!

Once more master of his soul and captain of his fate, he could do anything he wanted.

Except maybe drive home.

But sufficient be the evil…

He turned round and realized Gina Wolfe had risen too and was standing close behind him. Close enough to have overheard? Mebbe. But it didn’t matter. He’d said nowt that suggested the calls had anything to do with her.

She said, ‘This is a lovely spot, isn’t it? It seems somehow, I don’t know, ungrateful to be unhappy in such a place on such a day.’

‘Then let’s try not to be unhappy,’ he said, leading her back to the table and pouring an inch of golden wine into her glass and filling his own to the brim. ‘Let’s have a toast. To a bright future, eh?’

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘Don’t tempt fate by bringing in the future.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Wise man sticks to here and now. So, let’s see. Here’s to Iti wine, English weather, and a little chance music out of doors. Cheers!’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, smiling.

13.00-13.40

David Gidman the Third stepped up to the microphone and acknowledged the applause.

Pinchbeck had been right. Again. The crowd at the opening was at least fifty per cent larger than the church congregation. The bloody woman had probably also been right to run interference when that dishy deaconess had tried to top up his glass on the vicarage lawn. The notion of pleasuring a woman in canonicals was strangely appealing.

He shook the thought from his mind and concentrated on carrying his audience back to 1948 and the arrival in England of the Empire Windrush, bringing with it David Gidman the First and his young son, not yet known as Goldie.

Maggie listened critically as he outlined his grandfather’s early days in the East End, his emergence as a community leader, his rise from railway cleaner to guard on the Flying Scotsman. She had to acknowledge he was good. More convincing than Cameron, beefier than Brown, less lachrymose than Blair, he had it all. In the right hands he could really go far.

He made the transition from his grandfather to his father with consummate ease, projecting Goldie as a hard-working, self-made entrepreneur who’d used the opportunities offered by a benevolent state to get an education and make a fortune.

‘There was one other thing my dad shared with his dad as well as a capacity for hard work,’ he declared. ‘Neither of them ever forgot where they came from. They always gave something back and the more they earned the more they gave.

‘Now here am I, the third generation of the UK Gidmans. By their standards, I’ve had it easy. Not for me the long journey across a wide ocean to a new land, a new life. Not for me the long journey from the back streets of the East End to the boardrooms of the City. No, I stand before you, benefiting from the advantages of going to a first-rate school and a first-rate university.

‘Yet I do not feel any need to apologize for these advantages. They’ve been paid for, and paid for with interest, by the love and the devotion and the damned hard work of my father and his father.

‘But I’m always aware that, if I’m to show myself worthy of their efforts, their love, their sacrifice, then I too have payments to make.

‘I’m proud of my pappy and of my granpappy, and I want to make them proud of me. It’s people like you standing here before me today who will tell me by your comments and your votes if I succeed.

‘But I won’t be doing my political career much good if I keep you any longer from the refreshments waiting inside! So without further ado, I would like to declare the David Gidman the First Memorial Community Centre well and truly open.’

He took the scissors that Maggie handed him and flourished them for the cameras, making sure his head was inclined slightly to the right. Both profiles were good, but the left was slightly better. Silently he counted up to three, then he snipped the white silk ribbon stretched across the open double door of the ultra-modern reflective glass and white concrete building squatting like a crash-landed space cruiser within world record javelin-throwing distance of the no man’s land that was allegedly going to blossom into the London Olympic village.

He acknowledged the applause, then stood aside and waved the public in towards the promised refreshments.

First to the barricades, last to the refreshments, that’s the way to win hearts and minds, Maggie said. He looked for her now, and saw her making sure that the Centre manager had taken control of the official civic party so that she could give her full attention to the much more important posse of journalists.

She’d vetoed Dave’s suggestion of a formal press conference.

‘That would make it look like it’s all about you,’ she said.

‘But it is,’ he objected. ‘That’s why Pappy said he’d stay away.’

‘Yes, but we don’t want it to look like that. It’s OK, you’ll get the coverage.’

To this end, she stage managed a series of semi-private conversations as they trailed in the wake of the civic party. All PAs like to claim they can deal with the press. Maggie was one of the few who actually could. So unobtrusive you never knew she was there till you stepped out of line, she was gaining a reputation for never failing to deliver on a promise, or a threat.

First up was the Independent. Not their top political man; you needed something a bit meatier than an upwardly mobile young politician opening a community centre to get him off his wife’s Norfolk estate on a Sunday. No, this was a pleasant enough young fellow called…he needed Maggie’s whisper this time.

‘Hello, Piers. Good to see you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Gidman. Your father must be disappointed he couldn’t be here today. How’s he keeping?’

‘He’s fine. Just a touch of cold. Thanks for asking.’

‘Hope he shakes it off soon. But we don’t seem to have seen a lot of him recently anyway. Not leaving the field clear so you can shine, is he?’

‘No one shines brighter than Goldie Gidman, isn’t that what they say? No, he just likes the quiet life nowadays.’

‘Quiet? I understand he’s in and out of Millbank all the time, helping the shadow chancellor get his sums right in the current crisis.’

‘He’s always available when his country needs him, but today he really is treating himself to a day of rest.’

‘Unlike you, eh? Busy busy, in and out of the House. Where do you get the energy? Your friends must be worried you’re taking too much on.’

‘You know what they say-if you want something done, ask a busy man.’

‘I’m sure the PM agrees with you. There’s a rumour going around that there may be something for you in the next reshuffle. Any comment?’

‘I am at my Party’s and my country’s disposal.’

‘And the rumour…?’

‘Almost impossible to stop a rumour, Piers, so do keep spreading it.’

Now Maggie Pinchbeck materialized between them and with a sweet smile indicated that the reporter’s time was up. Obediently he moved aside.

Next up was the Guardian. Again second string, though his well-worn bomber jacket and balding suede shoes looked as if they’d been handed down by his superior.

He too wanted to focus on Goldie Gidman’s contributions to the Tory coffers. When he started getting aggressive, suggesting that if Goldie wasn’t looking for some payback to himself, maybe he regarded it as an investment in his son’s career, Maggie stepped in again, turning as she did so to signal the next journalist on her list to move forward. It should have been Gem Huntley, a rather pushy young woman from the Daily Messenger. Instead it was Gwyn Jones, who was to political scandal what a blow-fly is to dead meat, and he’d been trying to settle on the Gidmans ever since Dave the Third burst on the scene.

‘Gwyn,’ she said, ‘good to see you! What happened? Shandy not sending double invites then?’

It never did any harm to let these journalists know that they weren’t the only ones who kept their eyes and ears open. She knew about the Shandy party because Gidman had been sent an invitation which she’d made sure never reached him. While fairly confident she could have persuaded him that cancelling the Centre opening to attend what the tabloids were calling the mega-binge of the month would have been a PR disaster, it had seemed simpler and safer merely to remove the temptation.

Jones smiled in sardonic acknowledgement of the suggestion that he would only have been invited on Beanie’s ticket and said, ‘Man cannot live on caviar alone. Give me a good honest sandwich any time. Anyway, young Gem wasn’t feeling too well this morning so they asked me if I could step in.’

He made as little effort to sound convincing as Maggie did to sound sincere as she replied, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, hope she’s OK. David, we’re honoured today. The Messenger’s sent their top man to talk to you.’

She had to give it to Dave. Not by a flicker did he show anything but pleasure as he smiled and said, ‘Gwyn, great to see you. Must have missed you at St Osith’s.’

‘Didn’t make the service, Dave, sorry. Good to see you’re taking your leader’s strictures to heart. What was it he said? Religion should have no politics. We will all stand naked before God. When doubtless we will find if size really does matter.’

Gidman’s heart lurched. Could the bastard be on to Sophie?

But his smile remained warm and his voice was light and even as he replied, ‘You’re talking about majorities, of course. So what do you think of the Centre?’

‘Looks great. No expense spared, eh? Folk round here must be very grateful.’

‘Gratitude isn’t the issue. We just want to put something back into the area.’

‘Yeah, I can see why you’d feel like that. Though it does raise the question, would it ever really be possible for your family to fully put back in everything you’ve taken out? You’d have to build something like Buck House, wouldn’t you?’

Maggie was taken aback. The Messenger was never going to be Gidman’s friend, and Jones hated his guts, but even so his approach here was unusually frontal.

Her employer’s initial reaction was relief. Sexual innuendo would have bothered him. Anti-Goldie slurs were old hat and easily dealt with.

‘Do what you can then do a little more, isn’t that what they say?’ he declared.

‘Is it? Who was that? Alex Ferguson?’

‘Someone even older, I think. Confucius, perhaps.’

‘That’s really old. But we should always pay attention to the past, right, Dave? You never know when something’s going to come up behind you and bite your bum. Man with a bitten bum finds out who his real friends are. Of course, it depends what’s doing the biting. A flea would just be irritating, but something a bit bigger, like a wolf, say, that could be serious. You wouldn’t have a wolf trying to take a bite somewhere behind you, Dave?’

Why the hell was he stressing wolf?

‘Not even a flea to the best of my knowledge, Gwyn.’

‘Lucky you. Talking of the past, I heard a rumour your dad was thinking of writing his autobiography.’

‘Another rumour! Definitely nothing in that one, Gwyn. I once suggested it to him and he said, who’d want to read about a dull old devil like me?’

‘Oh, I think there’s quite a lot of people who’d like to hear the whole moving story, Dave, wolves and all. If he ever does go down that road, I’d be more than happy to help him out with the research. It’s never easy digging up the past. People move on, disappear. That’s where a journalist could come in really useful. We’ve got the skills. Finding disappeared people’s a bit of a specialty of mine.’

‘That’s a kind offer. I’ll be sure to mention it to him, Gwyn.’

His gaze flickered to Maggie, who took the hint and brought the interview to a close by advancing the friendly face of the Daily Telegraph. For which relief much thanks, thought Gidman. The Telegraph loved him. But as he answered the bromidic questions, the voice he was hearing in his mind was still Gwyn Jones’s.

13.00-13.50

Goldie Gidman watched his guest’s reaction to the food that Flo had set before him with an amusement he took care to hide.

The man had been an hour late for his eleven o’clock appointment at Windrush House. As his purpose was basically to beg for money, it might have been expected that he would be punctual. On the other hand, as a peer of the realm condescending to visit the tasteless mansion of a self-made black man, he perhaps did not feel that the courtesy of kings need apply. Certainly his explanation for his lateness with its casual reference to the number of roadworks between Sandringham and Waltham Abbey had more of condescension than apology in it.

Goldie Gidman was not offended. When asked as he frequently was by journalists why a man with his background should be such a staunch supporter of the Conservative Party, he had a stock reply that included references to traditional values, British justice, fair play, equal opportunity, enlightened individualism, and cricket.

Privately, and not for publication, he had been known to say that he’d looked closely at British politics and seen that the Tories were his kind of people. Folk he could deal with, motives he understood.

Internally, in that core of being where all men hide their truths and which will only be laid completely open at the great Last Judgment, if such an event ever takes place, Gidman believed that all politicians were little better than reservoir dogs, so you might as well run with the pack that fed off your kind of meat.

The peer was what is known as a fund raiser. His purpose in visiting Goldie was to discover why in recent months his hitherto generous donations to the Party had diminished from a glistening flood to a muddy trickle. It should not be thought that the Party’s ringmaster was so naïve as to think that Gidman was likely to be impressed by an ancient title. Rather his thinking was that, by hesitating his payments, Gidman was taking up a bargaining position. In consequence of recent scandals, such negotiations tended to be delicate and oblique, with the attendant danger of misunderstanding. When a man who thinks he has bought a villa in Antibes finds himself fobbed off with a timeshare in Torremolinos, dissatisfaction at best, and at worst defection, will follow. So this particular peer had been chosen because he gave out such an impression of intellectual vacuity that Goldie might feel constrained to explain in words of at most two syllables what precisely it was he wanted in return for his largesse.

But an hour had passed and the peer was no further forward.

So when Goldie looked at his watch and said, ‘Any second now my wife’s going to call me in to lunch. Thinks if I don’t eat regular I’m going to get an ulcer. You’re very welcome to take pot luck with us if’n you ain’t got somewhere better to be.’

‘How kind,’ said the peer. ‘I should be delighted.’

He meant it. Though this was his first visit to Windrush House he had heard that his host kept a fine cellar and that his wife, who apparently had a professional connection with the catering trade, could dish up some of the tastiest traditional fare a true blue Englishman could desire. This he imagined would be an old-fashioned Sunday lunch to remember.

He was right in one respect.

The pot from which he had agreed to take his luck held nothing more than a thin beef consommé. This was backed up by some hunks of wheaten bread and a wedge of hard cheese, all to be washed down by a small bottle of stout-a special treat, Goldie assured him, as on normal days Flo permitted him nothing but still water.

After a cup of lukewarm decaffeinated coffee, the peer was eager to be on his way even though, with regard to his mission, he felt he now knew less than he thought he did when he arrived.

As he rose to take his leave, Gidman said, ‘Almost forgot. Must be getting old.’ And he produced a long white envelope.

It was unsealed and, after an enquiring glance from the peer had been met by an encouraging nod, he opened it and examined the contents.

‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘My dear fellow, this is extraordinarily generous.’

‘I like to help,’ said Gidman.

‘And you do, you do. Don’t think we’re not appreciative.’

Here he paused, expecting to receive at the very least a strong hint as to how this appreciation might best be shown.

But as he was later to explain to the ringmaster, ‘He just smiled and said goodbye, didn’t hint at a gong, never even mentioned young Dave the Turd. I mean, can it really be he’s not looking for anything in return?’

And the ringmaster said with that insight which had put him at the centre of the circus, ‘Don’t be silly. Of course he wants something, and I don’t doubt we’ll find out what it is sooner or later.’

He was right, but not wholly so.

Back at Windrush House, Flo Gidman, who was more susceptible to the glamour of a title than her husband, rattled on about what a nice man the peer had been, and how you could see the family connections in his nose and ears, and finally asked, ‘Did your talk with him go well, dear?’

‘I think so,’ said Goldie. ‘He got what he came for.’

‘The donation, you mean. I hope they show their appreciation.’

Though she would never press her husband on the matter, the prospect of being Lady Gidman was not altogether disagreeable to Flo.

‘Maybe they will,’ said Gidman, smiling fondly at her. ‘Me, I hope they won’t have to.’

His wife smiled back, not really understanding what he meant.

She was not alone in this, for even the subtle mind of the ringmaster only partially grasped what had gone on.

The reason for the recent scaling down of the Gidman contributions had been that Goldie didn’t care to be taken for granted, except in matters of retribution. When it came to largesse, it was his judgment that regularity and reliability bred first disregard, then disrespect.

It was always his intention when the right moment came to remind the Millbank mandarins what an important contributor he was. Today he felt the moment had come.

A couple of hundred miles to the north, two of his employees were dealing with a potential problem. If, as he thought most likely, they dealt with it satisfactorily, then that was an end to the matter.

But if, as was always possible, things went belly-up, and if, as was most unlikely but still just about possible, all his other safeguards proved to be flawed, then a wise man would be found to have grappled his influential friends to him with bands of gold.

That was why he’d been able to remain underwhelmed by his visitor. He might have a title and a name that ran so far back into antiquity its spelling had changed at least three times, but in the Gidman scheme of things, he was nothing more than the Man from the Pru.

He had been selling insurance.

And having made such a large down payment on his policy, Goldie Gidman felt able to head up to his private sitting room for a cigar and an afternoon with Jimi Hendrix, confident that nothing happening up in darkest Yorkshire could disturb the pleasant tranquillity of his day.

13.00-13.30

Loudwater Villas was an Edwardian terrace converted to flats in the loadsamoney eighties. It derived its name from its proximity to a weir on the Trench, one of the two rivers that wound through the city. Had it overlooked the other, the placid and picturesque Till, the outlook might have added value to the property. But when the industrial revolution began to darken the skies of Mid-Yorkshire, geography and geology had dictated that the deeper, narrower, speedier Trench should be its power source. All you saw across the river from the upper windows of Loudwater Villas was a wasteland of derelict mills that successive Bunteresque city councils promised to transform into a twenty-first-century wonderland of flats and shops and sporting arenas as soon as this postal order they were expecting daily turned up.

Fleur Delay knew none of this, but her eye for detail told her this wasn’t the kind of apartment block that had high security.

No main entrance security cameras; no concierge cum security man behind a bank of screens checking out visitors; no bar to unobtrusive entry but the locked front door.

She knew it was locked because she’d just seen a man walk up to it, insert a key and enter.

Simplest was to wait for someone else to approach, then follow them in. But she was keenly aware of the woman cop standing in the Keldale car park. She’d been talking on the phone. Presumably she’d rung in for instructions.

And if eventually the instruction was to head for Loudwater Villas, then she could be close behind.

Fleur made up her mind. This was after all just an initial check-up, so while a low profile was still preferable, invisibility wasn’t of the essence. The subject identified, then the serious business would begin. It had already occurred to her that the accident rate for young men on motorbikes was pretty high. Not that an old Yamaha 250 was exactly a high-performance machine, but you can break your neck hitting tarmac at forty miles an hour almost as easily as you can at eighty.

But that was getting ahead of herself. Now she needed to get in there quick, even if it meant ringing someone’s bell.

She said, ‘Vince, sit tight. I’ll go and take a look.’

‘Sure you don’t want me along, sis?’

‘Not yet. Have your mobile handy, keep your eyes skinned, and if that woman from the car park shows, give me a ring, OK?’

‘Sure.’

She got out of the car. As she straightened up she swayed slightly. Then she was OK. Vince hadn’t noticed. Sometimes Vince’s ability not to notice things was irritating, but this time she was grateful.

She set off for the entrance. Her luck, always good on a job, held. A car drew up behind her. She glanced round to see its driver, a young Asian man, get out. He was in a hurry, passing her without a glance, inserting a key in the lock and pushing the door fully open as he entered so that she was able to reach it before it swung shut.

She was in a small hallway with a staircase rising from it. No sign of a lift. This had been a conversion with no economy spared. A notice headed LISTON DEVELOPMENTS with a logo resembling the Sidney Opera House confirmed what she’d guessed: the flats in the thirties were on the second floor.

She headed quickly up the stairs. The faster she moved the less chance there was of meeting somebody. Ahead she could hear the young Asian’s footsteps. He was making for the second floor too. She stepped out into the corridor just in time to see him entering a flat, calling, ‘Devi, what are you doing? Ma’s expecting us at one,’ to which a woman’s voice replied, ‘In a minute, in a minute, your ma’s not going anywhere, worse luck!’

The door closed as Fleur approached. Number 38.

She passed on to number 39, which was the last along the corridor. So, neighbours on one side only and they sounded as if they were on their way out.

Beyond the door she could hear the sound of a television cop-show or movie, the kind that involved screaming women and screeching cars. There was a bell push. She leaned into it, then stood back. No security cameras, but the doors did have peepholes. She composed her face to smiling housewife mode. It didn’t come easy and wouldn’t stand close examination, but it should do for a one-eyed squinter.

The peephole darkened. After a moment it lightened again. Thirty seconds passed. Adjusting his dress, or didn’t like the look of her? She was starting to fear the second when the door opened.

She made a rapid assessment of the man who stood there.

He had an unruly mop of hair whose blackness was of an intensity you rarely met outside of a priest’s socks. But his eyebrows she noticed were light brown. And surely he’d had a moustache when she glimpsed him leaving the car park?

His build was right, just under six foot tall, quite muscular, no evidence of any middle-age spread around the belt of his jeans. Age hard to say, though his skin tone looked like that of a young man. Too young? Maybe he used male moisturizer.

He said, ‘Yes?’

She said, ‘Mr Watkins?’

He said, ‘Who’s asking?’

She said, ‘I’m glad to find someone at home. I was beginning to think the whole block was empty. I’m Jenny Smith, Mr Watkins. From Liston Developments. It’s about the proposed improvements. We will have to ask you to vacate your apartment for a couple of days, I’m afraid. I’m here to discuss timings and alternative accommodation with you. Do you have a few moments?’

As she spoke she moved forward with an assurance it would have taken a tank trap to deny. The man retreated before her. Her gaze took in the tiny room. She got no impression of permanency. Furnishing was minimal: television set with a lousy picture and distorted sound, one balding armchair next to a rickety coffee table on which stood a telephone, no pictures on the wall, no curtains on the window.

After seven weeks this would have looked good. After seven years it was puzzling.

He said, ‘Look, I’m a bit busy, couldn’t you do this some other time…?’

He had a bit of an accent. She wasn’t too good at accents. Bit up and down, like that nosey cop who used to get up Goldie’s nose. But accents were easy to put on if you had the gift for it. Vince did a great Arnie Schwarzenegger.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Health and Safety-they need everything yesterday. God, they’re the bane of my life these days. How long have you been here, by the way?’

‘Why? Isn’t that on your records?’

‘Of course it is.’

He was sounding edgy. The furnishings apart, it was looking good. But between looking good and absolute certainty there was a gap a rash jump to conclusions could easily tumble you in.

He said, ‘Look, just for the record, could I see some identification?’

Real edgy!

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘No problem. You’re quite right to ask. In fact, you asking reminds me I should have asked too. So I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, all right?’

A bit of jocular innuendo was always distracting, especially when accompanied by a menacing leer. She rarely had difficulty facing down guys who liked to talk big.

He said, ‘No, I’m sure you’re who you say you are. But listen, I’ve really got things to do…’

Her phone rang.

‘Mind if I answer this?’ she said, opening her shoulder bag.

She took the phone out. As she pressed the receive button the room swayed and this time didn’t level off immediately.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

The phone fell to the floor and she followed it down, cracking her forehead against the TV set which, as if in sympathy, let out a blood-curdling shriek. The warm trickle oozing over her left eye suggested it hadn’t curdled hers.

‘Oh fuck!’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, sure, that’s why I’m lying here bleeding,’ she grated.

‘You look bad. Shall I call an ambulance?’

Her wig had come askew. No wonder he was worried about the way she looked!

‘No, I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘A glass of water maybe.’

He rose and went out of the room.

She needed to be out of here too. She scrabbled for the phone to confirm what she suspected, but there was no one at the other end. Which meant…

She didn’t like to think what it might mean.

She really needed to be out of here. Strength was returning to her legs, but not enough yet.

The man came back with a cupful of water.

She took it from him, squeezed a tablet from the bubble pack and washed it down.

She saw him looking at her and she said, ‘Aspirin.’

There was a tap at the door.

‘Don’t answer…’ she started to say, but he wasn’t taking any notice of her. Why should he?

She got on all fours to try and push herself upright as he opened the door.

Then for about two and a half seconds, everything happened in single-frame audio-visual flashes.

The young female cop in the doorway wearing the kind of phoney smile Fleur had tried for earlier.

Vince behind her swinging a short metal cylinder against the side of her head.

The girl falling into the room.

The man taking two steps back and standing on Fleur’s hand.

Fleur hearing herself scream.

Vince raising the cylinder that was the sawn-off barrel of a shotgun.

The flash.

The bang.

The man falling backwards.

‘For God’s sake, shut that door!’ grated Fleur.

One thing she’d trained Vince up for was instant obedience. He kicked the door shut. Still on her knees, she swung round to the TV set and turned the volume up.

Then she sat and waited, counting up to twenty.

Nothing happened.

The TV set was showing a night scene. She studied herself in the darkened glass. The streak of blood down her face was dramatic but its source was a lesion the size of a peanut.

She adjusted her wig, turned the TV sound up higher, and got to her feet. Vince opened his mouth and she quietened him with a look.

She went to the door and listened.

She heard a door opening, a male voice saying, ‘Don’t be silly, it’s the television. Come on, we’re half an hour late already. Ma will be furious.’ To which the shrill female replied, ‘So what? Can’t we be an hour late, or better still two hours? In my condition, how can I hurry?’

The voices faded away down the corridor.

Now Fleur turned and took in the room.

The man who might be Wolfe was gone beyond recall. The shotgun blast had all but removed his face. There was no way they were going to identify him by comparing him to a photo.

The female cop had fallen on her left side. Blood oozed from a long contusion on the right temple where Vince had struck her. A shallow bubble of saliva formed at her lips, sank, then formed again very slowly, so for the time being at least she was still alive.

Vince stood there, weapon in hand, regarding her with an expression she was all too familiar with, the look of a small boy who suspects he has done wrong but isn’t yet sure if his actions merit mild reproof, stern reproach, or severe punishment. She had to bite back the angry invective forming in her throat.

Then he said, ‘I thought he was hurting you, sis,’ and her anger dissolved.

He is what he is, she thought, and for better or worse she loved him. In fact he was the only person on the face of the earth that she had any positive feeling for, and his need to be protected was matched by her need to protect him. These two, the dead man and the probably dying woman, were so much collateral damage, the high but necessary price that had to be paid for the love between her and her brother. Everything came second to that. Love was a harder taskmaster than even The Man, promising small reward at the end of the day. But you knew when you entered his service that you signed all your rights away.

She said wearily, ‘We’ll talk about it later, Vince. For now, let’s get things sorted in here then be on our way.’