The Mermaids Singing

16

‘Now, Miss R., supposing that I should appear at about midnight at your bedside, armed with a carving knife, what would you say?’ To which the confiding girl had replied, ‘Oh, Mr Williams, if it was anybody else, I should be frightened. But as soon as I heard your voice, I should be tranquil.’ Poor girl; had this outline sketch of Mr Williams been filled in and realized, she would have seen something in the corpse-like face, and heard something in the sinister voice, that would have unsettled her tranquillity forever.

When the phone rang, Carol’s first reaction was outrage. Ten past eight on a Sunday morning could only mean work. She stirred, a long, low growl of discontent making Nelson’s ears prick. Carol’s arm appeared from under the covers, groping around on the bedside table. She connected with the phone and grunted, ‘Jordan,’ into it.

‘This is your early-morning alarm call.’ The voice was far too cheerful, Carol decided, before the identity of her caller registered.

‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘This better be good.’

‘It’s better than good. What would you say to a witness who saw the killer drive away from Damien Connolly’s house?’

‘Say again?’ she mumbled. Kevin repeated his announcement. The second time round, his voice catapulted Carol into a sitting position, on the edge of the bed. ‘When?’ she demanded.

‘The guy walked in late last night. He’s been out of the country on business. Brandon interviewed him. He’s called a meeting for nine,’ Kevin said, excited as a Christmas child.

‘Kevin, you bastard, you might have called me before now…’

He chuckled. ‘I thought you needed your beauty sleep.’

‘Bollocks to beauty sleep…’

‘No, I’ve only been in five minutes myself. Can you bring the doc in with you? I just tried calling him, but there was no reply.’

‘OK, I’ll swing round by his place and see if I can raise him. He seems to have a habit of switching the phones off. Fancy thinking he could get away with a decent night’s sleep. You can tell he’s not a copper,’ she added. Carol replaced the phone abruptly and headed for the shower. The thought that Tony might have switched off his phone because he was with the woman on the answering machine crossed her mind. The idea made her stomach hurt. ‘Silly bitch,’ she muttered to herself as the water cascaded over her.

By twenty to nine, she was leaning on Tony’s doorbell. After a couple of minutes, the door opened. Bleary eyed, struggling with the belt of his dressing gown, Tony peered out at her. ‘Carol?’

‘Sorry to wake you,’ she said formally. ‘You weren’t answering your phone. Mr Brandon asked me to pick you up. There’s a meeting at nine. We’ve got a witness.’

Tony rubbed his eyes, looking bemused. ‘You better come in.’ He walked down the hall, leaving Carol to close the door behind her. ‘Sorry about the phones. I was late getting to sleep, so I switched them off.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you hang on while I have a shower and a shave? Otherwise, I’ll make my own way in. I don’t want you to be late on my account.’

‘I’ll wait,’ Carol said. She picked the paper off the mat and flicked through it, leaning against the wall, alert for the telltale signs of a third person’s presence. She felt unreasonably pleased when she heard none. Even though she knew her reaction was childish, it didn’t mean these responses were going to stop overnight. She was just going to have to learn to disguise them until they died away, as she felt sure they would eventually, starved out of existence by Tony’s lack of interest.

Ten minutes later, Tony reappeared in jeans and rugby shirt, hair damp and neatly brushed. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘My brain doesn’t work until I’ve had a shower. Now, what’s all this about a witness?’

Carol told him the little she knew on the way to the car.

‘That’s great news,’ Tony enthused. ‘First big breakthrough, isn’t it?’

Carol shrugged. ‘It depends how much he can tell us. If the guy was driving a red Ford Escort, it doesn’t take us a lot further forward. We’d need something solid to cross-match. Maybe something like the computer angle.’

‘Oh yes, the computer theory. How goes that?’

‘I discussed it with my brother. He reckons it’s perfectly feasible,’ Carol said coldly, feeling patronized.

‘Great!’ Tony enthused. ‘I really hope that works out. I wasn’t trying to pour cold water on it, you know. I have to work with the balance of probabilities, and your idea’s way beyond my parameters. But it’s the kind of investigative brainwave that we’re going to need on the national task force. I really think you should seriously consider signing up when we get the show on the road.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with the idea of working with me after this,’ Carol said, eyes firmly fixed on the road.

Tony took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never met a police officer I’d rather work with.’

‘Even if I do trespass on your personal space?’ she asked bitterly, hating herself for picking at the hurt like an old scab.

Tony sighed. ‘I thought we’d agreed we could be friends? I know I…’

‘Fine,’ she interrupted, wishing she’d never opened up the conversation. ‘I can do friends. What do you think of Bradfield Victoria’s chances in the Cup?’

Startled, Tony twisted in his seat and stared at Carol. He saw a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. Suddenly, they were both laughing.

The latest government threats to the prison service meant the officers at HM Prison Barleigh had started to work to rule. That in turn meant that prisoners were banged up for twenty-three hours in every twenty-four. Stevie McConnell lay on his side on his bunk bed in the cell he had to himself. Following the attack that had left him with two black eyes, a couple of cracked ribs, more bruises than he could count, and the kind of sexual damage that made sitting down an option too painful to contemplate readily, he had asked for and been granted solitary confinement.

It didn’t matter how much he protested that he wasn’t the Queer Killer. Nobody cared, neither cons nor screws. He’d realized that the warders held him in as much contempt as his fellow prisoners when he’d heard the sounds of slopping-out all along the wing. But no officer had unlocked his cell door to allow him to empty the stinking bucket of his sewage that sat in the corner, its smell insistent and somehow more disgusting than any of the dozens of public toilets where Stevie had picked up strangers for sex.

As far as he could see, his prospects were bleak. The very fact that he was behind bars was enough to condemn him in most people’s eyes. Probably the whole world was convinced that the Queer Killer had taken his last victim now that Stevie McConnell was in jail. After he’d been released following his first stretch of questioning, he’d been painfully aware that everyone at work, staff and clients, were giving him a wide berth, refusing to meet his eyes. One drink in a Temple Fields bar where he’d been a regular for years had been enough to show him that gay solidarity had mysteriously deserted him too. The police and the press clearly thought he was their psychopath. And until they caught the Queer Killer, Bradfield wasn’t going to be a welcoming place for Stevie McConnell. The decision to move out to Amsterdam where an ex-lover ran a gym had seemed to make sense at the time. It hadn’t occurred to him that they’d be tailing him.

The irony that this had all happened to him because he’d rushed to the defence of a police officer in the first place was not lost on Stevie. He gave a bitter bark of laughter. That big Geordie sergeant was probably counting his blessings that he’d been smacked with a half-brick, figuring that that was the only thing that had saved him from being the Queer Killer’s next victim. The reality was that Stevie McConnell was the only victim around that night. And it wasn’t going to get any better. Even his shocked family didn’t want to know, according to his solicitor.

Lying there, examining his future dispassionately, he came to a decision. Grimacing with pain, Stevie rolled off the bunk and took off his shirt, wincing at the stab of pain from his ribs. With his teeth and nails, painstakingly he unpicked the seams that held the denim together. On the sharp end of a bed spring, he ripped the edges of the material so he could tear it into thin strips, which he plaited together for extra strength. He tied one end of the makeshift ligature round his neck in a tight noose, then climbed on to the top bunk. He fastened the other end of his short rope to the bottom rail of the upper berth.

Then, at seventeen minutes past nine on a sunny Sunday morning, he threw himself head first over the edge.

Like an ailing company which has won a life-saving tender against all odds, Scargill Street was buzzing with excited activity. At the heart of it all was the HOLMES room, where officers stared into screens, manipulating the new information, evaluating the new correspondences the system was throwing out.

In his office, Brandon held a council of war with his four inspectors and Tony, all of them clutching a photocopy of Brandon’s notes on his interview with Terry Harding. The ACC had only had five hours’ sleep, but the prospect of movement on the enquiry had given him a new energy, betrayed only by the heavy shadows around his deep-set eyes. ‘To recap, then,’ Brandon said. ‘At about quarter past seven the night Damien Connolly was killed, a man drove out of his garage in some kind of big four-wheel drive jeep, dark in colour. He got out of the jeep to close the garage door, and that’s when our witness got his best look at him. The description we’ve got is white, five ten to six feet, aged between twenty and forty-five, possibly with his hair tied back in a ponytail. Wearing white trainers, jeans and a long waxed coat. Overnight, the HOLMES team have been going through the vehicles clocked in Temple Fields that fit the description. Most of these drivers have already been interviewed, but they’re all going to be followed up and questioned more thoroughly now we’ve got Terry Harding’s evidence. Bob, I want you to take charge of that, and I want alibis checking too.’

‘Right, boss,’ Stansfield said, flicking the ash off his cigarette with a determined motion.

‘Oh, and Bob? Can you get someone to check that Harding really has been in Japan all week on a business trip? I want to make sure we cover all the bases on this one.’ Stansfield nodded.

‘I’m sending a car round for Harding at eleven o’clock,’ Brandon went on, checking the list he’d made in the kitchen at seven. ‘Carol, I want you to do the interview. Check what taxi firm Harding used to take him to the airport; let’s see if we can get that time narrowed down a bit more. Tony, I’d like you to sit in on it. Maybe you can help us with strategies to improve his recollection, see if we can get any firm description of what this character looks like.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘At least I can probably distinguish between what he really remembers and what he thinks he remembers.’

Brandon gave him an odd look, but carried on regardless. ‘Kevin, I want you to organize a team to hit the car showrooms, get as many brochures and posters as you can of four-wheel drive jeeps, so we can show them to Mr Harding and see if he can give us a positive ID.’

‘Will do, sir. Do you want us to go back to the neighbours in the earlier cases, see if anyone noticed the same vehicle there?’ Kevin asked eagerly.

Brandon considered for a moment. ‘Let’s see how we go on today,’ he said after a few moments. ‘It’ll take a lot of bodies and time to go over the old ground again, and we might not need it. It’s probably worth having a word with the rest of the neighbours in Connolly’s street, though. Now we’ve got something positive to hit them with. Good idea, Kevin. Now, Dave. What can you do for us?’

Woolcott outlined the actions the HOLMES team were already carrying out. ‘With it being Sunday, I’m holding back on contacting Swansea until we’ve tried to get the vehicle narrowed down. The more information we can give them, the fewer possibilities we’ll have to deal with. If this Harding bloke can give us make, model and year, or at least eliminate some models, we can ask DVLC to let us have a list of all the matches throughout the UK. Then we can start interviewing registered keepers, starting with Bradfield and moving out from there. It’s a helluva big job, but we should get there in the end.’

Brandon nodded his acknowledgement. ‘Anybody got anything else?’

Tony lifted a hand. ‘If you’re questioning neighbours anyway, it might be worth extending the enquiries slightly.’ All eyes were on him, but he was only aware of Carol’s. What had happened between them had sharpened his desire to be instrumental in capturing Handy Andy. ‘This guy is a stalker, I don’t think anyone would dispute that now. I think he’d been watching Damien Connolly for a while. Given that we’re in the middle of winter and it’s not the ideal weather for standing around in the open, chances are he did the bulk of his spying from his car. He probably didn’t park up in the close itself, since he’d be too noticeable in such a short street. I’d guess he parked on the street that runs along the bottom, somewhere that he had the house in his line of sight. Maybe someone there noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked outside for long stretches.’

‘Good thinking,’ Brandon said. ‘Kevin, can you cover that?’

‘Will do, sir. I’ll get the lads on to it.’

‘And the lasses,’ Carol said sweetly. ‘And maybe we should ask them not to concentrate on the four-wheel drive motor. If this guy’s as careful as we think he is, he might only use the jeep for the actual snatches and go for something different when he’s doing the stalking, just in case a nosy neighbour has clocked him.’

‘What do you think, Tony?’ Brandon asked.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ he said. ‘It’s important we don’t forget how competent this killer is. He might even be using hired cars.’

Dave Woolcott groaned. ‘Oh God, don’t do this to me.’

Bob Stansfield looked up from the pad where he’d been scribbling the names of his team. ‘I take it that the other lines of enquiry that Dr Hill suggested are on the back burner for now?’

Brandon pursed his lips grimly. The euphoria had died somewhere during the briefing. The weight of the work ahead seemed unbearable, the idea of finding the killer almost as distant as it had before Terry Harding walked into the station. ‘That’s right. No disrespect, Tony, but your suggestions are hypotheses, and what we’ve got now is our first solid set of facts.’

‘No problem,’ Tony said. ‘Hard evidence always comes first.’

‘And Carol’s idea about the computer stuff? Should we still pursue that?’ Dave asked.

‘Same thing applies,’ Brandon said. ‘It’s a hunch, not a fact, so yes, it goes on the back burner.’

‘With respect, sir,’ Carol chipped in, determined not to be sidelined. ‘Even if Terry Harding gives us a positive ID on the make and model of the vehicle, we might be no further forward. We need other elimination factors before we can narrow things down. If I’m right about the computer, we’d be looking at such a small segment of the population that it would be significant if we did get a cross-match.’

Brandon considered for a moment. Then he said, ‘Point taken, Carol. OK, we can pursue it, Dave, but not as a priority. Only as and when we have bodies freed up from the main enquiry. Right, are we all clear what we’ve got to do?’ He looked around expectantly, registering the series of nods. ‘OK, team,’ Brandon said, his voice stern. ‘Let’s go for it.’

‘And may the force be with you,’ Kevin said under his breath to Carol as they emerged from the office.

‘I’d rather have the force than the gutter press,’ she said drily, turning her back on him. ‘Tony, can we find a quiet corner and plan our strategy for this interview?’

‘The only way you’re going to get more out of him is by hypnosis,’ Tony told Carol as they talked in the corridor after an hour with Terry Harding.

‘Can you do that?’ Carol asked.

‘I’ve got the basic technique. Judging by his eye movements and body language, he was telling the truth about what he saw, not making anything up or exaggerating, so he might come across with more detail under hypnosis, particularly if we have pictures to show him.’

Ten minutes later, Carol was back with a sheaf of car brochures that Kevin’s team had scavenged from city dealerships. ‘This what we need?’

Tony nodded. ‘Perfect. You sure you want me to give this a go?’

‘It’s got to be worth a try,’ Carol said.

They walked back into the interview room, where Terry Harding was finishing a mug of coffee. ‘Can I go now?’ he said plaintively. ‘Only I’m due to fly out to Brussels tomorrow and I haven’t even unpacked my bag.’

‘Not much longer, sir,’ Carol said, sitting down to one side of the table. ‘Dr Hill would like to try something with you.’

Tony smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ve got some pictures of the kind of jeep you saw leaving Damien’s garage. What I’d like to do, if you’re agreeable, is to put you in a light hypnotic trance and ask you to look at them.’

Harding frowned. ‘Why can’t I just look at them as I am?’

‘The chances are better that you’d recognize the particular model,’ Tony explained soothingly. ‘Thing is, Mr Harding, you’re obviously a very busy man. Since you saw the incident, you’ve travelled to the other side of the world, you’ve had a series of important business meetings, and you’ve probably not had enough sleep. All of that means your conscious mind has probably filed away the details of what you saw last Sunday. Using hypnosis, I can help you retrieve that information.’

Harding looked dubious. ‘I don’t know. Always supposing you could get me to go under, you could make me say anything.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s not the case. If it was, hypnotists would all be millionaires,’ Tony joked. ‘Like I said, all it does is free up the stuff you’ve buried because it’s not important.’

‘What do I have to do?’ Harding said suspiciously.

‘Just listen to my voice and follow what I tell you,’ Tony said. ‘You’ll feel a little strange, a little spaced out, but you’ll be in control at all times. I use a technique called neuro-linguistic programming. It’s very relaxing, I promise you.’

‘Do I have to lie down, or what?’

‘Nothing like that. And I’m not going to wave a watch in front of you. Are you prepared to give it a try?’

Carol held her breath, watching Harding as an assortment of expressions chased each other across his face. Finally, he nodded. ‘I doubt you’ll be able to get me under,’ he said. ‘I’m a man who knows his own mind. But I’m willing to try.’

‘OK,’ said Tony. ‘I want you to relax. Close your eyes if it feels more comfortable. Now, I want you to go deep down inside yourself…’

Elated with their success, Tony and Carol bounced into the murder squad room. Bob Stansfield was standing by the window, staring out at the rain-drenched street below, his shoulders slumped, a cigarette burning unheeded in his hand. He glanced round and Carol called, ‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’

Stansfield swung round and said bitterly, ‘You obviously haven’t heard the news.’

‘What news?’ Carol asked, walking over to him.

‘Stevie McConnell topped himself.’

Carol rocked on her heels and stumbled against a desk. Her ears were ringing and she thought she was going to faint. Instinctively, Tony moved forward and steered her into a chair. ‘Deep breaths, Carol. Deep and slow,’ he said softly, leaning over her, staring intently at her white face.

She closed her eyes, dug her nails into her palms and obeyed. ‘Sorry,’ Stansfield said. ‘It knocked me for six too.’

Carol looked up and pushed her hair away from a forehead suddenly clammy. ‘What happened?’

‘Apparently he took a beating yesterday. A sex-case special, by all accounts. So, this morning he tore up his shirt and hung himself. The fucking warders never noticed, on account of they’re playing at work to rule,’ he added savagely.

‘The poor bastard,’ Carol said.

‘There’s going to be hell to pay,’ Stansfield predicted. ‘I’m glad it was fuck all to do with me. At least it won’t be my arse in the fire. I mean, Brandon’s bombproof, so it’s going to be some poor fucker of an inspector who’s going to carry the can.’

Carol looked at him as if she’d like to hit him. ‘Sometimes, Bob, you really fuck me off,’ she said coldly. ‘Where’s Brandon?’

‘Down in the HOLMES room. Probably hiding from the Chief.’

They found Brandon and Dave Woolcott closeted in the inspector’s cubby hole off the main room. ‘We’ve got a positive make, sir,’ Carol said, her initial exuberance flattened by Stansfield’s news. ‘We know what car he was driving.’

Penny Burgess turned off the main road on to the Forestry Commission track that led deep into the heart of the woodland. She was aiming for a car park and picnic area in the middle of the woods. It was one of her favourite spots from which to strike off through the trees and up on to the bare gritstone edges where the wind could blow away all the accumulated dross of the week. She certainly needed it after the last few days of hard graft, big stories and not enough sleep.

The record on the radio finished and the announcer said, ‘And now, over to the newsroom for the headlines on the hour.’ The news ident followed, then a woman said in a voice altogether too bright for her subject matter, ‘Northern Sound news on the hour. A man who was questioned by Bradfield police in connection with the serial killings that have terrorized the city was found dead this morning in his cell at Barleigh jail.’

In her shock, Penny took her foot off the accelerator and pitched forward as the car stalled. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, her hand shooting out to twist the volume higher.

‘Steven McConnell is thought to have committed suicide by hanging himself with a noose made from his own clothes. McConnell, the manager of a bodybuilding gym in the city, was arrested last week after a street brawl involving an undercover police officer in the city’s gay village,’ the newsreader continued, sounding for all the world as if she were announcing the results of the Eurovision Song Contest. ’He was released on bail, but rearrested after attempting to flee the country. A Home Office spokesman said there would be a full enquiry into the circumstances of his death.

‘The economy has never been in a better position, the Prime Minister said today…’ Penny turned the key in the ignition and did a perilous five-point turn in the narrow lane before stamping on the gas and shooting back towards the road. It was just as well, she thought, that she’d already decided to dump Kevin. After the story she was about to write, she couldn’t imagine him ever wanting to see her again anyway.

Tony drummed his fingers on the back of the cab’s seat, a curious restlessness possessing him. Leaving Scargill Street hadn’t been easy, but he knew he had no role while the police worked on their one piece of solid evidence. The last thing they needed in that maelstrom of reproach and driven activity was for him to sit around reminding them of all the reasons why he’d never been convinced that Stevie McConnell was their man.

His consolation was that he felt certain that Angelica would phone tonight. As the taxi hissed through the wet and empty streets, Tony rehearsed the conversation. He felt a new confidence, a certainty that tonight he would have no problems, that he had finally wrestled his demon into submission thanks to her strange erotic therapy. He would tell her she had no idea how much her phone calls had meant to him. That she had helped him more than she could know. Satisfied that he had things under control, Tony sighed comfortably and cleared his mind of Handy Andy.

Penny Burgess popped the top on a can of Guinness, lit a cigarette and switched on her computer. After making a handful of phone calls to firm up the version of events she’d heard on the radio, she was fired with the self-righteous enthusiasm that only politicians, journalists and fundamentalist preachers seem capable of harnessing for professional advancement.

She inhaled a long stream of smoke, thought for a moment, then started to hammer the keys.

Bradfield’s serial killer claimed his fifth victim yesterday (Sunday) when gay body-builder Stevie McConnell killed himself in a prison cell.

Police had implied that McConnell was himself the Queer Killer in a cynical bid to force the real killer’s hand.

But their twisted exercise ended in tragedy when McConnell, 32, hung himself with a makeshift rope woven from his own torn shirt. He tied it to the top bunk in his solitary-confinement cell at Barleigh prison and threw himself off, strangling himself.

And last night, a police officer involved in the Queer Killer investigation admitted, ‘We’ve known for several days that Stevie McConnell wasn’t the killer.’

McConnell had pleaded with prison staff to put him in solitary after a barbaric attack by fellow inmates the previous day.

A source inside Barleigh prison said, ’He took a real beating. The word on the grapevine when he arrived was that he was the Queer Killer, only the police didn’t have enough evidence to charge him yet.

‘Prisoners don’t like sex killers, and they tend to make their feelings known. McConnell got a brutal hammering. He was badly beaten up, and sexually assaulted too.’

Warders are said to have turned a blind eye to McConnell’s savage battering. Then yesterday (Sunday) because of a prison officers’ work to rule, he was left unattended in his cell for long enough to end his life. A Home Office spokesman said there would be a full enquiry into the incident.

McConnell managed Bodies gym in the city centre, where the killer’s third victim, solicitor Gareth Finnegan, was a member.

McConnell faced a minor assault charge after coming to the rescue of an undercover police sergeant who was attacked by a third man in the Temple Fields gay village.

He then tried to flee the country while he was out on bail. Police rearrested him as he was about to board a ferry for Holland, and persuaded magistrates to remand him in custody.

A police source revealed, ’What we did made people think that McConnell was the killer, and that’s what we wanted.

‘Serial killers are very vain, and we thought that the killer would be so outraged that we had pointed the finger at the wrong person that he would break cover and make contact.

‘It’s all gone horribly wrong.’

A friend of McConnell’s said last night, ’Bradfield police are murderers. As far as I’m concerned, they killed Stevie.

‘The police really grilled him about the serial killings. They put him under all kinds of pressure.

‘Even though they let him go afterwards, mud like that sticks. He got the cold shoulder at work, and out in the gay bars.

‘That’s why he decided to leg it. It’s a tragedy. Worse than that, it’s a pointless tragedy.

‘This hasn’t taken the police an inch closer to finding the killer.’

Penny lit another cigarette and read through her copy. ‘Pick the bones out of that, Kevin,’ she said softly, hitting the keys that would save the file and transmit it via her modem to the office computer. Then, as an afterthought, she typed:

Memo to newsdesk.

From Penny Burgess, Crime Desk.

I am taking tomorrow (Monday) as time off in lieu of working extra hours last week and today. Hope this doesn’t pose too many problems!

‘A Land Rover Discovery, metallic grey or dark blue?’ Dave Woolcott confirmed, making a note on a pad.

‘That’s what the man said,’ Carol agreed.

‘Right. With it being Sunday, I can’t get a full run-down from Swansea on every vehicle like that on our patch,’ Dave said.

‘What we could do, though, is get a team going round the main dealerships and the quality secondhand dealers asking for their records of anyone who’s bought one,’ Kevin suggested. Like all of them, he was fired with an excitement only slightly tempered by the tragic news from Barleigh.

‘No,’ Brandon said. ‘That’s a waste of time and personnel. There’s no guarantee that the killer bought his vehicle locally. We wait until tomorrow morning. Then we go flat out.’

Everyone looked disappointed, even though they recognized the force of Brandon’s argument. ‘In that case, sir,’ Carol said, ‘I’d like to work with Dave compiling lists of computer hardware and software suppliers so we’re ready to roll with that as soon as there are some spare bodies to hit the phones.’

Brandon nodded. ‘Good thinking, Carol. Now, why don’t the rest of us go home and rediscover what our houses look like?’

Tony was stretched out on the sofa, trying to persuade himself he was enjoying the luxury of watching TV when the doorbell rang. The hope of company come to rescue him from his restless boredom catapulted him to his feet and down the hall. He opened the door, a smile already spreading across his face.

The smile died halfway as he registered that he was out of luck. There was a woman on the doorstep, but she wasn’t one of his friends or colleagues. She was tall, bigboned, with heavy, blunt features and a strong, square jaw. She pushed her long dark hair away from her face and said, ‘I’m really sorry to trouble you, only my car’s broken down and I don’t know where there’s a pay phone. I wondered if I might use your phone to call the AA? I’ll pay for the call, of course…’ Her voice trailed off and she smiled apologetically.