Scold's Bridle

*14*

Earlier that afternoon, a tall, distinguished-looking man was shown into Paul Duggan's office in Poole. He gave his name as James Gillespie and calmly produced his passport and his marriage certificate to Mathilda Beryl Gillespie to prove it. Aware that he had dropped something of a bombshell, he lowered himself on to a vacant chair and clasped his hands around the handle of his walking-stick, studying Duggan with amusement from beneath a pair of exuberant white eyebrows. "Bit of a shock, eh?" he said. Even from the other side of the desk, the smell of whiskey on his breath was powerful.

The younger man examined the passport carefully, then placed it on the blotting-pad in front of him. "Unexpected, certainly," he said dryly. "I had assumed Mrs. Gillespie was a widow. She never mentioned a husband or," he laid a careful stress upon the next syllable, "ex-husband still living."

"Husband," grunted the other forcefully. "She wouldn't. It suited her better to be thought a widow."

"Why did you never divorce?"

"Never saw the need."

"This passport was issued in Hong Kong."

"Naturally. Out there forty years. Worked in various banks. Came back when I realized it was no place to end my days. Too much fear now. Peking's unpredictable. Uncomfortable for a man of my age." He spoke in clipped staccato sentences like someone in a hurry or someone impatient with social niceties.

"So why have you come to see me?" Duggan watched him curiously. He was striking to look at, certainly, with a mane of white hair and an olive complexion, etched with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, but closer examination revealed an underlying poverty beneath the superficial air of prosperity. His clothes had once been good, but time and usage had taken their toll and both the suit and the camel-hair coat were wearing thin.

"Should have thought it was obvious. Now she's dead-reclaiming what's mine."

"How did you know she was dead?"

"Ways and means," said the other.

"How did you know I was her executor?"

"Ways and means," said the other again.

Duggan's curiosity was intense. "And what is it that you wish to reclaim?"

The old man took a wallet from his inside pocket, removed some folded sheets of very thin paper and spread them on the desk. "This is an inventory of my father's estate. It was divided equally amongst his three children on his death forty-seven years ago. My share was those items marked with the initials JG. You will find, I think, that at least seven of them appear on your inventory of Mathilda's estate. They are not hers. They never were hers. I now wish to recover them."

Thoughtfully, Duggan read through the documents. "Precisely which seven items are you referring to, Mr. Gillespie?"

The huge white eyebrows came together in a ferocious scowl. "Don't trifle with me, Mr. Duggan. I refer, of course, to the clocks. The two Thomas Tompions, the Knibbs, the seventeenth-century mahogany long case, the Louis XVI Lyre clock, the eighteenth-century 'pendule d'officer' and the crucifix clock. My father and grandfather were collectors."

Duggan steepled his hands over the inventory. "May I ask why you think any of these things appear on the inventory of Mrs. Gillespie's estate?"

"Are you telling me they don't?"

The solicitor avoided a direct answer. "If I understood you correctly you've been absent from this country for forty years. How could you possibly know what might or might not have been in your wife's possession the day she died?"

The old man snorted. "Those clocks were the only things of value I had, and Mathilda went to a great deal of trouble to steal them from me. She certainly wouldn't have sold them."

"How could your wife steal them if you were still married?"

"Tricked me out of them, then, but it was still theft."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Gillespie removed an airmail letter from his wallet and handed it across the desk. "Self-explanatory, I think."

Duggan unfolded the letter and read the terse lines. The address was Cedar House and the date was April 1961.

Dear James,

I am sorry to have to tell you that during a burglary here over Christmas much of value was stolen, including your collection of clocks. I have today received a cheque in settlement from the insurance company and I enclose their invoice, showing that they sent me a total of Ł23,500.I also enclose a cheque for Ł12,000 which was the insured value of your seven clocks. You bought my silence by leaving the clocks with me, and I am reimbursing you only because I fear you might return one day to claim them. You would be very angry, I think, to discover I'd cheated you a second time. I trust this means we will not need to communicate again.

Yours, Mathilda.

Duggan's amiable face looked up in bewilderment. "I still don't understand."

"They weren't stolen, were they?"

"But she gave you twelve thousand pounds for them. That was a small fortune in 1961."

"It was fraud. She told me the clocks were stolen when they weren't. I accepted the money in good faith. Never occurred to me she was lying." He tapped his walking-stick angrily on the floor. "Two ways of looking at it. One, she stole the clocks herself and defrauded the insurance company. A crime, in my book. Two other things were stolen to the value of twenty-three and a half thousand and she saw an opportunity to take the clocks off me. Also a crime. They were my property." His ancient mouth turned down at the corners. "She knew their value, knew they'd be the best asset she had. Been to Sotheby's myself. Rough estimate, of course, with only descriptions in the inventory to go by, but we're talking over a hundred thousand at auction, probably a great deal more. I want them back, sir."

Duggan considered for a moment. "I don't think the situation is quite as clear-cut as you seem to think, Mr. Gillespie. There's a burden of proof here. First, you have to show that Mrs. Gillespie deliberately defrauded you; second, you have to show that the clocks in Mrs. Gillespie's estate are the precise clocks that were left to you by your father."

"You've read both inventories. What else could they be?"

For the moment, Duggan avoided the question of how James Gillespie knew there was an inventory of Mathilda's estate or what was on it. Once broached, it was going to be a very unpleasant can of worms. "Similar clocks," he said bluntly. "Maybe even the same clocks, but you will have to prove she didn't buy them back at a later stage. Let's say the collection was stolen, and she passed on the compensation to you as she was supposed to. Let's say, then, that she set out to replace the collection because she had developed an interest in horology. She could quite legitimately have used her own money to buy similar clocks at auction. In those circumstances, you would have no claim on them at all. There is also the undeniable fact that you had a duty, encumbent on you as the owner, to establish to your satisfaction that the money you were paid in 1961 represented a full and fair settlement by the insurance company for the theft of your goods. In accepting twelve thousand pounds, Mr. Gillespie, you effectively did that. You abandoned the clocks to sail to Hong Kong, accepted handsome compensation for them without a murmur, and only wish to reclaim them now because after forty years you believe they might have been worth hanging on to. I will admit that this is a grey area, which will require Counsel's opinion, but off the top of my head, I'd say you haven't a leg to stand on. It's an old saying, but a true one. Possession is nine tenths of the law."

Gillespie was not so easily intimidated. "Read her diaries," he growled. "They'll prove she stole them off me. Couldn't resist boasting to herself, that was Mathilda's trouble. Put every damn thing on those miserable pages, then read them over and over again to remind herself how clever she was. Wouldn't have left out a triumph iike this. Read the diaries."

The younger man kept his face deliberately impassive. "I will. As a matter of interest, do you know where she kept them? It'll save me the trouble of looking for them."

"Top shelf of the library. Disguised as the works of Willy Shakespeare." He took a card from his wallet. "You're a solicitor, Mr. Duggan, so I'm trusting you to be honest. That's where I'm staying. Expect to hear from you on this in a couple of days or so. Grateful if you'd treat it as a matter of urgency." He levered himself to his feet with his walking-stick.

"I'd much prefer to deal through your solicitor, Mr. Gillespie."

"I don't have one, sir." He spoke with a touching dignity. "My pension won't allow it. I am relying on you being a gentleman. Presumably they still exist in this wretched country. Precious little else does." He made his way to the door. "Perhaps you think I treated Mathilda badly by deserting her and the child. Perhaps you think I deserved to be stolen from. Read the diaries She'll tell you herself what really happened."

Duggan waited until the door had closed, then reached for the telephone and dialled Learmouth Police Station.

The information about Mathilda's diaries was telephoned through to Cooper as he was about to leave Cedar House. He replaced the receiver with a frown. He'd been over that house from top to bottom, and he was as sure as he could be that there were no handwritten diaries in the library or anywhere else. "Sorry, ladies, I shall have to trespass on your time a little longer. Will you come with me, please?"

Puzzled, Joanna and Sarah followed him across the hall and into the library.

"What are you looking for?" asked Joanna as he stood staring at the top shelf.

He reached up and tapped the thick mahogany ledge that ran, like its fellows, across the width of the wall. "Do either of you see the collected works of William Shakespeare up here?"

"They're all over the place," said Joanna dismissively. "Which particular edition are you looking for?"

"The one that's supposed to be on this shelf." He glanced at her. "Your mother's diaries. I'm told she kept them on the top shelf, disguised as the works of William Shakespeare."

Joanna looked genuinely surprised. "What diaries?"

"Our information is that she kept a record of everything that happened to her."

"I didn't know."

"The informant was very positive."

Joanna gestured helplessly. "I didn't know," she said again.

"Who's your informant?" asked Sarah curiously.

Cooper was watching Joanna as he spoke. "James Gillespie," he said. "Mrs. Lascelles's step-father."

This time the look of surprise lacked conviction. It was left to Sarah to make the obvious response. "I thought he abandoned Mathilda years ago," she said thoughtfully. "How would he know whether she kept diaries or not? Anyway, he's in Hong Kong, or that's what my receptionist told me."

"Not any more, Dr. Blakeney. According to Mrs. Gillespie's solicitor, he's living in Bournemouth." He addressed Joanna. "We'll have to search the house again, and I'd prefer it if you were here while we did so."

"Of course, Sergeant. I'm not planning to go anywhere. This is my house, after all."

Sarah caught her gaze. "What about Ruth? You can't just abandon her."

"Ruth must learn to fend for herself, Dr. Blakeney." She gave an eloquent little shrug. "Perhaps you should have considered the consequences a little more carefully before you persuaded Mother to change her will. You must see that it's quite impossible for me to support her as things stand at the moment."

"It's emotional support she needs, and that won't cost you a bean."

"There's nothing I could say to her that wouldn't make matters worse." Joanna's pale eyes stared unwinkingly at Sarah. "She's had more opportunities than I ever had and she's chosen to throw them away. You do realize she was stealing from Mother for months before this sordid little episode at school." Her mouth thinned unpleasantly. "You can't imagine the resentment I've felt since Miss Harris telephoned to explain why Ruth was being expelled. Have you any idea of the money that's been wasted on that child's education?"

"Miss Harris has given you a very one-sided view of what happened," said Sarah carefully, aware that Cooper was all ears beside her. "You must see that it's only fair to hear Ruth's side as well, at least give her the chance to demonstrate that what happened wasn't entirely her fault."

"I've lived with my daughter on and off for nearly eighteen years, and I know exactly who's to blame. Ruth is quite incapable of telling the truth. You would be very foolish to assume otherwise." She smiled very slightly. "You may tell her that she knows where I am if she wants me, although please make it very clear that, unless this business of the will is settled satisfactorily, then she can expect no help from me either in terms of her continuing education or of her living expenses."

This woman was using Ruth as a bargaining chip, thought Sarah in disgust, but she reminded herself that in her own way Joanna was as desperate as Ruth. She tried again. "Money isn't the issue here, Joanna, the only issue is that your daughter would like to see you. She's too frightened to come to Cedar House because the man who persuaded her to steal knows this address and has made threats against her. Please, please, will you come with me to Mill House and talk to her there? She isn't lying, but she's deeply disturbed about everything that's happened and needs reassurance that you haven't rejected her. She has spent most of her time sitting by the telephone, hoping and praying that you would call. I don't think you have any idea how deeply she cares for you."

There was the briefest of hesitations-or was that wishful thinking on Sarah's part? "You took her in, Dr. Blakeney, so I suggest you deal with her. I can't begin to condone anything she's done. Worse, I'm inclined to think it was she who murdered my mother. She's quite capable of it. Please don't be in any doubt about that."

Sarah shook her head in disbelief. "Ah, well, perhaps it's better this way. The one thing Ruth doesn't need at the moment is you downloading your hypocritical crap on her. You're tarred with exactly the same brush, or have you forgotten the mess you were in when Mathilda rescued you?" She shrugged. "I'd made up my mind to turn the bequest down and let you and Ruth have a fair crack at convincing a court you had more rights than the donkeys. Not any more. You'll have to fight me for it now, and you'll be fighting your corner alone because I intend to put money in trust for Ruth so that she doesn't lose out whatever happens." She walked to the door, flashing Cooper one of the sweet smiles that made his elderly heart race around like a young spring lamb. "If it's of any interest to you, Sergeant, I am still of the opinion that Joanna did not kill Mathilda. Arthritis or no arthritis, Mathilda would have legged it for the hills the minute this bitch came near her."

Well, well, Cooper thought, gazing after her as she stormed across the hall, there was passion in Dr. Blakeney after all. But he wished he knew what had happened to Ruth that was making her and Jack so angry.

Cadogan Mansions, implying as it did something grand and impressive, was a misnomer for the shabby neglect of the purpose-built block that greeted Cooper the following morning. Sixties architecture, drab, square and unstylish, squeezed into a gap between two suburban villas and constructed solely to provide extra accommodation at minimum cost for maximum profit. How very different towns might look, Cooper always thought, if planners had been prosecuted instead of praised for their urban vandalism. He climbed the utilitarian stairs and rang the bell of number seventeen. "Mr. James Gillespie?" he asked of the rugged old man who poked his nose round the door and gusted stale whisky in his face. Cooper flipped open his warrant card. "DS Cooper, Learmouth Police."

Gillespie's eyebrows beetled aggressively. "Well?"

"May I come in?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to ask you some questions about your late wife."

"Why?"

Cooper could see this conversation dragging on interminably. He opted for the direct approach. "Your wife was murdered, sir, and we have reason to believe you may have spoken to her before she died. I understand that you have been living abroad for some years, so perhaps I should remind you that you are obliged by British law to assist us in any way you can with our enquiries Now, may I come in?"

"If you must." He seemed quite unruffled by the policeman's bald statement but led the way past a room with a bed in it to another room containing a threadbare sofa and two plastic chairs. There was no other furniture and no carpets, but a piece of net curtaining was draped in the windows to give a modicum of privacy. "Expecting bits and pieces from Hong Kong," he barked "Should arrive any day. Camping out meanwhile. Sit down." He lowered himself on to the sofa, trying somewhat clumsily to hide the empty bottle that lay on the floor at his feet. The room was frowsty with whisky, urine and unwashed old man. The front of his trousers was saturated, Cooper saw. Tactfully, he took out his notebook and concentrated his attention on that.

"You didn't seem very surprised when I told you your wife was murdered, Mr. Gillespie. Did you know already?"

"Heard rumours."

"Who from?"

"My brother. We used to live in Long Upton once. He still knows people there. Hears things."

"Where does he live now?"

"London."

"Could you give me his name and address?"

The old man thought about it. "No harm, I suppose, Frederick Gillespie, Carisbroke Court, Denby Street, Kensington. Won't help you, though. Doesn't know any more than I do."

Cooper flicked back through the pages of his notebook till he came to Joanna Lascelles's address. "Your step-daughter lives in Kensington. Does your brother know her?"

"Believe so."

Well, well, well, thought Cooper. A panorama of intriguing possibilities opened up in front of him. "How long have you been back in England, Mr. Gillespie?"

"Six months."

The bits and pieces from Hong Kong were eyewash, then. Nothing took that long these days to be freighted round the world. The old boy was destitute. "And where did you go first? To your brother? Or to your wife?"

"Spent three months in London. Then decided to come back to my roots."

Frederick couldn't put up with an incontinent drunk. It was guesswork, of course, but Cooper would put money on it. "And you saw Joanna during that time and she told you that Mathilda was still living in Cedar House." He spoke as if it were something he had established already.

"Nice girl," said the old man ponderously. "Pretty, like her mother."

"So you went to see Mathilda."

Gillespie nodded. "Hadn't changed. Rude woman still."

"And you saw the clocks. The ones she told you had been stolen."

."Solicitor's talked, I suppose."

"I've just come from Mr. Duggan. He informed us of your visit yesterday." He saw the old man's scowl. "He had no option, Mr. Gillespie. Withholding information is a serious offence, particularly where a murder has occurred."

"Thought it was suicide."

Cooper ignored this. "What did you do when you realized your wife had lied to you?"

Gillespie gave a harsh laugh. "Demanded my property back, of course. She found that very amusing. Claimed I'd accepted money in lieu thirty years ago and no longer had an entitlement." He searched back through his memory. "Used to hit her when I lived with her. Not hard. But I had to make her frightened of me. It was the only way I could stop that malicious tongue." He fingered his mouth with a trembling hand. It was mottled and blistered with psoriasis. "I wasn't proud of it and I never hit a woman again, not until-" He broke off.

Cooper kept his voice level. "Are you saying you hit her when she told you you couldn't have your property back?"

"Smacked her across her beastly face." He closed his eyes for a moment as if the recollection pained him.

"Did you hurt her?"

The old man smiled unpleasantly. "I made her cry," he said.

"What happened then?"

"Told her I'd be putting the law on to her and left."

"When was this? Can you remember?"

He seemed to become suddenly aware of the urine stains on his trousers and crossed his legs self-consciously. "The time I hit her? Two, three months ago."

"You went there at other times then?"

Gillespie nodded. "Twice."

"Before or after you hit her?"

"After. Didn't want the law on her, did she?"

"I don't follow."

"Why would you? Doubt you saw her till she was dead. Devious, that's the only way to describe Mathilda. Devious and ruthless. Guessed I'd fallen on hard times and came here the next day to sort something out. Talked about a settlement." He picked at the scabs on his hand. "Thought I wouldn't know what the clocks were worth. Offered me five thousand to leave her alone." He fell silent.

"And?" Cooper prompted when the silence lengthened.

The old eyes wandered about the empty room. "Realized she'd pay more to avoid the scandal. Went back a couple of times to demonstrate how vulnerable she was. She was talking fifty thousand the day before she died. I was holding out for a hundred. We'd have got there eventually. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone saw me and recognized me."

"You were blackmailing her."

Gillespie gave his harsh laugh again. "Mathilda was a thief. D'you call it blackmail to negotiate back what's been stolen from you? We understood each other perfectly. We'd have reached an agreement if she hadn't died."

Cooper allowed his revulsion to get the better of him. ''It seems to me, sir, you wanted to have your cake and eat it too. You deserted her forty years ago, left her to fend for herself with a baby, snatched up what the clocks were worth in nineteen sixty-one, spent the whole lot"-he looked pointedly at the empty bottle-"probably on booze, repeated the exercise with everything else you've ever earned and then came home to leech off the woman you'd abandoned. I'd say it's arguable who was the greater thief. If the clocks were so important to you, why didn't you take them with you?"

"Couldn't afford to," said Gillespie dispassionately. "Put together enough for my passage. Nothing left over to freight the clocks."

"Why didn't you sell one to pay for the freight of the others?"

"She blocked it." He saw the scepticism in Cooper's expression. "You didn't know her, man, so don't make judgements."

"Yet by your own admission you used to beat her to make her frightened of you. How could she stop you selling your own property? You'd have thrashed her."

"Maybe I did," he growled. "Maybe she found another way to stop me. You think I was the first one to try blackmail? She was a past master at it." He touched his lips again and this time the tremor in his hands was more marked. "We reached an accommodation, the essence of which was no scandal. She'd let me leave for Hong Kong on the condition that there was no divorce and she kept the clocks. Mutual insurance, she called them. While she housed them, she could be sure of my silence. While I owned them I could be sure of hers. They were worth a bob or two, even in those days."

Cooper frowned. "What silence were you buying?"

"This and that. It was an unhappy marriage, and you washed your dirty linen in public when you divorced in those days. Her father was an MP, don't forget."

She let me leave for Hong Kong ... Strange use of words, thought Cooper. How could she have stopped him? "Were you involved in something criminal, Mr. Gillespie? Were the clocks a quid pro quo for her not going to the police?"

He shrugged. "Water under the bridge now."

"What did you do?"

"Water under the bridge," the old man repeated stubbornly. "Ask me why Mathilda had to buy my silence. That's a damn sight more interesting."

"Why then?"

"Because of the baby. Knew who the father was, didn't I?"

Water under the bridge, thought Cooper sarcastically. "You told Mr. Duggan that your wife kept diaries," he said, "that they were on the top shelf of her library disguised as the collected works of William Shakespeare. Is that correct?"

"It is."

"Did you see them when you went to Cedar House or did Mrs. Gillespie tell you about them?"

Gillespie's eyes narrowed. "You saying they're not there now?"

"Will you answer my question, please. Did you see them or are you relying on something Mrs. Gillespie told you?"

"Saw them. Knew what to look for, see. I had the first two volumes bound for her as a wedding present. Gave her another eight with blank pages."

"Could you describe them, Mr. Gillespie?"

"Brown calfskin binding. Gold lettering on the spines. Titles courtesy Willy Shakespeare. Ten volumes in all."

"What sort of size?"

"Eight inches by six inches. An inch thick or thereabouts." He wrung his hands in his lap. "They're not there, I suppose. Don't mind telling you, rather relying on those diaries. They'll prove she set out to defraud me."

"So you read them?"

"Couldn't," the old man grumbled. "She never left me alone long enough. Fussed around me like a blasted hen. But the proof'll be there. She'd've written it down, just like she wrote everything else."

"Then you can't say for sure they were diaries, only that there were ten volumes of Shakespeare on the top shelf which bore a resemblance to some diaries you'd bought for her forty-odd years ago."

He pursed his lips obstinately. "Spotted them the first time I was there. They were Mathilda's diaries all right."

Cooper thought for a moment. "Did Mrs. Lascelles know about them?"

Gillespie shrugged. "Couldn't say. I didn't tell her. Don't believe in emptying the armoury before I have to."

"But you told her you weren't her father?"

He shrugged again. "Someone had to."

"Why?"

"She was all over me. Wouldn't leave me alone. Pathetic really. Seemed wrong to let her go on believing such a fundamental lie."

"Poor woman," murmured Cooper with a new compassion. He wondered if there was anyone who hadn't rejected her. "I suppose you also told her about the letter from her natural father."

"Why not? Seemed to me she has as much right to the Cavendish wealth as Mathilda had."

"How did you know about it? It was written after you left for Hong Kong."

The old man looked sly. "Ways and means," he muttered. But he saw something in Cooper's eyes that caused him to reflect. "There was talk in the village when Gerald topped himself," he said. "Word got about he'd written a letter which his brother managed to suppress. Suicide"-he shook his head-"wasn't the done thing in those days. William hushed it up for the sake of the family. I heard the stories at the time and suggested Joanna look for the letter. Stood to reason what would be in it. Gerald was a sentimental half-wit bound to've mentioned his bastard. Couldn't've resisted it."

"And perhaps you reached an accommodation with Mrs. Lascelles as well. You'd testify in court to her real paternity if she kept you in clover for the rest of your life. Something like that?"

Gillespie gave a dry chuckle. "She was a great deal more amenable than her mother."

"Then why did you bother to go on negotiating with Mrs. Gillespie?"

"Didn't rate Joanna's chances much, not against Mathilda."

Cooper nodded. "So you killed your wife to improve the odds."

The dry chuckle rasped out again. "Wondered when you'd pull that one out of the hat. Didn't need to. If she didn't kill herself, then rather think my step-daughter did it for me. She was mightly put out to discover that her mother played the tart with her great-uncle."

Abruptly, like some guilty secret he'd decided to unburden, he fished a full bottle of whisky from where it was nicked down behind the sofa cushions, unscrewed the cap and held it to his mouth. "Want some?" he asked vaguely after a moment, waving the bottle in Cooper's direction before placing it between his lips again and half-draining it in huge mouthfuls.

The Sergeant, whose experience of drunks was considerable after years of plucking them out of the gutter in sodden heaps, watched in amazement. Gillespie's tolerance levels were extraordinary. In two minutes he had consumed enough neat spirit to put most men on their backs, and the only effect it seemed to have on him was to reduce the tremors in his hands.

"We're having difficulty establishing a motive for your wife's murder," Cooper said slowly. "But it seems to me yours is rather stronger than most."

"Bah!" Gillespie snorted, his eyes bright now with alcoholic affability. "She was worth more to me alive. I told you, she was talking fifty thousand the day before she died."

"But you didn't keep your side of the bargain, Mr. Gillespie. That meant your wife was free to reveal why you had to abscond to Hong Kong."

"Water under the bridge," came his monotonous refrain. "Water under the bloody bridge. No one'd be interested in my little peccadillo now, but there's a hell of a lot'd be interested in hers. The daughter, for a start." He raised the bottle to his mouth again, and the shutters went down.

Cooper couldn't remember when anyone or anything had disgusted him quite so much. He stood up, buttoning depression about himself with his coat. If he could wash his hands of this terrible family, he would, for he could find no saving graces in any of them. What's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh, and their corruption was as rank as the stench in that room. If he regretted anything in his life it was being on shift the day Mathilda's body was found. But for that, he might have remained what he had always believed he was-a truly tolerant man.

Unnoticed by Gillespie, he retrieved the empty bottle from the floor with his fingertips and took it with him.

Jack studied the address that Sarah had patiently cajoled out of Ruth. "You say it's a squat, so how do I get him outside alone?"

She was rinsing some cups under the cold water tap. "I'm having second thoughts. What happens if you end up in traction for the next six months?"

"It couldn't possibly be worse than what I'm suffering already," he murmured, pulling out a chair and sitting on it. "There's something wrong with the spareroom bed. It's giving me a stiff neck. When are you going to boot Ruth out and let me back where I belong?"

"When you've apologized."

"Ah, well," he said regretfully, "a stiff neck it is then."

Her eyes narrowed. "It's only an apology, you bastard. It won't kill you. Stiff-necked says it all, if you ask me."

He gave an evil grin. "It's not the only thing that's stiff. You don't know what you're missing, my girl."

She glared at him. "That's easily cured." With a swift movement she upended a cupful of freezing water into his lap. "It's a pity Sally Bennedict didn't do the same."

He surged to his feet, knocking the chair backwards. "Jesus, woman," he roared, "will you stop trying to turn me into a eunuch!" He gripped her round the waist and lifted her bodily into the air. "You're lucky we've got Ruth in the house," he growled, twisting her sideways and holding her head under the running tap, "otherwise I might be tempted to show you how ineffectual cold water is on a deprived libido."

"You're drowning me," she spluttered.

"Serves you right." He set her on her feet again and turned off the tap.

"You asked for passion," she said, dripping water over the quarry tiles. "Don't you like it now that you've got it?"

He tossed her a towel. "Hell, yes," he said with a grin. "The last thing I wanted was a wife who understood. I will not be patronized, woman."

She shook her head in fury, splattering the kitchen with droplets. "If one more person calls me patronizing," she said, "I will do them some damage. I am trying to be charitable towards some of the most useless and self-indulgent egotists it has ever been my misfortune to meet. And it's bloody difficult." She rubbed her hair vigorously with the towel. "If the world was made up of people like me, Jack, it would be paradise."

"Well, you know what they say about paradise, old thing. It's heaven until the horned viper pops his head out from under the fig leaf and spots the moist warm burrow under the bushes. After that all hell breaks loose."

She watched him pull on his old donkey jacket and take a torch from the kitchen drawer. "What are you planning to do exactly?"

"Never you mind. What you don't know can't incriminate you."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

His dark face split into a grin. "What for? So you can stitch him back together again when I've finished with him? You'd be a liability, woman. Anyway, you'd be struck off if we were caught, and someone's got to stay with Ruth."

"You will be careful, won't you?" she said, her eyes dark with concern. "In spite of everything, Jack, I am really very fond of you."

He touched a finger to her lips. "I'll be careful," he promised.

He drove slowly up Palace Road, located number twenty-three and the white Ford transit outside it, made a circuit of the block and drew into a space which gave him an unobstructed view of the house but was far enough away from it not to attract attention to himself. Yellow lamplight gleamed along the street, throwing pools of shadow amongst the houses, but few people were abroad at eight o'clock on a cold Thursday evening in late November, and only once or twice did his heart jump at the unexpected appearance of a dark-clad figure on the pavement. An hour had passed when a dog emerged into a swathe of light ten yards from the car and began to rootle amongst some garbage by a dustbin. It was only after several minutes of watching that Jack realized it wasn't a dog at all but an urban fox, scavenging for food.

So prepared was he for a long wait, and so entranced by the delicate scratchings of the fox, that he missed the door of number twenty-three opening. Only the noise of laughter alerted him to the fact that something was going down. With narrowed eyes, he watched a group of young men piling into the back of the van, saw the doors slam and a figure disappear round the side.

Impossible to tell if it was Hughes. Ruth had described him as tall, dark and handsome, but, as all cats are black in the night, so all young men look the same from thirty yards distant on a winter's evening. Jack, gambling on something else she had said, that the van was his and he always drove it, pulled out behind it as it drove away.