Watching Out By Ann Granger

Synopsis:

Fran Varady fell into private detective work by chance.  Now she's got
a 'real' job at a trendy pizzeria, she's back on track with her acting
ambitions, and she's even found a nice flat to rent!  Butt things
aren't as straightforward as they seem.  The job, for a start: there's
something sinister about the way the pizzeria is run.  And the play
rehearsals are riddled with problems.  On top of all this, Fran has
rashly undertaken to help a young boy, illegally in the country, find
an elusive people-trafficker called Max.

When the trail Fran is following is tragically interrupted by a
horrifying death, she finds herself up against dangerous men and a
ruthless organisation.  Fran's in big trouble this time... Also by Ann
Granger

Fran Varady crime novels

Asking For Trouble

Keeping Bad Company

Running Scared

Risking It All

Mitchell and Markby crime novels

Say It With Poison

A Season For Murder

Cold In The Earth

Murder Among Us

Where Old Bones Lie

A Fine Place For Death

Flowers For His Funeral

Candle For A Corpse

A Touch Of Mortality

A Word After Dying

Call The Dead Again

Beneath These Stones

Shades Of Murder

A Restless Evil

Watching Out

Ann Granger headline

Copyright 2003 Ann Granger the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988.

First published in 2003 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

First published in paperback in 2003 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

10 987654321 imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

To Caroline Graham, in friendship and with many thanks for her
encouragement and support

ISBN 0 7472 6802 9

Typeset in Plantin by Avon Data Set Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon,
Warwickshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St.  Ives plc
regulations of the country of origin.

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

A division of Hodder Headline

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.headline.co.uk www.hodderheadline.com

Chapter One

Six of us huddled together for warmth upstairs in The Rose pub.  None
of us said a word.  Our attention was fixed on a large dusty wicker
laundry basket.  It had a faded label on one side reading: RETURN TO
THE HOTEL ROYAL, YARMOUTH and on the opposite side, another label
reading:

PROPS.  DO NOT REMOVE.

"Right," said Marty at last with forced heartiness.  "Let's see what's
inside!"

The Rose was an old-style London tavern.  It had brown glazed tiles on
the outside walls and smoke-stained anaglypta on the internal ones. The
original saloon and public bars had long since been knocked together,
making one big room at the far end of which was a small dais. On this,
Freddy, the landlord, invited singers and comics to entertain his
customers.  Those desperate enough to break into show business accepted
his offer, and stood up there as vulnerable as the coconuts at a
fairground shy, while the customers whistled and shouted rude
remarks.

Upstairs, where we found ourselves in suspicious contemplation of the
laundry basket, there was a proper -if small stage with curtains. This,
besides being what Freddy called 'the functions room', was also his
private theatre, where he put on bigger shows.  Freddy was inordinately
proud of his record as a theatrical entrepreneur.  The shows didn't
take place often but when they did, they were acknowledged locally as
being unmissable and the seating a sell-out.

Not a man to throw money around, he put a modest amount into the
production of the shows and always got it back at the door.  He knew
how to sweat the maximum effort out of a production while getting
someone else to do all the work putting the show together.  As an
organiser, Freddy was unrivalled.  But his natural stinginess showed in
our surroundings.  The functions room hadn't been redecorated in years
and the faded velvet curtains on the stage looked about to collapse
under the weight of their years and accumulated grime.  There was a
lingering background smell to the place to which every bit of the pub's
one-hundred-and-twenty-year history had contributed.

The reason for our presence there was that on this upstairs stage, at
Freddy's invitation, we were to perform a dramatic adaptation of Conan
Doyle's novel The Hound of the Baskervilles.  It was Freddy's latest
shrewd idea for entertaining the masses and making a few quid at the
same time.  It had been adapted by our director, Marty.  He was a
playwright himself, and would dearly have loved to be putting on one of
his own plays.  But Freddy wanted traditional entertainment and what
Freddy wanted, Freddy got.

"Perhaps," Marty had said optimistically, 'if we do this really well,
he'll let me put on one of my own plays next time."

This was extremely unlikely, but creative artists and writers are
fragile souls, and Marty needed all the encouragement he could get.

For those of you who don't know the plot of Conan Doyle's yarn: the
Baskerville family is threatened by a supernatural hound because of
some ancestor's crime.  Sir Charles Baskerville has been found dead and
near his body is the imprint of a hound's paw.  His heir, Sir Henry,
has just arrived in England from Canada to take up his inheritance. The
family doctor goes to Holmes because he's afraid the hound will get
Henry, too.  So Holmes sends Watson off to Devon to guard Sir Henry,
and himself hides out on the moor.  Then there's a butterfly hunter
called Stapleton and his sister (who's really his wife), and an escaped
convict (related to Sir Henry's housekeeper), and it all gets a bit
complicated.  The climax, of course, is the appearance of the ghastly
hound in pursuit of poor old Sir Henry, who is rescued by Holmes and
Watson and the mystery revealed.  There are a few other characters in
the original story but Marty had cut them out.  You'll understand
why.

I was cast in the female lead, Miss Stapleton, the woman Sir Henry
Baskerville falls for.  Marty himself was playing Sir Henry.  He
couldn't play Holmes because he wasn't the right shape.  Everyone who
thinks Holmes thinks along the lines of Basil Rathbone in those
wonderful black and white movies, or Jeremy Brett in the old television
series.  Marty was short and dumpy with a plump face, receding fair
curly hair and spectacles.  He bore a strong resemblance to a teddy
bear.  I wasn't sure myself that he was right for the role of Sir Henry
Baskerville but perhaps I didn't look right for the part of an exotic
beauty like Miss Stapleton, so I couldn't criticise.  I am on the short
side and my hair is clipped close to my head, except in front where
it's longer and sticks up like a bushy tiara.  I was persuaded to have
this style by a trainee hairdresser with ambitions.

Marty had found someone called Nigel, who was tall and thin, to play
Sherlock Holmes.  My friend Ganesh was playing Dr.  Watson.  I know Dr.
Watson in the stories isn't Indian, but I'd felt strongly that Gan
would be good in the part.  Ganesh had been difficult to persuade,
never having had any particular interest in the stage, but we'd kept on
at him because Marty had taken strongly to the idea of having Ganesh in
the role.  Even with two of us working on him he held out, but finally
it was his Uncle Hari who settled it for us.  Hari has a secret
romantic streak which normally finds its outlet in watching endless
videos of Hollywood films.  He was convinced that to have Ganesh
playing Watson at The Rose pub was the first step on the stairway to
the stars.  Hari's enthusiasm for the whole project of the play was
alarming.  He was even prepared to allow Ganesh to leave the shop early
to get to rehearsals provided he didn't do it too often.

We had been reading through the play over at my flat.  This hadn't
proved as straightforward as it sounds.  Marty, who had printed it out,
was mildly dyslexic and deciphering his script in the nature of an
adventure.  We had all become somewhat short-tempered by the time a
chunky frizzy-haired girl asked about costumes.

As she was to play two roles (Sir Henry's housekeeper and Holmes's
landlady, Mrs.  Hudson), she had a special interest.  Marty told her
he'd decided she was to pad herself out with foam rubber to be plump
for Mrs.  Hudson and wear a mob cap to cover her hair.  For Sir Henry's
housekeeper, she'd be thin again and wear a pince-nez.  Marty himself
had made a pince-nez out of wire and the mob cap was actually a large
shower cap he'd borrowed from his landlady.  He produced both articles
from a plastic bag with an air of modest triumph.

It didn't have quite the effect he'd hoped for.  The frizzy-haired girl
was particularly unimpressed.  Had we to make all our own costumes, or
could we run to hiring them from a proper theatrical costumier?  she
demanded with some asperity.  No need, Marty assured us.  Apart from
the fact we didn't have any money, costumes were supplied by Freddy.

Encouraged by this, we'd progressed from the reading to the pub for a
pint.  After that, we went upstairs to inspect the costumes left over
from other productions Freddy had put on, a Victorian music hall among
them.

Marty opened the lid of the laundry basket, releasing a powerful musty
smell.

Nigel said, "Whew!  It whiffs a bit, doesn't it?  Are you sure someone
didn't hide a body in there?"

Marty plunged in his hand and withdrew the first item.  It was a dusty
bowler hat.  "There we go!"  he exclaimed, buffing it up with his
sleeve and then holding it out to Ganesh.

"Forget it!"  said Ganesh, rearing back.  "I am not wearing a bowler
hat."

"It's all right, mate," said Nigel consolingly.  "I've got to wear a
deerstalker.  Freddy's borrowing one from somebody.  There's no way
anyone can look anything but a prat in a deerstalker."

"That," said Ganesh stiffly, 'is because you are Holmes.  I am only
Watson."

So that was it.  It wasn't the bowler at all.  Despite his professed
unwillingness to act in our play at all, Ganesh was secretly miffed at
not playing the lead.  We were into our first episode of artistic
tantrums.

The cold was getting to us by now.  Freddy didn't believe in switching
on radiators which weren't going to earn their keep.  If anyone was
rash enough to hire the room, he'd switch on the heating.  By then, of
course, the room was like a morgue and the radiators had no chance.  I
could imagine our audience for the play, if we ever got to our first
night, sitting there in overcoats.  The really wise ones, who knew the
venue, would bring hot-water bottles.  We, on the stage, would shiver
our way through.  Only the frizzy girl, whose name was Carmel, would be
warm as Mrs.  Hudson in her foam padding.

"Get on with it, Marty," I begged.  "Before we all freeze solid."

We all dived in, pulling things out, putting them on one side or
tossing them back.  We tossed more back than we put aside.

"Yuk," said Carmel, 'it all stinks."

"It just wants airing," said Marty, in a vain attempt to head off our
criticism.

"I'm not wearing any of it," said Carmel.  "I reckon it's all got
fleas."

"Well, take it home and wash it, whatever you want to wear," persisted
Marty.

"I don't run a bloody laundry," she snapped.

"You don't have to.  Just take it down to the launderette round the
corner and bung it in one of the machines."

"Marty," I felt I had to say, "I don't think many of these things would
stand being churned around in a washing machine.  They're all as old as
the hills.  They haven't been looked after and the sweat has rotted the
cloth."

"See!"  screeched Carmel.

"It's Victorian period," said Marty desperately.  "All you and Fran
need are long skirts and blouses with sleeves.  Can't the pair of you
rustle up a couple of long skirts?  Try Oxfam."

"I thought we were supposed to make a bit of money out of this play,
not spend our dosh on costumes," she sulked.  "And I need two.  I can't
wear the same thing in both parts, especially if I'm fat in one role
and thin in the other!"

I pulled out a striped skirt and matching jacket top with leg-of-mutton
sleeves.  "I'll take this home and have a go at washing it by hand," I
said.  I pushed it into a Tesco carrier bag.

Marty cheered up.  "That's the spirit.  Come on, Carmel, the show must
go on and all that."

"This ain't the bleeding Palladium," she retorted.  "I'll borrow some
things from my mates if I can."

We left it at that.  There's always one grumbler in any group tackling
a joint project.  We'd pretty well all got the measure of Carmel. She'd
groused like mad about everything from the start and would go on
grousing to the moment the curtain went up.  But, in the end, she'd
rally round and fix herself some sort of costume.  She was just stroppy
by nature.

Some people would tell you that I am, too.  But I was trying to be
supportive of Marty because I could see his nerves were getting
frazzled.  He was investing a lot of hope and personal commitment in
the play; however even single-minded dedication turns blue with cold.

We reached an unanimous decision.  If we lingered, we'd be carried out
suffering from hypothermia.  We pushed everything back in the basket
except the things we were taking home.  Ganesh reluctantly put the
bowler in a bag.  Then we all clattered downstairs into the bar to be
greeted by a welcome blast of warm air.

Business was brisk down there, even though they didn't do food except
peanuts and crisps.  Freddy had a system with the crisps.  He opened a
carton, for example cheese and onion flavour, and everyone had to have
that sort until the box was empty and then he opened another which, if
you were lucky, might be barbecued beef or salt and vinegar or it might
just be cheese and onion again.  Those were the only three flavours
Freddy sold.  He didn't sell them all at once because he reckoned there
wasn't room behind the bar for effing packets of crisps lying around
all over the place.

No one argued about this with him.  Freddy was a formidable sight, not
particularly tall but with meaty arms and a torso like a beer barrel on
legs.  The regulars of The Rose held him in hearty respect and, since
he was backing us as regards the play, we had to be especially nice to
him.  He and a muscular, shaven-headed barman were working flat out
that night.  Even Denise, Freddy's wife, had been called in to help.  I
say 'even' because on principle Freddy didn't allow women behind his
bar.  Denise was the only one for whom an exception was made, and that
only in emergencies.  Denise was herself a well-built woman so that
together with Freddy and the beefy barman, there wasn't much room
behind the bar.  The three of them kept getting in one another's way.
Freddy, I could see, wasn't in the best of tempers.  But you don't go
to The Rose if it's old-world charm you're after.

The downstairs dais was empty tonight, yet despite the absence of live
music and dying comics, the place was packed.  The air was thick with
smoke and the smell of spilled ale.  No one, yet, had started a fight.
To be fair, unruly patrons got quickly ejected from The Rose.  That was
one of Freddy's reasons for not having barmaids.  Muscle, he reckoned,
was what you needed behind a bar, not glamour.

"I've got to go home," said Ganesh.  "I need to get up in the morning
to take in the newspapers at six."

Marty said he had to go home, too, and work on the script.

"Don't change anything!"  we all begged him.  We'd only just managed to
decipher the lines he'd given us and start to commit them to memory.

He said it was a matter of working on the technical side of it.  We let
him go.  Nigel and Carmel sloped off towards the bar, followed by Owen,
who was playing the villain, and Mick, who was playing Sir Henry's
butler and any other role not accounted for.  I said I'd walk as far as
the shop with Ganesh.  However, as it turned out, before I'd reached
the door I heard my name being bawled across the room in a female
voice.

"Fran!  Don't go!  I've been waiting here for you for the best part of
an hour!"

I turned and saw Susie Duke teetering towards me on her four-inch
heels.  Daywear, for Susie, is jeans and trainers.  But if she goes out
anywhere she likes to dress up.  She wore a very short skirt and a
tight purple sweater with spangles on it.  Her blond hair was scraped
up and secured at the back of her head with one of those giant spring
clips.  From her ears dangled hoop earrings the size of bracelets.

"I'm off!"  said Ganesh immediately and disappeared.

"I saw you come in with your mates," said Susie, seizing my arm and
hauling me back towards where she'd been sitting.  "I thought you were
never coming downstairs.  What were you all doing up there?  That play,
I suppose.  Hurry up, or we'll lose the table."

Actually, we were in no danger of losing the place she'd been keeping.
It was a banquette in a window recess and, as soon as she'd got up to
run after me, Freddy's dog had scrambled on there and stretched himself
out.  The dog was normally kept out back in the yard.  It was a solid,
muscular, bullet-headed mutt with yellow eyes and an unfriendly
disposition.  No one had tried to move it from the seat and its
expression let us know we'd better not try.

Susie, however, wasn't put off.  "Go on, Digger, get down from there.
You're not allowed!"

Digger rolled yellow eyes at her and growled.

"Shouldn't try it, darling," advised a man at a nearby table.  "He'll
have you."

"Freddy!"  yelled Susie towards the bar.  "Get your dog out of our
place!"

Susie in top gear has a voice like a banshee.  There was no ignoring
it.  Freddy whistled and Digger jumped down and strolled off.

"Right," said Susie, banging the seat vigorously with the flat of her
hand to remove dog hairs and succeeding in raising a cloud of ancient
dust.  "Sit down, Fran, and I'll get you a drink.  What d'ya want?"

"A half of lager," I said.  I knew I wasn't being offered this drink
for nothing.  Susie was struggling to keep afloat a leaky boat called
the Duke Detective Agency and I had a feeling it was to do with this. I
had a good idea what proposal she was going to come up with and
privately resolved to have nothing to do with it.

Susie tottered off to the bar to fetch our drinks.  I settled down and
watched her.  I couldn't help remembering the first time I'd seen her.
She'd been standing in the doorway of her flat, rather the worse for
gin, grief and anger.  She'd had good reason.  She'd been in mourning.
But remembering that brought to mind another image and an unpleasant
one: that of her husband, Rennie, slumped in the driver's seat of his
car, a length of twine wrapped tightly round his neck, cutting into the
red, swollen flesh.  I shook my head slightly to dispel the picture.  I
can't say my liking for Susie had been extended to the late Rennie, a
seedy little PI who had not had a great talent for making friends.  But
my liking for his wife didn't mean I wanted to work for or with her,
which is what I suspected she was going to suggest.  She'd already
mentioned it to me once before.

"Cheers!"  said Susie when we were nicely settled under the watchful
eye of the resentful Digger.  She raised her glass in a toast.  "Here's
to crime."

"I can think of things I'd rather toast," I said.

She shook her blond head and the hoop earrings swung.  "One man's meat
is another man's poison.  I mean, like,

one person being dodgy makes legitimate work for me.  Now, then,
Fran."

Here it came.

"Have you thought any more about what I said?"

"Yes, I have," I told her.  "Don't take this wrong, Susie.  But I don't
think I'm cut out for your sort of work."

"Don't give me that!"  she snorted.  "You love poking your nose into
any funny business that comes your way."

I didn't see my own detective efforts in that light and was mildly
insulted.  "Only if it involves me directly," I said.

"Who are you trying to kid?"  asked Susie.  "You can't resist it."  She
leaned on the table between us and I inhaled a noseful of some strong
cheap scent.  "I need you, Fran.  I can't manage the business on my
own."

"Do you have to stay in the business?"  I asked her, stupidly, I
knew.

"I haven't got any other bloomin' business, have I?"  she snapped.
"What other job would I be offered if I went down the Job Centre?  I'm
too old.  You gotta be sixteen or they won't take you on anywhere."

"You look great," I assured her.

"For my age, yeah," she mumbled.  "Which, if you're interested, is
thirty-nine.  On the open market, that's well past the sell-by date.
You'd better remember that."

I pointed out to her that I wasn't yet twenty-two.

She gave me a sardonic look.  "Time won't stand still, you know, Fran.
The rules aren't different for you than for the rest of us.  You want
to get your act together.  And I'm not talking about that play you and
your mates are putting on."

I had to defend the play and my own participation in it.  "You know I
want to make acting my career," I said crossly.

"The play may not be the best show ever put on stage, but we mean to
make it as good as we can.  Why don't you come and see it, instead of
knocking it?  You might be surprised."

If I sounded annoyed with her, it was because she'd hit on a tender
spot.  We do all have dreams and I was hanging on to mine because I
didn't have anything else.  I certainly wasn't going to throw in the
towel and go and work for her.

"Besides, I have a job!"  I added loftily.  "At the new pizza place,
the San Gennaro, and business is booming, I can tell you."

She was unimpressed.  "Yeah, sure.  How long is it going to last?"

It was something I'd been asking myself.  "Why?"  I asked her sharply.
"Have you heard something?"

"No!"  she retorted a shade too quickly.  "But I know a fly-by-night
operation when I see one.  You'll turn up for work one day and find the
restaurant's closed and, more than likely, the place full of rozzers.
Here today and gone tomorrow, that place."

"Between you and me," I confessed, "I've been thinking along the same
lines."

"See?"  She was triumphant.  "You're smart, Fran.  You're a natural for
the private detection business.  You've got the nose for it."

"But not the stomach.  I know the kind of work Rennie took on.  I'm not
spying on wives or husbands who're playing away from home or snooping
out people's credit-worthiness.  I'm not shoving summonses in the hands
of people I don't need to offend.  I'm not slogging all over

London looking for witnesses who don't want to be found."

"You'd be good at that," she urged.  "You know people out there on the
street.  They'd talk to you."

"Sure, they'd talk to me and tell me where to go.  They know better
than be witnesses to anything.  It's called survival, Susie.  See, hear
and speak no evil.  I know I've done some investigating in the past,
but only because it's been forced on me.  It's been because something's
happened that I couldn't ignore.  I've looked into things I've
considered have mattered and I've done it in my own way.  That's a
whole world away from the sort of work you're talking about."

Susie looked thoughtful.  But she hadn't really listened to what I'd
said.  She was still fixed on persuading me and was about to change
tactics.  Out of the blue, she asked, "You got a driving licence?"

I shook my head.  "Ganesh started to teach me when he had the
greengrocer's van, back in the Rotherhithe days.  But he hasn't got any
transport now so that was that."

"I'll teach you," she offered.

"Why?"  I demanded.

"I owe you," she said.  "You found out who killed my Rennie.  I owe you
big.  Let me teach you to drive.  Get yourself a provisional licence
and I'll get us some L-plates."

I was attracted by the idea but there was a big drawback.  "What sort
of car have you got?"  I was really asking, did she still own the car
in which Rennie had been found dead.  Because I wasn't getting in that
car, no way.

She understood me.  "I got rid of the Mazda," she said.  "I got a nice
little Citroen.  I told you, Rennie had insurance.  I found the
certificate hidden in that china cat he gave me one Christmas.  He was
funny like that, Rennie, kept secrets."  She tugged at her purple
sweater.  "The insurance company paid up, though, sweet as anything.
See?  I got new gear and everything."

"I'll think about it," I said.  "Right now I've got the rehearsals as
well as my job '

"No, don't think about it, do it."  She pushed herself away from the
table and stood up.  "I gotta go.  I'll be in touch, Fran."

As I watched her teeter away I reflected that Susie was pretty smart
herself.  She'd caught me off guard with her offer of driving lessons.
Whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn't been that.  I hadn't refused her
outright which meant, in her book, I'd accepted.  It would now be
difficult to wriggle out of it without seeming churlish.  Besides, I
fancied having my driving licence.  But in between the three-point
turns and the hill starts I suspected I'd be hearing a lot about the
career opportunities offered by the Duke Detective Agency.

Chapter Two

I was feeling jittery around this time and problems arising from the
play weren't the only reason.  Have you ever felt you've made a big
error of judgement?  I'm sure you have.  Don't feel bad about it.  It's
human.  "Make your mistakes and learn from them!"  my grandma used to
say to me.  I didn't listen, of course.  At least, not to the bit about
learning from them.  But though I've made lots of mistakes in my life,
I've generally made them one at a time.  That way, events have remained
just about manageable.  Now I was beginning to get an uncomfortable
feeling I'd made two mis judgements at the same time.  There was just
the faintest hint in the air that things might spin out of control. I'd
begun to wonder if I was losing my touch.

Don't get me wrong.  Life was certainly not all bad news.  Before I'd
started worrying about making bad decisions, I'd been feeling pretty
buoyant.  For a start, I'd recently moved into a ground-floor flat
belonging to a charitable housing association.  Previously I'd spent a
period dos sing in someone's unused garage, so to have a decent roof
over my head was bliss.  Before the garage, I'd had a basement flat and
been flooded out.  Before that again, I'd lived in squats.  So you can
see, my accommodation history has been cheque red

My name is Francesca Varady, known as Fran.  Permanence hasn't played a
great role in my life.  My mother walked out when I was seven and
didn't walk back in again for fourteen years.  I was brought up by my
father and grandmother.  I lost them both in the same year, the year I
turned sixteen, and I've been on my own ever since.  Dad died first and
because Grandma was the tenant of the flat we lived in, when she died,
the landlord was able to throw me out.  Continuing with the drama
course I was on hadn't been an option either.

I can't tell you how wonderful it was to have a proper roof of my own
over my head at last: I was getting into the swing of normal existence
quite well.  I'd got used to not having all my possessions in a bin
bag.  My dog, Bonnie, liked my new place because there was a garden she
could potter round.  Everyone who visited the flat said how lucky I
was.  I knew it.  The nomadic progress of my adult life seemed over at
last.  This was as permanent as it was likely to get.  Even Ganesh
approved.  Provided I didn't mess things up, my life was all going to
be upwards and onwards.  Once you start thinking like that, it's asking
for trouble.

Ganesh and I have been friends since I lived in a squat in Rotherhithe
and he lived with his parents who ran a greengrocer's shop round the
corner.  Redevelopment had moved us all on.  Ganesh's parents had gone
to open a new shop in High Wycombe.  Because there wasn't room for him,
he'd gone to live with and work for his Uncle Hari, who ran a news
agent in Camden.  I had drifted up to

Camden, too, and the big plus was that we were not far from one another
and still friends.

Just to prove how normal a person I was going to be from now on, I had
also been offered and taken a new regular job.  But that's where I was
now beginning to suspect I'd made my first mistake.

As I'd reminded Susie, I was working as a waitress in a pizza place
called the Pizzeria San Gennaro.  Before that it had been the called
the Hot Spud Cafe and run by one Reekie Jimmie.  Then Jimmie had gone
into partnership with an Italian who wanted to start a chain of pizza
parlours.  Jimmie had been kept on as manager and I'd been hired as one
of the staff.

I didn't mind serving up pizzas.  I didn't mind, not really, the naff
uniform of peasanty-type skirt and a red waistcoat.  I got on all right
with my colleagues.  But I was uneasy about Jimmie's role and the whole
set-up behind the restaurant.  Because something was going on, I felt
it in my bones.  That was why I'd reacted so sharply to Susie's hints.
She was drawing on experience and so was I. When you've lived on your
wits for nearly eight years as I'd done, you develop a sense for these
things.  You need it.  Every time I set foot in the restaurant, I had
the feeling I was the audience in some kind of magic show, the sort
where the magician shows you the girl in the cabinet.  The cabinet
looks solid, the magician walks round it tapping the sides and the
floor.  The girl is real enough.  But then, hey presto, she's gone.
Nothing is what it has seemed to be, and scratch your head though you
might, you can't work out what's going on.  That's how I felt about the
San Gennaro.

The business was doing well, mind you.  It was in Primrose Hill, beyond
Camden High Street, going towards the Regent's Park Road.  It's a
pretty name for a nice area of early Victorian houses, forming an urban
island, inhabited by well-heeled media and showbiz types and other top
professionals.  Jimmie's Hot Spud Cafe had always been an anomaly in
the area and the pizzeria was much more in tune with local demand.

The San Gennaro wasn't just any old pizza place.  The old cafe had been
transformed by Silvio, who'd bought in as Jimmie's partner and was very
much the controlling force.  We had a gleaming new kitchen and the
restaurant area was fantastic.  The walls were covered with beautiful
tiles imported from Naples.  They formed murals showing an Italian
garden landscape overlooking the Bay of Naples and complete with
Vesuvius.  Even the restaurant's toilets had been given the tile
treatment and the customers washed their hands amid the ruins of
Pompeii.  The tiles were greatly admired by the customers and some
asked where they could be obtained.  This gave Silvio the chance to
refer them to an import company which, I suspected, formed another of
his business interests.

Our pizzas were good and needed to be, considering they cost a third
more than a pizza anywhere else.  We also kept a good selection of
Italian wines, not just house plonk, because our clients were the sort
who reckoned they knew their wines.  Several customers had become
regulars and we were instructed to welcome these with particular
enthusiasm.  It looked all very cosy.  So, what was wrong?

For a start, Silvio was undoubtedly a shrewd businessman.  Anyone could
see that.  But why should such a man risk putting someone like Jimmie
in charge of an enterprise with such good prospects?  Jimmie was a nice
man, mind you, a friendly chain-smoker without, as far as anyone could
see, any natural aptitude for cookery or the restaurant business.  We
all wondered how he ever got into it in the first place.

When he told me he was giving up the Hot Spud Cafe, I wasn't surprised.
I knew he'd thought about a pizzeria, but I didn't really think he'd go
in for it, not seriously.  I expected him to go off and do something
more suited to his abilities.  Don't ask me what.  He must have
something he's good at.  Everyone has something, be it ever so
unlikely.  But there was Jimmie, in the pizza business, just as he'd
said he'd be and, from the cash-in-pocket point of view, doing very
much better.  He'd got himself a whole new set of flashy clothes and
taken to wearing dark glasses, even in the winter.  The outfit made him
look like one of those spivs in fifties films.  All he lacked was the
snap-brim hat.  He even tried, for a couple of days, using a cigarette
holder.  I think he must have seen pictures of Noel Coward.  However,
thank goodness, he couldn't get on with it and the cigarette holder
disappeared.  All the same, he looked like a man who was doing all
right.

So why did it niggle at me?  Why not just be happy the poor bloke was
doing well for once?  Yes, of course I was pleased he had his financial
worries behind him.  Wouldn't we all like that?  But money has a way of
blinding you to other concerns, some of them important.  It's tempting
to say, "Hey, I'm doing all right so don't rock the boat."  Who needs
bad news and awkward questions, especially when everything should be
looking rosy?  But if I took my eye off the money Jimmie was making,
the landscape took on a very different and darker hue.

Ganesh said I was being a pessimist.  He got quite cross about it.
"You've got to have more than your gut feeling about it," he kept
saying.  "Where's your evidence?  Give me some facts."

I pointed out to Ganesh that installing Jimmie as manager was in itself
an odd fact.  What was more, although he was called the manager, he
didn't appear to have anything to manage.  He didn't keep the accounts
because someone came in and did that.  The same accountant, a taciturn,
middle-aged, toad-like type, giving the impression he was as broad as
he was tall, handed out our pay packets at the end of the week.  Mario,
who was in charge of the kitchen, and Luigi, who was in charge of the
bar, told Jimmie what to order by way of supplies and whom to order it
from and Jimmie happily did it.

Pietro, the accordionist who supplied the music of an evening, and
Bronia, Po-Ching and I, the waitresses, all got on well together in a
low-key way, as I said.  But there was something about the place which
had got to us all.  We never discussed anything to do with the
pizzeria, not even a casual remark one work mate might make to another.
We talked about the sort of stuff you do when you want to avoid
committing yourself to the wrong opinion: pop music, what's been on the
telly and Bronia's sure-fire Polish cure for colds which involved
eating a lot of onions and drinking pints of camomile tea.  It was
rather like working under the old East German system, I suppose, when
you never knew which of your work mates might grass you up to the
Stasi. We didn't trust one another.  We were all keeping our heads
down.  We did our jobs.  We never showed any interest in anything but
taking and fetching orders and clearing tables.  We got paid on time
and on the surface everything was hunky-dory.  But underneath it all we
were each as jumpy as a cat who's strayed on to another cat's
territory.

The other two girls appeared to accept it more calmly than I did.
Probably they regretted the job wasn't more fun but that's as far as it
went.  As for me, who was more attuned to danger than Bronia or
Po-Ching, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as soon as I
got near the place.  I knew I shouldn't be there at all and that, at
any moment, the resident tomcat would shoot out from behind a dustbin
and duff me up.

Pietro, who'd done time and whose defensive instincts were also well
honed, was equally uneasy.  I knew it from his body language.  But we
never said anything.  I waited tables and Pietro hunched over his
accordion as if it stood between him and whatever bad thing was out
there.  When he wasn't playing his Neapolitan medleys he sat with the
accordion on his knees and stroked it, caressing the stops, murmuring
to it as if it had been a living creature.

If I'd only had all this to worry about it would have been enough.  But
I'd rashly committed myself to the play.

Although, as I explained, I was never able to finish my drama course,
my determination to break into acting one day has never left me.  So
when Marty, an old friend from college days, showed up and said he was
putting on a play at The Rose pub, of course I jumped at the chance to
be in it.  Not only was it an opportunity to act before a proper paying
audience but I am a real Sherlock Holmes fan so when I heard it was to
be The Hound, I was well and truly hooked.

Since then, my original enthusiasm had taken a few knocks.  I'd begun
to suspect that Marty was to the theatre what Reekie Jimmie had been to
the baked potato.  We'd get a production all right at the end of
rehearsals, but goodness only knew what it was going to be like.

By the next morning I'd made a firm decision to take up Susie's offer
of the driving lessons.  It seemed foolish not to.  I stopped off at
the post office on my way to work and collected an application form for
a provisional driving licence.  I filled it in during my coffee break,
trying not to be put off by the box which asked if I wished to donate
any of my body organs in the event of my death.  I didn't think lessons
with Susie would be that dangerous.

Jimmie came in while I was doing it and took a great interest, telling
me his entire motoring history, every car he'd ever been in since the
age of six, or that's what it felt like.  Then Luigi found out and I
got his golden oldie memories of his first car, his second car .. What
is it with men and cars?

Jimmie asked me how much the licence was going to cost me.  I told him,
twenty-nine pounds.  He asked if I had that much spare cash.  I could
just scrape it together, I explained, if I lived carefully.  (When
don't I?) He sucked his teeth, went away and came back with thirty quid
from the petty cash.

"Call it a loyalty bonus then.  You've worked hard here, and before
this you and that boyfriend of yours were good customers of the old
spud place."

A wistful note touched his voice when he mentioned his former
establishment.  Perhaps the gloss of being manager was starting to wear
off.  I wished he hadn't used the word 'loyalty' when I'd been
harbouring so many suspicions about the pizzeria.  I also wished he
hadn't called Ganesh my 'boyfriend' because he isn't, not in the way
Jimmie and a lot of other people think.  I could have told Jimmie
Ganesh was 'just' a friend, but that's an expression I never use.  It
makes it sound as if friendship isn't important, but it outlasts lots
of other relationships.  Ganesh is the best friend I've ever had or am
likely to have.  I suppose we could let it turn into something else,
but we both know that would be a mistake.  Don't tinker with something
that works.  Besides, Ganesh's family probably have other plans for
him, not including me.  This is something Ganesh won't discuss.

I didn't get a chance to explain this to Jimmie because that's when
Luigi turned up with his motoring reminiscences.  I doubt Jimmie would
have understood, anyway.  Luigi certainly wouldn't and I wouldn't have
made the mistake of letting Luigi know anything about my private life.
Our barman was a youngish man with cold black eyes and always reminded
me of those lean cats you see padding along the pavements close to the
wall as night falls.

I took the money and my completed application form and got out of
there.

You'll know the old joke about London buses: that you wait for one for
ages and then three come along at once?  Other events in life happen
like that too.  You jog along nicely for weeks, it seems, with nothing
breaking the routine, then it's as if an unseen hand has thrown a
switch somewhere and things begin happening.

I count the day I sent off my application for the provisional licence
as the day things started to happen.  The pot that had been simmering
was coming to the boil, although I didn't realise it at first.

Perhaps in a sense the unseen hand belonged to Susie.  Her intervention
in my life, though apparently harmless enough, had set wheels in
motion.  Some people are like that.  When they're around, things
happen.

Chapter Three

As it turned out, it was the following week before the next incident
occurred.  The weekend had been pleasant, cold but clear and sunny.  On
Sunday afternoon Ganesh and I decided to take some exercise.  We
strolled along the canal from Camden Lock towards Regent's Park where
it runs right through the zoo.  We could hear the animals, the birds
fluttering in their aviaries just on the other side of the boundary,
and see the ibex wandering about their compound right above the canal
on the farther side.  There were families out walking.  Little children
in colourful jackets and woolly hats ran along jumping the puddles on
the towpath.  People walked their dogs.  I thought how nice it was and
how much better things look on a sunny day.  Why was I worrying about
the pizzeria and Jimmie?  There was nothing wrong.  It was only the
short grey winter days which had brought on my suspicions.  I decided I
was suffering from a variety of Seasonal Affective Disorder, what they
call SAD Syndrome, when lack of sunlight causes you to see everything
in the darkest hues and being miserable is just a way of life.

But not today.  Today everything was going right.  Even Ganesh seemed
to feel the effect of the false, forty-eight hour spring.  He pulled a
piece of paper from his pocket and said diffidently, "I've written some
new poetry."

Ganesh is a good poet but it had been a long time since he'd read me
any of his work.

I said, "Great, I thought you'd given it up."

"No, I just don't have the time.  Hari never lets me stop.  Serve that
customer, watch those kids, open those boxes, stack those shelves, sort
the newspapers, go to the wholesaler's .. ."  Ganesh heaved a sigh.
"Now I'm in the play as well."

Dismayed, I apologised.  "That's my fault, Gan.  I'm sorry.  I didn't
realise '

"No, no, it's not your fault, Fran.  It's nice to have something
different to think about.  Although Hari's so keen on the play, he's
beginning to get on my nerves with it.  He keeps talking about it.
You'd think it was a top West End show!"

"He's proud of you."

"Hah!"  said Ganesh.  "If he gave me some free time so I could learn my
lines, it would be something.  Do you want to hear my poetry?"

He read it out to me as we walked along.  The water rippled in the
canal and the houseboats rocked at their moorings.  I thought, if every
day was like this, life would be wonderful, just to be with a good
friend, talking about things which really mattered to us, and
pretending, almost, that we were in the country and not in a great
city.

"Thank you for reading it to me," I said when he stopped and tucked the
paper away.  "I'm glad you've written some more.  It's a gift and you
ought to use it."

I thought about Susie and wondered if now was the moment to tell Ganesh
about the driving lessons she'd offered.  I decided not to.  Ganesh had
reservations about Susie Duke and I suspected he might not be best
pleased ; she was to teach me to drive.  There was no point in spoiling
this lovely day with a squabble.  Besides, I hadn't yet [ received my
provisional licence.

A distant voice from my early years echoed in my head.  I identified it
as belonging to Sister Mary Joseph and had t a brief mental image of
her, black baggy skirt, navy cardigan and veil.  She wore round rimless
spectacles of the John Lennon variety and, when the light caught them,
| you couldn't see her eyes at all, just two shiny discs.  She !
suffered with bunions and her brown lace-up shoes were distorted into
amazing bumps so that her feet looked like a couple of Jerusalem
artichokes.  She was a great one for not speaking unless you had
something important to say.

"Let your speech be silver, but your silence golden!"  she informed
us.

We gazed at her, six-year-olds, totally unable to fathom what the words
meant but entranced by them.  I repeated them to myself all the way
home and for years had an image of Sister Mary Joseph saying 'something
important' and a shower of silver coins falling from her mouth.

Today I would let my silence be golden, and keep the news of my
prospective driving lessons for another occasion.

On Monday, life returned to normal with a vengeance.  You would think
the sunny weekend had been a dream.  I awoke in the early morning to
hear raindrops pattering on the window.  The temperature had plummeted.
Bonnie huddled beside me on the bed.  Well, it was February and what
could we expect?  But even so one's entitled to complain about it.
Bonnie certainly thought so.  I had to push her out into the cold wet
dark garden.  She came in again so quickly I wondered whether she'd
managed to perform the necessary task she'd been sent out to do.

"All right," I said.  "But I've got to go to work and you'll have to
hang on till I get home."

She gazed at me with reproachful brown eyes.  I wrote a note to my
neighbour across the hall, asking him to let Bonnie out when he got up.
He had a key to my flat for that purpose.  I slid it under his door and
set off.

It must have rained all night because the uneven pavement was dotted
with puddles.  Bus queues huddled under the overhang of the shelters.
The buses were crowded with soaked passengers and the interiors smelled
like wet bread.  I didn't even try to get on one.  I walked to work
with pedestrians who scurried along, hiding beneath umbrellas.  I
didn't have an umbrella.  I turned up my collar, jumped flooded gutters
and splashed through puddles, grateful for my strong boots.  I carried
my uniform in a plastic carrier along with my trainers, as Doc Martens
with a peasant skirt weren't quite what the San Gennaro wanted.
Trainers and a peasant skirt looked pretty weird, too, but so far I'd
got away with it.

The rain let up for a bit during the morning and by mid-afternoon
turned to a steady fine drizzle from a steel-grey sky.  As it was
February, darkness set in early.  Today the weather conspired with the
season to give us twilight at four.  By five night had fallen.  Inside
the San Gennaro it was warm and cosy and looked bright and cheerful
with all the lights switched on.  The tiled picture of the Bay of
Naples reminded us of a kinder, warmer climate.  The air smelled
enticingly of pepperoni and cheese.  We'd done a roaring trade at
lunchtime and it was just beginning to ease off.  I cleared a couple of
tables and took the dishes out to the kitchen.

As I walked in I was met with a blast of cold air from the open back
door.  Mario the cook stood there talking to someone who was outside. I
couldn't see who the other person was and from what I could hear it was
a pretty one sided conversation.  Mario was telling the other person to
clear off in a series of expletive-dotted phrases.  He might be named
Mario but he was born and bred in south London.

Mario put in long hours at the San Gennaro, working both the busy
periods, lunchtime and evening.  Generally he took the quiet afternoon
period off.  At this time he was replaced for a couple of hours by an
elderly Greek named George.  When not required to cook anything, George
studied the racing fixtures in the sports pages of his tabloid
newspaper, carefully marking the horses which were to gallop off with
his money.  It was only because we'd unexpectedly been so busy that
Mario had sacrificed his mid-afternoon break, and it hadn't improved
his temper.

In the background George sliced mushrooms with dogged concentration.  I
set down my heavily laden tray with a clatter which took Mario's
attention.  He turned his head sharply.  The expression on his face
gave me a jolt.  He looked angry and, more than that, vicious.  Then
the grimness seemed to melt away and he said cheerfully, "Oh, it's you,
Fran.  Got another order?"

Witching Out

"Not at the moment," I told him.  "I thought I'd stack the washer."

Under the new regime the place had an automatic dishwasher.  In the
days of the Hot Spud Cafe all washing-up had been done by hand by
casual labour.  At one time Jimmie had hired an impecunious artist
named Angus to do the job.  Then Angus went off to try his luck selling
paintings to tourists in the world's sunspots.  Before he left he said
to me, "Whatever I earn in Europe, it can't be less than Reekie Jimmie
pays me here and I'll be living in the sunshine which beats Camden as
far as I'm concerned."

A seldom-sober derelict had taken over the job at the cafe.  I
suspected Jimmie paid this human wreck even less than he'd paid
Angus.

The same old wino now worked as the San Gennaro's sweeper-out and
toilet-cleaner in the early morning.  The only reason he still had a
job was because, unexpectedly, Jimmie had insisted on it.  It was, I
think, the only thing he'd bargained with Silvio about and won.

"I told Silvio, he'd got to give the old sod a job," Jimmie had
confided in me.  "The poor wee fellow depends on it.  It's like .. ."
Jimmie sought for a way to explain it.  "It's all the old bugger's got,
right?  Working here.  I told Silvio, you canna take it away from
him."

That's why I worried about Jimmie.  He was a bad cook and bad
businessman and the state of his fingernails had to be seen to be
believed, but he had a core of decency.  There's not a lot of that
about in the world I inhabit.

I went over to the dustbin' and began to scrape food off the plates
before stacking them.  I always did that and so did Po-Ching.  But
Bronia never bothered, just put everything in the machine, and we were
for ever cleaning out the filter when it was her shift.  From my
position by the bin I could see past Mario into the yard.

A young kid stood there.  He couldn't have been more than sixteen.  His
short dark hair was plastered to his scalp by rain.  He had luminous
dark eyes like you see in an old icon, huge in a narrow face with a
pointed chin.  His sweater was way too big for him and his jeans bagged
over the ankles.  His trainers were mud-caked.  He looked like the
proverbial drowned rat.  For all his puny appearance and the fact he
was shivering with cold, there was something resolute about him.  He'd
been getting an earful from Mario but he was standing his ground.

"I want to see Max," he said.  His accent was pretty heavy and I
guessed his vocabulary didn't go much beyond the basic few words.  The
way he spoke suggested he'd repeated the same sentence many times,
doggedly and without much hope.

"There's no bloody Max here!"  Mario shouted.  "How many times do I
have to tell you?  Now clear off!"

He stepped back and slammed the door in the kid's face.  I wasn't quick
enough looking down at my dirty plates and he caught my curious gaze.

"Kid wanting a job," he said briefly.

"Oh," I said and moved over to the dishwasher.

Po-Ching, who was on today's evening shift but had been called in early
to help me out, saved the day by trotting in with an order for two
napolitanas with side salads and a cannelloni and garlic bread.  We
didn't just do pizzas, we did a couple of other things as well.

Mario got cracking at his special pizza oven.  George busied himself
with the cannelloni.  I went back to the restaurant and, because there
wasn't anyone else wanting food, went behind the bar to give Luigi a
hand stacking glasses and putting empty wine bottles in boxes.  He'd
just picked up a box and was going to carry it out to the backyard when
one of the people who'd given Po-Ching's order came up and began to ask
about wine.  Luigi put the box of empties in my arms.  I sidled out and
backed through the swing doors into the kitchen.

Mario was fixing the salads.  He took no notice of me and didn't bother
how I was going to manage the back door.  I perched my box of empties
on a work top opened the door, held it with my foot, retrieved my box
of bottles and managed to get through before the door slammed on me.

It was still raining.  I went over to the shed in the corner of the
yard where we stacked the empties ready for collection.  The door was
ajar, which wasn't unusual.  It wasn't as though the place was kept
locked.  We only ever put junk like the bottles and rubbish awaiting
collection in there.  I put down my box again, pushed the door open
inwards and had stooped to pick up my box when something shot out of
the shed and cannoned into me.  I yelped and sat down in the mud.

The person who'd tried to bolt past me tripped over my ankle and fell
flat.  He scrabbled to his hands and knees and stared at me, terrified.
It was the thin kid.

I didn't know what was going on here but I knew instinctively I didn't
want Mario to see it.  Any second now he'd finish Po-Ching's order and
be free to glance out of

the window.  I remembered his angry face and voice, and I knew if he
saw the boy was still hanging around, the cook was likely to come out
and clout him.  I motioned towards the interior of the shed.

"Get in there!  Go on, quick!"  I ordered with a glance at the kitchen
window.

Something in my voice made him do as I said.  He got to his feet and,
still crouched, scurried back inside.  I collected my box of bottles
and followed.

The light was poor in there.  There was a tiny window but so grimy it
was as good as useless.  The only real light, such as it was, seeped in
through the door, which was still ajar.

I could make out the kid on the far side of the shed, pressed against
the wall.  I put my box of bottles on top of some others and asked
casually, "What's your name?"

He didn't answer.  I could smell the fear on him.  I tapped my chest
and said, "I'm called Fran."  I pointed at him.  "You?"

He wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue.  He'd understood.  He
wasn't sure he should tell me.  Probably, if he gave me a name, it
would be a false one.  In the end, he plumped for acting dumb and shook
his head.

"OK," I said.  I understood.  "I don't know what's up but I think you
shouldn't hang around here."

He stared at me silently, his body tense, ready to leap aside if I
moved forward.

I tried again.  "Go home, right?  Here is bad for you."

At least he understood that.  "I want to see Max," he said again in
that dogged way.

"We don't have anyone working here called Max," I assured him.

He twisted his hands together.  "Max comes here.  I see him."

"What does Max do here?"  I asked.

He frowned and looked distressed.  "Max comes here," he repeated.

"He's a customer?"

"No.  Nothing buy.  Max works here."

"Look, I work in this place.  I know there is no Max."

He frowned and rubbed the toe of one trainer into the dirty floor.  "I
have seen him."  He looked sullen now and I sensed that behind his
obstinate manner lurked tears he was determined not to shed in my
presence.  I wondered how old he was.  His small build might be
misleading, but I didn't think he could be much more than sixteen or
seventeen at the most.

His statement, that he'd seen Max at the pizzeria, flummoxed me.  I ran
through the names of the staff in my head.  None of us was called Max
or anything which might sound like Max or be abbreviated to Max.  I
didn't know what the old cleaner's name was but I couldn't believe the
kid wanted to see him.

I said, "I really think you're wrong about that."

At this an unexpected anger entered his voice and face.  "No, you are
wrong!  You tell me lies.  I know he is here.  He works here.  I have
seen him!  You are like the other one, the cook.  You tell me lies."

Now the tears were brimming in his eyes but his rage kept them back.
Just for a split second I thought he might leap at me and strike out.
This put me on the defensive both physically and mentally.  I asked
myself why I was bothering with this unknown trespasser anyway.

I opened my mouth to snap back, "Go on, get out of here!"  but mixed
with his anger was a real desperation.  Added to which his conviction
that he could find Max here was compelling, even if I knew we didn't
have anyone of that name.

Clearly we'd get nowhere arguing about it.  If I didn't return soon,
Mario would wonder what was keeping me.  Not only would Mario not take
it kindly if he saw the boy still lingering, but he'd be mad at me for
talking to him when I should be working.

"Listen," I said urgently, accompanying my words with a pantomime of
gestures.  "I'm going back indoors, into the kitchen.  I'll talk to the
cook.  While I'm talking to him, you go, go the way you came.  How did
you get in here?"

He pointed up at the shed roof.  I deduced that meant he'd come over
the back wall on to the roof and from there dropped to the ground.

"Can you get back that way?"  I gestured at him and then upwards.

He nodded.

"Good.  I'm going now.  You wait until I'm in the kitchen, then you go,
you understand me?"

He nodded again.

I could only hope.  I made my way back to the kitchen.  I was just in
time.  Po-Ching had collected her orders and Mario was wiping down a
work surface right by the window.

"Look at this!"  I said in a loud aggrieved voice.  I tugged at my
skirt, wet and smeared where I'd fallen under the kid's onslaught. "I'm
covered in muck!  The rain's made it slippy out there.  It's really
dangerous.  I was skidding all over the place."

Mario inspected my muddy attire and chuckled.  "Come down on your
backside, did you?  Wish I'd seen it."

"Ha-ha!  I could've broken a wrist or something, you know."  I'd moved
round so that now, in order to speak to me, he had his back to the
window.  I couldn't see past him to the shed.  I just hoped the boy was
on his way over the wall.  "I can't go back to waiting tables like
this," I went on.  "I'll have to change back into my jeans."

"You can't serve tables in jeans," said Mario.  "Company policy. You've
got to wear your uniform.  Silvio likes it that way."

"Silvio wouldn't like me out there covered in mud.  Neither would the
customers."

Mario considered the problem.  "Business is easing up.  Po-Ching can
probably manage on her own until Bronia comes in at six, provided she
isn't bloody late again.  You go on home."

"I'm paid by the hour," I said sulkily.  Go on, whoever you are, you
must be over the wall by now.

"It'll be all right," said Mario.  "You had an accident on the
premises.  Luigi should've been doing that job, anyway.  He's barman
and the bottles are his business.  You won't lose any money.  I'll fix
it."

"I'd better go and tell Jimmie then," I heard myself say, 'as he's
manager."  I regretted the remark.  I didn't want to give Mario any
reason to think I found anything dodgy about the set-up here.

Mario looked surprised at the mention of Jimmie.  "Oh, him," he said.
"Right, if you want to.  Tell him I said we can manage."

As I moved towards the door into the corridor which led to Jimmie's
office, Mario added casually.  "You don't want to worry him about that
kid asking for a job."

"What kid?"  I asked blankly.

Mario smiled.  "Good girl," he said.  "I'll fix you a pizza to take
home with you for your supper.  What do you want on it?"

"Everything!"  I said and he grinned.

"Cheeky little mare, aren't you?  All right.  I'll fix you the best
pizza you ever saw."

Jimmie was sitting behind his desk in a cloud of smoke, reading a
tabloid newspaper.  He'd acquired a little television set which sat in
the corner flickering out the evening episode of Neighbours.  That
shows you how bored Jimmie was with nothing to do.  Honestly, I'd known
night-watchmen with more active duties.  Manager, indeed!

"I fell over in the yard and I'm going home, Jimmie."

"Sorry to hear that, hen.  You hurt yourself?"  He put down the tabloid
and stared at me in concern.

"No.  But I messed up my uniform.  Mario says they can manage and I
won't lose any pay.  Bronia should be coming before long."

"Right you are, hen," agreed Jimmie and went back to the sports pages.
"Away to your home."

He was another one who had an in built instinct for the rules here.

I changed into my outdoor things and went back to the kitchen when
Mario, still grinning, handed me my pizza in a box.  If nothing else,
my accident had cured his bad humour.  I carried the pizza home and ate
it in front of my gas fire.  True to his word, he had put nearly
everything on it: tomatoes, cheese, mushrooms, pepperoni, black olives,
chopped ham and anchovies.  It was all I could do to eat most of it,
even with feeding Bonnie the pepperoni.  I put a big slice remaining
into the fridge for another time.  I didn't feel like moving much after
that.

I sat watching early-evening TV until I'd digested my supper enough to
be able to wash out my skirt and hang it up to drip-dry in the tiny
shower room.

Already in there was the costume I'd brought from The Rose.  I'd
examined it carefully when I'd got it home, as a precaution before I
dunked it in the tub.  It was beautifully made, once lined throughout
with silk, now in tatters, and with real mother-of-pearl buttons at the
wrists and down the front.  It even had a worn label stitched in it,
though not one I recognised: Worth.  Paris.

I felt sure its origins weren't in the theatre.  It was the real thing,
a bit of fashion history.  I had washed it with great care.  It was
being slow to dry.  I fingered it now to test it.  How did women manage
the laundry years ago when they wore these cumbersome things?  I had an
idea they wore detachable collars and cuffs.  In oil paintings both men
and women always look so elegant in those beautiful clothes.  However,
if you ask me, our ancestors must have been a smelly lot.

Occasionally, throughout my evening activities, I wondered about the
kid in the shed.  Chiefly I speculated whether I'd see him again. Given
his reception by Mario, there didn't seem much point in his coming
back.  In fact, it would be outright dangerous.  But there had been
something about that youngster, some kind of in built obstinacy which
I'd sensed and, possibly, even identified with.  If there was something
he wanted at the San Gennaro, one narrow squeak wouldn't put him off.
Desperation, too, lends a sort of reckless courage.  Even when a course
of action is foolish, if you have no other, then you have no choice.

"Max ..."  I mumbled to myself.  "Who the heck is Max?"

For a week after that nothing very much happened, nothing out of the
ordinary anyway.  I went to work.  Ganesh and I practised our lines on
one another.  The boy and his quest for "Max' were pushed out of my
mind.  I hadn't told Ganesh about my encounter in the backyard of the
pizzeria because I know he doesn't like me 'meddling', as he calls it.
The boy had not come back, at least not while I'd been on duty.  I was
working mostly lunchtime shifts now, having swapped my evening shifts
with Bronia so that I could go to rehearsals.  Perhaps, after all, he'd
realised it wasn't wise to risk running into Mario again.  Or perhaps
he'd found the mysterious Max.  Or perhaps .. .

But at this point I firmly told myself to stop my imagination running
riot.  The boy and I had been ships that pass in the night.  London is
full of people who drift into sight, touch one another's lives briefly,
part and vanish.  Where do they come from and where do they go?  Who
knows?  Does anyone care?  Very few.

Up to now, we'd been rehearsing in my flat.  However, we really needed
to get to grips with the stage in the upstairs functions room at The
Rose.  We explained to Freddy we'd have to rehearse there from now
on.

"Right you are," he said.  "Help yourselves.  No one's booked the
function room for anything else.  How's the play going?"

We assured him it was coming along splendidly.

"I've been selling tickets to my customers," said Freddy with a steely
look in his eye.  "They want their money's worth."

Marty told him he had absolutely nothing to worry about.  Privately, I
thought Marty did have something to worry about.  If, after all his
brave words to Freddy, the play was an unmitigated disaster, he might
experience the theatrical wish 'break a leg' in a whole different
context.

However, even I was excited at the thought of actually being up there
on the stage, rehearsing properly, and set off for The Rose for our
first run-through there feeling that things were going right at last.
The whole thing suddenly felt more professional.  We were also due to
meet up with a new member of the cast that evening, an essential one:
the Hound of the title.

The animal in question belonged to Irish Davey, who was training it for
the role.  It was to make just one appearance, at the climax of the
play, when it would bound from one side of the stage to the other.
Irish Davey had promised there'd be absolutely no problem teaching it
to do that.

My route took me via the news agent where I was to collect Ganesh and
leave Bonnie, my dog, with Uncle Hari.  Here and there, street-sleepers
had already settled down in doorways.  One form wrapped in a dirty
blanket looked small and pathetic and it reminded me of the boy.  I
stopped and peered into the doorway.  All I could see was a mop of dark
hair.  Was it him?

There was a scuff of a footstep and breathing behind me.  I whirled
round.  A young man had appeared from somewhere, badly dressed, scruffy
and unshaven, wearing a woolly hat pulled over his long, matted hair.
He didn't look friendly.

"You want something?"  he asked.

"No," I said.  "I thought he might be someone I know."  I pointed down
at the slight bundle.

"And?"  He sounded even more unfriendly.

"Look," I said.  "I'm not out to make any trouble.  I met up with
someone the other day, a young boy, and I've been worried about him."

He gave me a crooked, mirthless smile.  "That's not a young boy."

I glanced down at the huddled figure in the blanket.  Was it, in fact,
a girl?  Fewer girls slept rough than boys.

Just then the shrouded figure moved, shook back the blanket and sat up.
It was an elderly man, a small, shrivelled gnome-like figure.  What had
appeared dark hair was iron-grey, darkened with grease.  He looked at
me, terrified, and then past me to the woolly-hatted man, whom he
seemed to recognise, fixing a hopeful gaze on him.

"It's all right, Billy," said the woolly-hatted man, surprisingly
gently.  "It's a mistake.  The lady's looking for someone else."

"I'm sorry," I said to Billy, who looked back at me with the clouded
gaze of someone whose mind is already half into the land of shadows.  I
turned back to the woolly-hatted man and repeated, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he said.  "We all keep an eye out for him.  If anyone
takes an interest in him, we check it out."  His expression grew grim
again.  "Some people, some of them drunk and some of them not, think
it's a joke to mess around with him.  His mind isn't too clear."

"He ought not to be here," I said.  The man didn't reply.  I hadn't
expected he would.

I continued on my way.  The encounter had rattled me.  It also brought
the unknown boy back into my mind.  Was someone looking out for him, as
the street-dwellers were looking out for Billy?  Or was he alone in a
dangerous and alien world?  I decided to tell Ganesh about him after
all.

"I've got something I'd like to talk to you about," I said as we
hurried towards the rehearsal.  "But we're running a bit late.  There
isn't time now.  I'll tell you later."

Ganesh put his foot in a puddle and growled, "Whatever it is you've got
in mind, don't do it."

That night there was an awful racket in the bar downstairs and we could
hear echoes of it upstairs in the function room.  It was still freezing
cold and we complained to Denise about the lack of heating up there.
There would have been no point in complaining to Freddy.  But Denise
was more understanding and had unearthed a Calor gas heater which was
doing its best in the middle of the stage.  If you stood within a metre
of it you were all right.  Any further away and you still froze.  I was
standing in the wings by the curtains, trying not to breathe in too
deeply.  They smelled of dust, damp and mould.

"We ought to try these out," I warned Marty.  "They mightn't work.
Who's in charge of curtains, anyway?"

"Denise," he said, harassed and shuffling bits of paper furiously.
"Curtains and prompter.  On the night, that is.  We'll have to manage
without her until then."

"How can we?  I mean, we need our prompter now and she needs to know
when to work the curtains."

"I'll prompt, OK?  Denise will be here for the dress rehearsal.  She's
done the curtains for other productions.  She won't screw up.  All
right, everyone!  Now I've marked on the stage with chalk where the
furniture is going to be when the curtain goes up.  So, we'll run
through Act One."

"Where are we getting the furniture from?"  asked Carmel immediately.
"Is it going to be as ropy as the costumes?"

"All we need are two chairs, a table and a fireplace."  Marty pointed
at the relevant chalk marks as he spoke.  "It's all in hand.  Freddy's
got a mate making up a fake fireplace out of chip board

"What about the scenes on the moor?"  I asked.

"No problem," said Marty airily.  "We can use the backdrop they used
for the pantomime."

"Marty!"  I protested.  "The pantomime was Babes in the Wood.  In The
Hound of the Baskervilles, Sir Henry is pursued across the open moor.
People keep meeting up with one another on the moor.  The whole
moorland setting is vital to the atmosphere of the entire story.  You
can't have a forest in the background."

"It's dark and sinister," argued Marty.  "And unless some of you are
volunteering to paint another backdrop .. ."

"Nigel and I will," offered Owen unexpectedly.  "Right, Nige?"

"Yeah, sure," said Nigel.  "If old Freddy will give us the paint."

"Moorland," I insisted.  "Open heath and lots of rocks."

They seemed happy they could do that.  Marty looked cheerful for once,
instead of harassed.

"So, this is Sherlock Holmes's study," he began again.  "He and Watson
are sitting in front of the fire when Mrs.  Hudson comes in and
announces a visitor.  She and the visitor enter left, over there. Watch
out for the dodgy bit of flooring.  Holmes and Watson, take your
places."

Nigel and Ganesh walked to their chalk marks.  Mick, who was playing
the country doctor who comes to see Holmes and tell him about the
mysterious hound, straightened up, cleared his throat and generally got
into acting mode.

"Fran?"  whispered Carmel.  "Did you manage to wash that grungy
costume?"

"Yes, it's drying.  It's quite nice really," I muttered.

She didn't look as if she believed me.  "I've got a mate who's going to
lend me long black skirt.  Catch me wearing anything from that box.
You'll probably get some horrible skin disease."

"Aren't you Mrs.  Hudson?"  I hissed.  "They want you in this scene."

"Carmel!"  bellowed Marty.  "Where the hell are you?"

"Keep your hair on," she said and scrambled up into the wings. "Right."
She raised her voice.  "MR HOLMES!  THERE IS A GENTLEMAN TO SEE YOU!"
You could've heard her a mile away.

"Knock!"  yelled Marty.  "She doesn't just barge in.  She knocks on the
door first."

"There isn't a door.  How can I bloody knock?"

"Knock on anything."

"Stamp on the floor," suggested Owen.

Carmel stamped.  There was a snapping noise and she shrieked.  "I've
put my ruddy foot through the floor."

"I told you to mind that dodgy patch."

"You didn't tell me where it was and Owen said to stamp my foot, so I
did."

"I didn't say stamp it like a blooming elephant," said Owen.

After this things got worse.

"Right," said the weary Marty.  "We'll move on to the first scene in
Baskerville Hall.  There will be a fireplace over there '

"Is this the same fireplace as is in Holmes's study?"  asked Carmel.

"Of course it is.  How many ruddy fireplaces do you think Freddy's mate
is going to make?"  Marty had had about enough of Carmel.

"The audience will think it's the same room."

"No, they won't."

"If it's got the same furniture and the same fireplace, they will."

Marty said through gritted teeth, "They won't because there will be
family portraits on the wall."

"Family portraits?"  we all chorused.  "Where are those coming from?"

"I'm painting them!"  yelled Marty.

"His painting isn't like his spelling, is it?"  muttered Ganesh.  "They
won't all look as if they've been done by Picasso with a hangover?

We struggled through the rest and all met together on stage for a free
and frank discussion, that is, a blazing row.

Everyone felt rather better after that.  If nothing else, it warmed us
up.

We were distracted from our 'brainstorming session', as Marty liked to
call it, by a commotion at the door of the functions room.  A draught
swept across the stage.  A thin, wiry figure with a mop of red hair,
gripping a can of lager, lurched in.  In his wake came a large black
creature, shoulders hunched, head down, placing its huge paws on the
ground with uncanny silence, like a prowling panther.

Instinctively, we all drew back and huddled together like sheep.

"Is dis d'place where we're doing d'play?"  The redhead waved the can
at us and the sinister black beast collapsed with a thump on the ground
and slobbered, chomping its huge jaws as if in anticipation of a tasty
meal.

Irish Davey had arrived and the Hound.

"Perhaps I ought to have told you," said Ganesh to Marty.  "I don't get
on with dogs."

"Well, I don't!"  said Ganesh crossly.

Rehearsals were over and he and I were walking back towards the shop.

"You know I don't like dogs and they don't like me.  Even that tyke of
yours doesn't like me."

This was true.  I don't know why it is, but dogs start acting up the
minute they catch sight of Ganesh.  Little dogs, big dogs, hairy dogs,
dinky poodles with pink collars and bows in their hair, it makes no
difference.

"It's because you're scared of them," I said.  "They sense it."

"I'm scared of them for a very good reason.  They bite."

"When were you last bitten?"  I argued.

"That's not the point.  I keep out of the way so I don't get bitten."

I wanted to shout at him, why had he agreed to be in the play, then,
knowing there was a dog in it?  But if I did that, he'd very likely say
he wouldn't play Watson and leave us in the lurch.  So I said as
confidently as I could, "Irish's dog was all right.  It did just as
Irish said it would.  I held it in the wings and let it go when he
signalled.  It ran straight across to him and you've got to admit, it
did look the part."

Ganesh snorted.  "Did you see the way it was staring at me?  It was
sizing me up.  It's got nasty eyes and have you seen its teeth?"

I told him he was just being paranoid.

We abandoned the subject by mutual consent.

"What did you want to tell me?"  Ganesh asked, after we'd progressed
half a street's length in tetchy silence.  "You said, on the way to The
Rose, you wanted to discuss something."

I was surprised he'd remembered.  I thought about the thin kid.  Ganesh
wasn't in a good mood.  Irish's dog was still on his mind.  It wasn't
the moment to start talking about anything that had happened at the
pizzeria.

"Susie Duke's going to teach me to drive," I said.  One advantage in
holding back nuggets of information was that they could be useful at
moments like this, when a diversion was required or Ganesh asked
awkward questions.  I'm not sure that's what Sister Mary Joseph had in
mind but it worked.

"Where and in what?"  he asked tersely.

"She's got a new car, a Citroen.  I don't know where.  I

suppose we could start round the flats where she lives."

We'd reached the news agent  Ganesh stopped by the door which led from
the street to the upstairs flat.

"Fran, learning to drive with Susie is one thing.  If you want to do
it, do it.  But if she tries to get you to work for that agency of hers
'

"I know!"  I interrupted.  "I've already told her.  I've got a job at
the pizzeria and I don't fancy the sort of work she does."

"Good.  Just remember that.  Don't get talked into anything."

I denied strongly that I was likely to do anything silly.  I asked him
to have a little confidence in me.

"Well, all right," he said grudgingly, putting the key in the lock.
"It's just I know how you fancy yourself a detective.  And don't tell
Hari about the driving lessons.  You know how he worries."

Chapter Four

After I'd sat and had a cup of tea with Uncle Hari and answered all his
questions about the rehearsal it was really late.  I knew I should have
left at least half an hour earlier but, as Ganesh had warned me, Hari
was so enthusiastic about the prospect of a member of his family being
in a real theatrical production that we just had to go along with it.
As Ganesh muttered to me, Hari was keener on the whole thing than any
of us were, apart from Marty.  I said I didn't think Marty was as keen
as he had been at the outset.

"Show business, isn't it?"  raved Hari.  "The smell of the greasepaint,
the lights, the audience."

I didn't know when I'd seen him so animated and happy.  He's usually
animated and worried.  The responsibilities of being a businessman
weigh heavily on his shoulders.  If it's not his suppliers, it's his
customers who give him grief.  Hari is convinced that suppliers are out
to cheat him and customers need to be closely watched or they'll pinch
things.  He lives in a world of sharks.  I'm not saying he's entirely
wrong, mind you.  Local kids are adept shoplifters.  It's just that he
has so much trouble coping with it all.

It was therefore amazing that Hari, who worried about every single
thing every single day, didn't appear to have any worries about the
play.  But then, he hadn't attended our rehearsals.

It had stopped raining so Bonnie and I set out to walk home.  I had got
as far as Camden High Street, which was fairly busy, even if it was
late.  In among all the other pedestrians were several shabby figures
making their way towards the night shelter in Arlington Road, so it was
lucky that I noticed one more skinny unkempt figure in a baggy sweater.
He was hanging about outside a fast-food outlet and at first I thought
it wasn't the boy in the shed, but just another one like him.

Now, Fran, I told myself, he's been on your mind and you're starting to
imagine him everywhere, just as you fancied the huddled form of Billy
in the doorway might be him.

But even as I thought it, he turned and the light shone on his face.
There was no mistaking the pinched features and huge dark eyes.  He
looked miserable and hungry.

I stepped up to him before he saw me and said, "Hi!  Fran, remember?"

He literally jumped, hopped up in the air, and stared at me, terrified.
Then he turned and bolted off down the street.

I knew I wasn't going to get another chance to find him so I set off in
pursuit, Bonnie scampering behind me.  Fleeing figures probably aren't
unknown in Camden High Street and chasing someone down a busy pavement
isn't easy.  I thought I was going to lose him but unexpectedly an
outsider took an interest.  A clothes shop with late-night opening was
finally calling it a day.  A thickset man was outside, reaching up with
a pole to unhook garments hanging from the facade.  As the boy raced
past, the man dropped the pole and grabbed him by the neck of his baggy
pullover.  The boy ran on a couple of steps, the knitted neck of the
pullover stretching until it would stretch no more.  He skidded to a
halt, choking, and the man spun him round to face back the way he'd
come, and me.

I panted up to them.  The thickset man said simply, "What did he
nick?"

Obviously the man thought the boy was either a pilferer or had grabbed
my purse.

"Nothing," I assured him.

The man scowled.  "These kids are always hanging round.  They're so
damn quick you don't spot them.  We've got a system, the traders.  The
ones we know, as soon as we see them, we phone the other shops and warn
'em to keep an eye open."

"Do you know this one?"  I asked.

The thickset man shook the boy casually like a large dog which had
caught a rat.  "Might do.  They all look much the same."

"He's not a thief," I said firmly.

"What do you want him for, then?"  He turned his suspicious gaze on
me.

"It's a - a domestic incident," I said.  "He's - er he's my cousin."

I'd nearly said he was my brother but, if the boy spoke, it would be
clear he knew little English, and the brother story wouldn't wash.

The man let go of his captive and pushed him forward at the same time
so that the boy stumbled into my arms.

"You can have him, then," he said.  "Just take him away from here,
right?"  He gathered up the items of clothing and the pole and carried
the lot into the shop.  Then he locked the door, turned the sign
hanging in it to CLOSED, and stood behind it, looking out at us.

The boy was standing by me, panting, looking scared out of his wits,
eyes rolling.

"It's all right!"  I urged him.  "You don't have to run.  I'm alone.
Just me and my dog, OK?"

He glanced down at Bonnie, who wagged her stumpy tail at him.  Bonnie
is a good judge of character.

"I was just going to buy myself some supper," I went on.  "Would you
like a kebab?"

He eyed me.  "You come from Max?"

He was still fixated on the ruddy Max.  I sighed.

"No, because I don't know any Max.  But I'd like to talk to you about
that."

He began to edge away.  "Can't talk to people."

"You can talk to me, right?  I work at the pizzeria.  If there's a Max
there, I want to find him too.  I've got my own reasons, right?"

His dark eyes were assessing me all the time we spoke and I could
almost hear the cogs in his brain going round.  His instinct was still
to run, but I might be the only lead he'd get.  We were both aware of
the thickset man watching us from inside the shop.  He decided to
gamble.

"Is all right," he said grudgingly.

I suggested we take the food back to my place and, after some
hesitation, he agreed.  It was a peculiar journey.  Sometimes he'd walk
beside me and sometimes he'd drop back.  Each time he did this, I
thought he had changed his mind and was going to slip away.  Twice I
turned, thinking he'd gone, but he was still there, watching me
suspiciously.  I knew he was still undecided about coming to my flat.
Perhaps he expected some sort of trap.  I saw his gaze take in alleys
and low walls.  He was planning an escape route, should he need one.

"Your place, who is there?"  he asked.

"Only me.  Other people live in the house but only me in the flat."

He looked as if he thought this was an unlikely tale.  One young woman
living all on her own in an entire flat was doubtless outside his
experience.  Perhaps he thought that after I finished work at the
pizzeria, I moonlighted as a prostitute.

"Your father, your mother?"  he demanded rather hostilely.

"Both dead."

This answer earned an unexpected sympathy.  "Is sad," he said.  "I am
sorry."

"No husband?"  he asked next, after a few minutes.

"No husband, no family, nobody," I said.  "How about you?"

"I, too, have nobody," he said promptly but I knew he was lying.

We reached the house.  He stood outside, looking it over, particularly
interested in the lighted windows of the other flats.

"Who lives here?"

"Just people like me."

Perhaps he hadn't met many people like me, because that wasn't
enough.

"Who lives in that one?"  He pointed at the window of the other
downstairs flat, which was in darkness.

"Someone called Erwin, a musician.  He'll be at work now."

He pointed one by one at all the other windows in the facade of the
house, wanting to know who lived there.  Frankly, I was vague myself
about the tenants on the upper floors but I managed some sort of answer
which seemed to satisfy him.

He was still nervous.  I got him through the front door into the hall,
but at the door of the flat he stopped, his eyes rolling.  He gave a
frightened look up the stairs as, somewhere above, a door slammed.  A
burst of rock music flooded the stairwell and a snatch of voices in
conversation, to be cut off moments later by another slam of a door. My
companion took a step back towards the front entrance.  Fortunately, no
one came down from the floor above.  If anyone had, he would have fled
and I wouldn't have been able to stop him.

"See?"  I said.  "Just people, like me, spending an evening at home."

I put my key in my door and went ahead, switching on all the lights. He
edged inside and stood ready to dash out again while I went round
demonstrating that there was no one hiding in the shower with the
dripping wash or in the kitchenette.  Eventually, he sat on the very
edge of my sofa and appeared to relax a little.  Bonnie jumped up
beside him and when I came back with two mugs of coffee, she had
settled down nicely with her head propped on his thigh.

"Now, this Max," I began.  "Why do you think he works at the
pizzeria?"

"I see him there."  His hands cupped round the mug, he looked at me
over the top of it.  The expression in his eyes defied me to deny the
presence of a Max at the pizzeria.  He was a curious mixture of
terrified and aggressive, like an injured cornered dog, snapping at the
hands of would-be rescuers.

Patiently, I said, "It's a restaurant.  People come in and out all the
time."

He shook his head.  "Not eating there.  He go in the office."  He gave
a tight little smile.  "I watch."

I was flummoxed.  Jimmie's office?  It didn't make sense.  Jimmie was
so obviously out of the loop at the pizzeria, his office was the last
place anyone would go on serious business.

Just to check, I asked, "What does he look like, this Max?  Has he got
reddish hair?"

I rubbed my own short-cropped hair which is a sort of red-brown. "Paler
than mine?  Ginger like .. ."  I looked around and ended up pointing at
the mug I held which was a muddy orange colour.

"No," said the boy decidedly.

That let Jimmie out.  Jimmie's once-red hair had faded and was streaked
with grey but still generally sandy in hue.

"Grey?  Silver?"

Again a shake of the head.  That let Silvio out.  "What colour,
then?"

The boy hunched his shoulders.  "A bit brown, a bit grey."

That didn't help but it indicated a man who wasn't very young.  Luigi
was in his twenties, had black hair and fancied himself as a
lady-killer.  Pietro had lank fair hair.

I asked him if he could give me a better description of Max and he came
up with the information that Max was a fat man.

"How fat?"  I asked.

"Very fat," said the kid firmly.  "Eat very much."  He spread out his
hands to indicate a vast girth.

That let out everyone at the pizzeria, as far as I could see.  Silvio
was slim.  Mario was chunky but by no means fat.  Luigi had the figure
of a whippet.  Anyway, the boy had spoken to Mario and failed to
identify him as Max.  Likewise, he'd seen George.  The toad-like
accountant might, just, have been described as fat but really he was
just squat and square.  The more this went on, the more I became
convinced that the boy had got it wrong and Max didn't have anything to
do with the pizzeria.  But I knew it was no use telling him so.  He was
too fixed in his own mind about it.

"Well, I can snoop around," I said.  "You know, try and find out."

His reaction was unexpected.  The wariness dropped from him, and he
became embarrassingly and effusively grateful.  He leapt off the sofa,
dislodging Bonnie, and shook me by the hand.  It made me feel terrible
because if I didn't find out anything, he'd be so disappointed.  I
shouldn't have offered.  Oh Ganesh, you should have been there at this
hour to stop me doing something silly.

"Why," I asked when I'd managed to cut short his thanks, 'do you want
to find Max?"

This, I knew, was the tricky question.  It would mean he had to tell me
something about himself.  He might not be prepared to do that even
though he should realise that my offer of help meant I was entitled to
know something about his problem.  Every investigator needs a few
facts.  Sensible investigators get the facts first and decide whether
to take the job afterwards.  Trust me to do it the wrong way round.

He settled down on the sofa once more and Bonnie put her head back on
his leg, albeit with a suspicious look up at him, as if to ensure he
wasn't going to leap up and disturb her again.

"I want to find my brother," he said.

I didn't remind him that on our way to the flat, he'd told me he had
nobody.  "Brother?"  I prompted.

He leaned forward and said urgently, "I must find him.  I must find him
very soon."

Bit by bit, it came out.  He had entered the country illegally.  His
father, in Romania, had paid a good deal of money, raised with
difficulty, to a crooked organisation which smuggled would-be
immigrants across Europe and into the UK.  Earlier, he'd done the same
for the boy's brother who'd successfully made it here.  They knew this
because they'd had a letter from the brother.  The family decided to
send Ion, as I now found his name to be, by the same route.  They'd
sold their few remaining valuables and in addition borrowed money from
the very people organising the illegal run.  Not a wise thing to do.
This left the family in Romania out on a limb, dependent on the two
boys making their fortunes in England and sending some of the cash
home, something the family seemed confident their sons would do.  Yet
any money Ion or his brother could earn in England would go first and
foremost to the shady traffickers who'd brought them here in repayment
of the loan.  For the foreseeable future, they'd be paying it off
together with the inevitable interest.  They'd have no choice in this
nor any legal protection.  The loan would be 'paid off' when the dodgy
lenders declared it to be, at a time of their choosing.

Ion had arrived in the UK after a long, fraught journey during which
time he'd been out of touch both with his family at home and with the
brother in England.  On arrival, the brother had failed to meet up with
him as promised.  In fact, the brother seemed to have disappeared,
vanished off the face of the earth.  Ion had tried asking everywhere he
could.  The family was writing anxious letters.  He didn't say how this
correspondence was delivered and I doubted it was by regular post.  I
suspected new arrivals brought it.  Nor did Ion say where he himself
was living or how he was earning enough money to stay alive.  But I
knew there was a black economy out there, paying cash for work, no
insurance, no tax, no records, no protection against unhealthy and
dangerous work places or machinery.  The cleaning business was known
often to use subcontracted labour supplied by shadowy middlemen.
Whatever he was being paid, it was clearly barely enough to keep body
and soul together.

He had made all the enquiries he could without attracting official
interest or the racketeers' displeasure.  Fellow Romanians had been the
obvious people to ask, but they had not been helpful.  The general
opinion seemed to be that the brother had moved on somewhere else.

"But he would not do that," Ion told me earnestly, leaning forward and
displacing Bonnie again.  Cheesed off, she jumped to the floor and
settled down in front of the gas fire.  "He knew I was coming.  He
would wait for me.

Also there is the money.  He must help pay back the money.  I cannot do
it myself."

That made sense.  So far, so good.  I understood why Ion was getting
panicky.  If you'd entered the country, as he had done, in the back of
a lorry, you were in no position to make anything but the most discreet
of enquiries.  Above all, Ion hadn't wanted to draw attention either to
himself or to his shady employers.  He couldn't go to the police or
social services.  It was a measure of his desperation that he'd been
obliged to break cover and go to the pizzeria.

"Because Max works there and perhaps he knows something."  His voice
rang with the despair of someone who is playing the last possible throw
of the dice.

"But who is Max, Ion?"

The trouble was, he couldn't tell me, at least not in any way that made
any sense.

Ion explained he knew very little of the people who ran the shadowy
operation ferrying human beings across Europe.  They dealt through
middlemen.  But he did know they were dangerous.  One didn't cross
them.  For that reason, he hadn't yet let his father know the brother
was missing.  His father would almost certainly go to the man who'd
arranged the journey at their end and ask questions, make trouble.  The
traffickers would hear of it and they wouldn't like that.  Ion had to
find his brother first, or at least find out where he'd gone before his
father's pathetic and frightened pleas to know what had happened to his
children had to be met with the truth.  Despite his fear of the
traffickers, he'd tried to contact the one person he knew in this
country who was connected with them: the elusive Max.

"But you still haven't told me who he is, or how you know about him,
Ion!"  I urged.  "You say you saw him go into the pizzeria, but you
don't seem to have any more information.  So, how do you know the man
you saw was called Max?"

Here things got worse.  Ion's story went off into the realms of chance,
not something which made me feel any better about it.  The illegal
travellers had been released from their lorry in a country lane.  It
had been a long journey and, as Ion explained with some embarrassment,
there hadn't been any arrangement for toilet facilities.  On being let
out in the lane, Ion had promptly scurried behind the nearest hedge.
From that side of the hedge, in the darkness of night, he'd heard a car
draw up.  A door slammed.  Someone got out and he and the lorry driver
talked in low voices.  The lorry driver had called the man "Max'.
Curious, Ion had crept along the hedge to a thin part and peered
through.  He was just in time to see the man, Max, get back in his car.
When he opened the door the inside light came on, and that had been the
only glimpse he'd got of Max, but it had been enough.

"I remember him," he said grimly.

After this, another lorry had arrived and taken them into London
itself.

"So," I said.  "How did you trace Max to the pizzeria?"

"I saw him," he said simply.  "I saw him in the street and followed
him.  He went to the restaurant and he went inside.  He didn't sit at a
table.  He went to the office.  Afterwards I watched the restaurant.  I
saw him go there again, also to the office.  He must work there,
yes?"

Ganesh had always warned me that if I persisted in sticking my nose
into other people's business, as he called it, one day I'd find my head
wedged in a real hornets' nest.

"There's little sorts of trouble and there's big trouble, Fran," Ganesh
had declared.  "You're quite good at handling little sorts.  But you
can't handle big trouble.  Just remember that and watch out!"

Of course, Ganesh was right.  He usually was.  I felt a mixture of
emotions.  On the one hand, I wanted to tell Ganesh I'd been right
about something shifty going on under cover of the pizzeria.  On the
other hand, if this had to do with those who traded in human
desperation, it was trouble of the big sort.  These shadowy figures
were organised and ruthless.  I didn't know what had happened to Ion's
brother, but I had a bad feeling he wasn't going to see him again.  Had
he asked questions, failed to pay over the latest instalment of the
money owed, made trouble?  Was his weighted body at the bottom of the
Thames?  Concreted into the foundations of a building site somewhere?
Under the latest motorway extension?  Could I say any of this to Ion?
Of course I couldn't.

He was watching me now with a sort of trustful hope.  My heart sank. It
was already too late to pull back.

"I'll see what I can find out," I said.  "But I have to be careful, you
understand that?"

He nodded vigorously.  He understood that well enough.

"Also, it may take some time.  Wait a while, a week or so, and then
come and see me here again.  I can't promise anything.  I don't know
this Max of yours.  I'll just keep my eyes and ears open.  If I find
out anything, I'll tell you when you come next."

He bounced off the sofa again and grabbed my hands, babbling more
thanks.

I saw him out with a feeling of deep depression.  Hadn't I got enough
trouble?  Did I need this?  The kid was counting on me.  I couldn't let
him down.  But what could I hope to find out?

"You've done it again, Fran!"  I told myself aloud.  "This time you
might really be putting your head on the block."

By the next morning I felt better.  I had decided I wouldn't tell
Ganesh the whole story that would be unwise but I'd tell him part of
it, because he might come up with an idea.  I'd do as I'd promised. I'd
keep my eyes open at the pizzeria.  Frankly, I didn't have to do
anything but ask a few tactful questions, if that.  Ion would be
disappointed but heck, what could he expect?

Bright and early, I made my way round to the news agent where they were
pleased to see me.  Hari wanted to go out for an hour or two. Could I
stay and help?  Hari would be back well in time for me to get to the
pizzeria for the lunch time shift.

I put Bonnie in the storeroom and took up position behind the counter
with Ganesh.  For the first hour we were fairly busy but then trade
fell off and I went to make the coffee.  I came back with the two mugs,
handed one to Ganesh, and made my pitch.

"Gan, there's a kid been at the kitchen door at work, asking for
someone called Max.  We haven't got a Max working there, but he insists
we do."

"So?"  Ganesh unwrapped a KitKat and broke it in half.  He handed me my
piece.

I bit some off and went on indistinctly, "I saw the kid again last
night, on my way home.  I, um, got talking to him."

Ganesh had a beady eye fixed on me.  "Yes?"  he said in the kind of
voice which meant he knew what sort of thing was coming and that he
wouldn't like it.

"The kid's here illegally.  He's trying to trace his brother, also here
illegally.  This Max he thinks this Max might know something."  I told
Ganesh Ion's story of having seen the fat man, Max, in the light from a
car's interior, on a dark morning in a country lane.  It sounded even
thinner, now, telling it to someone else.

I thought Ganesh might blow up, there and then.  I wouldn't have blamed
him.  Instead he said quite calmly, "Why does he think he'll find Max
at the pizzeria if, as you say, he doesn't work there?"

"He's seen him go in, more than once.  He says Max didn't sit at a
table.  He went in the office.  But we don't have a Max."

"All right," said Ganesh, still with the sort of calm which was
beginning to worry me.  "I'll give you three possible explanations.
Take your pick but choose carefully because this could turn out to be
one of those situations, Fran, in which you just don't want to be!  Nor
do I," he added.  "And I generally seem to get dragged in too."

"Three?"  I asked, surprised and ignoring the bit about dragging him
in.

"One," said Ganesh, ticking it off on his index finger, 'the kid's
mistaken in the identification.  It wasn't Max he saw in the street and
followed to the pizzeria.  Don't tell me that at night, in that lay-by,
he was able to see clearly enough to remember exactly what Max looked
like.  Ion or whatever he's called was peering through a hedge.  When
Max got in his car the light would be behind him and he'd be little
more than a dark outline.  The boy's probably right about the man being
very fat, but beyond that he can't swear to anything."

"What about moonlight?  What about the lorry's parking lights?  Ion
insists '

"Two."  Ganesh rolled over my protests and moved on to his middle
finger.  "And the most likely one.  Where is the office door?"

"In the corridor which runs off beside the bar, going towards the back
of the building."

"Quite so.  And is it the only door in that corridor?"

"No," I admitted.  "There's the customers' toilet Gan!"  I gazed at him
in admiration and wonder.

"Your young friend is mistaken in believing Max went into the office.
He was watching from outside the pizzeria, through the window.  The
furniture and other customers would mean he had an obscured view.  He
certainly couldn't see across the dining area and into a shadowy
corridor.  What is he?  Superboy?  Max, if Max it was, simply went in
the loo.  The kid couldn't see what kind of door it was from where he
was hanging around, spying.  He must have gone in the pizzeria
afterwards and looked to see where the door led.  He saw two doors, one
of them with "office" printed on it.  He thought that was the one Max
went through.  But he'd muddled them up."

"Gosh, Ganesh, you're really brilliant sometimes, you know that?"  I
told him.  "I really don't know why I didn't think of that.  It's
obvious."  Hurriedly I added, "I mean,

obvious, but I didn't think of it, you did.  When he comes back, I'll
explain it all to him.  He'll have to understand he's made a
mistake."

Ganesh looked suitably pleased with my adulation.  I was chuffed that
I'd decided to ask him.  Then I remembered something.

"Gan?  You said you had three possible explanations.  You've only given
me two."

"Oh, that," said Ganesh.  "The other explanation is that your young
friend is right and that Max is there somewhere, but you know him under
a different name."

Oh, great.  Trust Ganesh to find a fly in the ointment.

"I don't see how it can be.  The only other person who works there is
the old chap who cleans the loos.  He's an alcoholic, as thin as a
rake.  Max is a fat man, remember?"

Ganesh shook his head.  "Forget it.  My second idea's the one I'd put
my money on.  The most obvious explanation is usually the right one,
Fran.  It's only people like you, who go round looking for trouble, who
start fancying mysteries."

Someone came in the shop and Ganesh went to deal with him.  I thought
over what he'd said.  Yeah, he was probably right.  But then I thought
of something else.  I felt sure Mario knew who Max was, or why should
he have lied to me and told me Ion had been asking about a job?  Mario
had made me a super pizza that night as he'd promised.  He really had
put everything on it, even the most expensive ingredients.  I know when
I'm being paid to keep stum.

I needed a lead.  The best place to get one would be from someone who
had noticed something I'd missed, ideally someone else who'd seen Max
so that I knew he wasn't a figment of Ion's imagination.  Despite some
admitted inconsistencies in Ion's story, I did believe it was basically
correct.  After all, he had no reason to invent Max, if Max didn't
exist.  Still, as Ganesh kept insisting, I needed some third-party
evidence to back it up.  Only then could I hope to put an actual
identity to Max.

So, I needed someone who could provide the necessary evidence.  I
counted out help from Bronia and Po-Ching.  They were busy not noticing
anything amiss at the pizzeria.  Then who else might be around the
restaurant, observing and yet not being caught doing it?  I thought
again of the old derelict who did the cleaning.  A mere shadow of a
man, someone no one took any notice of, who flitted about in the
background.  Like the others, I'd ignored him until now.  I couldn't
remember speaking to him.  I didn't even know his name, something I'd
have to find out if I was going to approach him.

"I've got to go now, Gan," I said, sidling out of the door.  "Or I'll
be late for work."

Chapter Five

Things were quiet at the pizzeria.  That much I could see from the
street, through the window.  But what else could I make out?

I stood outside for a moment, putting myself in Ion's shoes.  What
could he have seen from here?  Some of the tables, not all.  A glimpse
of Luigi behind his bar.  Just a shadowy gap at the back to the left of
the bar, which was the entry to the corridor where Jimmie had his
office and the customers had their toilets.

I sighed.  It could only mean one thing.  Ion must actually have been
inside the restaurant.  It was the only way he could have got into the
corridor and seen that there were two doors.  (There were separate male
and female toilets, of course, but the two entrances lay behind the
single corridor door.)

The thought that Ion might have been on the premises made me very
uneasy.  How had he managed it?  I decided he must have waited until
Luigi left the bar.  Luigi missed nothing.  He wouldn't fail to notice
someone like Ion sneaking in and he'd run him out in a flash.  No way
did Ion look like one of our customers.  But without a shadow of a
doubt, from here in the street, Ion could have seen neither door in the
corridor.  Thus, he could not have seen which one Max went through. His
conviction that Max had gone into the office was based on guesswork,
nothing more.  It was a decision made after the event.  He saw Max go
into the corridor.  He later saw there were two doors in the corridor.
He then fixed it in his own mind that Max had chosen the office door.

There was another thing I'd neglected to ask him about.  He'd claimed
he saw Max go into the office (something I now knew he could not have
done).  But he had made no claim he saw Max come out again.  Why?
Because his observation had been interrupted?  He'd been obliged to
leave, not only the restaurant, but even the pavement outside the
restaurant?

Thinking it over, I decided he must have chosen a moment when Luigi
took the empty bottles to the yard.  He knew he hadn't long before the
barman returned.  He'd scuttled inside, into the corridor, seen the
doors, made his decision and left before Luigi returned.  On what,
then, had he based his decision?  Had he heard voices through the
office door?  Had it been ajar?  Had he checked out the toilets and
found them empty?  I should have asked all these questions and I
hadn't.

I felt a spurt of annoyance, both with myself and with Ion.  The kid
had spun me an unlikely tale from the beginning.  He might have
persuaded himself about what he'd seen.  To have persuaded me just
meant I was gullible.  To think I'd promised him I'd try to find out
about Max!  Could I consider myself released from my promise?
Reluctantly, I decided not.  I pride myself on keeping my word.

I couldn't hang about out here any longer or I'd be the subject of
Luigi's suspicious gaze.  I pushed open the door and went in.  Luigi
was polishing his glasses and listening to the piped Italian music on a
continuous discreet loop.  It was only in the evenings that Pietro
arrived to replace it with his accordion.  Luigi greeted me casually. I
wasn't his type of woman, thank goodness.

I made my way past the half-open door of Jimmie's office.  I could hear
the television babbling quietly and, not quite so quietly, Jimmie's
rhythmic snores.  It was certainly tough being manager of a thriving
concern.

I carried on to the employees' cloakroom.  The effort expended on the
customer restrooms had not been extended to the staff facilities.  Our
restroom was little more than a large cupboard attached to a minuscule
loo.  It contained one decrepit armchair, a washbasin in a cheap vanity
unit and a row of coat hooks.  In there already I found my
fellow-worker, Bronia.  She was to work the lunchtime shift with me and
was also due to return to work the evening one with Po-Ching.  Because
most of the work was over the lunchtime period and during the evening,
the system was that two waitresses were needed at those times, but only
one in mid-afternoon.  This meant, in effect, we either worked two
short shifts or one long double shift each day.  As there were three of
us, working out the rota was something of a nightmare.

Bronia had put in a lot of hours lately.  I did a lightning calculation
in my head, feeling a bit guilty.  One reason she'd worked so many
hours was because I'd been working fewer on account of rehearsal time.
I consoled myself with the thought that she was probably glad of the
opportunity to do some overtime.  I guessed she was saving up money for
something.  Most of us are.

Bronia returned my greeting with an inarticulate snort, unwilling to be
distracted from the job in hand.  She was standing before the spotted
mirror, putting on her mascara with slow, even strokes.  I admire
people who can apply make-up successfully.  Perhaps I don't have a
steady enough hand, but it never looks right on me.  If I try to define
my eyebrows they end up at different levels so that I look as if I'm
permanently puzzled.  As for mascara, forget it.  Even the waterproof
sort seems to roll off my eyelashes and make sinister black splodges
under my eyes.

I tucked my blouse into my red skirt, peered past Bronia into the
mirror, ran my fingers through my fringe and decided that was the best
I could do; then I headed for the dining area.  A couple had already
come in and taken a corner table.  I went to get their order and took
it out into the kitchen.

"Hello, Fran," said Mario.  "Got yourself cleaned up, I see."

I ignored that.  "Two cannelloni and have we got any garlic bread?"

Mario pulled open the fridge.  "No.  If it's quiet later, you'll have
to nip out and get some from the supermarket.  Ask what's-his-name for
some money from the petty cash."

What's-his-name?  Jimmie, our manager, by any chance?

Just after two, I got a moment to take a comfort break and headed for
the restroom.  Bronia was already there, getting ready to knock off
until six.  She had hung up her uniform of red skirt and waistcoat very
neatly on a hanger.  Admittedly it wasn't the sort of thing you wore
out in the street, but I brought mine and took it away with me in a
carrier bag.  She never seemed to take either garment home.  I wondered
if she ever washed them.  Perhaps she was ultra clean and tidy about
her work and never got a splash of wine or a smear of grease on them. I
noticed she was dressed rather smartly for going off shift, not in her
usual jeans.  She wore a charcoal-grey business suit and had twisted
her hair into a knot on top of her head.

"You're going for another job somewhere, aren't you?"  I whispered.  I
didn't have to be a detective to work that one out.  "You've got an
interview.  Do they know about it here?"

"I don't care if they know or not," she said shortly.  But she also
kept her voice down.  "Yes, I've got an interview.  Office
receptionist.  I really want the job, Fran.  I don't like it here."

It was the first time she'd ever said this openly.  I asked her why,
wondering if she'd received the same impression that I'd had, that
something was going on.

She glanced sideways at me.  "The smell of the pizzas sticks to my
clothes, my hair, everything, OK?  Luigi pesters me to go out with him,
and Mario, he pinches my bum."

"He's never pinched mine," I said.

She glanced at my nether regions and grinned.  All right, I don't have
the greatest figure in the world.

"Tell him you'll sue for sexual harassment," I said.

She snorted again.  "First I get the new job.  Then I ditch this one
and tell both those men where they can go."

She seemed more chatty than usual, probably because she was planning to
leave.  Even so, I hesitated to use the tenuous camaraderie to ask her
any questions outright.  I certainly didn't want to give her any
information she didn't already have.  If she didn't get the new job,
she'd be staying on here and she might, in an unguarded moment, let
slip to either Luigi or Mario that I was taking an interest in things
which didn't have anything to do with me directly.  But I can be
devious.

"Bronia," I said.  "Someone gave me a message to give to Max.  Do you
know where I can find him?"  I hoped I sounded vague enough to make my
query instantly forgettable.

"Who is he?"  asked Bronia as best she could without moving her mouth.
She was applying lipstick now.

"Um, I think he comes here sometimes."

She shrugged.  "I don't know him.  Ask Mario or Luigi.  They know
everyone who comes here often."

"I don't think he comes often.  I'd rather not bother Mario or Luigi.
It's sort of a personal thing."

"It's not a good idea to take messages between lovers!"  declared
Bronia, getting hold of the wrong end of the stick and turning very
dramatic and Slav.  I wasn't going to correct her.

"You're probably right," I agreed.

Bronia dropped her lipstick into her bag and slung it over her
shoulder.

"You look good," I told her.  "Break a leg."

"What is that?"  she frowned.

"It's a theatrical saying.  It's bad luck to wish good luck, you know?
With the interview."

"Sure.  See you, Fran."

She strode out briskly.  Perhaps, I thought, I ought to take a leaf
from her book and go hunting for a different job.  Why didn't I, for
goodness' sake?  It was as if the San

Gennaro held me fast by a magic spell.  I knew what it was.  I don't
like mysteries, right?  I don't like to walk away from one before I've
solved it.  Whatever was going on at the San Gennaro, it wasn't going
to beat me.

Trade, as usual, dropped off after two, and was slow enough to give me
time to pop out for the garlic bread.  I told Luigi he'd have to mind
tables for twenty minutes or so while I went.

"I'm barman," he said sulkily.  "Tell Mario, if he wants bread, he can
mind the tables."

"I don't think I will," I said.  "George hasn't turned up and Mario's
going to have to stay here until this evening.  He's a bit annoyed."

"You want to see annoyed?"  demanded Luigi.  "Watch me!"

"I'll ask Jimmie to come out front," I offered hastily.  "I've got to
ask him for the money.  Jimmie might be glad of something to do."

"Send him out for the bread," said Luigi.  "I don't want him blundering
around out here, and he's not coming behind my bar."  He looked quite
fierce.

"All right, all right," I soothed him.  "I'll ask him to nip out and
get the bread, but if he refuses, you'll have to mind the tables
whether you like it or not.  What's to do, anyway?  There's not a soul
in here."  For good measure, I added, "And Jimmie's the manager, it's
up to him what he does."

Luigi gave me what could only be described as a very dirty look.  "That
Bronia gone?"  he demanded.

"Ages ago."

"They need to hire another girl.  I'm going to tell Silvio so.  It's
stupid, only having one waitress on in the afternoon."

I left him to his sulks.  If he didn't like it, that was his problem.

Jimmie was sitting behind the desk, still asleep with his head on his
chest.  The portable TV was showing an old black and white cops and
gangsters movie.  Jimmie looked older in repose.  I wondered just how
old he was.  I'd always assumed him to be in his forties.  Looking at
him now, I was inclined to add ten years.  If he was getting towards
the end of his working life, I couldn't blame him for taking the
opportunity to earn some good money for once, and not ask questions.

I bent over him and gently shook his arm.  "Jimmie?"

He started and sat up, blinking at me in alarm.  Then he relaxed.  "Oh,
it's you, hen."

"Sorry to wake you."  I explained about the bread and that he'd have to
cover for me waiting tables while I went for it.  "Unless you want to
go for it yourself," I added.

"Better you go, hen.  I'll get the wrong thing.  I can take table
orders.  I've been in this business a few years.  I'm used to dealing
with customers."  He had cheered up at the prospect.  "How much?"  He'd
taken out the tin of petty cash.

I told him and decided to take the opportunity to ask one of my
discreet questions.  I'd worked out what to say.

"Jimmie, do we need anyone else for the early-morning cleaning?  Only
someone's asked me if there's a cleaning job going here."

He shook his head.  "No, old Wally can manage it.  It's his job.  I
couldn't take on anyone else.  Sorry."

"That's all right."  I took the money.  So the cleaner's name was
Wally.  Not Max.  I hadn't thought it would be.  That skinny old fellow
could never appear to anyone as fat.  But the idea I'd had when talking
to Ganesh had been a good one.  Cleaners get to hear and see a lot.  No
one takes any notice of a cleaner.  Someone might have talked freely
when he shouldn't and Wally could have picked up a word or two.  Or
perhaps heard a fragment of telephone conversation through a half-open
door.  As Ganesh had pointed out, the toilets Wally cleaned were right
next door to the office.

I'd try and get a word with him tomorrow.  That meant I'd have to come
in early.  I hoped Ion would at least appreciate the trouble I was
going to.

Carmel worked in the supermarket (while waiting, like me, for that big
acting break).  Fortunately they were busy so, although I took her my
garlic bread, she had no time to hold me up with chat.  She just
greeted me and put the bread past the scanner.  She looked crosser than
usual and her hair was so frizzy it seemed to have exploded.

"Hi, how are you?"  she snarled at the customer behind me, as I moved
away.  The woman looked understandably alarmed.  The supermarket might
have a policy of greeting customers cheerily, but it needs a cheery
personality to make it work.

There wasn't a lot of cheeriness back at the pizzeria.  I hadn't been
gone long, but even so, by the time I returned, things were falling
apart in a big way.  Against the pattern, three lots of customers had
come in.  They must have been waiting round the corner and watched me
leave.  One couple stared in a bewildered way at the plates of food
they'd just been given.  A woman was saying in a strong Australian
accent, "This doesn't look like it does back home!"  and a
fussy-looking man at another table was saying indignantly to his
companion, "It always happens when one's in a hurry!"

In the kitchen some heated argument was going on between Mario and
Jimmie.  You could hear them from the restaurant.  Luigi rolled his
eyes at me.  "I told you I didn't want him messing up everything out
here."  He jabbed a finger at me to underline that fact that it was all
my fault, whatever it was.

"What's to mess up?"  I asked.  "He only had to take orders."  I'd only
been gone less than half an hour, for goodness' sake.

"He doesn't know his veneziana from his margherita, that's what," said
Luigi.  "Mario's sent out two wrong orders in the time you've been out.
That guy is a berk."

I opened my mouth to ask why, then, Silvio kept him on as manager?  But
I managed to shut it in time.

In the kitchen, the atmosphere was heavy with culinary tantrums and
resentment.  Jimmie was red-faced and obstinate; Mario red and furious.
Both looked relieved to see me.

"Thank Gawd," said Mario.  "OK, Jimmie, you can get back to your
office."

Jimmie, our manager, remember, ambled out, muttering to himself.  At
the door he paused to look back and declare, "I've been in this
business thirty years!"  before taking himself off.

"Thirty years?  Thirty years selling hot dogs and burnt-up potatoes. He
hasn't got a clue.  He doesn't even seem to understand what kind of
food we do here.  Guess what, he's only got some barmy idea we should
put his disgusting baked spuds on the menu here," said Mario to me with
a grimace.

"This used to be a baked spud cafe.  It's what he knows," I
explained.

"It ain't a baked spud cafe now, right?  It's gone up market

That wasn't the impression the unfortunate customers at present in the
restaurant would have received.

"Where's that bread?"  demanded Mario.

I handed it over and said I was just going to give the change to Jimmie
to put back in the cash tin.  Mario raised his eyebrows and gave a
faint grin.

"Honest, ain't ya?"

"Yes, for what it's worth!"  I snapped.

He nodded.  "You're a good girl," he said suddenly, sounding, I bet,
just like his own grandfather.  "You want to find yourself a nice boy,
get married, settle down.  Raise babies."

"Thanks," I said.

"You're a Catholic girl, right, Francesca?"

I explained I was a cradle Catholic, no longer practising.  "I've sort
of dropped out," I said.

He nodded, thoughtful.  "Doesn't matter.  Once a Catholic, always a
Catholic.  It's, like, traditional, ain't it?  I mean, you'd raise a
Catholic family?"

I was pretty thoughtful, too, as I went to give Jimmie the small
change.  The last thing, the very last thing I needed, was Mario
setting up a date for me with some acne-covered relative of his who
couldn't find a girl for himself.

I'd been through all that kind of thing before.  Grandma Varady had
also been keen on finding suitable boys to match me with.  Young as I
was at the time, about fourteen or fifteen, it was already clear to me
that what Grandma saw as possible life-companion material did not
appear to me in that light at all.  As soon as Grandma saw a boy with a
pale, spotty complexion, spectacles and polished shoes, her face would
light up.  Usually these youths would harbour ambitions to study hard,
please their parents and Get On.  They wanted to be doctors, dentists,
financial advisers or, in one case, a research chemist.  Meantime, I
fantasised about rock guitarists and actors.

"Musicians and actors will never be reliable," declared Grandma. "Marry
one and you will always be poor."

I wondered sometimes if my mother had thought my father would turn out
to be a reliable husband, conscientious breadwinner, and general
all-round good guy.  Poor Dad, he had been the last of these, the good
guy, but he'd failed miserably in the other two respects.  He'd start
business enterprises with people who invariably let him down.  He'd
take jobs for which he was unsuited and after a week or two he'd get
the sack.  He was a charming, kind man, and good-looking.  I suppose he
had other women friends after my mother left.  He never brought them
home and let me see them.

He may even have had them before she left, I don't know.  But I doubt
it.  My father's other good quality was that he was loyal.  Usually he
was loyal to the wrong people, the ones who let him down.  When my
mother left, she let him down, whatever her reasons, and he was
devastated.  He'd always felt he could depend on her if on no one
else.

So that left Dad, me and Grandma.  She was Dad's mother and I used to
wonder how he fitted into her idea of suitable.  Dad and Grandma did
their very best for me.  They scrimped the money together to send me to
a private school.  When I was eventually expelled, I, in my own way,
let Dad down.  He never said so.  Neither of them uttered a word of
reproach.  I reproached myself and shall do so to my dying day.  But
that's how it is when you do something to hurt people you love.  You
can regret it all your life but you rarely get the chance to put it
right.  I didn't.  I hope they know, wherever they are, how much I
still love and miss them.

Grandma Varady would have the satisfaction of being right about one
thing.  I have always been poor.

In the early evening, Bronia came back to begin the late shift.  I was
now finishing and knocking off.  At our changeover in the restroom, I
asked her how the interview had gone.  She was cautiously optimistic.

"You won't tell anyone here?"  she asked.  We were conducting the
conversation in hushed tones.  "Not that I care.  But you know, I might
not get the job and then, well, Luigi, he'd keep talking about it,
reminding me.  He's spiteful."

"Not a word.  Bronia, can we work the same shift pattern tomorrow?  I
know I'm down for the evening, but I've got a rehearsal."

She sighed crossly.  "All right, this time only!  You've got to do some
evening shifts soon, Fran.  I know you're in a play.  But Po-Ching and
me, we got lives, too."

"I'll do all the evenings we're not rehearsing," I promised.  "Look,
I'm the one losing money by doing so few hours.  You and Po-Ching are
getting masses of overtime."

"Money is not everything," Bronia informed me.  "I like to go clubbing.
I like to have boyfriend.  How can I have boyfriend if every evening I
work, work, work?"

I understood why she was so uptight.  It was the tension after the
interview, wondering what kind of impression she'd made, if she'd get
the job.  I managed to calm her down.  "Not much longer, Bronia.  Then
you'll have your new job and I'll be the one working here non-stop,
trying to make up my lost pay."

We retreated to the schedule pinned up in the kitchen and filled in the
agreed shifts.

Mario, watching us, said, "You girls keep changing the shifts round, I
never know who to expect.  The only one I can count on is Po-Ching. She
never wants time off."

"We don't have to work all the time like you," said Bronia, getting
stroppy with the prospect of another job in view.  "Just because you
never take any time off, except a couple of hours in the afternoon,
doesn't mean we don't have things to do."

"I'm not even going to take my afternoons for a while," snapped Mario.
"Because George's wife's rung up to say he's in hospital with his
diverticulitis.  But if you're running a business, that's what happens.
I take Sundays, like everyone else.  "We were closed on Sundays.  "You
got things to do, you should do them Sundays."

"Fran's in a play," said Bronia.  "She's got to rehearse."

"I heard," he said.  "Over at The Rose.  Now, I might take time off for
that, go and see it!"  He chuckled.

Mario in the audience.  Now there was something to look forward to.

One way and another, I was out of sorts when I left the pizzeria, what
with everyone getting at me and, apparently, my always being the one in
the wrong.  I stomped along the pavement homewards, telling myself that
the only sensible thing to do was to put the pizzeria and everything
(and everyone) connected with it right out of my mind for the rest of
the day.  Concentrate on the play, that was the thing.

I took out my front-door key as I got to the house and stepped into the
gloom of the porch.  I was unprepared for the dark shape which had been
hunkered down in there and now rose up to give me the fright of my
life.  I screeched and leapt back.

"Is me, Ion!"  the shape said urgently.  "Please, do not shout."

"Oh, for crying out loud.  What had I let myself in for?  Ganesh would
tell me it was my own fault.  Was the kid now going to dog my
footsteps?

"You scared me!"  I said crossly.  My heart was thumping like a drum.
"What are you doing here?"

He was apologetic.  "I wait for you."

That made me even more cross.  I wanted to tell him to clear off, but I
suspected he'd hang around.  It seemed to be his way.  Either he didn't
want to talk to you at all, or he decided he did, and dumped all his
problems in your lap.  I put the key in the lock and let us in.  I
didn't want other people who had flats in the house finding us talking
together.  I had an instinct about that.

Ion had lost all his wariness of the house.  He shot through the door
after me, straight to my own flat door, and hopped about impatiently as
I turned the key in the lock.  He didn't wait to be asked in.  He was
in before I was.

I glared at him as I shut the door behind us.  This was my home, damn
it!  He was an intruder.  He was a pest.  And he was looking at me as
if I'd just come down from the sky above in a golden chariot.  My
displeasure was making no impact on him whatsoever.

"You have news for me?"  he asked brightly.  "You find Max?"  He stared
at me with shining eyes and gave a trustful smile.

"No, I haven't!"  I snarled.  "I told you to give me a week.  I'm not a
miracle-worker.  I've got other things to do, as well.  Tonight I've
got to go through my lines.  I'm in a play."

He frowned.  "But you have been to work today?  At that restaurant?"

"Yes, I've been to work but no, I haven't found Max.  But I am asking
about him.  I'll go on asking, but it isn't easy.  You must understand,
I have to be very careful, Ion."

Anticipation had seeped out of him.  He sighed and perched on my sofa
like an abandoned puppy, all soulful eyes and bedraggled hair.

I wanted to repeat to him Ganesh's explanation, and my own sneaking
suspicion, that the man he'd seen at the pizzeria hadn't been the man
he saw by the lorry.  That it was into the toilets and not into the
office that his quarry had gone.  That he was barking up the wrong
tree.  I hadn't the heart, cross as I was with him.  All he had was
hope and, right now, it was invested in me.

I did ask, "Ion, did you go inside the restaurant?  You said you looked
through the window.  But from outside in the street, you can't see into
the corridor.  I know, I tried' today."

His gaze shifted.  "Max was there."

"But you said you saw him go into one of the doors in the corridor. You
can't see the doors from outside the restaurant.  Were you inside?"

"I saw Max.  He went into the office.  I do not understand what you
ask."

It occurred to me that Ion's understanding grew less when he didn't
want to answer directly.

"If you went into the restaurant, that was foolish;' I said.  "You know
the cook has a bad temper.  Luigi, the barman, has an even worse
one."

"I saw Max," he repeated for the umpteenth time.  To my horror, his
eyes filled with tears.  "You must believe me.  You, Fran, you must
believe me!  Only you believe me about this.  Only you help me."

"I believe you!"  I said hastily.  "I just want to be clear in my mind
about what you saw."

He still seemed to expect something more of me there and then.  He was
sitting on my sofa looking like the orphan of the storm.  Perhaps he
equated women with mothers and thought I, too, had maternal instincts
and would look after him.  I don't.

Nevertheless, I made us both beans on toast.  It was the best I could
do.  He ate them with gusto.  I wondered again where he lived and what
he got to eat normally.  But I didn't ask him.  It would have been a
waste of time.

Instead, I lectured him about not bothering me for at least a week, and
pushed him out into the street.  I was a little sharper with him than
strictly necessary but I was well aware this was a situation that could
get out of hand.

I was beginning to think it had got out of hand already.

The following morning the front doorbell rang at nine, just as I was
crawling out of bed.  Bonnie jumped off the duvet and bounced around
happily at the thought of a visitor.

When I was sleeping rough in Hari's garage she was very protective of
our sleeping place.  Now we've got a proper home, she seems to think we
have to receive all callers graciously.  I know that ideally dogs don't
sleep on their owners' beds but Bonnie's first owner had been sleeping
rough and she was used to being curled up close beside a human.  I did
buy a dog basket, cushion and all, and tried to persuade her that it
was her very own place.  She sat in the middle of it with drooping
ears, her little black nose pushed down and her brown button eyes
rolled up, the picture of misery and reproach.  I tried hardening my
heart and insisting that we retired to separate sleeping places at
night.  She whined softly but insistently in the darkness and, when she
thought I was asleep, crept out across the floor and got on the bed
with me, positioning herself at the very end where she thought I might
not notice her.  In the end, I had to give way.  Bonnie has found a use
for her basket.  She takes anything she wants to hide there and stuffs
it under the cushion.

I padded to the bay window in the baggy Snoopy T-shirt which served me
as a nightgown and peered through the curtains.  Bonnie stood on her
hind legs and tried to see over the windowsill as well but she was too
small.  She gave a short frustrated bark.  I picked her up and she
stared out intently.

A small silver car was parked outside with L-plates tied to the
bumpers.  As Bonnie and I watched, Susie Duke emerged from the recessed
front porch and stared straight at the crack in the curtains.  Bonnie
whined and wriggled in my arms.  Susie waved.

"Let me in, Fran!"  she bawled.

I put down Bonnie, dragged on my jeans, and headed barefoot and
muttering to the front door, Bonnie pattering excitedly along.  I had
to let Susie in before she started ringing again or yelling.  She would
wake up Erwin the drummer.  Erwin has the flat across the hall.  He
plays gigs in the clubs until the early hours of the morning, then
staggers home and sleeps till two in the afternoon.

As I mentioned before, the house belongs to a charity.  It owns another
one further up the road as well.  Both are double-fronted Victorian
villas, red brick with bay windows at ground and upper floors.  Both
have basements and recessed porches.  They have small tiled areas in
front of them and low brick walls.  Ours also has a straggly privet
hedge.  I'm no gardener, but because the privet hedge is in front of my
window I went out there and cut it back as soon as I moved in.  I
thought I did a neat job, but since then I think it's died altogether.
There may once have been gates; if so, they've long since disappeared.
There are seven flats to each house and the charity allots them at
moderate rents to people who have little chance of renting a decent
place but who, the charity reckons, are deserving of a fresh start.  I
got mine because my previous place was flooded out, leaving me to camp
in a garage, and my mother died in a hospice run by a sister charity to
the housing one.

Erwin says he doesn't know why he got his and puts it down to a brief
stint as an altar boy in extreme youth.  I gather his career in the
church came to an end after some accident with a thurible involving a
visiting dignitary.

Because Erwin and I have the two ground-floor flats, we have a sort of
passing acquaintance.  There are two more flats on the floor above and
one in the attic conversion.  However, I know little about the tenants.
I recognise them as they run down the stairs and through the hall on
their way out but that's about it.  Occasionally I arrive home and find
one of them on the payphone in the hall.  We exchange nods.  A couple
of times I've answered the phone and it's been for one of the
upper-floor tenants and I've toiled up there to knock on the door and
yell, "It's for you!  "When this happens it's extremely irritating.
Because Erwin and I are next to the phone, they seem to think we should
automatically be the ones to go and answer it.  I grumbled about this
to Erwin who advised me to let it ring.

"They get it into their heads you won't answer it, they'll come
downstairs."

"But there's always a chance it might be for me," I said.

"Get yourself a mobile," advised Erwin.

The tenants of the two basement flats I hardly ever see.  Occasionally
I hear feet running down the steps beneath my window and glance out in
time to glimpse the top of a head.  They are hermetically sealed off
down there away from the rest of us.  I've lived in a basement flat and
I know what it's like.

This may sound unfriendly.  But all of us in the house had at one time
been homeless.  Some tenants, like me, had lived in squats.  Some,
probably, on the street.  If you live like that you learn to respect
one another's privacy.  Goodness only knows, you don't have anything
else.  So this wasn't like a student let, all merry japes in term time
and parties till dawn.  Most of us were in the first proper home we'd
had since childhood.  For Erwin, who'd spent a large part of his
childhood in council care, shuffled between children's homes and
various foster parents, it was even more than that.  We each guarded
our individual pieces of turf jealously.

So when Susie bounced in and headed uninvited for my living room, it
niggled.  I stood in the doorway and gave her a frosty look.  It was a
waste of time.

"Hello, Fran," she chirped.  "You look like you've been dragged through
a hedge backwards.  Been up all night?"

"No," I told her.  "But it's a lot, holding down the job and rehearsing
for the play, plus doing the odd hour at the news agent and everything
else."

"You've got to burn the candle at both ends when you're young,"
observed Susie in philosophical mood.  "Cos when you get older, you
find the flame's gone out and getting it lit again is bloody hard work.
Ready for a driving lesson?"

I said quickly that my provisional licence hadn't arrived.

"Yes, it has."  She held up an envelope.  "The postman just gave it to
me."

"He's not supposed to do that!"  I said, really cross.  "He's supposed
to put in through the door."

"Yeah, well, I told him I lived here, didn't I?  Come on, Fran.  Get
moving.  Strike while the iron's hot."

What was it with her today?  Had she been reading a book of sayings?

"I've got to be at work at eleven thirty," I said, determined to regain
control.

"What are you going to do until then?  There's plenty of time.  If you
don't come driving with me, you'll crawl back into the sack and sleep
until the last minute."

This, of course, was right.

"I'll make us a cup of tea," she went on, meaning well but once again
treading on my domestic sensibilities, 'while you shower and wake
yourself up.  You'll need your wits about you behind the wheel."

I was beginning to suspect that having Susie for a friend might be
rather tiring.  Working with her was looking less and less of an
option.  Ganesh, I thought, needn't worry on that account.  I didn't
see myself as an operative of the Duke Detective Agency.

Susie had made for the kitchenette and on her way there glanced through
the open door of the shower room.  "Blimey!"  She sounded awestruck.
"When are you going to wear that, Fran?"

She meant the Worth costume which was still hanging up in there.

"In the play," I told her.  I reached past her to unhook it and carry
it out into the living room.  It was dry.  I should have ironed it when
it was still damp.  Now I'd have to dampen it down again.  It hadn't
washed badly, considering.

Susie was fingering the material wonderingly.  "This is a proper bit of
quality schmutter, Fran.  Or it was a hundred or more years ago."

"You think it's the real thing?"  I was interested.  "I thought it
might be.  It came out of the costume box at the pub."

She was shaking her head.  "This is definitely the real thing.  Look,
it's got a label."

I confessed I'd seen the label but didn't know the name.

"Well, I do," said Susie.  "Charles Worth was really famous in his day
and later on his son followed him into the business.  Both of them,
Charles specially, were top-notch dressmakers in Paris in Victorian
times.  They clothed the crowned heads of Europe."

"Only their heads?"  I was unable to resist the childish joke.

She did me a favour and ignored it.  "Just think, Fran, this might've
been worn by a duchess."

"Now it's got to be worn by me when I've ironed it," I told her.

She was horrified.  "You iron it?  Not likely.  I'll take it home and
press it properly for you.  You'll ruin it.  I used to work in the rag
trade.  I know what I'm doing."  She fingered the bodice.  "Pity
someone took the whalebones out.  See, these little channels in the
cloth, that's where they went."  She moved on to the leg-of-mutton
sleeves.  "You've got to stuff these with tissue paper before you put
an iron on them."

I was glad she was offering to do it and not sorry the whalebones had
disappeared.  She was still examining it when I came out of the
shower.

"Look at the cut of the skirt, Fran.  Each panel is cut on the bias and
each one is perfect.  It's a lovely bit of tailoring.  Look at the
seams, all hand-finished."

"Susie," I begged.  "If we're going to have this driving lesson, let's
do it.  You can give the dressmaking class to someone else."

It was only when I got in the car I remembered I had intended to go
over to the pizzeria early to talk to Wally.  Now it would have to be
another day.  It wasn't Susie's fault.  I'd forgotten anyway.  I don't
usually forget my plans.  I decided this was psychological I was
blocking out Ion and his hunt for Max.  I really didn't want anything
to do with it.  Susie's arrival gave me a convenient excuse to put off
my enquiries.

Susie pressed a small green book in my hand.  "This is the Highway
Code.  You've got to learn it."

I riffled through it.  "What, all of it?"

"All of it.  You don't know what the examiner will ask you."

"I've got to learn lines for the play.  I can't learn both," I
protested.

"Of course you can," she said serenely.

Susie drove us back to the block of flats where she lives.  It was
quiet there in the mornings, she explained.  It certainly wasn't a spot
encouraging anyone to linger.  The wind blew sharply around corners and
along balconies, rustling the litter heaps.  Weak sun glinted on
abandoned needles.  The local villains and other night birds were
sleeping in late.  Those who had legit jobs to go to had gone to them.
The elderly were barricaded behind reinforced doors staring blankly at
their television sets.  Any other inhabitants were already banging on
the counters at the local DSS office, arguing the toss about the
inadequacy of their benefit giros.  An average morning, in fact.

In case you're wondering, people don't choose to live on these
so-called sink estates.  They get dumped there.  Some try to make
things better, but generally after a while the struggle gets too much.
They give up and do like everyone else.

I, with Susie beside me, drove round and round the block, troubling no
one and with no one troubling me.  The problems began when I stopped
crawling along the roads and began to practise three-point turns on the
weed-and lager-can-strewn patch of crumbling tarmac in the front of the
garages.  There weren't many lock-ups, nowhere near enough for demand,
and Susie was lucky to have one.  All the doors were sprayed with
graffiti and heavily chained and padlocked.  Susie was probably the
only resident who kept a car in hers.

In no time at all, a gang of mean-looking kids materialised from
goodness knows where.  They gathered in a formidable mini-mob to watch
me critically and shout a mix of advice and abuse.

The youngest was barely eleven and the oldest perhaps fifteen.  I
didn't doubt they were all expert at hot-wiring stolen cars and
joy-driving them at furious speeds around the neighbourhood.  My slow,
cautious manoeuvres were contrary to everything they believed motoring
should be.

"Go on, darling, put your foot down, you're not driving a hearse!"  and
"Oy, granny, where'd you leave yer invalid car?"  These were among the
kinder comments.

"Barren Murphy, you mind your mouth!"  yelled Susie at one of them.  To
me, she advised, "Ignore them."

"Oughtn't they to be at school or somewhere?"  I asked.

"Kids round here don't go to school much."

"Doesn't the school come looking for them?"  I wondered naively.

"Would you, if you had had to teach them?"  was Susie's reply.

I took the point.

The crowd was getting restless.  They'd run out of verbal weapons and
had begun to resort to the physical aggro natural to them.  They danced
in front of the car, making obscene gestures through the windscreen.
They ran alongside and banged on the windows.  They tried to open the
doors but we'd locked them.  So they pelted us with the empty lager
cans so conveniently to hand.

"I've had this," I told Susie.  "In a minute I'm going to run over one
of them.  Not on purpose, much as I'd like to, but accidentally.  If I
do, I'll get the blame."

She conceded I was probably right.  "OK, I don't want the car damaged.
We've done enough for one day.  I'll put the car away and we can go
over to the flat and have a coffee."

I glanced at my watch and saw to my dismay that I had to be at work in
three-quarters of an hour.  Time flies when you're having fun.  I
explained this to Susie, who drove me home to pick up my uniform and
then on to the pizzeria.

"You did really well," she said as we parted.  "But I'll find us
somewhere else for you to practise, Fran, somewhere really quiet.  Oh,
I'll press the costume and get it back to you."

9.4

"Who's that?"  asked Luigi with interest when I walked in.  He'd been
watching through the window, attracted by the unusual sight of me
getting out of a car.  "She's a bit of all right."

I told him, just a friend.

"I didn't know you had any friends who didn't go in for big boots and
body-piercing," he quipped.  "Has she got a husband or boyfriend or
anything?"

"Her husband died and I don't know about boyfriends."  I toyed with the
idea of telling him about the Duke Detective Agency but decided that
might be unwise.  I hoped he didn't find out.

We were busy and I worked through until six thirty.  Nobody had time
for any conversation.  Mario sweated over his pizzas and snapped at
anyone who put a head in his kitchen.  Luigi was dashing up and down
the cellar steps with wine bottles as if on speed.  I wondered if he
was on commission from Silvio when he sold the more expensive wines. He
was certainly putting himself out persuading customers to buy them. I
didn't get a chance to ask Bronia if she'd heard about the job.

That evening we had a rehearsal.  It went as well as could be expected.
I was tired, what with getting up early, the driving lesson and working
flat out at the San Gennaro.  I was sure I had bags under my eyes and
it was an effort to summon up energy to give my part any zip. Ganesh
also looked as if he'd rather sneak off backstage and have forty winks.
Another member of our troupe, Mick, was in an even worse state. He had
come down with a heavy cold.

Between blowing his nose and sneezing, he explained to us in detail
about his chronic sinus problems, information we were none of us very
keen to have.  We were only interested in one thing, voiced by Marty,
our director.

"But you can still act, right?"

"Of course I cad," declared Mick, showing a confidence none of us felt
about his abilities.

Mick wasn't the most subtle actor at best, relying on enthusiasm rather
than stagecraft.  In his role as the country doctor who brings news of
dark doings at Baskerville Hall to Holmes at the beginning of the play,
he strode downstage and uttered probably the most famous line in
detective fiction.

"Mr.  Hobes!  Dey were de fodprids of a gigaddig howd!"

Owen gave a muffled snort, Nigel uttered a single very rude word.
Ganesh folded his arms and glowered.

"Mick," whispered Marty, 'do you think you could try that again?"

Mick obliged.  This time Carmel giggled nervously.

"Mr.  Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!" enunciated
Marty clearly by way of demonstration.

"Thad's wad I said," returned Mick.

Marty passed a hand over his brow.  "Er, how long do these colds of
yours generally last?"

"Nod log," said Mick confidently.  "I god sub catarrh pastilles."

"Swallow the lot," advised Carmel.  "And don't breathe over me!"

We were all for that.  Whenever Mick, in any of his various supporting
roles, appeared on stage, the rest of the cast left a kind of firebreak
of empty space round him.

On the plus side, Freddy had agreed to provide paint for the new
backdrop so Nigel and Owen could start work.  We would all have to
pitch in as scene-shifters when required.  Also, Marty had got hold of
a tape recording of Irish Davey's dog howling.  It sounded really good
and creepy, echoing offstage and played at full force.  It would make
the audience sit up.  It even caught the ear of Digger out in the yard.
He began barking furiously until Freddy shouted, "Shaddup!"

"I suppose," said Ganesh tentatively on the way home, 'there's no way I
can get out of this?  Only, you know, Hari's expecting so much.  Usha
and Jay are going to be at the play, too, and Mum and Dad are coming
from High Wycombe.  Two of my aunts talk about nothing else.  My mate,
Dilip, is bringing his wife and kids '

"We're all in the same boat, Gan!"  I interrupted.  I was too tired to
be bothered with his problems.  I had my own.  "The rest of us will
just have to be so good no one pays any attention to Mick and his
wretched blocked sinuses.  The howling dog will be great.  Marty's
finished all the family portraits for Baskerville Hall.  He's working
so hard, Gan.  We can't let him down."

"I shouldn't let you talk me into things," moaned Ganesh, adding
fiercely, "I had my hair cut for this!"

So it was my fault, as usual.  I sympathised about his hair, which had
been long and I'd thought looked very nice.  For the sake of historical
accuracy he'd had it chopped off short.  It made him look different.

"You don't want to have sacrificed your hair for nothing," I told him.
"You've got to stick with the play.  It's called suffering for your
art," I added for good measure.

"No, I'm not!"  he snarled.  "I'm suffering for yours!"

Far from our dramatic effort building esprit de corps, it seemed likely
to turn us all into mortal enemies.  Even my friendship with Ganesh was
under strain.

"Cheer up, Gan," I urged as we parted.

He muttered darkly and in distinguishably and strode off homewards, his
hands in his blouson pockets and his shoulders hunched.

As happens when I'm very tired, I found, on going to bed, that I'd
somehow gone past the moment when I could fall easily and dreamlessly
asleep.  My body was weary but my brain was wound up like a clock
spring.  After tossing and turning in vain, I got up, made some tea and
switched on my telly.  The temperature in the flat had dropped.  I went
back to the bedroom, dragged the duvet from the bed, dislodging an
aggrieved Bonnie, and took it back to the sofa where I rolled myself in
it and, mug of tea in hand, settled down for an hour's viewing.

The television is a good set, much better than the one I used to have.
That one had an ongoing problem with the horizontal hold, guaranteed to
drive you out of your skull.  This new one (new to me, anyway) was a
present from Ganesh's sister, Usha, and her husband Jay.  Jay's an
accountant and doing well.  "Upwards and onwards' seems to be their
motto.  The better they do, the more depressed Ganesh gets.  Jay and
Usha have bought themselves a twenty-first-century wide-screen telly
like something designed by NASA.  They've signed up to satellite
television.  Their excuse is that now Usha's pregnant, she's going to
be watching more telly.  I didn't quite follow the argument, but as
they generously gave me their old telly, I went along with it.  It was
up to them if they wanted to turn into a couple of couch potatoes.

That night I watched an old, luridly coloured sci-fi film.  It didn't
take my mind off my problems.  Dealing with aliens seemed relatively
straightforward compared with dealing with missing illegal immigrants,
dodgy restaurant owners, learning to drive surrounded by a mob of
delinquents and appearing in a jinxed dramatic production.  Bonnie had
followed me into the living room, scrambled on to the sofa and
reclaimed a part of the duvet.  She snored beside me, lying on her back
with four paws in the air.  No problems for her.

After the sci-fi film they showed a football match taking place in some
far-flung corner of the world.  That sent even me off to sleep.

With all this on my mind, it was a wonder I remembered about Wally.  In
the morning, stiff in every joint from my night on the sofa, I got to
the pizzeria early enough to catch the old chap after he'd finished his
cleaning stint.  I found him down in the cellar where he kept his
brooms and pails.

The cellar was accessed through a hole in the floor at the far end of
the corridor where the office and customer toilets were located.  Once,
I suppose, there had been a trapdoor, but it had been removed.  The
resultant opening was protected on three sides by a railing so you
didn't pitch down there and break your neck.  On the fourth side it was
open, allowing you to descend the uneven, ill-lit stairs and risk life
and limb that way.

I negotiated my way downwards.  The cellar was quite big and very
gloomy.  Light was supplied by a single bulb dangling amid cobwebs from
the ceiling and what little daylight filtered in through a grille at
pavement level.  The furthest corners were dark mysterious places into
which I'd no intention of venturing.  I didn't know what lived down
there.  The Giant Rat of Sumatra for all I knew.

Supplies which didn't require refrigeration were stored there, near the
staircase: tottering towers of tinned tomato puree, jars of olives,
green and black, anchovies, cans of olive oil.  In addition, this was
Luigi's wine cellar.  Besides stacked cases, along one wall bottle
racks had been installed.  As I reached the foot of the stairs
something moved a few feet away from me, just by the wine racks.  I
jumped, heart in mouth, before I distinguished a shapeless form and
made it out to be that of Wally.  He was just slipping a nicked bottle
of red into his dirty old raincoat.  It looked like one of our more
expensive ones.  He stared aggressively at me, wondering if I'd
noticed.

"Hello, Wally," I began, nice and polite.  "I just came down here for I
looked round quickly.  "For some anchovies."

"I hate them things," said Wally.

"They're traditional on the pizzas," I explained.

"I hate them things and all," he mumbled.  "I don't know why Jimmie
took up with this lot."

"The customers like them."

"Plonkers,"said Wally.

I persevered.  "The pizzas are selling really well and you know Jimmie
wasn't doing brilliantly with the baked spud business."

1QO

"You know where you are with a baked spud," maintained Wally.

We had exhausted the topic of gourmet cooking.  Wally sucked his yellow
teeth and continued to stare at me.  I took a pound coin from my pocket
and held it out.

"It was a tip from a customer," I explained.  "Share and share
alike."

Wally's purple-veined hand snaked out and the coin disappeared into his
pocket where it chinked against the bottle of red.  Wally began
drifting away towards the far side of the cellar where he kept the
tools of his trade.  I followed him.

"Jimmie's been a good friend to you, Wally," I reminded him.  "It's
only because of him you've still got a job here.  Like me, I've got a
job here because of Jimmie.  We both owe him.  I don't want to see him
get into any trouble.  I'm sure you don't, either."

Wally rasped a discoloured thumbnail across the stubble on his chin. He
said nothing but he was listening.

I plunged on.  "Wally, have you ever heard anyone here call anyone else
here "Max"?  Has anyone called Max ever been here to your knowledge?"

"I don't know nothing," saidWally.  "I don't know nothing about any
Max.  I clean the lavatories and the floors in the restaurant and
kitchen.  That Mario watches me like a perishing hawk when I'm in his
kitchen.  Like he thinks I'm going to nick something."

I didn't mention the bottle of red weighing down his pocket.

"Cooks are fussy about their kitchens," I said.  "I know Mario likes to
clean his own work surfaces."

Wally scowled.  "He says I ain't hygienic.  Cheek.  I was hygienic
enough when it was a baked spud caff.  I used to do the washing-up
then.  Jimmie always gave me a hot spud to take home for my supper."
Then, presumably in case I'd seen him take the wine and to make it
clear to me that he wasn't doing the business any great harm by his
pilfering, he went on fiercely, "I can't stand their poncey wine,
either.  I've drunk better stuff outa them cheap plastic bottles."

He picked up a wet mop and pressed it against a kind of sieve fixed
across half the galvanised pail it had been resting in.  Water trickled
out and rattled on the bottom.  Wally turned the mop head upwards and
propped it against the wall.  I wondered vaguely where his home might
be.  At best a hostel.  More likely under a railway arch.  I racked my
brains for another line of questioning.

"Have you ever seen a young kid hanging round here?  About sixteen,
black hair, large eyes, pointed chin.  He's foreign, doesn't speak much
English."

It was a shot in the dark but to my surprise, Wally nodded.  "Oh, 'im,
yus, I seen 'im.  I found 'im down here in the cellar one time."

That really rocked me.  I had worked out that Ion must have sneaked
into the premises, but I'd never in my wildest imaginings thought he'd
had the nerve to come down to the cellar.  The possibility of being
trapped underground should have kept him away.  What had he thought
he'd find here?  Perhaps, I reasoned, he'd nearly been caught upstairs,
been unable to get to the street entrance, and bolted down the stairs
to hide.  Wally might be able to supply the answer to that.

10?

"What was he doing down here, Wally?  Did he tell you?"

"Snooping," said Wally, confirming my worst fears.  "He didn't have to
tell me, I could see what he was doing.  He wasn't pinching anything,
just poking about in the corners.  I told him to clear off."  He fixed
his bleary gaze on me.  "Has he come back?  If he has, he's stupid."

Since Wally had met Ion, I felt that giving him a little more
information wouldn't hurt and might encourage the cleaner to keep his
eyes and ears open.

"He's worried, Wally.  He's looking for his brother.  If you see him
here again, tell me.  But don't tell anyone else.  If you hear the name
"Max" tell me about that, too."

"I'm going home now," said Wally, shuffling past me.  He paused and
looked back.  "You don't want nothing to do with that young boy," he
said.  "He's got trouble written all over 'im.  People what go looking
for things generally find more than they bargained for.  "Ow old did
you reckon that kid is?"

I told him, I thought about sixteen.

"He won't see seventeen," said Wally.  "Not the way he's going on."

With that, he lurched across the cellar and climbed the rickety stairs.
I watched him disappear as he reached the top, first his head, then his
raincoat and finally his dirty trainers.

I stood there, rooted to the spot by his words.  He wasn't the Delphic
oracle, but his prophecy had a chilling conviction to it.  I shook
myself and told myself to buck up, it was being down in the grim cellar
which made me feel this way and gave me a chill along my spine.  I set
off towards the stairs but before I reached them, footsteps clattered
on them and Luigi came running down.

He stopped a few feet from me, looking angry, and asked, "What are you
doing down here?"

I held up my tin of anchovies.  I didn't like his tone and I didn't see
why I owed him an explanation.

"I saw you come down here," he said.  "How long does it take you to
find one tin?"

"Not long," I told him.  "I was just having a chat with Wally about the
old days when this was the Hot Spud Cafe."

Luigi snorted.  "That old soak.  Was he pinching bottles of wine
again?"

"Does he?"  I asked innocently.

"Yes, he bloody does."  Luigi's eyes glittered at me.  "I keep telling
Jimmie to give him the sack."

"That's up to Jimmie!"  I snapped.  I'd had enough.  "Wally does his
job.  Why don't you do yours?"

He moved a step forward but I stood my ground.  "Meaning?"  he asked
nastily.

"Meaning, it's no business of yours why I'm down here.  You're the
barman.  I'm a waitress.  I do my job.  You do yours."

"Yeah, well, I suggest you go upstairs and do your job, then. Customers
are starting to come in.  What are they supposed to do?  Take their own
orders to the kitchen?"

"Look," I said.  "I don't know what's given you a sore head, but don't
take it out on me, right?"

He gave a snort and moved away towards the racks of more expensive
wines against the far wall.  He stood in front of them, running his eye
along them.  He found a gap and pointed accusingly.

1Q4

"The old bugger has had a bottle, see!  There wasn't a space there.  I
restocked the racks last night."

"I didn't see him take one!"  I retorted.  It was true, as far as it
went.  I hadn't seen Wally take the bottle.  I'd seen him slip it in
his pocket, but I know how to split hairs when accusations are flying
around.

Luigi swung round and stared thoughtfully at me.

"I haven't got your rotten wine!"  I told him.  "Where would I put it
in this uniform?"

An unpleasant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  He was a
good-looking bloke and he knew it.  I waited for him to make some
remark about my outfit and me in it.  Instead, he said, "We don't sell
rotten wine, right?"

He spoke quietly.  There was something in his tone which really made me
tense up and measure the distance between me and the stairs.

"If you say so," I said.  "I don't know anything about wine."

"We keep a good cellar for a small restaurant."

I thought we kept it in a cellar, which wasn't quite the same thing,
but I wasn't going to say so.

He swung back to the racks against the wall and pulled out a bottle.
"See this?"  He jabbed a finger at the label, which I couldn't see
properly anyway.  "This is the same as you get in the very best
restaurants!"

"All right, all right!"  I said.  "Who's arguing?  Now, if you don't
mind, Mario will be waiting for the anchovies."

I walked past him to the stairs.  As I reached the foot of them, I
heard his voice behind me.

"I'll catch that old rogue pinching a bottle one of these days, see if
I don't.  You tell him, the next time you fancy coming down here and
having a little chat with him, that I'm on to him."

"Tell him yourself!"  I flung back at him and scuttled up the stairs
before he could reply.

He was right and there were customers in the restaurant.  I put the tin
of anchovies in my pocket and went to take their orders.  But my mind
wasn't on that.  Why had it worried Luigi that I'd lingered down in the
cellar?  What was down there that he didn't want me to see?

1Q.6

Chapter Seven

Ion occupied my mind so much during the rest of my working day that
Mario noticed my lack of concentration and bawled me out about it.

"Buck up, Fran!  I know you've been rehearsing that masterpiece you're
appearing in, but this isn't the perishing green room.  Get a move on
and keep your mind on what you're doing."

I apologised humbly and said I'd been running through my lines in my
head.

"Run the customers' orders through your head," snapped Mario.  "And
while you're about it, take this along to the office."

He handed me a tray.  It was very nicely set out with two cups of
coffee, sugar and a little plate of Amaretti biscuits.  Two cups?
Jimmie had company.

My hands shook and the coffee cups rattled in their saucers.  Could it
be that Jimmie's visitor was the elusive Max?

I scurried along to the office.  The door was closed but I could hear
the soft murmur of voices from behind it.  I tapped and Jimmie called
for me to come in.

The company was Silvio, Jimmie's so-called partner in the business and
the driving force behind it.  I might have guessed.  It had been an
irrational hope that Max would just walk in and let me see him,
settling the question of his identity once and for all.  Things are
never that easy.  Still, I felt a pang of disappointment.  It was
followed by curiosity and a faint apprehension.  Silvio didn't drop in
all that often but, when he did, everyone got edgy, even Mario.

"That's right, hen," said Jimmie to me.  Perhaps he was wondering why I
was standing there, tray in hands, gawping at Silvio.  "Just put it
down on the desk."

I hastened to do so.  Pull yourself together, Fran!  I admonished
myself.  Jimmie winked at me as I set the coffee on the desk, just to
let me know he was only putting on the grand manner while Silvio was
there.

"Ah, Francesca," said Silvio, leaning back in his chair and steepling
his soft white fingers with their manicured nails.  "I hear from Jimmie
here that you are to appear in a play."

"Yes, sir," I said meekly, like the parlour maid in an Agatha Christie
novel.  Jimmie wasn't the only one to put on a false manner when Silvio
was around.  From the corner of my eye I saw my old pal's eyebrows
twitch.

But it went down well with Silvio who nodded approvingly.  "Excellent,
excellent," he said.  "I am very pleased to hear about it.  Jimmie
tells me the landlord of The Rose, who is supporting your drama
company, has suggested to him that we here at the San Gennaro sponsor
the programme for the evening."

"He did ask," said Jimmie apologetically.  "And I said we would.  It
won't cost much, will it?"

Silvio gestured away the idea of the cost.  "I think we can do that. If
you will let Jimmie have a list of the cast, he can print off some
programmes with a small advertisement for the pizzeria."

Jimmie, though cheering up at being told he'd not done the wrong thing
in giving Freddy an assurance about the programmes, cast a hunted look
at the computer.  It sat in one corner of the room on its own little
table.  I fancied it had that air of superiority about it which
machines adopt in the presence of mere bumbling humans.

Clearly, it affected Jimmie the same way.  He turned a look of anguish
on me.  Poor guy, he had no more idea how to operate the computer than
he'd have had of flying a jumbo jet.

It was the first I'd heard of Freddy arranging sponsorship for the
programmes.  To be honest, I'd given no thought to the programmes at
all.  But Freddy, an old hand at putting on these theatrical evenings,
had naturally got all that organised.  True to type, Freddy was getting
someone else to do the job.

But not me!  I returned Jimmie's agonised look with one nearly as
panicky.  They weren't hoping I was going to run off these programmes,
were they?  I'd only the vaguest knowledge of how to use a computer,
hardly better off than Jimmie in that respect.  I could call up the
Internet and that was it.

Silvio intercepted our expressions of despair and added kindly, "Luigi,
the barman, he understands computers.  He'll do it for you."

"Right you are," said Jimmie, hugely relieved.  "Aye, great idea."

I was relieved too, but the feeling didn't last long.

Silvio had turned his look of gracious beneficence on me.  "And I,
Francesca, shall attend the performance, naturally."

"I'll be there too," chimed in Jimmie, not to be outdone in staff
support now that he knew he hadn't to touch the computer.

Oh cripes.  Was there anyone who wasn't coming?  Freddy's functions
room would be crammed with eager punters.

"I have been keeping an eye on you, Francesca," Silvio went on.  "Mario
says you are a good worker.  I am going to open another pizzeria, a
larger one.  There will be a vacancy for an assistant manageress.  I
think you would be very suitable."

He beamed at me.  Probably this was a cue for me to kiss his hand and
thank him profusely.  But my knees were like jelly.  Here I was
regretting I'd taken the job at the San Gennaro and there sat Silvio,
dapper, suave and steely-eyed, proposing a career in catering for me. I
suspected it was an offer I couldn't refuse.  But I tried.

"I haven't got enough experience."

Silvio's forehead puckered briefly before he made another elegant
gesture.  "You're a smart girl.  You'll learn."

I was dismissed.  I went, wondering exactly what he meant by his last
words.

Friday was pay day.  The squat, inscrutable accountant showed up and
handed out our pay packets.  "Sign here!"  was all he ever said.
Getting paid at the end of every week was still a novelty for me and
although I had my doubts

,"0

about the job, getting that little brown envelope of cash was nice.

I had a new sense of determination today.  Whatever I felt about Ion's
story and I still fluctuated between believing him and finding his
story incredible -I had to do something about Ion himself.  Above all,
I had somehow to get it into his head that he must give up hanging
round the pizzeria in his quest for his brother.  Under no
circumstances should he enter the premises again and even waiting
outside in the hope of seeing Max was a bad idea.

I was aware this would be no easy thing to do.  Ion was obsessed with
the mysterious Max and the connection he claimed the man had with the
San Gennaro.  He was clinging to it as the only lead he'd got.  In
arguing against it, I would be like someone pr ising a drowning man's
fingers from the edge of a life raft  But the thought of Ion creeping
down to the cellar, where he could so easily have been trapped and met
someone more dangerous than Wally, had made up my mind.  Besides which,
I'd failed to find any trace of' Max and for the moment, anyway, really
didn't see what else I could do.

The feeling of unease I'd had from the beginning about the pizzeria
itself, however, persisted.  The cellar, in particular, haunted my
mind.  I couldn't forget how angry Luigi had been at my staying down
there for more than a few minutes.  That he'd been angry with Wally I
could understand.  He suspected, accurately, that Wally was stealing.
But I was sure he didn't think I was.  So what could his objection to
my looking around down there possibly be?  There was only one way to
find out.  I knew I had to get down there again, and search
undisturbed, but how and when?  The answer came to me as my fingers
closed on my pay packet.  There was a way.  But it would have to
wait.

There was no rehearsal that evening.  We were all supposed to be making
sure we knew our lines.  We had a week to go until curtain up.  Between
now and then, there was still a lot of work to do before the dress
rehearsal and, after that, opening night!  (One and only night,
actually.)

I was getting a buzz of excitement at the thought of being up there on
the stage.  I was reasonably sure of my part.  Ganesh was pretty good.
Carmel was apt to forget the exact wording of hers and improvise, which
threw everyone out, especially Nigel.  If he wasn't fed the line he was
expecting, he could dry up completely and stare reproachfully at the
offender.  As he was playing Holmes and so much depended on him, this
could be tricky.  Irish Davey hadn't brought his dog over to see us
again so far.  It had demonstrated it could do the one thing required
of it, run from one set of wings to the other on cue, and that was good
enough.  Marty seemed happy and Ganesh was overjoyed at dog less
gatherings.  The dog would, Irish promised, be there for the dress
rehearsal.  Meantime, he'd keep it practising.

This gave me an evening to devote to tracking down Ion.  The task
wouldn't be easy.  I didn't know where he lived or where he worked.
Finding people in London is akin to searching for needles in haystacks
if you've no precise location at which you know they'll turn up.  I
could wait for him to come to my place, as arranged, to learn how I'd
got on with my enquiries.  But I'd stressed to him he wasn't to contact
me for a week and this time he'd seemed to understand.

In the meantime, anything could happen.  Ion might get impatient.  He
could start snooping round again on his own account and get himself in
real trouble at the pizzeria.  Luigi didn't miss much.  If Ion turned
up again, hanging about outside, Luigi would probably notice he'd been
there before.  And if Ion, heaven forbid, ventured into the cellar
again .. . My blood ran cold at the very idea.

Then I remembered the time I'd found Ion by the fast-food outlet in
Camden High Street.  I decided wherever it was he lived had to be in
that area.  We all tend to be creatures of habit and to mark out a
familiar territory.  If I went to the same place at the same time, I
might just bump into him.

It was drizzling with rain when I reached the spot that evening after
leaving work, and getting late.  I like Camden High Street.  It has an
endearingly crazy quality about it and is full of eccentric little
businesses selling everything imaginable.  Do you want any kind of
garment made in leather?  You'll find it on sale there.  Tattoo
parlours flourish along its length.  There's a touch of the fairground
about it with its garish displays and the motley crowd which passes up
and down it and frequents its packed and busy street markets.  Now, in
late evening, long after dark, there was only emptiness where earlier
the markets buzzed with life.  The shops were closed, but somehow this
made their curious upper-floor adornments more obvious.  In a way which
is almost medieval many business have, fixed to the street frontage,
monster representations of the goods they sell or the world they
represent.  You wander along beneath a giant pair of jeans or a figure
of Elvis as if caught up in a wild carnival.  Tonight, though there
were fewer people around, the pubs and eateries were doing good
business.  The fast-food outlet, where I'd once found Ion, smelled of
hot grease and onions.  It was presided over by a ferret-faced bloke
who looked as if he'd been steeped in his own cooking oil.

I bought the least greasy thing available, a hot dog, and said
nonchalantly, "I arranged to meet a friend here.  His name is Ion.  You
haven't seen him, have you?  He's a thin kid with big eyes, about
sixteen."

Ferret-face just stared at me; he didn't even try to give me an answer,
not even 'no'.  I wasn't really surprised.  I hadn't expected anything
but it had been worth trying.

I wandered off up the street eating the hot dog.  It wasn't too bad,
even if the bread was doughy.  I kept my eyes peeled and scanned the
damp pavements for Ion.  I checked the pubs on my way, just in case,
but as I anticipated he wasn't in any of them.  I doubted he had the
money to spend on a night out and he was rather obviously underage to
buy alcohol.

I walked right up to the Chalk Farm Road at one end of the High Street
and then turned round and began to stroll back.  By the Roundhouse I
saw a familiar figure but not the one I was seeking.  It was Marty,
standing by the old engine-shed-turned-theatre gazing up at it
wistfully.

"Hi, Marty," I greeted him.  "Who knows, you'll have a play running
there one day."

"They're going to do Shakespeare here, did you know that?"  he
returned.  "Think of all the great playwrights of the past and then
think of the demand for their work and the number of theatres and
touring companies.  It must have been great when the theatre was the
common man's entertainment.  Anyone who wrote a half-decent play was in
with a chance."

"There's television," I said.  "They always want scripts."

"I keep sending them in," he said mournfully.  He turned his
bespectacled gaze on me and added in a minatory fashion, "Do you know
your lines?"

"I know my lines, Marty.  I might dry on the night, but I know them
now."

He didn't take this as a joke.  However, as I set off again, he fell
into step beside me.  "What are you doing out here, Fran?  Going
somewhere?"

"No," I told him.  "Looking for someone."  I hesitated.  "It's a kid
I've met a couple of times.  He hangs around this part of the world
sometimes.  He's about sixteen, thin, wears clothes too big for him.
He's got large dark eyes and looks like something the cat dragged
in."

"Lots of kids in London look like that," said Marty.

"Yes, you're right.  I'm wasting my time."

I had finished the hot dog and was getting wet.  What was I doing,
hanging about here on a fool's errand?  I turned up the collar of my
denim jacket.  Trickles of water still found their way inside.

Marty seemed content to trail along beside me.  Perhaps he was at a
loose end or perhaps nerves about the play had overtaken him and he
felt the need to be out and walking.  We were nearing Camden Town Tube
station when I decided to call it a day and go home.  I still had to
walk Bonnie before turning in for the night.  Erwin might have taken
her out in the afternoon.  He had my key so he could

let her out if I wasn't there.  He sometimes took her down to the
corner shop with him though she objected loudly to being tied up
outside.

At that moment, as I was thinking of all this, I saw Ion.  He was going
into the Tube station.  I exclaimed, "Sorry, Many, got to dash!  There
he is!  See you," and I was off in pursuit.

The Tube station is situated where Kentish Town Road and Camden High
Street meet in a V-shape.  The station is right at the point of the V.
It can be entered from either side and, as a result, pedestrians
wanting to go from one street to the other simply cut through.

This, I realised, when I dashed into the station after Ion, complicated
things.  I didn't know whether he intended taking the Tube, or was just
on his way to Kentish Town Road.  I ran out of the exit into the other
road and scanned the street in vain.  I dodged back inside again.  The
few seconds I'd taken might have been enough to result in my losing Ion
altogether.

But there's another thing about the Tube station at Camden Town.  It's
one of the few which doesn't use automatic barriers.  You still have to
show your ticket to a uniformed figure sitting in a wooden hut.  This
slows things up when there's a crowd and, as it happened, things were
busy.  A train must just have come in because people were pouring off
the escalators and making for the exit.  Those wanting to go in the
other direction struggled against the flow and among them I glimpsed
Ion again.  He was pushing his way past the checker, holding up his
ticket.

He was definitely going to take the escalator down to the trains.  But
I hadn't a ticket and couldn't follow!  I

whirled round looking for somewhere to buy one.  As I did, a man came
hurrying in from the Kentish Town Road entry.  He pushed past me, a big
bloke wearing a shower proof jacket with a hood pulled up against the
rain.  As I dodged back out of the way I caught a faint whiff of some
odour on his clothing, and then he was gone, past the transport
employee in his wooden hut and down the escalator to the trains.

I scurried over to the ticket-office window and bought the cheapest
ticket.  But by the time I stepped on to the escalator at the top, Ion
was no longer travelling on it.  I just saw the tall man in the hooded
jacket jump off at the bottom.  Of Ion there was no sign.

I ran down it and leapt off but Ion had long disappeared and I didn't
know in which direction he was travelling.  At Camden Town he had a
choice.  Four branches of the Northern line meet there.  Headed north,
one goes to Edgware and the other towards Finchley Central and beyond.
Headed south, the lines both go to Morden but one goes via Charing
Cross and the other meanders round via Moorgate.  Ion could already be
on a train and making for almost anywhere.  The delay while I bought my
ticket was enough to have allowed a train to pass through and carry him
away.  I decided to try the southbound line as it was most likely he
was heading into central London.  The platform for the line via Charing
Cross was crowded.  No train had gone through there for a while and one
must be due at any minute.  If I was lucky, Ion was somewhere in the
crowd waiting along the platform.

I'm not one of those people who finds the underground system
claustrophobic.  But the stale air and the press of bodies beneath the
blue-and-cream-tiled vault made me feel uneasy.  The quicker I found
Ion and got us both out of here, the better.

Starting at one end I began to work my way through the waiting throng
of passengers.  It was difficult.  New people were joining those
already there all the time.  Perhaps there had been a delay because it
seemed to me there were more people than there should have been at this
hour of the day.  I slipped and wriggled between the packed bodies,
apologising when I got dirty looks.  I'd nearly reached the end of the
platform without sighting my quarry when a blast of warm air from the
dark mouth of the rail tunnel struck my face.  A train was coming.  I
had seconds to find Ion, if he was here.  My eyes searched desperately
among the remaining passengers.

There he was!  Right at the far end.  I called out his name and wanted
to run towards him but the crowd knew the train was coming.  It surged
forward, blocking my path.  Ion was lost to my sight again behind a
jumbled press of bodies.

Everything happened at once, so fast I was unable to sort it out in my
mind afterwards, try as I might.  The train burst from the tunnel and,
at the same moment, a figure with flailing arms, like a human spider,
was precipitated from the platform into its path.  I caught a glimpse
of the driver's face, fixed in horror.  Brakes squealed and women
screamed.  Men were shouting.  The passengers already on the train,
who'd crowded near the doors to get off, clung to anything or anyone
they could reach.  People on the platform were turning to one another
in panic, those who hadn't seen demanding to know what had happened.

Those, like me, who had seen, were unable to speak and tell them.  A
corner of my brain was obstinately telling me this couldn't happen.  It
couldn't!  But the rest of my brain told me it had.  Ion's search for
his brother was over for ever.

Instincts for self-preservation began to override the initial numbness
during which I stood there, bodies jostling me.  This was no time to
panic and no time to hang around.  At any minute, authority would be
arriving and seeking witnesses.  I didn't want to be a witness.  I
wasn't sure what I'd seen.  The only images stamped on my memory were
of that stick-thin figure falling and the stricken features of the
driver.  I hadn't seen exactly what happened.  Ion might have jumped or
fallen.  But I knew in my heart he'd been pushed.  He'd been looking
for his brother and until that search was over he'd have kept going.
Someone had realised that and taken action to stop him.

I kept thinking that, if I'd found him even a minute or two earlier on
that platform, I could have prevented this.  Then self-preservation
took over again and a sort of logic.  It was unlikely I could have
prevented it, not if someone else was set on it.  If I'd intervened I,
too, would probably have been propelled over the edge.  If I'd even
been seen talking to Ion, I'd have been marked down as the next victim.
Whoever had done this wouldn't leave witnesses walking around.

I pushed my way through the crowd towards the stairs.  Uniforms,
underground staff and police were already running down them.  One made
as if to stop me.

I said loudly, "I'm going to throw up!"  and he backed off.

I was telling the truth.  My stomach heaved as waves of nausea rose up,
choking me.  I managed to get out of there before they closed the whole
place off and bolted for home and safety.

Chapter Eight

I stumbled along the pavements on my homeward route, my feet taking me
automatically in the right direction.  Several times I almost collided
with other pedestrians.  Some spoke to me sharply.  A couple of them
swore at me.  One woman asked if I was all right, but her boyfriend
pulled her away from me, saying that I was probably drugged or drunk. I
suppose I looked strange, stressed out, my movements uncoordinated. If
a cruising police car had seen me, I'd have been picked up.  It was a
wonder I wasn't knocked down crossing the streets.  I was oblivious of
the traffic.

At the top of the road where I lived a narrow alley ran down the side
of the first property, between it and the back of the property in the
street at right angles to it.  My head was slightly clearer and I was
beginning to pull my wits together.  Just as I reached the alley, my
ear caught the sound of a movement somewhere in the darkness in there.
I jumped back, because it might have been a mugger, although he'd have
had poor pickings from me.  As I moved, a car swept past and its
headlights briefly illuminated the entrance to the alley.  I saw that
the noise I'd heard had been made by a kid of about thirteen or
fourteen.

He was crouched in the alley, propped against the brick wall of the
garden to the left.  I saw his face briefly illuminated, white, thin,
with large eyes and untidy dark hair.  I could see his clothes were
baggy.  He was so like Ion in every way that it gave me a real shock,
as if I needed any more that night.  I pulled myself together and told
myself I hadn't imagined him and it wasn't a ghost.  But the impact
made by the sight of him was so powerful, I couldn't walk on and leave
him there.  I had to speak to him, hear his voice, reassure myself.

I stepped into the alley and croaked, "Who are you?"

The reply, predictably, was that I should f- off.

Ghosts don't swear at you, at least none I'd ever heard about.  I felt
a spasm of relief.  But my eyes were adjusting to the poor light and
now I could see more than just an outline and the pale smudge of his
face.  He moved again, something rustled in his hand, and I
distinguished a paper bag.

All my fears, all my shock, were replaced in a flash by burning anger.
I leapt towards him, grabbed the bag and wrenched it from his hand.

"Oy!"  he yelled.  "What do you think you're doing?"

"Don't be stupid!"  I shouted at him.  "What do you think you're doing?
I shook the bag and its contents in his face.  "You're scrambling your
brain and you'll end up killing yourself, more than likely!"

"It's none of your bloody business!"  he yelled back.  "Give me
that!"

I snatched the bag out of his reach.  He scrambled to his feet and came
at me, but I just stood there, shouting at him.  I'm not sure what I
said; I know I repeated that he was stupid, that glue-sniffers were
pathetic misfits, that one morning someone would find him dead in this
alley or one like it.  I carried on yelling other things but I don't
know what they were.

I must have looked so weird, and sounded so wild, that he got scared of
me.  He cowered back further down the alley and whined, "What's your
problem?"

"You!"  I shouted.  But I didn't mean him, of course.  I meant Ion.

My anger fizzled out.  I turned and walked off.  I think he ran a few
steps after me, but then decided I was a raving lunatic and it would be
better to leave me alone.

I arrived back at the house, my heart thumping and my chest aching with
the deep ragged breaths I was drawing.  Erwin was leaving for the
nightly gig, wherever that might be.  Two other members of the band
were there, busy loading Erwin's drum kit into the back of their
battered van.  The drummer himself ambled out of the front door, all
six feet two of him, dressed in black leather and gold chains, wrap
round shades perched on top of his skull.

"Hey, pretty lady!"  he greeted me.  Then seeing my face, added, "You
got trouble?"

"Not me, someone else," I told him.

But Ion didn't have trouble any more.  Ion was dead.  Whether he was at
peace I didn't know.  I knew I wasn't.  Was he now going to haunt me,
reminding me that I'd promised I'd help and that I'd done nothing?  Did
a promise become null and void when the person it was made to had died?
Or did it become even more of a responsibility?  I remembered reading
somewhere that a wish expressed by someone who knows himself to be
dying is binding, and a deathbed statement is admissible as evidence.
Ion hadn't known he was going to die when he ran down the escalator on
to the Tube platform.  But he had known he was living in a dangerous,
twilight world a world in which his own brother had already
disappeared.  In that sense, he'd known he lived with death at his
shoulder.  He had passed his quest on to me like an unwished legacy. It
was binding on me just as much as it would have been in the
circumstances of a deathbed.  I had no choice in the matter.  I had to
find Max and do it in such a way that I didn't become a victim
myself.

But had I already, in my unsuccessful enquiries, committed some fatal
blunder?  All the way home I'd been checking my recent movements,
asking myself if there was anything I'd done which might attract the
attention of those who'd killed Ion.  The riskiest might well turn out
to be having talked to Wally and specifically asked about the kid, even
told Wally Ion had been looking for his brother.  But I didn't think
Wally would tell anyone else.  As far as I knew, he didn't talk to
anyone except Jimmie.  Besides, by the time Wally had drunk that bottle
of red wine he'd pinched, he'd have forgotten all about my presence in
the cellar.

I was still holding the solvent-abuser's paper bag with the tube of
whatever substance he was using in it.  I saw Erwin give it a curious
look.

I held it up.  "Not mine," I said.  "I've just taken it off a kid in
the alley."

"Kids are always sniffing in there," said Erwin.  "You want to be
careful.  He might have had some mates with him, further back in the
dark."

"I know.  It just made me mad."  I managed to force some sort of
naturalness into my voice.  "Nice outfit, Erwin."

Erwin, pleased, removed the shades which had been perched on top of his
head and put them on.  "The man's got to have style," he informed me.
"Hey, I took that pooch of yours to the park and kicked a football
around.  She likes to chase it."

I thanked him and waved him and the rest of the band goodbye as they
rattled away.

I went indoors and threw the paper bag and its contents into my kitchen
bin.  Then I made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up.

I spent a wretched, sleepless night.  Bonnie, knowing something was
badly wrong, stuck to me like a burr, watching me with anxious brown
eyes.  I knew there was no way I could go into work the following day.
I wouldn't be able to disguise the way I felt.  I was shaky inside and
out, my hands trembling, my stomach turning.

Early on Saturday morning I walked over to the news agent knowing I
looked like death warmed up.  Ganesh took one look at me and said to
Hari, "I'm taking a ten-minute break."

Hari, occupied as usual with trying to keep an eye on every single
customer besides serving the one at the counter, yelped, "What, now?
Now you are going?"

Ganesh snapped back in Gujerati, grabbed my arm and towed me after him
to the upstairs flat.

I collapsed on to the worn red velvet sofa.  "Gan, do me a favour? Ring
the pizzeria and tell them I'm sick and can't come in today."

Without a word, Ganesh picked up the phone.  I listened to his terse
explanation.  "She's caught a cold, right?  One of the guys in the play
was full of it at the last rehearsal and now she's got it, sniffing and
coughing all over the place.  You don't want her round the customers or
the food, do you?  You'll have the environmental health round."

He put a hand over the mouthpiece and asked, "Jimmie says, do you want
a pizza sent round for your lunch?"

I shook my head.

Ganesh relayed my refusal.  "She says thanks, but she's not eating,
just keeping to the hot lemon drinks and the aspirin."

He put the phone down and joined me on the sofa.  "Well?"

I told him all about it.  His new short hairstyle made him look a more
serious person anyway, and by the time I'd finished my tale he looked
like an undertaker.

He heaved a sigh.  "I'm not going to say I told you so, but I knew this
was going to turn out badly.  You've got a kind heart, Fran, and it
gets you into scrapes.  You couldn't help that kid.  You were wrong to
promise him you would.  Offering to help is all very well if you can
help.  Otherwise, it just messes things up, makes matters worse."

"You think my interference may have led to what happened to Ion?"  I
asked miserably.

"No!  What happened to him was most probably going to happen anyway!
He'd got himself into a heck of a fix.  There wasn't any way out.  He'd
made enemies.  Perhaps they caught up with him last night.  Perhaps,
after all, it was an accident."

I said, "It wasn't an accident.  He was pushed."

"You didn't see it."

"I didn't need to see any more than I saw."

There was a silence and then Ganesh asked, "What are you going to do
now?"

"What do you think I should do?"

He smiled wryly.  "You know the answer to that.  I think you should do
nothing at all.  He's beyond your help and you don't want to attract
the wrong kind of attention."  He sighed.  "I'm wasting my breath. What
are you thinking of doing?"

"Carrying on looking for Max."

"Why?  What purpose would it serve?  What can be done now?"

"I can help Ion get a sort of justice," I said.

He rubbed his hands over his short-cropped black hair.  "You still
think it's got something to do with the pizzeria?"

"I have to think it, Gan.  I'd almost made up my mind Ion was mistaken
about seeing this Max person there.  I can't find anyone who knows
about a Max.  But I don't know.  I've got a bad feeling about it all.
Listen, the whole chain of pizzerias could be a laundering operation
for money made smuggling people into the country.  It would explain why
they put Jimmie in as manager.  You know how hopeless he is.  He's just
so happy to sit in that office and sign anything they put in front of
him, he doesn't think to ask why he's there.  I know why.  He's there
to be the fall guy if things go wrong.  Then, if the police turn up,
all the others will deny knowing anything and point at Jimmie, saying,
"Ask him, he's the manager!"  I can't do anything about it, that's the
awful thing.  I've got no evidence.  I can't go to Jimmie and warn him.
He wouldn't believe me.

The others might find out.  I can't trust anyone there.  Well, I trust
Bronia and Po-Ching up to a point, but Bronia's going for another job
and Po-Ching's a nice kid who doesn't need trouble."

"Perhaps," Ganesh said seriously, 'it would be better if you just
didn't go back to work there ever, Fran.  We're busy in the shop.  We
could use another pair of hands.  I'll ask Hari if we can take you on,
at least part-time.  Then I'll go over to that pizzeria and tell them
you've got another job."

"Don't you think that's what I'd like?  But it would look suspicious.
Silvio has just offered me a better job as assistant manageress at a
new branch he's opening.  He won't like it if I just take off.  Silvio
isn't the sort of person you upset.  Bless you, Gan, for wanting to
help me out.  You always do.  You're a sort of rock, someone I can run
to in trouble.  It means a lot to me."

He smiled.  "Oh, yes?  I'm someone to run to, but not someone whose
advice you can take."

"I told you," I reminded him.  "I feel I owe it to Ion."

Ganesh looked even grimmer, if possible.  "Owe it to him to do what?
Get yourself bumped off as he was?"

"No, to stick around and see if anything turns up."

He uttered a hiss of annoyance.  "You can't ask around any more about
Max.  The police will be looking into Ion's accident.  That's what
they'll probably put it down as, a tragic accident.  Who knows, they
may have witnesses already and have got statements.  You can't do
anything, Fran.  You know nothing about the kid except what he told you
and you can't rely on that.  My opinion, for what it's worth, is that
he was wrong about Max.  You don't know what else he was into which
might have got him into trouble.  Just forget about him and anything he
said to you."

I said I knew he was right.  "But I've still got to go back to work. If
anyone there was involved in shoving Ion off that platform, well, he
might have spotted me at the Tube station.  There's nothing odd about
that in itself, but if I do a runner now, it will look like I saw
something that I link to the pizzeria.  I've got to carry on just as
normal."

"I'm not sure I follow all that," grumbled Ganesh.  "But I suppose
nothing I say will make any difference.  It's all very well saying you
know I'm right.  You'll still do whatever you want.  At least stay away
from the place for a couple of days.  Anyway, you're supposed to have a
cold, so you've got to."

After that, he went downstairs and came back with a cross-section of
the day's newspapers.  We scanned them to see if Ion's death had made
the news.  It hadn't.  Either the story had come in after the papers
had been put to bed or, more likely, it wasn't newsworthy enough.
Notices appear at underground stations not infrequently informing
passengers that no trains are running on such and such a line 'due to
an incident at X'.  All too often, that means another suicide.  Ion's
death wasn't unusual enough even to be a filler, a couple of lines
tucked in at the bottom of the page.

"The weekend press is always full of magazine and supplement stuff.
Perhaps it will be in Monday," said Ganesh.

I doubted it.  By Monday the world would have moved on.  Ion's death
would be old news.

I set off back to my flat along pavements crowded with Saturday
shoppers.  I saw none of them, my mind clouded with depressing thoughts
and an ever-increasing sense of guilt.  I knew it was unfounded, but I
couldn't shift it.

"It's normal to feel guilty when someone you know dies," Ganesh had
insisted before I left.  "Everyone does.  You're not to blame for
anything."

My self-absorption meant that I failed to see someone trying to attract
my attention, and didn't even realise he was calling my name, until he
jumped in front of me and forced me to take notice of him.

"What's up, Fran?  You deaf or something?"

All I needed.  Sergeant Wayne Parry, the local CID's finest.  He who,
according to Ganesh, cherished hopes of being the man in my life.  Not
in a million years.  He hadn't changed since I'd last seen him.  Ginger
hair, straggling moustache, man ky jacket.

"Go away," I said.  Parry isn't subtle and it's no use wasting polite
hints on him.

"Yeah, nice to see you, too, Fran," he retorted.  "How are you
doing?"

"Rotten," I told him.  "I've got a cold and I'm on my way home."

He looked concerned.  "You do look a bit washed out.  Now, what's all
this I hear about you being in a play?"

Spare me.  Surely he wasn't proposing to be there too?

"I really," I said, 'don't feel very well."  That was true enough.  "I
can't stay and chat."  I moved off determinedly.

"That's a pity," said Parry, falling into step beside me.  I told you
he wasn't subtle or sensitive.  "Because your name was mentioned just
this morning and we were wondering, if you'd got a moment, if you'd
stop by and have a word with the inspector.  Inspector Morgan, that
is."

Janice Morgan was the best copper I'd ever come across, but that didn't
make me a fan and I didn't want to run down to the nick and have a chat
with her.  But that she should want to see me just now set an alarm
bell ringing.

"I don't know what you're on about, but unless you arrest me for
something, I'm not going anywhere near any cop shop," I told him.  "As
far as I know I haven't committed an arrest able offence, so get
lost."

"There's no need to be unfriendly," he said reproachfully.  "Where are
you living now?"

I told him, because if they knew where to find me, they really didn't
have grounds to take me in.

"I'll tell the inspector," said Parry.  "You want to watch that cold,
Fran, it's making you bad-tempered."

He bared his yellow teeth at me and, thank goodness, made off down the
pavement.  People stepped aside to let him proceed unimpeded.  This is
not because Parry looks dangerous but because he looks like a copper.

I carried on back to the flat, wondering what I was going to do for the
next forty-eight hours while I was fighting 'my cold'.

To have a place of my own had made me feel good.  Now, however, it was
more than pleasant, it was comforting and reassuring, probably
something to do with wanting to return to the womb.  It was a place to
run to, a refuge, a den.  I was inside and they were all outside, Mario
and the crew at the pizzeria, Parry and the other minions of the law,
the elusive and sinister Max and the unknown owner of the hand that had
pushed Ion from the platform.

I made a cup of tea and switched on the telly.  Bonnie was outside in
the back garden.  Calling it a garden was stretching arpoint.  It was
an area of untrimmed grass with, at the bottom of it, the remains of a
wartime Anderson shelter.  Erwin assured me that, in the summer, it was
a good place for a barbecue and party.  In winter, only Bonnie wanted
to be out there.  I was about to find out that I needn't have worried
about being lonely.  I was also wrong about being able to shut myself
away from the hassle of life.

Around four o'clock my bell rang.  I half expected it to be Susie.
Another driving lesson was the last thing I wanted and I prepared a
firm refusal.  But when I peeped round the curtain, my heart sank.
Inspector Morgan herself stood on my doorstep.  I had to let her in.
I'd no idea what she wanted but I should have realised, from my brief
conversation with Parry, that this visit was on the cards.  It had been
foolish of me to think I could avoid Janice Morgan simply by refusing
the invitation to go to the station for a cup of tea and a friendly
chat.

"I'm sorry to hear about your cold, Fran," she began when she got her
foot over my threshold.  She held up a bag.  "I brought you some
lemons."

I thanked her.  She scrutinised my appearance and said, "You do look
rough."

"I feel rough."

"Just the cold, is it?"  she asked.  She was a lot smarter than Parry.
I suppose that's how she made inspector.

When I say she's smarter I'm not referring to her dress sense, by the
way.  You might ask, with some justification, who am I to criticise?
Most of my clothes come from Oxfam or those shops where the garments
all have the labels cut out.  But Morgan has the money to buy decent
gear and what does she buy?  Regular, Home Counties stuff; boring
jackets, gored skirts, sensible shoes.  I reckon she's in her middle
thirties but the way she dresses, you'd think she was twenty years
older.  Today she had on a dreary grey wool suit and a white blouse.
She looked like the sort of nanny up market families hire to look after
their kids.  I know why she does this.  She wants to be taken
seriously.  She wants to avoid the sort of sexual harassment still
around in a canteen culture like that of the police.  But surely, by
now, she must feel secure enough to push the boat out just a little?

"I hear you're appearing in a play," she said, settling down on my sofa
as if she meant to stay.  She was another one who, apparently,
considered my home to be Liberty Hall.

I mumbled that I was and had picked up my cold at rehearsals.

"How are they going?"  Her voice was all bland innocence.  It didn't
cut any ice with me.  She was here on business, not visiting the poor
and needy.

"All right," I said warily.

"You're putting the show on in the functions room at The Rose?  Is that
right?"

I nodded.  She'd clearly done her homework and probably knew as much
about the play as I did.  But she wanted to make conversation and I did
my best to oblige her.  "Freddy the landlord he's stage-struck.  He's
not charging us for the hire of the room or anything.  It was his idea
we do it.  He's got a carpenter pal building some props for us.  He
puts something on every year.  This is the latest Freddy production."

She didn't, thank goodness, say she meant to come to the performance.
By now, I reckoned every seat in the house must be spoken for,
anyway.

Instead she said, "It's nice to think the landlord is doing something
for the local community."

"Oh, Freddy's into all that kind of thing," I said casually.  "Putting
on charity boxing events and getting someone to raise money for a good
cause by sitting in a bath of baked beans all day.  Freddy never
provides any of the action himself.  He just organises others.  I
reckon local businessmen must duck and run when they see Freddy coming
with another bright idea."

"And now he's organised you and your friends into putting on a play."
She smiled.

"That's it.  We're all working like mad at it.  Marty, the director and
the play's author well, he adapted it from Conan Doyle he's wearing
himself to a frazzle."

"What about the hound?"  she asked.  "It is The Hound of the
Baskervilles, isn't it?"

Oh, my, yes.  She certainly had done her homework.  I told her we had a
dog.  It had been taught what it had to do and we'd tried it out.  I
waited for her to introduce the next subject of conversation.  She was
interested in the play but it wasn't what had brought her to see me, I
was sure.  I wondered when she was going to get down to the real
nitty-gritty.

"You've obviously been very busy," she said.  "Pity about your cold.
You're still working at that pizzeria, I suppose?"

Hairs prickled on the nape of my neck.  "That's right.  I can't go
breathing germs over the food so I've taken a sickie."  I remembered to
fake a pretty good sneeze at that point, just to prove I wasn't skiving
off.  I don't think Morgan really fell for it but she was prepared to
go along with it.

"Bless you!"  she said politely.  "Sergeant Parry told you I wanted a
chat?"

I mumbled agreement but told her Parry hadn't said what it was about.

"You weren't curious to find out?"

"No," I said.  "I just wanted to get home and take some aspirin."

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the sofa, her pale blue eyes
studying me.  "Your family was Hungarian, right?"

I nodded.  "My grandparents came here in 1956, after the Hungarian
uprising, with my dad who was just a baby.  But I never knew my
grandfather.  He died just about the time I was born.  He was a
doctor."

I knew I sounded wary and I was wary.  She had just placed her first
card on the table.

"A place of safety.  That's a phrase which gets used a lot.  Young
people in trouble can be taken to a place of safety, witnesses who
might be threatened .. . If you're a refugee, like your grandparents,
fleeing an occupying army, a phrase like "place of safety" would have
real meaning."

I didn't bother to reply.  She'd go on, anyway.  I had a vague idea
where this was leading and I didn't feel very comfortable about it.

"But your grandparents," Morgan was saying, 'came here through the
right channels.  They didn't have to hide once they got here.  They
didn't have to invent fake identities.  They didn't have to run
whenever they saw a police officer.  They weren't at the mercy of
organised gangs nor did they owe money to people who'd use any means to
collect.  There are a lot of people living in London and other big
cities around the country who've entered illegally.  You know that, of
course.  It's always on the news."  She nodded towards my television
set.

"Yes," I said.

"Those people, they have no protection, nowhere to turn for help if
things get bad.  Smuggling these people into the country is big
business and the gangs who run it are efficient and very unpleasant.
They are also dangerous."  She stopped speaking and sat looking at
me.

Obviously I was expected to make some comment.  I said, "What's all
this got to do with me?"

"Nothing that I know of."  She smiled at me.  "Has it?"

"Got anything to do with me?  Of course it hasn't!  How could it?"  I
snapped back.  I was getting fed up with this cat and mouse exchange.
Morgan was good at it and could keep it up as long as she liked.  She
knew that sooner or later I was likely to get annoyed enough to say
something I'd afterwards wish I hadn't.  This time, I meant to make
sure that didn't happen.  "What do you want?  Why are you here?  I'm
sick and you're harassing me."

She looked pained.  "Oh, come on, Fran.  As if I'd do anything like
that.  This is a social call.  Of course, you do have an ear on the
street.  You hear things, see things.  I can tell you that we think one
of these murky outfits which traffics in human beings operates from
around here somewhere."

"Look," I said.  "I'm not a paid or unpaid informer.  I haven't got
anything to tell you anyway."

I had a whole lot of suspicions but I was keeping those to myself.
Morgan didn't like my investigating things.  But so long as I didn't
tell her what I'd been doing and meant to go on doing she couldn't tell
me to stop doing it.

As for her warning, I didn't need Morgan to tell me the gangs who
smuggled in illegal aliens were dangerous.  I'd seen what they could
do.  That falling stick-like figure was burned into my memory for all
time.

As if she could read my mind, Morgan said, "Yesterday evening a young
illegal alien, a Romanian boy, fell in front of a Tube train at Camden
Town.  We're not sure how the accident happened."

I nearly asked, "Accident?"  but managed to stop myself.  It had shaken
me to hear her speak of Ion's death when it was so much in my mind.
Ganesh had been right.  The police were looking into it.  Why did she
think I could help?  Because I worked at the pizzeria, I thought
miserably.  Well, if she was hoping I'd be her spy in that camp, she'd
be disappointed, no matter what amount of gentle pressure she put on
me.  I particularly disliked the appeal to my conscience, pointing out
I was the child of an immigrant family, as if I owed her cooperation.
It was underhand.

"It may turn out to be suicide," she was saying.  "He could have become
quite desperate.  It's a tragic affair, however you look at it."

"Lousy," I agreed.

"We think he probably came into the country in the back of a lorry.
Despite the best efforts of the immigration authorities at the ports,
it does still happen.  The people who come in that way often find, if
they do succeed in getting here, that they've jumped from the frying
pan into the fire.  In comparison, your grandparents were fortunate."

I muttered, "Oh yes, really fortunate, driven out of their home in the
clothes they stood up in, my grandmother with her baby in her arms."

"But," said Morgan gently, 'they found a place of safety.  Rather as
you have here, Fran.  This flat, it's very nice.  I'm glad you've got a
roof over your head at last.  It's certainly better than sleeping in a
garage as you were doing the last time we met.  We're not sure where
the youngster who fell in front of the train was living, but it would
have been shared bed-space in some back room.  No wonder they lose hope
and decide to end it all.  He wasn't the first, of course.  I dare say
there will be others like him."

She had spoken of an accident and now she was speaking of suicide.  The
one thing she hadn't mentioned was murder.  Was she waiting for me to
do that?  And to tell her why I thought it?

"We're investigating the incident, of course."

"Good," I said.

"We need witnesses."

I didn't say anything.  She gave a thin smile.  "You weren't anywhere
near Camden Tube station last night, were you?"

I opened my mouth to deny it but managed to bite back the words.  Why
should she ask me such a thing?  I searched my memory frantically.  Had
someone seen me there?  Someone who knew me?  I could lie.  But if she
knew I was lying, anything I said afterwards would sound like more
lies.

I swallowed and made a decision.  "Yes, as it happens.  Why do you
ask?"

"We were looking at the security camera film this morning, Sergeant
Parry and I, the one by the ticket office.  We both recognised you."

I felt a moment's relief that I had decided to own up to being there.
It didn't last long.  It was sheer bad luck that in such a crowded
place the security camera had focused on me.  It must have been
difficult to pick out anyone in the crush but there I was, apparently,
Fran Varady, for all my acquaintances in the Met to see and recognise.
What was I?  Jinxed?  My mind buzzed.  If the camera had picked me up
at the ticket office, had it picked me up later, running away from the
Tube station?  A couple of seconds isn't long to concoct an explanation
to cover all eventualities.  I did my best.

"I was going to go up west," I said.  "For the evening, change of
scene.  But when I got down to the platform I couldn't breathe. Because
of my cold, you know?  It was very stuffy there.  So I turned round and
came back up again."

"So you weren't aware of any commotion?"

"Yeah," I said uneasily.  "Something was going on but I didn't wait to
see what it was."  I paused.  "Was that the kid falling in front of the
train?"

There was a silence.  When I didn't say anything more, Morgan spoke.
"It's natural to want to keep out of trouble.  But if you saw anything
at all, Fran, you should tell me what it was."

"I didn't see what happened to that boy," I said.  "Hundreds of people
pass through that Tube station every evening.  Ask any of them.  Why
pick on me?"

She stood up.  "You know my door is open, Fran, don't you?  But my
patience isn't limitless.  I really hope you're not holding out on me."
Her voice was pure steel.  But then, in a sudden change of manner, she
turned friendly and added, "I also hope the cold clears up and you can
get back to your rehearsals and your job."

I sat in the darkening room and tried to pretend she hadn't got me
worried.  Perhaps I should go and see her, tell her about Ion, the
pizzeria, everything?  Belatedly I remembered Bonnie.  I found her
sitting outside the back door, looking cold and reproachful.  I spooned
out extra dinner for her by way of compensation.

By now I had a splitting headache.  I made a hot drink with one of
Morgan's lemons and took an aspirin.  I wondered if I was going down
with a cold.

Chapter Nine

I wasn't to be given time to brood over what had happened.  On Sunday
morning Susie Duke turned up.  I recalled too late she'd said something
about another driving lesson that morning.  I wished I'd remembered
earlier.  I could have rung and put her off.  Now she was here and I
really couldn't refuse to go out with her.

I could see the car, parked outside the house.  My heart sank.  I
definitely didn't think I could face those kids again.  Antisocial
behaviour on a small scale I can cope with.  At times I've been accused
of it myself.  But on a bigger scale, armed with stones, and
surrounding me, well, that's something any sensible person would avoid.
If Susie insisted on taking me out, I hoped she would remember to head
for some quieter more up market area, despite the fact that the
presence of the middle classes always makes me nervous and the feeling
seems to be mutual.  There would always be the possibility that some
Neighbourhood Watch enthusiast, spotting us slowly touring the area
from behind his lace curtains, would be on the phone to report
suspicious behaviour on the part of two women, one punk and one hooker.
After all, if we were in the burglary business and wanted to case the
properties, sticking an L plate on the bumper of the car would be
perfect cover.  But that was a risk I'd have to take.

I don't particularly aim for the punk look, by the way, but my hair is
very short, I've got a diamond stud in one nostril and my clothes are
suitable for the sort of life I lead.  It might seem unkind to say
Susie looked like a hooker, but honestly..  . She was dressed in tight
jeans and a pink sweater and had done something to her blond hair which
had turned it into tangled curls.  I suspected she was aiming for the
Barbie Doll look.

She had brought with her my costume for the play and produced it with a
flourish from a holdall.  It was beautifully pressed and looked quite
different now from the bedraggled rag I'd pulled from the box of props
at The Rose.

"Gosh, thanks, Susie," I said in gratitude and admiration.

She urged me to try it on to see if it needed any adjustment to skirt
length and made me walk up and down the room in it.

"Because you've got to walk different, Fran, see?  You can't go
marching along like you do in jeans and trainers or boots.  Have you
got proper shoes?"

"I can't wear high heels," I told her promptly.  "I fall off them. I've
only got my trainers and boots."

"I thought so," she said smugly.  She delved into the holdall.  Her
hand emerged with a pair of flat soft leather pumps pink, naturally. "I
brought these, just in case.  They're slippers really, but they'll do.
They're about your size.  Go on, try them on."

I put on the pumps and walked round the room again.  My feet looked
like pink flippers on a cartoon animal.

"Better," said Susie approvingly.  "Just practise wearing them about
and don't slap your feet down like that!  You're not a ruddy
penguin."

"You know," I told her in all seriousness, 'you'd make a really great
wardrobe mistress."

"I'm a good private detective," she retorted.  "And I still need a
partner.  Have you given it any more thought, Fran?"

I told her I was in a bit of a fix as Silvio had offered me the job of
assistant manageress at the new pizzeria.  "Turning him down isn't
going to be easy.  I suppose it's a compliment to be offered it.  I'd
get more money."

She sniffed.  "If that's what you want.  Spending the rest of your life
worrying about other people's food.  Not to mention all the rest of the
hassle a manager gets.  You're in the middle as manager.  The customers
get at you, the suppliers let you down, the owners give you grief
because you're not meeting the profit targets."

"I don't suppose Jimmie worries about any of those things," I
muttered.

Susie pursed her lips.  "If he doesn't, someone else does.  What's he
doing managing that pizza place?  Especially if, as you say, he does
nothing."

"He's a partner in the business," I offered feebly.

Rightly, she wasn't impressed.  "There's something fishy about that
place and I don't mean the anchovies.  Something's not right.  Don't
tell me it isn't."

I wasn't going to deny it, was I?  If I'd had any doubts, having Janice
Morgan come round and angle for information in her clunking police way
would have disposed of them.

I couldn't talk over my worries about the San Gennaro with Morgan and
Ganesh was tired of my bending his ear about it all.  I knew his views
on what I should, or shouldn't, do now Ion was dead.  On the other
hand, talking to Susie was a different matter.  Suddenly I found myself
telling her everything.  I suppose I'd been repressing the urge to
share what I'd seen.  The dreadful image of that falling, flailing
figure was haunting me.  All the previous night, every time I closed my
eyes, I saw it again.  We're always advised to 'talk' when we have
something worrying us.  Susie was someone new, someone sharp and she
was accustomed, in a professional way, to hearing people's suspicions.
Outlandish tales were nothing new to her.

She sat quietly until I'd poured it all out.  "You should have told me
before," she said then.  "I might have been able to help."

"I couldn't drag you in.  It was my problem and still is.  Ganesh says
it isn't, that I can't do any more.  I've got to leave it to the
police.  The cops are investigating Ion's death.  I know that because
Morgan's been here.  That's Inspector Janice Morgan.  I've met up with
her before."

"I know her, too."  Susie was nodding.  "I know all the local coppers.
Why did she come to you about it?"

"They recognised me on film from one of the security cameras at the
station," I said gloomily.  "But by the ticket office, not down on the
platform, so I said I saw nothing.  Why didn't the camera pick up what
happened to Ion?  No, it ignores the one part of the station where
there's something going on and fixes on me buying a ticket."

"That's security cameras for you," said Susie.  "When they first came
in Rennie and I worried they'd be bad for the private investigation
business but half the time they're switched off or they've got no film
in or are so fuzzy you can't make anyone out."

"Well, apparently it shows me jumping around like a hopeful at a film
shoot," I growled.  "Add to that I work at the pizzeria."

She looked puzzled so I explained my theory about the restaurant being
a front for a money-laundering operation, probably based on the
people-trafficking racket, and Jimmie being set up as patsy.

"We've got no proof."  She shook the blond curls.  I noticed that,
despite my words, she was associating herself with the problem.  "Let's
look at the story the kid told you," she went on.  "Starting with the
missing brother.  Well, anything might have happened to him.  I don't
mean he's dead.  He could've found work somewhere in another part of
the country.  He could be in gaol, come to that.  Or in a detention
centre.

"The other bit of the story concerns this fellow, Max.  You're taking
it on trust Ion was right about recognising Max in the street.  We know
he saw someone he thought he recognised, someone who might have
information about his brother.  We know he followed that person to the
San Gennaro and saw him go inside.  The man went into the corridor
where the office is but, also, the customer toilets.  So if he was Max,
he might just have gone in there because he was caught short in the
street.  On the other hand, if he wasn't Max, it doesn't matter whether
he went into the toilets or into the office Ion had got the wrong
man."

Susie placed the pointed shell-pink tips of her forefinger nails
together and directed the resultant V-shape at me.

"I'm with Ganesh in thinking this Max business doesn't sound right. Ion
saw the outline of a fat man talking to the lorry driver.  He heard, he
says, the driver call the fat man "Max".  But the kid's English wasn't
brilliant, you say.  He probably spoke less when he dropped off that
lorry than he did by the time he met you.  He almost certainly
understood even less.  He thought he heard the name "Max". What he
actually heard was a foreign word he didn't know and it sounded a bit
like a name he did know."

There was a horrible logic to all of this.  Susie was right.  The
police deal in facts and I didn't have facts, not the sort they'd
recognise.  I had a wild story about a kid who'd spoken little English
and had seen a man on a dark night, briefly illuminated in the open
door of a car, a man he'd then claimed to have recognised again.  I
could imagine Morgan picking holes in that.  But listening to reason
has never been my strong point.  I wasn't buying it this time either.

"If Ion had got it so wrong," I said, 'why did someone shove him off
that platform?"

"Did you see him pushed?  Maybe he stumbled and fell.  It was an
accident.  They happen."

"It stinks," I said briefly.

There was a silence.  Susie watched my face.  At last she said, "Right,
then.  We have to find Max.  Because without Max, we've got no lead at
all."

I shook my head emphatically, "No, not you, Susie.  Thanks for offering
to help and all that.  But I don't need another acquaintance falling
under a Tube train."

"They wouldn't do that twice," she said with the calm assurance of one
who knew the sorts of tricks gangsters

get up to.  "Not just after doing it once if that's what happened.  It
would be too obvious.  The next person they'll take out some other
way."

She didn't say the next person might be me.  She didn't have to.  I
shivered.

She produced a packet of gum and offered me a stick.  I refused.  I
can't get on with chewing gum.  I'm all right at first but after a
dozen chews the flavour has seeped out and I find myself pushing an
unpleasant wad round my mouth, disliking it more every second.

"I'm trying to give up the cigarettes."  Susie popped a stick into her
mouth.  "Cut back, anyway.  I allow myself five a day.  I started
smoking thirty a day after Rennie died.  You know what I was like then.
I went to pieces for a bit.  But I'm fine now."

"That's good," I murmured.

We sat in more silence, Susie chewing, me sunk in gloom.

Eventually she said, "You can't rule out suicide, Fran.  You've got to
face it.  The kid was desperate.  He hadn't found his brother.  Or
perhaps he had found out something bad about him, that he was dead.  He
owed money and he couldn't pay.  He didn't have anyone to turn to for
help, except you, and you were almost a total stranger.  You hadn't
found Max.  He may have suspected you didn't really believe his story.
At any rate, you wouldn't want him bothering you for ever."

"I was pretty sharp with him when I last saw him," I confessed.  "I
told him not to come near me for at least a week."

"Of course you did.  Who wouldn't?  But from the kid's point of view,
life in a new country hadn't turned out the way he'd imagined it would.
He either decided to end it all and went down the Tube with that in his
head.  Or it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.  Either way, he jumped."

"Anna Karenina," I said moodily.  "She chucked herself under a
train."

"Right.  People do, Fran."

"Ion didn't," I argued.

"You don't know that."

"I do know it.  I just can't tell you why.  Yes, I can.  It was the way
he fell.  He didn't launch himself off like a jumper.  He fell
awkwardly, making useless grasping movements with his hands.  That's
why I've got to keep on looking for Max.  It's like you said just now.
Max is my only lead.  If I find him, I'll know Ion told me a true
story.  I'll know why someone wanted to shut his mouth permanently.
I'll know he was murdered."

"And then?"  She stopped chewing and stared straight at me.  "What will
you do then?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps even tell Morgan about it."

She made a tsk-tsk noise.  "You'll have to think it over, Fran, before
you go to Morgan and change your story.  You told her you saw nothing.
You're going to have to admit you lied.  You know how the police take
things.  If you change your story, they'll reckon you know more and are
still holding out.  But, like we've just been discussing, you don't
really know more, not as fact.  The police are obsessed with facts,
what they can use as evidence.  This Max story, I'm not saying it's not
possible, Fran, believe me.  But can you imagine yourself telling
Morgan or Parry?  You've got to wait until you've got something more.
Then you can go to the cops.  In fact, you'll pretty well have no
choice."

"All the same," I said, 'perhaps I should have admitted to Morgan I saw
Ion at the station.  Like you say, it's not a good idea to tell
unnecessary lies."

"You can't tell her now without telling her how you knew him.  And if
you're right, it won't be only Morgan interested in what you might or
might not have seen.  Isn't that what you're worried about?  Isn't that
why you denied to Morgan that you'd seen anything?  Once it gets out
you were there and recognised the kid, well, that's going to set a few
alarms buzzing.  No point in making a target of yourself."

"I do know that, thanks!"  I was sorry to sound irritable but I
couldn't help it.  That's what happens when you pour out your troubles
to someone.  You always end up wishing you hadn't.  I wished now I
hadn't even told Ganesh.  A trouble shared is a trouble doubled.

"What you need," said Susie, 'is to take your mind off it for an hour
or two.  You need another driving lesson."

I told her I wasn't in the mood to face those kids again.

She shook her head.  "I told you I'd find somewhere better.  I've got
the perfect place.  You know the old cinema, the one they closed down?
Round the back of that is a big open area, used to be a car park.  We
can go there.  It's absolutely private.  No one to see you."

"It's also blocked off," I pointed out.  "I walked past there the other
day.  To get to the back of the place, you've got to go down the side
entrance and there's a chain-link gate across it.  It's padlocked, if I
remember rightly."

She grinned, pulled a key from her jeans pocket and held it up.

"Where did you get that?"  I gasped.

"Easy.  It was in Rennie's stuff."

I blinked at this second mention of her late husband.  "Where did he
get it?"

"He did a job for the developer, the bloke who bought the site.  The
developer had a partner and suspected he was ripping him off.  The
partner was going there on the quiet and moving out all the valuable
stuff like the lead pipes, bits of gilded carving, anything he could
sell.  So the developer put Rennie on to it."

"And was Rennie successful?"

She nodded.  "Oh yes, Rennie was good.  He got the evidence.  The
partner got his legs broken.  The developer got financial trouble and
the development was put on hold.  Rennie never gave the key back.
Forgot, I expect."

She might believe that.  I didn't.  Probably Rennie wanted to take over
where the bloke with his legs in plaster had left off, only not on such
a big, obvious scale.  Just pinching the odd thing.

"Susie," I protested as I followed her out to her car.  "We can't go
there, it would be trespassing."

"Trespass in itself is a civil offence, not a criminal one.  Providing
we don't break in, don't do any damage and don't pinch anything, they
can't do anything but ask us to leave.  That's if anyone finds us,
which they won't.  We can't be seen from the road.  They can't have us
for breaking and entering, not with me having a key which the owner of
the site gave me.  Well, gave Rennie, which is the same thing."

I wasn't too happy, but perhaps it made sense.  She cut off any
objection on my part by handing me the car keys.  "Go on, get in the
driver's side.  You're the learner.  Take us there."

I crawled through the thin Sunday-morning traffic to the old cinema
site.  Susie was right.  It was a good place.  Once we got inside, she
locked up the gate so we shouldn't be disturbed.  The mass of the old
building rose up blocking sight of the road beyond, and blocking
anyone's view of us.  It looked dingy and about ready to fall down
without the help of the demolition crew who'd move in eventually. Glass
in the grimy windows was broken.  Piping had been stripped from the
outer walls, which were blackened with time and smoke.  All around the
yard ran a tall brick wall.  On the other side of that were the rear
walls and backyards of shops in the street beyond.  Most of those, this
Sunday morning, were probably closed.  I stopped feeling uneasy about
being there.  Susie was the one with the key, after all.  I
three-point-turned until I could manage it like a pro and backed round
the corner of the building without scraping the wall once.  I even,
though I felt guilty about it afterwards, forgot about Ion for a
while.

When we parted she said quietly, "Listen to me, Fran.  If you're
serious about looking for this Max character, let me help.  I've got no
business at the moment except for a couple of odd jobs which won't take
me hardly any time.  And I admit I've got an ulterior motive.  If I
work with you on this, you'll see me working we'll be working together.
It will give you an idea whether you could work with me in future. You
might think again about joining me at the agency."

"It could be risky," I said after I'd thought about it for a minute or
two.

"I've been in tight spots before."  She grinned.  "I can run fast."

I made a decision.  "All right then, Susie.  With one proviso.  If I
think you're getting into real danger, I will go to Morgan and tell her
all I know about Ion.  I've got him on my conscience.  I don't want you
there as well."

It was because I didn't want to worry about Susie that I hadn't told
her about the plan I'd hatched to go back to the cellar on the quiet
and have a good look round.  On Monday mornings the pizzeria opened at
eleven thirty as usual in time to catch the lunchtime trade.  But
Jimmie got there earlier, at around half past eight, to let inWally to
do his cleaning.  This meant that after eight thirty, although
technically we weren't open for business, the burglar alarm would have
been switched off.  Also, I understood that Jimmie, having let Wally
in, went off again, locking the street door, and got himself breakfast
somewhere.

The idea of returning had come to me on Friday when I collected my pay.
I am not an expert at breaking into places.  I don't want you to think
that.  But I've climbed in and out of a few untenanted houses in my
days living in squats.  Bathroom windows are often overlooked when
people secure a premises and they seldom have safety catches, at least
not in old buildings.

The so-called staff restroom at the pizzeria was at the back of the
building.  Some time in the distant past an extension had been built on
there.  It had been done on the cheap.  Most of it now formed part of
the kitchen.  A small area had been bricked off for staff use and was
accessed by a door beyond the stairs down to the cellar, and round a
corner.  The window of the staff toilet, attached to the restroom, was
closed by a simple little metal arm with holes in it, fixed to the
frame of the glass.  It popped over a metal peg on the lower inside
ledge of the outer window surround.  There was also a little swivel
handle halfway up one side which was supposed to slide into a groove in
the outer frame.  But that had been painted over by a careless
decorator and, as a result, it was stuck in the open position and
wouldn't swivel at all.  The frame around the glass didn't fit well
against the outer window frame.  It was old and the hinges were loose.
If I got there around nine, after Jimmie went off to breakfast and
before Luigi or Mario turned up, I might be able to effect entry
through the toilet window and sneak down to the cellar.  Wally would be
cleaning either the customer toilets or the restaurant and kitchen
floors.  I could have a good rummage round undisturbed.  I slipped a
long nail file into my pocket and set out.

My first move was to observe the pizzeria from the other side of the
road.  Sure enough, at a quarter to nine, Jimmie came out and strolled
off down the road to find the sort of place that sold greasy fry-ups
and strong tea.  Through the window I could see Wally pushing his mop
back and forth in the restaurant.  A cigarette dangled from his
withered lips and, as he swept, ash fell on the the newly cleaned
patch.  He left it there as he moved on to the next bit.  I made my way
round to the back of the building and got in over the wall to the roof
of the shed, just as Ion had done on that first morning I'd met him. As
I did, an idea came to me which ought to have occurred before.  I'd
been assuming Ion had slipped into the restaurant during opening hours,
from the street.  But surely it was much more likely he'd done just as
I was doing.  He'd watched from the street, worked out the
early-morning routine, waited for Jimmie to leave and then nipped round
to the back.  I might have guessed, when he admitted to coming over the
wall and shed roof, that he'd done it before.  He wouldn't have known
about the loo window.  But he might have struck lucky and found the
kitchen door unlocked by either Jimmie or Wally.

I dropped to the ground and made my way to the kitchen door, just to
check if it was open.  That would make everything easier.  But it was
still locked so I had to get in via the toilet window as planned.  I
had decided that, if by any piece of bad luck Jimmie came back and
caught me, I'd spin him some yarn about taking off a ring in the
restroom to wash my hands, and forgetting it there.  Not many people
would buy a story like that, but Jimmie just might.

I left my plastic carrier with my uniform in the shed.  Equipped with a
wooden box I found in there, I reached the wall of the staff toilet
without being challenged.  I climbed on the box, reached up and slipped
my nail file between the two frames.  I felt it come up under the metal
arm and stop.  I gave it a good shove upwards.  The metal arm leapt off
the little peg and crashed down again free of it.  Nothing now secured
the two parts of the frame together.  Frankly, it was a doddle.  I
pulled the window open and, hauling myself up, managed to wriggle
through the gap.  I am on the small side and weigh just over seven and
a half stone.  Getting down to the floor on the further side was the
most difficult bit and I nearly went head first into the toilet.  But
fortunately it had an old-fashioned high cistern connected by a pipe to
the toilet bowl and I was able to grab this pipe to prevent my headlong
fall and scramble down with nothing worse than a couple of scraped
fingers.

I opened the door of the restroom, crept to the corner and peeped round
it, down the corridor.  Wally wasn't to be seen.  I tiptoed down the
cellar stairs.

Down there it was as gloomy and unfriendly as before, despite the
efforts of the single light bulb.  Wally had been there to collect his
brush, mop and bucket and had fortunately left it on, so I had no need
to risk attracting attention by switching it on myself.  I knew I
hadn't much time, although I wasn't too worried about Wally finding me.
I'd prefer it if he didn't, but he wasn't likely to tell Luigi or Mario
if he did.  However, avoid complications, that's my motto. (Ganesh says
the reverse is true.)

I started off at the far wall and worked my way back towards the stairs
so that the longer I was down there, the nearer I was to my route out.
I braved the corners, the possibilities of wildlife and the
spine-tingling soft touch of huge hanging cobwebs.  Carefully I shifted
dusty boxes and miscellaneous junk.  Some of it seemed to date from the
days of the Hot Spud Cafe.  I recognised the metal containers which had
held the fillings for the spuds.  Try as I might, however, I couldn't
find anything suspicious.  I moved tins of olive oil and opened boxes
of cheap wine.  I studied the racks of dearer wine, pulling out the
bottles to see if anything was hidden behind them.  I nearly upset a
tower of tinned tomatoes.  Nothing.

I couldn't stay down here much longer.  Wally would be back soon.  I
made a cautious ascent to the top of the stairs.  There was still no
sign of Jimmie but Wally was in the customers' toilets, clashing his
bucket about.  I scampered back to the restroom and into the loo there.
I climbed on the toilet seat and struggled out of the window.  This
time I did fall, and landed in a heap on the ground.  Fortunately I
didn't do any harm, only bruised my behind.  I returned the box to the
shed, collected my plastic bag, made my way back over the wall and
headed for the nearest coffee shop.  There I sat with a cup of latte
until I reckoned I could safely return to the pizzeria.  At eleven ten,
I walked boldly in through the front door.

Mario had arrived meantime and was stomping round the kitchen in a foul
mood.  He didn't ask me if my cold was better or say he was pleased to
see me back.  He just began straight away with, "That Bronia has walked
out.  She didn't give a proper notice in or anything, didn't say a
bloody word.  She just left this!"  He brandished a slip of paper.
"Left a note stuck to the oven door.  She's got another job, the little
cow.  What am I supposed to do?"

I opened my mouth and shut it again.  I hoped he didn't find out I'd
known about Bronia going for another job.  I wished I had the nerve to
ask him why he was worrying about staff shortages.  He was the cook.
All he had to do was run his kitchen.  Waitresses were a problem for
the manager, Jimmie.

"I can't help you being in that play," Mario was saying.  "You can't
have any more time off.  That schedule' he pointed at the schedule
pinned to the wall on which Bronia and I had arranged our shifts around
Po-Ching's - 'that's worth nothing now.  Where am I going to get
another waitress at short notice?"

"There's only a couple more rehearsals, plus the dress rehearsal, and
then it's the performance.  I don't need many more evenings," I managed
to get in.  Boldly I added, "And I'm not giving up the two rehearsal
evenings, not at this late stage in the play.  We haven't got much time
to iron out all the little problems."  Artfully I added, "Besides, what
with you and Silvio and nearly everyone I know coming to see it, the
pressure's really on to get it right."

Mario scowled at me but he didn't want to lose another waitress.  Also,
the reminder that Silvio was taking a keen interest in our production
carried weight with him.  "Right.  But the rest of the time, you'll
have to work double shifts."

I jumped in with both feet.  "Um, I might be able to find you a
temporary replacement for Bronia.  She wouldn't want to stay on, just
for a week or so.  It would give you time to recruit someone else
permanent."

Mario folded his arms and leaned back against the work top  "What does
she look like?"

"Does it matter?"  I asked, annoyed by this sexist attitude.  "We don't
walk round in bunny costumes."

That forced a grin from him.  "Pity about that.  No I mean, she's not
got tattoos or stuff like that?  The customers don't like it."

"No," I said.  "She's blonde and curly-haired."

He raised his eyebrows.  "Tell her to stop by."

It occurred to me that getting Susie Duke a temporary job as a waitress
at the pizzeria might not be the most sensible idea I'd ever had.  It
was a strictly spur-of-the-moment thing.  But I'd accepted her offer of
help in the matter of Ion and, well, she might notice something I'd
missed.  She was the professional, after all.

"I'll just go and change," I said, heading back towards the restroom. I
remembered to close the loo window, reflecting it had been a lot of
effort for nothing.

I phoned Susie immediately I'd finished my shift and told her about
that morning's escapade.

"Blimey, that was risky," she said admiringly.

"Not really, I knew Jimmie went for breakfast and only Wally would be
around so early.  I couldn't have tried it if Mario or Luigi were
there.  They'd have nabbed me for sure.  But Mario doesn't get there
before ten thirty, neither does Luigi."

I then confessed I'd volunteered her as a waitress and that Mario was
expecting her that evening.  I wasn't sure how she'd take it.  However,
she seemed to think it was a good idea.  Her enthusiasm made me
nervous.  I stressed to her she was undercover and on no account must
she mention the Duke Detective Agency.

"Or we're both dead," I said.

I did wonder, as I made my way to The Rose that evening, how she would
be getting on in her new job waiting tables, but once I got to the
functions room, our theatre, all thought of anything other than the
play was wiped from my mind.

Everyone was assembled.  They stood in a mutinous gang as Marty stormed
up and down in front of them, obviously in a foul mood.  His nerves
seem to have cracked, now we were so near the big night.  He was
haranguing them on their inadequacies and greeted me with a sour,
"Where have you been?"

As the evening wore on, he got worse.  Nothing anyone did or suggested
was right.  Ganesh developed a fit of the sulks and sat in a corner
with his arms folded when not required on stage, speaking to no one,
not even me.  Carmel, the red revolutionary of our number, was the
first to decide enough was enough.  She turned on Marty and yelled at
him that he could keep his sodding play.

The rest of us, now that she'd made a stand, joined in and made the
point that we were all volunteers who'd given up much free time against
little hope of reward and we were doing our best.

"Best?"  shouted the distraught Marty.  "Do you think that when a
director is explaining to the top actors what he wants, they turn round
and say, stuff it, we're doing our best?"

"We are not the Royal Shakespeare Company!"  screeched Carmel.

"Too right!"  retorted Marty.

At this the whole thing threatened to descend into an unseemly brawl.
Owen and Nigel voiced forceful objections to being treated in this way
and proposed immediate strike action.  Carmel looked ready to punch
Marty on the nose.

Ganesh said calmly, from his corner, "This is unprofessional.  We
should sit down and discuss our problems properly."

I was afraid, for a moment, that they'd all turn on him, but the
aggression seemed to seep out of the atmosphere.  We all pulled up
chairs in a circle and managed a fairly sensible talk-through of all
the little glitches which were worrying Marty.

I was sitting next to our director and I did have concerns that he was
headed for an early heart attack.  His plump face was an unhealthy puce
and he was sweating.

"It's all going to be all right, Marty," I assured him when we'd
finished.

He gave me an awkward, sideways look and didn't reply for a moment.
Then he said suddenly, "I've asked all the others how they see their
parts, but I haven't asked you.  How do you see Miss Stapleton?"

I understood his meaning.  When actors walk out on stage, they become
the role they play.  It's as though the natural order of things is
reversed.  The real-life persona is laid aside and you are the person
you are presenting to the audience, or how will they believe in you?
While I was on stage, I was Miss Stapleton.  I had to understand her
from the inside out.

I said, "She's a battered wife, isn't she?  We find that out at the
end.  She's tied herself to a pig of a man who beats her up, has
already murdered once, and is planning to murder again.  As part of
that plot, he is insisting that she pass herself off as his sister,
when she is in reality his wife.  She's been getting in deeper and
deeper.  Apart from a couple of feeble attempts to warn off Sir Henry
without being specific about the kind of danger he faces, she goes
along with everything Stapleton asks of her until the very last moment,
when she rebels."

"Is she a villainess, then?"

I shook my head.  "No, Stapleton is evil but Doyle never suggests Beryl
Stapleton is.  She's under his influence.  Doyle practised as a doctor.
I bet he came across a few battered wives in his time.  He understood
her."

"She goes along with his plans because she's afraid of him, then?"
Marty stared at me intently.  He was still sweating.

"She's certainly afraid of him.  He's been violent towards her.  But
she's still managed to persuade herself he loves her.  There are a lot
of women in that sort of situation.  They stay with men who treat them
appallingly.  The worst thing, you see, would be to have to face the
fact that they weren't loved."

Marty gave a grunt and I wasn't sure he went along with that.  But I
didn't suppose he'd ever come across a real-life battered wife and I
had.  Her name was Lucy and she'd finally run away and ended up sharing
a squat with me and others.

"She's not stupid," I said.  "She's just lost all sense of her own
value and ability to make independent judgements.  I also think she's
deliberately isolated herself from what's going on around her.  People
can blot out unpleasantness to an extraordinary degree.  It's only when
she meets Sir Henry Baskerville, and he, obviously, is falling in love
with her, that she realises just what she's helping her husband to do.
That's when she rebels."

Marty rubbed his hands on his pudgy thighs as if he wanted to wipe away
the perspiration.  He muttered, "Yes, yes."

"Of course," I said.  "By then it's too late for her to become a
heroine.  Doyle realised that.  Sir Henry falls in love with her, but
he doesn't carry her off to a new life at the end of the story.  She's
still Stapleton's wife, she still shares his guilt, and she goes down
the path to ruin with him.  There no question of Sir Henry continuing
to love her once he knows the truth.  You can feel a bit sorry for her,
but she's always known right from wrong and that what Stapleton is
doing is wrong.  She should have spoken up at the first.  It means she
can never be seen as innocent."

Marty jumped up in a quick careless movement, causing his chair to
scrape on the floor and rock dangerously.  As he did so, a piece of
paper fell out of his pocket.  Thinking it was something to do with the
play, I picked it up and called to him as he strode off.  He turned
back and I held it out.  As I did so, I saw what it was.

It was one of those printed flyers the police hand out on the street
when they're seeking witnesses.  This one was headed: FATAL INCIDENT:
CAMDEN TOWN UNDERGROUND STATION.  It stated the facts of Ion's death
briefly without suggesting any cause for his fall and asked anyone who
was on the platform at the time to contact the police.  My skin
prickled.

"Where did you get this, Marty?"  I asked.

He turned an even more unattractive purple.  "Plain-clothes copper was
handing them out at the Tube station tonight.  I just stuffed it in my
pocket."

"I saw you the night of the incident, in the High Street," I recalled.
"I found you by the Roundhouse, remember?  We walked down the street
together."

"Yes, I do," he said testily.  "So what?"

I took a deep breath.  "The kid I was looking for that night."  I shook
the leaflet at him.  "This is the one."

From purple, Marty turned grey.  "What are you talking about?"

"I knew this kid, the one who died.  When I left you so suddenly, it
was because I went running after him.  We were just by the Tube
station."

"Well, I don't know anything about it," he snapped.  "Just chuck that
piece of paper away.  I didn't mean to keep it.  I don't want it."

He marched off.  I folded the leaflet and put it in my pocket, meaning
to show it to Ganesh later.  I couldn't help wondering just what we'd
been talking about, Marty and I. About the play, or something else?

I did show the leaflet to Ganesh, on the way home, just as we reached
the corner where our ways parted.

"They're treating it as a suspicious death, Gan.  They must be."

"Then let them get on with it," said Ganesh.

Chapter Ten

I discovered, when I went to work at eleven thirty on Tuesday, that my
misgivings about the effect Susie would have on the male staff of the
San Gennaro had been well founded.  Clearly, she'd been a hit.  Even
Mario said, "That is one very attractive woman, that mate of yours,
Fran."

He went on to say that Pietro had fallen in love on sight and dedicated
his music to her the previous evening, warbling sentimental ballads and
looking like a sick spaniel.

Someone, no doubt Mario, had passed the word to Silvio that there was a
new staff member.  Our boss dropped by at six, as I was going off duty
after a double shift and Susie had just arrived to take over.  Silvio's
obvious intention was to assess the new employee for himself.  His eyes
sparkled on being introduced to her and he was flamboyantly gallant.

"Nice old gentleman," said Susie to me in the restroom.  She was
buttoning her red waistcoat.  It was on the tight side and she was
wearing a low-necked white blouse underneath.  On me the uniform looked
as if I was dressed to go to a kid's party.  It made her look as if she
was just about to walk on stage as Carmen.  I commented as much.

"Get yourself a Wonderbra," she advised.

"I haven't got anything to put in it."

I wondered if Silvio had left and hoped he had.  He wasn't a young man
and the sight of Susie bursting from her ethnic kit might place a
serious strain on his heart.  I was seriously concerned that I'd done
the wrong thing bringing her there.  We could do without more
complications caused by male hormones.

Even more worryingly, Jimmie drifted past me as I left and said, "Funny
thing, I can't help thinking I've seen that Susie around somewhere."

"She's sort of a local girl," I said.

"I suppose that's it.  She's a bonny lassie and the type you remember.
She must've come in the old spud cafe a couple of times."

"You miss the old spud cafe, don't you, Jimmie?"

He sighed.  "I feel a wee bit useless here.  When I was running the
spud place, it was my own, I made all the decisions, I made up the
menu, I cooked the spuds.  It was hard work and I didn't make a lot of
money.  But I was He paused, flushed a salmony pink which clashed with
his faded ginger hair, and said, "I felt I was somebody, you know,
hen?"

I nodded.  "I know, Jimmie."

"Aye, well.  All that glitters isn't gold, they say."

Impetuously I said, "Why don't you get Silvio to buy you out?  You
could set up another spud cafe."

"Maybe," he said.

Poor Jimmie.  Nothing to do but watch TV and read the tabloid press all
day.  New clothes, new shades, new job, more money.  No independence,
no satisfaction, no heart in it.

* * *

I should've warned Susie to watch out for Luigi in particular, not only
because he was, I'd decided, a nasty piece of work, but because I
should have known he'd fancy her.  As it was, she'd found out about him
straight away.  The moment she walked in the place on Monday night, she
told me, Luigi went into Latin lover mode.  Realising every other male
in the place was fantasising about the new help, he made his move
quickly.

"I'm going clubbing with Luigi tonight, after we pack up here," said
Susie to me as we parted on Tuesday.  There was an undeniable glow of
triumph in her face.

"Is this wise?"  I asked in some trepidation.

"Don't worry," said Susie.  "I can look after myself."

"I hope you're sure about that."

"Do me a favour.  I mean .. ."  She primped her curls.  "A girl doesn't
mind a man fancying her.  But I'm not stupid.  I know that sort is
generally trouble.  They get possessive -that's before they dump you.
It's sort of one-way traffic.  But I can handle him."

She seemed to know all about it.  She'd always appeared to dote on the
late Rennie Duke.  Now I was beginning to wonder.

"I thought you'd be pleased," she said.  "It's a great opportunity to
learn something.  Fellows like that, they always want to boast and
impress a new woman in their lives.  He might say something
interesting."

I pointed out as tactfully as I could that Luigi would be suspicious if
Susie started asking too many questions.

"I'm not an amateur," she said huffily.  "And I won't need to ask a lot
of questions.  I told you, that sort shoots his mouth off to make an
impression."

We were both off shift on Wednesday morning.  Susie appeared on my
doorstep at eleven, looking slightly hung-over, and collapsed on the
sofa.

"That Luigi," she said.  "I reckon he's got an extra pair of hands."

"I warned you," I said, handing her a strong cup of coffee.  "Did he
say anything interesting?  I mean, about the pizzeria?  Spare me the
details of your private life."

"He didn't get anywhere," she said, taking the coffee.  "He's got
hopes.  But he's going to find out that's all he'll ever have."

She sipped the coffee and put down the mug.  "He was sort of funny
about the pizzeria," she said thoughtfully.  "He doesn't like Mario.
There's some sort of dispute between them.  Then I overheard a scrap of
conversation he had with someone on his mobile phone.  I'd nipped into
the Ladies' to fix my make-up.  When I came back, Luigi was nattering
away with the phone stuck to his ear.  He didn't see me or hear me come
up.  He was speaking English.  He sounded impatient.  He said, "It's
all arranged.  The paperwork's done, everything.  It'll just go through
like the last lot."  I thought it best then to make myself visible.  If
he'd turned round and found me standing there, listening, it would have
been tricky.  So I just walked up to him, all smiles, and said, "Here I
am!"  He said to the person on the phone, "I've got to go," and he
closed the phone down.  He didn't say anything about it to me and I
didn't ask."

"That's it!"  I exclaimed.  "They're bringing in another lorry with
more people hidden in it."

She frowned.  "What did he mean about paperwork?"

"For what the lorry should be carrying.  I don't know, fruit,
vegetables, cut flowers, whatever lorries do bring from the
Continent."

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully.  She drained her coffee.  "It was a
good evening out, whether it turned up anything or not.  I hadn't been
clubbing in years.  Rennie wasn't into that sort of thing.  He reckoned
the strobe lights gave him headaches.  Now then, Fran.  How about going
over to the old cinema yard and practising emergency stops?"

"Give it over," I said wearily.  "I've got dress rehearsal Friday night
and the performance on Saturday.  I've got to go through my lines."

"You mustn't stop practising, Fran.  You'll lose your touch.  Tell you
what, we'll get up early and go and do a couple of hours' practice
before either of us goes to work tomorrow."

"What?"  I stared at her in dismay.  "Susie, it's flipping cold in the
early morning and it's dark!"

"So what?  The car's got a heater and it's got headlights.  The street
lights shine over the wall into the yard.  It won't be really dark,
just a bit gloomy.  Come on, you can roll out of the sack at six for
once, can't you?"  She stood up.  "I suppose I've got to go home, then,
and leave you learning your lines or whatever.  I'll see you at
work."

As I hadn't to be at work until six, I walked over to the news agent to
see Hari and Ganesh.  I didn't want Gan to think I was avoiding him.

Between customers, we talked about the play, Hari waxing lyrical about
life on the stage.  People who don't know anything about it often do.
But there are more actors like me, kicking their heels, than there are
in full employment.

Ganesh seemed quiet, preoccupied.  I asked if he felt confident about
his lines.  He said he did.  Was it the costume which worried him?  No,
he'd managed to persuade Marty he didn't need to wear the bowler hat.
Well, I asked, is it the dress rehearsal?  I realised the last
rehearsal had been awful, complete chaos.  But now that was out of the
way, the dress rehearsal would be QK.

He drew a deep breath.  "It's not that, either.  I'm a bit concerned
about the actual performance, in front of an audience."

"Gan, we all suffer stage fright.  It will be fine."

He leaned forward and said fiercely, "How do you know?  I'll tell you
what's really worrying me about it.  It's that dog."

"Oh come on, Gan.  Irish Davey's trained it to run across the stage.
You saw it do it.  No problem."

Ganesh snorted.  "You know what they say.  Never act with children and
animals."

"Only because they steal the scene.  Relax, Gan."

He sat on the stool behind the counter, anything but relaxed, and
stared at me in a way which made me nervous.  In the background, Hari
muttered to himself over some paperwork before disappearing into the
storeroom to check something out.  He always seemed to have paperwork
problems connected with the business.  Ganesh has this idea that he and
I might go into business together one day.  He wants us to run a
dry-cleaning place.  No chance.  I've seen the hours Hari puts in.

"I went past the pizzeria Monday night, after I left you," Ganesh said,
still fixing me with that look.

My heart sank.  I'd forgotten his route home to the shop would take him
that way.

"I just glanced through the window to see how much business they were
doing.  There was a new waitress.  It's a funny thing, but she looked
very like Susie Duke."

"Ah," I said.  "I was going to tell you about that."

"Were you?  You haven't said anything so far and you've been here for
the past hour."

"We were talking about the play.  Don't be difficult, Ganesh.  Susie
hasn't got much work at the moment in her business.  Bronia left
suddenly to take up her new job.  Mario was rampaging round the place
making a fuss about being short of staff and saying I'd have to work
double shifts.  I haven't got time to work double shifts!  I suggested
Susie just temporarily."

"And do they know about the Duke Detective Agency?"

"Come on," I said.  "Do me a favour.  Of course they don't."

Ganesh leaned forward and jabbed a finger at me.  "You," he said, 'are
living very dangerously.  I know what you're up to.  You're still
trying to track down that Max.  You couldn't drag me in so you've
dragged in Susie Duke."

I denied it hotly.  "Susie wanted to help."

I almost told him about Susie's date with Luigi but that didn't seem
like a good idea.  Instead I said, "Susie also thinks there's something
going on, something secret.  She overheard Luigi on his mobile.  He was
talking about paperwork being ready and bringing a new lot through."

"It's a business!"  snapped Ganesh.  "All businesses have paperwork.
Look at Hari.  How do you know he wasn't talking about jars of
olives?"

I didn't, of course, so I just stood there looking mutinous.

He tapped his fingers on the counter.  "I don't want to quarrel with
you, Fran.  I don't like rowing with you at any time and I certainly
don't want us falling out just before the performance.  We've all got
to work together on that play and not go squabbling like Monday night.
If you and I aren't speaking offstage, it'll show on stage.  So for
that reason, and only for that reason, I won't say any more now.  But
once we've done the play on Saturday, once it's all behind us, you and
I are going to have a long talk."

"You're not my father!"  I snapped.  "I don't have to listen to you
lecture me."

"No," he said.  "I'm your friend.  I care what happens to you. Probably
the only person who does."

That was a sobering thought.  He was right.  There were a few people
who might be sorry if I came to harm, but none who'd really grieve for
me except Ganesh.  I was about to say I realised that and appreciated
his caring, when he spoke again and spoiled it.

"Unless you think your new pal Susie Duke will shed tears when she
hears someone has knocked you on the head and tipped you in the canal
or in front of a train."

"I'd hate to think," I told him, 'that you were jealous of Susie.  Why
don't you like her?"

"Who said I didn't like her?"  He glowered at me.  "She's all right.
But she's got an ulterior motive in being so

friendly towards you.  She wants you to work for that crummy detective
agency she runs."

"I know that!"  I defended Susie.  "She's up front and honest about
that.  She's not being underhand."  I drew a deep breath and added, "I
am always careful '

"Hah!"  exclaimed Ganesh loudly, causing Hari to pop his head out
through the storeroom door and look round the shop in alarm.

"I care about my own safety!  No one," I went on, 'is going to knock me
on the head and tip me in the canal or anything else."  I hoped this
was true.

Ganesh folded his arms.  "All right.  But just remember this.  Susie
was married for goodness knows how many years to Rennie Duke, who was a
seedy, devious, untruthful little snoop.  Keep company with someone
like that for long enough, and some of it has to rub off."

I thought about the key Susie had kept, which had allowed us on to the
old cinema site but I didn't tell Ganesh about it.

I wasn't very happy when I made my way to work that evening.
Quarrelling with Ganesh always gets me down.  I know we hadn't actually
had a full-blown stand-up fight, but we'd parted on frosty terms.  I
wasn't prepared to take all the blame for this.  Ganesh's superior way
of lecturing me had annoyed me.  He didn't have any right to tell me
what to do.  On the other hand he cared about me and, if he was in a
bad mood, it was because he was worried about me and not just about
Irish's dog.

I was also annoyed because he'd suggested I couldn't hold my own
against Susie Duke, that I'd be influenced by her.  This was insulting
to me.  What was I?  A kid?  No, I was nearly twenty-two, I'd looked
after myself since I was sixteen, I'd mixed with every kind of person
and learned to be streetwise in the cause of self-preservation.  So, I
told myself, I can handle the situation.  I know what I'm doing.  I'll
make out all right.

Yes, sneered a voice in my brain, like you've done all through your
life.  Falling out with authority at every turn and messing up
everything you've ever started to do.  Not to mention getting yourself
into situations like this one.  You should have walked out of the
pizzeria after the first week, when you realised something warn't right
about the set-up.  You should never have promised Ion you 'd help him.
Probably you should never have agreed to be in that play.

I was rather startled at finding myself thinking the last thing.  The
play wasn't ever going to take the world by storm, but once we'd got
all the problems with it ironed out it should be a good production of
its kind.  Marry's script, though difficult to decipher, was a good
one.  He had talent as a playwright.  I hoped that one day he was
successful with his own original work, not just doing adaptations of
well-known stories to please someone like Freddy.

The trouble was, in real life, you have to compromise.  I've never been
good at that.  I put it down to my Hungarian blood.  We Magyars aren't
content to settle for less than we really want.  All or nothing, that's
our motto.  We were always the cavalry, charging straight at the enemy.
Grandma Varady believed in going straight at a situation.  When I was
expelled from school, we had to hold her down to stop her marching
round there to tell the headmistress what she thought and to insist I
was reinstated.

Then there was the time I was nudged off my bicycle by a car driven by
someone who'd only just arrived in the country and hadn't got the hang
of our traffic rules, like driving on the other side of the road to
every other nation.  I was brought home in a police car.  The driver of
the car which had hit me followed behind, to explain and apologise.
Poor man, he was so upset.  He'd been driving for over twenty years and
never had an accident.  He'd only been in the country twenty-four
hours.  I wasn't hurt.  Dad was ready to forgive the driver.  The
police didn't want to charge him.  But Grandma Varady hit the roof. The
result was the driver withdrew his apology and got stroppy.  The police
turned nasty.  Dad tried to intervene and got it in the neck from all
sides.  I was so embarrassed I slipped away while they were all going
at it hammer and tongs, and stayed out for the rest of the day.
Grandma had a point, because the front wheel of my bike was bent and
useless.  But, as you see, nothing in my upbringing educated me into
accepting anyone else's point of view without a good argument first, or
to do all those little deals in life you have to do if you want to be
friends with people you meet every day.  That's the risk with 'all or
no thing'.  You may just end up with nothing.

We had an exceptionally busy evening at work and that stopped me
thinking about anything.  I did hope, in the hurly-burly of rushing
back and forth to the kitchen, that Susie would forget about the
early-morning driving lesson.  I was even less inclined to keep on with
the driving, at least for the moment.  Something else I should have
thought more about before I accepted.  But as we parted outside the
pizzeria that night she pointed a pink-varnished nail at me and said,
"Six o'clock tomorrow morning.  I'll pick you up."

"Oh, great," I mumbled.

"Hey," said Luigi, materialising from somewhere in a snazzy jacket with
the collar turned up, and jangling his car keys.  "I'll give you a lift
home, Susie."

He didn't offer me a lift.  I walked.

Forget the rising sun and larks singing.  Six o'clock in the morning at
the end of February is not a nice time to be up and about, not in
London, anyway.

Susie appeared at my door, clad in a pink puffa jacket and woolly hat,
apparently full of beans.

"How did you get on with Luigi last night?"  I asked.  "After he gave
you the lift home?"

She stared at me wide-eyed and innocent.  "He gave me a lift, that's
all.  I told him I was really tired.  I didn't ask him in for coffee or
anything."

Oh yeah?  snarled that inner me.  Well, it was Susie's problem, not
mine.  She'd let herself in for it.

The night sky above had that luminosity which comes from absorbing all
the light beamed up from below.  At street level the curious half-dark
of big cities is even more obvious.  It's a night world that is never
really dark, yet the darkness is there, swirling in alleys and shop
doorways with an almost tactile quality to it.  Perhaps lost souls
wander in a similar gloom in some mythical Underworld somewhere
although there are plenty of them wandering the streets of London, come
to that.  London at night is the kingdom of Dis.

It had rained around three that morning.  I'd heard it pattering on my
windows.  The wet pavements shone dully beneath the yellow lamplight.
The wind bowled rubbish along them.  Papers rustled round my feet.  An
empty can rolled noisily into the gutter.  Someone had chucked a
polystyrene box half-filled with uneaten chicken tikka into our porch.
Someone else, or perhaps the same person, had thrown up outside the
next-door gate.  It was bitterly cold.

But there are always people about in a big city, even at that unearthly
hour.  Some of them are the lost souls I mentioned, some respectable
citizens who start work early.  As Susie and I drove towards the old
cinema site, we passed huddled figures plodding along or hunched in
miserable queues at bus stops.  Each person was wrapped up to the ears
against the cold and enclosed in a personal world of discomfort and
resentment.  They looked neither to left nor right.  Occasionally a
brightly lit bus cruised down the main roads, shining in the gloom like
a liner at night on a dark and hostile ocean.  The passengers had wan,
sleep-puffed faces.

Around the old cinema it was quiet.  Such businesses as there were in
the area didn't open before nine.  Susie, still exuding an optimism
which was positively indecent at that time of day, unlocked the padlock
and pushed open the gate.  I drove through.  She pushed it shut behind
me.

"Just in case," she said as she climbed back in the car.  "Now then,
you drive round the yard here and when I slap my hand on the dashboard,
you stop immediately."

"This is ridiculous," I said.

"No, it's not.  You're getting experience of driving in poor light as
well.  It's not that dark, not really."

To be fair the surrounding street lighting and illuminated shop windows
meant that the yard wasn't pitch black.  But it still appeared as a big
gloomy sinister void.

"I can't see what's out there, beyond the headlights, not properly," I
muttered rebelliously, peering through the windscreen.

"No, so be ready to stop suddenly even if I don't slap the
dashboard."

I drove round the yard very slowly once to get my bearings and check
the far corners.  They might conceal sortie old hobo who'd climbed in
to doss undisturbed, and was liable to lurch out under my wheels.  But
it seemed we had the place to ourselves.  My eyes adjusted to the
shadows and it didn't seem so dark and frightening after all.

I made emergency stops three times in response to Susie hitting the
dashboard.  Then she ordered me to pull up under the lee of the far
wall.  I glanced at my watch.  It was just on seven-thirty.  Dawn was
breaking slowly in the sky above us, which now had a thin, dirty
navy-blue tinge to it.  She began digging in a canvas bag she'd brought
along and produced a thermos flask, two plastic cups and a copy of the
Highway Code.

"Have a coffee," she said.  "Warm us both up.  Then I'll ask you some
questions."

I accepted the coffee and we sat in silence drinking it.  I wasn't
thinking about the Highway Code, although I should have been.

"Susie," I said at last.  "I saw Ganesh yesterday.  He's really dead
against my working with you.  He's found out you're waiting tables at
the pizzeria.  He's a bit miffed with me at the moment."

"He'll get over it," said Susie comfortably.

"You don't know Ganesh," I said.  "He never gives up.  He never forgets
anything.  I've a feeling he could be pretty unforgiving if I did
anything really wrong.  He .. ."  I hesitated.  "It sounds daft, but
he's got a sort of respect for me.  He thinks I do stupid things.  But
he also thinks I'm an OK person.  I don't want to let him down."

I don't know what Susie might have replied to that.  There was a
distant rattle and scrape of metal.  From the far side of the dark
cinema block the beam of headlights suddenly fell across the yard.

"Bloody hell!"  gasped Susie.  "Someone's coming in here!  Quick!"  She
grabbed my beaker and stuffed it and the thermos into the bag.  "C'mon,
Fran.  Don't just sit there!  Kill the lights and get out of the
car!"

She was exiting the car on her side as she spoke, canvas bag slung over
her shoulder.  I switched off the lights and scrambled out.  My side
was next to the wall and I had only just enough room.  I squeezed
between car and wall, scraping my clothes on the brickwork, and ran
after her.  It struck me, as I did, that she seemed to have forgotten
that, according to her, whoever it was could only ask us to leave. When
I got a chance, I'd ask her again to give me her rundown on the law of
trespass.

She'd headed for the cinema itself and seemed to know what she was
doing.  I could just make her out and then she dived behind a skip full
of rubbish.  I scuttled behind it too, thinking this was where she
meant us to hide.  I had time to decide it wasn't a very good hiding
place, but when I got there Susie had disappeared.

"Fran!"  I heard an urgent whisper from above my head.

I put out my hand and felt a metal rung beneath my fingers.  There was
a ladder, part of a fire escape, fixed to the wall.  Susie had already
shinned up it and I followed.

I was putting my faith in her and also in the ladder being fixed firmly
enough to take the weight of both of us.  I don't like heights very
much and was glad of the poor light, which meant the ground was
indistinct.  Even with my dislike of heights, the arrival of unknown
visitors would have sent me up that ladder.  I had a feeling whoever
they were, they wouldn't be pleased to find us there, and asking us
politely to leave wouldn't be their reaction.

I reached the top of the ladder and a parapet.  Susie's arm came out of
the murk.  She seized my shoulder and hauled me over the edge on to a
flat piece of roof.  She was panting noisily and so was I. I hoped they
wouldn't hear us down below.

We crawled along the roof below the parapet and peered over the edge. A
lorry had driven into the yard and stopped directly below us.  The
driver jumped out.  His headlights had reflected off Susie's car and he
was on his way to investigate it.  We watched as he walked round it and
peered inside.  Then he went to the rear and stared thoughtfully at the
boot lid.  Susie had left it all unlocked, but he didn't touch the
vehicle, much less try to open any part of it.  He was cautious.  I
guessed he was thinking it might be booby-trapped.  I found myself
wondering if he'd ever served in the army and been stationed in
Northern Ireland.

He had learned all he could from just looking at the car.  He walked
away into the middle of the yard and stood, hands on hips, staring
round him, looking for the person or persons who'd brought the car in.
Then he began to walk slowly towards the cinema.  In a moment he'd see
the skip and, if he investigated further, he'd find the ladder.

Just then, however, more headlights gleamed in the gloom and a car
entered the yard.  It parked on the further side of the lorry and
although we heard the slam of a door as the driver got out we couldn't
see him.

The lorry driver turned back and went to meet the newcomer.  Both were
now behind the lorry, presumably in conversation.

"What do we do now?"  I whispered to Susie.

"Hang on a jiff," she said.  She sounded remarkably calm.  "We might
learn something."

We did that all right.  The driver had climbed up into his cab from the
passenger side and switched off his headlights.  The car driver had
killed his.  It was still gloomy down there, if not really dark.  The
wind nipped spitefully at my earlobes.  I wished I had a woolly hat
like Susie's.

Driver and newcomer were now proceeding towards Susie's car.  I drew in
my breath.  Because there were no longer lights below, I couldn't make
out any detail of the two figures.  All I could see was two dark grey
outlines.  The tall one I knew was the driver.  The other was not quite
so tall and in shape quite different, a massive rounded body on stubby
legs like a kid's stuffed toy.  The effect was increased by the
shapeless hooded jacket which covered his bulk and his head.

"A fat man!"  I said more loudly than I intended and winced when Susie
dug me hard in the ribs.  "Sorry, Susie," I hissed.

Cautiously we peered over the edge again.  The men were talking
together by Susie's car, deciding what to do.

I heard the driver say, "Probably nicked."

The other man said something in a low voice.  I couldn't catch the
words.

"Yeah, yeah," said the lorry driver.  "I'll take a good look round
before I go.  But I want to unload them now.  It's getting too light.
There will be people about.  I want 'em off my rig and out of here."

Susie touched my arm.  "Follow me," she breathed into my ear.

"No," I whispered back.  "I want to see what he's got in that lorry.
You heard, he's going to unload it now."  My spine tingled and
butterflies were doing the can-can in my stomach.

"It'll be cigarettes or booze .. ."  she muttered.

But she was wrong.  Somehow I'd known she was.  As soon as I'd seen
that portly shapeless figure I'd guessed what to expect.

The driver released the doors at the back of the lorry and called
something inside.  A figure dropped out, jumping to the ground and
moving a little distance away, then another.  When I was a kid my dad
used to amuse me by drawing stick figures, one on each page of a small
notebook.  Each figure was caught in a frozen moment of action, like
photographic stills.  When Dad riffled through all the pages of the
notebook, the stick figures appeared in rapid sequence, giving the
illusion of movement: a running man, a jumping horse.  I expect you've
done the same sort of thing.  I was reminded of it now as the dark
little stick figures each repeated the movement of the one before,

emerging from the body of the lorry, jumping, running to one side.  I
counted some dozen in all.  They stood in a huddled group, waiting.

I dug Susie in the ribs.  "Luigi's phone call..  ."  I breathed.  "I
said they were bringing another lot in!"

The driver was pointing in the general direction of the exit.  The men
-I thought they were all men but one or two were very slightly built
and might have been youths or women began to murmur together.  The
ominous silhouette of the fat man reappeared and beckoned to them. They
trotted trustingly after him, out of sight, like the kids after the
Pied Piper of Hamelin.

When the fat man had led them all away, the lorry driver closed up the
rear of his rig and climbed into the cab.  After a few moments, the fat
man returned alone.  He walked down the far side of the lorry.  The
driver and he must have had some conversation.  A car door slammed. The
fat man reversed his motor past us and three-point-turned beautifully
so that he could drive down the side of the building and out.  When
he'd gone, the driver climbed down from his cab and started out again
towards the old cinema.

"Now!"  ordered Susie.

This time I followed her.  We scrambled across the roof, up and down,
round pipes and over brickwork.  Eventually she stopped and pulled at
what it was now light enough for me to see was a trapdoor.  It creaked
up and open.  She slid through the opening into the dark pit beneath,
and stopped with her head sticking out and one arm held upwards,
propping up the trap.

"Grab hold of it, Fran, and come on!  There's a ladder."

If there'd been less urgency about the situation, I'd have hesitated.
As it was, I grabbed the edge of the trap in one hand and felt over the
edge of the frame with the other.  There was a ladder there all
right.

I scrambled over and let the trap fall above my head, hoping the clunk
it made wasn't audible to the driver prowling round below.  The light
was abruptly cut off, leaving me in real darkness.  I don't know to
this day quite how I got down the ladder to the floor.  When I reached
the bottom, I found myself illuminated unexpectedly by a pencil ray of
light.  Susie had a torch.  She must have had it in the canvas bag. She
was a pro, all right.

"Where are we?"  I asked.  "I mean, I know we're inside the cinema, but
what now?"

"This way."  She set off.  The torch beam bobbed along a corridor.  She
came to a door and pushed it open.

We found ourselves in a small room.  My foot struck something on the
floor with a metallic clink.  She focused the torch beam downwards and
I saw a round flat metal can of the sort spools of film are kept it.

"Old projection room," she said briefly.  "We're all right here.  Even
if that driver finds the fire escape, he won't fancy climbing up it. If
he does, and gets on to the roof, that's as far as he'll go.  He won't
know the layout."

"You know it, it seems," I said drily.  "You seem to know the whole
building like the back of your hand."

"Yeah, well, I've been here before, haven't I?"  She spoke casually.

A lot too casually for my liking.  Things were coming together in my
head and I didn't like the picture that was forming.  I remembered my
suspicion, when Susie first showed me the key to the gate, that Rennie
had kept it because he intended to steal the odd item from the
building.  I'd assumed that if he had, Susie had known nothing about
it.  But Ganesh's voice echoed in my ears, pointing out that years
living with Rennie must have had some influence on his wife.

"Susie," I said quietly.  "Tell me the truth.  How come you know the
way in and out of this building so well?"

"I told you."  She sounded surprised.  "Rennie did a job for the bloke
who bought it.  He reckoned his business partner was cheating on him.
It meant keeping observation.  Well, we couldn't do it from outside,
could we?  We'd have been spotted.  So we did it from here, the perfect
place, really, see?"

She flashed the torch beam around the walls and brought it to rest on a
square aperture.  I followed her to it and she shone the torch through
it and downwards.

I had the impression of a vast emptiness.  I couldn't see the bottom,
but the torch beam caught the curved frontage of a balcony.

"The auditorium," said Susie.  "From up here we could watch anything
that went on down there.  We took turns, Rennie and me, sitting up
here, waiting for the bloke to turn up and start moving stuff out.
Twenty-four-hour watch it was, but we got the evidence.  Rennie took
pictures of him loading the stuff into a van.  He leaned over that
parapet and snapped him from above.  Neat job, that was."

"You sat up here at night, watching, on your own?"  I gasped.

"Oh no, fair do's.  Rennie did the night shifts and most of the day
shifts as well.  I just took over for an hour or two in the middle of
the day to give Rennie a chance to go home, shower and fry up something
to eat.  He could kip up here.  He brought a sleeping bag.  Brought his
sandwiches as well.  Home from home, he used to call it."

Susie gave a sentimental sigh.  "They were good days, Fran.  Rennie and
me, working together.  We were a team."

Her voice became dreamy.  "Anyway, I didn't mind being here all alone
during the day.  See, I felt I knew the old place.  My mum, she'd
worked here as an usherette when the cinema was in its glory days.  She
was sixteen when she started the job and she told me all about it."

She broke off.  From above our heads came an ominous creak and a
crunching noise.  It was repeated.

"Susie," I whispered.  "The driver, he is up there."

"Up there isn't down here," she replied with that optimism of hers
which was beginning to irritate me.  But she killed the torchlight. "He
won't wander about up there indefinitely.  The whole structure's wonky.
He'll be frightened of an accident.  If he breaks his leg he'll be
stuck.  Time is against him.  It's light now outside and he won't want
to hang around and have someone notice the lorry.  If he can't see us,
he'll call it a day.  Trust me," she hissed.

I had little choice.  We heard a bit more movement and then silence.

"He's gone," whispered Susie.  "But we'll just wait a while to give him
time to get clear."  She switched on the torch and flashed its beam
over my huddled figure.  "Come on, cheer up."  When I just grunted she
went on, "I wish I could've seen this old place in its heyday, like Mum
saw it.  It was just like a palace then.  The seats were red plush. All
the ornamental bits and carving were gold.  There was a cinema organ.
It rose up out of the floor before the show began, with a chap sitting
at it and playing away for all he was worth.  He played the hits of the
day and things like the "Blue Danube" waltz that everyone knew.  Then
he'd sink back out of sight as the lights went down.  The beautiful big
velvet curtains across the screen were drawn back with a rustling noise
and everyone would settle down.  You could feel a buzz of anticipation,
Mum said.  The screen would show that big brass gong and the muscle man
striking it with a hammer.  My grand ad told me the bloke hitting the
gong was Bombardier Billy Wells, an old-time boxer. But I don't know if
that was right.  It was like being in a magical world, Mum reckoned.
She got to see all the films, got to see them over and over again, but
she didn't mind.  In the interval the lights would go up.  The courting
couples would spring apart.  She'd go along between the aisles with her
tray of ice cream and little boxes of orange squash.  She had a proper
uniform with a little hat.

"Later on, of course, the place got run-down and tatty.  Audiences
dropped off when the television came in.  Before that, Mum told me,
they'd queue round the block to get in, not just for the big films, but
any film.  Then they closed it.  Cinemas were changing.  They had to,
if they wanted to survive.  This old place didn't meet modern
regulations on safety and it only had the one screen.  It'd have cost a
lot to turn it into a modern multi-screen complex with all the
trimmings.  Even if they had, I suppose it would have been superfluous.
It sort of got made redundant.  Mum wasn't still working here then, of
course, when it closed, but I remember how sad she was.  That's why
this old place is like a friend to me."

I clambered to my feet and went back to the aperture.  I poked my head
through.  In the darkness something creaked, filling me with a
momentary panic that the driver was back and inside the building, but
it was only the woodwork.  The air was stuffy, full of dust and
overladen with the sour memory of nicotine from the days when everyone
puffed away in the cinema.  I thought of Susie's mother in her
usherette's uniform and with her tray, walking down the aisles with her
torch flashing along the rows and her daughter, years later, sitting up
here with her little torch and a packet of sandwiches.

"Funny thing," came Susie's voice from behind me.  "We never had any
money when I was a kid.  But when you look back at childhood, it seems
like everything was warm and comfortable then."

I considered my own childhood and the drama of my mother's departure.
Despite that, I hadn't felt unloved because Dad and Grandma made sure
of that.

Susie said, "Rennie and I were pretty skint quite a lot of the time,
too, but we were never miserable."  With a change of tone, she added,
"But you don't make many friends in the detection business.  I wouldn't
tell you otherwise, Fran."

We sat in silence for a while, drinking the last of the coffee from
Susie's thermos.  It was a bit stewed and unpleasant.

"What do we do now?"  I asked.

She shone the torch on her wristwatch.  "I reckon it's safe to go."

"What about the car?  Now they've seen it, they'll know the
registration number and be looking out for it."

"Yes, that's bad," she agreed.  "I think I'll leave it here and report
it stolen."

"Would that work?"

"Well, the alternative is to drive it home, lock it in my garage and
not use it until things settle down.  We'll cut out the driving lessons
for a while."

After a moment I said, "At least now we know Ion told me the truth."

"You mean the fat bloke?  You don't know it was the same one.  You
didn't hear a name."

"Come on," I replied impatiently.  "How many organisations are there in
the area, running in illegal immigrants in lorries and coordinated at
the drop-off point by a fat man?  We saw Max down there.  It means he's
local.  That's how Ion came to see him in the street.  He's around here
somewhere and if he is, I can find him."

"Not without a better lead than you've got.  Believe me, I've traced
people.  You've got to have something to go on.  At least a picture or
a look at his face.  All you've got is that he's fat.  A ticket from a
speak-your-weight machine could tell you that."

I noticed that from 'we' she'd gone back to using 'you'.  She was
worried about the car.

When we emerged on to the roof again it was daylight.  It revealed just
what an obstacle course it was up there and what a bad state the roof
was in generally.  Fortunately I'd had no time to notice that during
our flight earlier.  I understood the driver's reluctance to linger up
here, clambering over rain-wet surfaces.  Climbing down the fire escape
in broad daylight was worse than shinning up in the gloom.  I was
thankful when we got to the ground.

Susie walked round the car, frowning.

"Perhaps," I said, 'they won't be able to trace it to you."

"An outfit like that," she said, 'has got to have a bent copper or two
in its pocket to look it up on the computer for them.  If they're
thorough, they'll trace it to me all right.  Even if I reported it
stolen, they wouldn't believe it.  Not once they found out about the
detective agency."

It was a disquieting thought.

Chapter Eleven

We discussed it some more without reaching any decision and in the end,
as the surrounding area woke up, the roads filling with traffic and the
pavements with pedestrians, we drove back to Susie's block of flats.

It was a short but tense journey.  Susie was worried about the
traffickers tracing her car.  I was filled with the conviction that I'd
seen Max, seen him with my own eyes.  It gave me the most extraordinary
sensation: satisfaction because my belief in Ion had been justified,
mixed with something akin to panic because the moment was drawing near
when I'd have to tell my story to Janice Morgan.  I was wound up like a
clock spring.  We locked the car away in the graffiti-covered garage.
Then we went up to Susie's place for a cup of tea.

I hadn't been inside Susie's flat since the days following the death of
her husband.  On my last visit, my driving lesson, I hadn't had time to
socialise.  I noticed, as we made our way up there, that little
appeared to have changed since the last time I'd set foot in the block.
The lift was still, or again, out of order and we had to toil up the
stairs.  The staircase had the same stale smell.  Ascending through its
concrete bareness was depressing and eerie,

like being in some futuristic maze.  As we turned to trudge up the last
flight, some kids ran down past us.  They forced us back against the
walls and, whooping and yelling, their pinched little faces twisted in
unholy glee, clattered on downwards.

"That Barren Murphy and his brothers," said Susie.  "They're maniacs.
The whole family's raving mad."  She sounded philosophical about it.
She added, "Still, if you live here, it helps to be a bit mad."

The wind cut icily along the open balcony in front of the flats at each
level.  I supposed the blocks had been built in the sixties when this
sort of development had been confidently expected to solve the housing
problems of the big cities: a triumphant social experiment.  The
planners might have thought that, but not the people who actually had
to live in the flats.  Many of these blocks had been torn down in the
years since then, but here they'd survived.  The day the bulldozers
moved in, everyone would be cheering.

At Susie's flat someone had cleaned the graffiti I remembered from the
outside wall.  But another local artist had been along with his can of
aerosol paint and redecorated it with a fresh lot.  The jumble of
letters didn't consist of personal abuse in the way the previous
scrawled messages had.  Rennie hadn't been popular.  This time, the new
artist (perhaps one of the Murphy brothers) had confined himself to his
own name and a crudely drawn unflattering image of a man in a rocker's
jacket.  The artist himself?  An admired pop star?

"I keep telling the council," said Susie.  "They promise to come round
and clean it off but they don't bother.  You can't blame them.  Someone
would only come along straight away and spray another lot."

Inside the flat was tidier than when I'd last been here but otherwise
unchanged, the same suite covered in blue velvet-type fabric, the line
of posturing flamenco dolls.  The cross-eyed china cat inside whose
hollow body Rennie had apparently hidden his personal insurance
certificate now held pride of place on an occasional table.  Beside it
was a photograph of the late Mr.  Duke, wearing shorts and a luridly
patterned shirt.  There was also a pot plant with dark green leaves and
tiny orange flowers.  The whole thing was clearly a shrine to Rennie's
memory.

It did occur to me that, when Susie had told me she hadn't invited
Luigi up here for a coffee, she'd been telling the truth.  Even Luigi,
I fancied, would have found the memorial table put a bit of a damper on
his passion.

"That's the British answer to any problem, isn't it?"  Susie called
wryly from the kitchen where she was plugging in her electric kettle
and rummaging in the fridge for milk.  "Make a pot of tea."

"Yeah," I agreed absently, studying Rennie's picture.  Even in a
holiday snap he managed to look shifty.

She carried the tray with the mugs into the living room.  "Do you want
a drop of something with it, Fran?  For the shock?  I've got whisky."

"Not at this hour of the morning," I said.  "Thanks all the same."

Because of our early start, it was still only just after nine.  Having
been up since the crack of dawn, I would have been starting to flag if
it hadn't been for the adrenalin still coursing through me.  We didn't
need to be at the pizzeria until half past eleven and I hoped the buzz
kept me going until then.

"Right," said Susie, plonking a cup of tea down in front of me.  "We
haven't got much time and we've got to sort this out.  We agree a plan
of action and we stick to it."

"Marty's making us run through our weak points in the script tonight,"
I reminded her.  "They're all turning up at my flat.  I must be
there."

"Forget that.  That's not until this evening.  What we need to decide
is what we do this morning, before we go to work.  That's the most
important thing.  We've got two hours to make up our minds and do
it."

I picked up the meaning of that.  "You're talking of going to the
police," I said.  "It's easy for you.  You didn't hold out on Morgan as
I did.  You didn't have her sitting on your sofa urging you to confide
and burbling about places of safety."

"Fran."  She leaned forward.  "I'm a professional.  I run a business
here.  If I come across something really dodgy in the course of my work
and it doesn't have anything directly to do with a client I have to
inform the cops.  Those people getting out of that lorry, that was well
dodgy.  You told me that Inspector Morgan is investigating a gang
running in illegal immigrants and based in the area.  Both of us, Fran,
we both need to tell her about this."

"Then you're going to have to tell her about Luigi's mobile phone call.
He could even have been talking about this very lorry.  And I," I
finished firmly, 'will tell her about Max.  I'm not leaving out the bit
about Max."

"Are you going to tell her you were on that underground platform and
saw your little friend take a dive in front of a train?  You either
tell the cops everything or you tell them nothing," she retorted.  "If
you tell them half a story and they find out the rest somehow
themselves, you're in trouble."

"I'm in trouble, anyway," I said gloomily.  "For not telling Morgan
when she came to see me."

She shook her blonde curls.  "You've got an excuse.  You were in shock.
You'd witnessed the terrible sudden death of someone you knew.  You
cannot be expected to have been of sound judgement that evening when
she called round.  You didn't expect her, did you?"

I shook my head.

"Right, she turned up unexpectedly, uninvited, at a time when you were
not yourself.  She can't grumble if you didn't bare your soul.  That's
your best defence.  Stick to it."

It sounded all right when she said it.  I didn't know if Morgan would
buy the excuse.  Parry certainly wouldn't.  But the decision had been
made for me.  Susie was going to the police and I had to go with her.
I'd held out on Morgan once, but I couldn't do it a second time.

Again Susie's attitude niggled me.  She was a great one for handing out
advice.  Join the Duke Detective Agency, Fran.  Learn to drive.
Trespass on the locked-up premises of the old cinema.  Try to convince
Morgan that Ion's death has left you near a nervous breakdown.  At this
rate, I would end up with a nervous breakdown, only I hadn't got time
for one.  I could almost see Ganesh's ghostly presence standing beside
me with an "I told you so' expression on his face.

We got to the cop shop just before ten.  I had a speech ready,
demanding to see Inspector Morgan and no other officer.  It was a
condition I'd already insisted on to Susie.  But bad luck was in the
ascendant.  A contrary star sign must have collided with my own.  Wayne
Parry was lurking in the reception area, chatting up an unimpressed
woman officer on the desk.  When he saw Susie and me enter, he stopped,
looked surprised for a couple of seconds and then smirked, as if he'd
known all along I'd eventually take up the invitation to drop by.

"Hello," he said in his genial way, "Look what the cat brought in."

"Speak for yourself," snapped Susie.

"Not you, love.  This one."  He pointed at me.  "What have you done
now, Fran?  Got yourself into a fix and want us to get you out of
it?"

This was too near the truth to be welcome.  "It's Miss Varady to you,"
I retorted, taking my cue from Susie.  If one of us was going to be
stroppy we might as well both be.  "We'd like to talk to Inspector
Morgan."

"Would you now?  What would that be about, I wonder?  How about having
a nice little chat with me in the interview room?"

"Forget it," I said.  "This is for Morgan's ears only."

"All right, Moneypenny," he said.  "I'll tell the inspector.  But
she'll want to know what it's all about, just generally."

"Just generally, I'm not saying a word to you.  You can tell her it
follows on the visit she paid me recently."

He gave me a thin smile and told us to wait.  We sat down on an
uncomfortable bench.  The desk officer ignored us.  Coppers came in and
out.  They ignored us.  A man came in and began a loud complaint about
his car being towed away.  They sent him along to the traffic
section.

Parry came back and said Morgan was busy.  We could either talk to him
or carry on waiting.

"We're not talking to you," I said.  "Nothing personal.  But Morgan
came to see me.  Both Susie and I have to get to work this morning by
half past eleven and we can't wait any longer.  Go back and tell Morgan
it's now or after the weekend.  Tonight I've got a rehearsal at my
flat. On Friday I've got to go to work and to the dress rehearsal at
the pub in the evening.  On Saturday it won't be convenient because not
only have I got to go to work during the day, but it's the real
performance in the evening."

Parry went away again.

"Perhaps we could talk to him, Fran," whispered Susie.

"No way.  Morgan's playing one of her games.  She's guessed I didn't
tell her something at my flat that I've decided to spill the beans
about now.  She's letting me know that if I muck her about, she can
muck me about."  I folded my arms and stretched out my legs.  The desk
officer gave me a sardonic look.

Parry returned.  "OK, she's got a ten-minute window."

"A what?  I asked, and he had the grace to blush.

In the end, Parry sat in on the conversation anyway.  The four of us
huddled in friendly proximity in the cramped interview room.  I'd been
in this room before and its dark green-and-cream-painted walls didn't
look as if they'd been redecorated since my last visit.  I recognised
some of the pockmarks and scratches in the paint and noted some new
ones.  A very young, ginger-haired PC in a woolly pullover brought us
tea.  I was awash with tea already and feeling peckish.  I hadn't had
any breakfast.  I asked pathetically if there was any chance of a bacon
roll from the canteen.

"You've got a nerve," said Parry, almost with respect.

"Tell them to send down two bacon rolls and charge them up to me," said
Morgan.

"Thanks," I said, 'really."

"I'll claim it as expenses," she said.  "Now then, what's it all
about?"

Susie and I explained, taking turns.  I went first and told them about
my initial meeting with Ion and the tale of his search for his missing
brother.  I told them about the fat man he'd seen in silhouette and his
hearing the man addressed as Max.  Ion had believed Max was connected
with the pizzeria because he'd followed him there and seen him go into
the corridor where the office door was but it was strongly possible
he'd mistaken the door to the toilets for the office.  I knew Ion had
been on the premises and even down in the cellar.  For my part,
although I'd tried to find out if it was true there was someone called
Max connected with the San Gennaro, so far I'd drawn a blank.  On the
other hand, I'd long had suspicions about the place where I worked.

"Why?"  ask Parry at this point, when I paused for breath.

I explained as best I could, confessing my suspicions were largely
based on Jimmie being so clearly out of the loop and in no way an
active manager.  Parry snorted.

"I know 'im," he said.  "He used to sell those spuds.  He was always
dodgy."

"So do I know him," I said.  "And he isn't crooked.  Not big-time,
anyway, not like we're talking about.  If there is something going on
at that pizzeria, Jimmie knows nothing about it."

Parry looked unconvinced.  I was worried.  One reason I'd been so
reluctant to tell the police of my suspicions was because I hadn't
wanted to make trouble for Jimmie.

"If," said Parry, 'if he's not really the manager, why is he there, eh?
Perhaps he's doing a different job, one you know nothing about."

"He's there to be the fall guy!"  I insisted.  "He does nothing all day
but watch telly and read the tabloids."

Susie broke in with, "Fran's right about that pizzeria.  I've been
working there, just a short while, but at least someone at the place is
into something.  I had a date with the barman."

She explained about Luigi's phone call and I could tell they were
interested in that.  They exchanged significant glances.  Morgan tapped
the end of her biro on the table.  Parry relapsed into silence.  They
were both looking at me.

I was even more worried because the moment had come for my big
confession: that I'd been on the underground platform and seen Ion fall
in front of the train.  I took a deep breath and blurted it out, adding
that I'd not, definitely not, seen how he'd come to fall.

The bacon rolls turned up at that point, which was a fortunate
interruption as Morgan's face had turned rather red and I could see she
was about to bawl me out in a big way.

The food interval enabled her to get control of her emotions.  She'd
remembered you don't start yelling at a witness before she's finished
her tale.  You wait until afterwards.

While I licked grease off my fingers, Susie took up the story.  She
explained about the driving lessons and why we'd gone to the old cinema
site, and how we'd been interrupted by the arrival of the lorry and
hidden on the roof.

At this point, Parry stopped sucking his teeth to ask, why hide?

"We didn't know who it was, did we?"  she retorted.

"Not because you were trespassing?"

"No!  And we weren't.  I've got the key."

Morgan cleared her throat, gave Parry a warning look and indicated we
should continue.  "What happened then?"

Susie told them about the men jumping from the lorry and they both sat
up like a couple of gun dogs.  I finished off the whole thing by
telling them I was sure I'd seen the fat man, Max.  Unfortunately, I
couldn't give a better description of him.

Morgan stopped tapping her biro on the table.  She said, "I see," but
that was all.

This was apparently some signal to Parry.  Either it was the way they
worked together, or she just didn't'trust herself to speak.

"Let me get this right," said Parry.  "You and Mrs.  Duke broke into
the yard at the back of the old cinema to practise your driving skills,
Fran."

"I told you, we didn't break in!"  snapped Susie.  "I've got the
perishing key.  Look!"  She delved in her pocket, took out the key and
flourished it under his nose.

Parry's bloodshot gaze fixed on it disbelievingly.

"And does the owner of the premises know you've got this key?"

"He should," said Susie.  "He gave it to Rennie, my late husband."

"Yeah, I remember your old man," said Parry, sarcasm dripping from his
moustache.

Morgan stirred and took charge.  "Perhaps, Mrs.  Duke, you had better
leave the key with us."

"Why?"  demanded Susie.

"Because," I said, 'they'll go round to the yard and try it to see if
it really is the key."

"Thank you, Miss Varady," said Morgan, managing to sound both
exasperated and wearily patient at the same time.  "We shall of course
check your story.  You'd hardly expect otherwise.  I'd also like to be
sure neither of you will be tempted to return to the area."

"For your own safety," added Parry sanctimoniously.

"Also," went on Morgan, "I suspect that if the owner gave it to the
late Mr.  Duke, as you claim, he's forgotten and hasn't noticed it
wasn't returned.  I'd like to nudge his memory and see if he can recall
giving it to your husband."

"Remind him," said Susie, "Rennie did a job for him.  I'm not giving
you details, that's client's confidence.  But that's when Rennie got
the key."

"While you're about it," I added, 'ask him if he's given a key since
then to anyone else, like any lorry drivers."

"Thank you again, Miss Varady," Morgan returned.  "I think I can manage
the investigation into this matter without suggestions from you."

That annoyed me, considering the serious discussion Susie and I had had
about coming here in the first place.  Being here was, for me, a rare
instance of my brain controlling all my basic instincts.  I should've
stuck with instinct.  I thought, right, then.  I'll keep my ideas to
myself from now on!

apo

"Now then, Miss Varady."  She was still being formal.  That meant she
was really mad at me.  "When I spoke to you recently you denied any
relevant knowledge of illegal immigrants or suspicious activities in
the area.  Despite the evidence of the security camera placing you at
the Tube station, you adamantly denied witnessing Ion Popescu's
death."

I was startled to hear her give Ion his full name like that.  She must
have found out quite a bit about him.  Even I hadn't known his surname.
I felt uneasy.  Here sat Susie and I, telling everything we knew, and
there sat Morgan and Parry, in possession of an unknown amount of
information.  We were giving our all.  They had been giving nothing
away.  That Morgan mentioned a name now wasn't a slip of the tongue.
She'd wanted to give me a jolt, make me uncertain.  She'd succeeded.  I
rallied as best I could.

"You didn't mention his name," I defended myself.  "Anyway, I only knew
him as Ion.  How do you know his name?  I thought illegal immigrants
had false papers or none at all."

"He had a letter in his pocket, from home," said Morgan briefly.

That might have been true, or not.  It was what she chose to tell me
and I had to accept it.

"You were there when he died, Fran, and you're a witness.  You know
that and you know you should have told me at once."

Her voice was coldly inquisitorial.  The years fell away and I was up
in front of my old headmistress again, charged with some heinous crime
against school rules.  I told myself I wasn't twelve years old again. I
was a citizen of twenty one, tax-paying at the moment because of the
job at the pizzeria, law-abiding, well, fairly, and here to do my duty
and aid the police in theirs.  This didn't have to be all oneway
traffic.  They had to take my point of view into account and not just
sit there forcing me to adopt theirs.  Susie nudged my foot with hers
by way of reminder.

"I was in shock when you called round," I said.  "I wasn't thinking
clearly."

Parry's eyebrows twitched.  Surprisingly, Morgan said, "I'll accept
that in view of the fact that you and Mrs.  Duke have come forward
now."

Whew!  I must remember that shock excuse.

"I never met the kid," said Susie quickly.

I went on, "I was only a witness in the sense every other person on
that platform was.  I didn't see how he fell and that's the truth."

"You're not a witness as everyone else was.  You knew him.  You knew
he'd been behaving in a way you considered dangerous.  Did you consider
him suicidal?"

"No," I said.  "He was looking for his brother."

"So, do you suspect he was pushed?"

"Yes, but a suspicion is all it is.  I tell you, I didn't see how he
fell.  I didn't see anyone else on that platform I recognised.  I
hope," I added, 'no one else on that platform recognised me."

She didn't rise to that one.

"Now, about this fat man.  You say Popescu claimed he'd heard the
driver of his lorry call the man Max.  But he was some distance away,
behind a hedge, according to the tale he told you.  The story really
doesn't hold up, does it?  The boy was frightened, he'd had a stressful
journey.  He was tired, hungry, didn't know where he was.  In panic,
people imagine all sorts of things."

"Max exists," I said obstinately.  "I saw him for myself this morning,
standing by the lorry.  There's no doubt about it, not in my mind."

Parry uttered a sort of growl indicating disagreement.

"I think Sergeant Parry means," said Morgan with a faintly irritated
glance at him, 'that even if what the boy told you was correct, you
can't be sure that the man you glimpsed this morning was the same one.
You told us the light was poor.  You were above him, hiding on a roof.
You were panicking a bit yourself.  He wore a hooded jacket and his
face wasn't visible to you.  You didn't hear anyone address him by
name."

"It was Max!"  I shouted.  I was getting pretty peeved by now.  "Look,"
I said.  "First you want me to tell you everything.  Then you tell me
you don't need my input.  Next you grumble because I didn't tell you
the whole story when you came to the flat.  Now I tell you I saw him
and you say I'm wrong.  Can you make your mind up?"

"If he was even called Max," put in Parry.  "And the kid hadn't got
that wrong."

"See!"  I bounced off my chair in frustration.  "You don't believe it,
anyway."

"Calm down," advised Morgan.  "We'll investigate everything you've told
us."

"Does it tie in with what you already know?"  I asked hopefully, not
really expecting to be told.

I wasn't.  I just got an old-fashioned look from Morgan.  "From now on,
Fran," she said.  "I expect full cooperation from you.  Leave us to
make what we want of your information and no detecting on your part,
right?  Leave it to us, the professionals.  You, too, Mrs.  Duke."

"I'm a professional as well.  I know the rules!"  retorted Susie.

"Good, stick to them," said Parry.

"Right," I said as Susie was bristling and this threatened to develop
into a slanging match.  "Then can we go now?  We've got to be at work
by eleven thirty.  We've only got twenty-five minutes to get there.
We'll need a lift in an unmarked car and I've got to go home first and
get my uniform."

"Anything else?"  snarled Parry.

"What about you, Susie?"  I asked her.

"Got my uniform in my bag," she said absently.  "Listen, I'm not
worried about any flipping job.  I'm worried about my skin.  What if
they trace my car?  Are you going to give me protection?"

"I hardly think it's come to that, Mrs.  Duke," said Morgan.  "But if
you're worried, perhaps there is a friend or relative you could go and
stay with for a few days?  Let us know where we can find you,
naturally."

"I can go to my sister in Margate," mumbled Susie.  "Provided she
doesn't know why I'm there."

"Fine.  Leave the address with Sergeant Parry."

"I'll go today," Susie said.  "Right now.  Fran, you'll have to tell
them at the pizzeria I can't come in any more.  I'm sick.  I was only
hired temporarily, anyway."  From under her seat she scooped up the
plastic carrier she'd brought with her and thrust it into my arms.
"Here you are, this is my outfit.  You can give it back to them.  I
shan't need it."

I thought this wouldn't go down well with Mario or Luigi, but she was
right.  She had to stay away from the place.

Eventually Susie set off home under her own steam and Parry drove me to
my flat to get my uniform.

"How long have you been mates with Susie Duke?"  he asked as we
threaded a way through the traffic.

"I met her when her husband died."

"Doesn't explain why you're bosom pals now."

"We are not bosom pals," I told him.  "We just happen to be working at
the same place at the moment, waitressing."

"I thought she was still running that iffy detective agency."

"She is, but business is slow.  It isn't iffy.  Susie is on the
level."

"And she's teaching you to drive, right?"

"Yes, but only because she's grateful I found out who killed Rennie."

"You did, did you?"  he retorted sarcastically.  "All on your little
lonesome?"

"Yes, I did and yes, alone!"  I can do sarcasm, too.  "If it wasn't for
me, you coppers would still be wandering around getting nowhere.  I
told you who did it."

"We'd have got to him eventually."

I allowed myself a superior, "Hah!"

We'd arrived at my flat.  I didn't let him in.  I didn't have time for
any more chit-chat and enough people had been tramping through my home.
I didn't need Parry in there.  It was like perishing Waterloo Station
already.  I dashed in, grabbed my uniform, rushed out and jumped back
in his car.  He had less to say on the short journey to the pizzeria.

He dropped me nearby but far enough away to avoid being seen by any of
my co-workers.

"One of them might recognise you," I warned, "You want to be careful,
Fran," he said to me as I climbed out of the car.  He was leaning
towards the open door, his left arm resting on the back of the
passenger seat I'd vacated.  "These people-traffickers are serious
villains.  They've been making a lot of money out of bringing people in
and they have a neat little operation set up to do it.  They won't want
anyone rocking the boat.  You might be small fry, but you can cause
them problems.  If they find out how much you already know, you're in
trouble.  The police don't want anyone rocking our boat, either.  A lot
of time and effort has been given to this investigation.  We're getting
close.  You could upset the apple-cart."

I could have pointed out that he was mixing his metaphors but the
niceties of the English language mean nothing to Parry.  Nor do any
other niceties.  "I know!"  I said crossly.  "I'm not an idiot."  "You
remember what happened to young Popescu."  "I'm not likely to
forget!"

For a second or two he seemed to hesitate and I had the impression he'd
been on the point of telling me something else, but then changed his
mind.

"I'll be seeing you," he said, as he let in the clutch and drove off.

I yelled, "Not if I see you coming first!"  after his car but obviously
he couldn't hear me.  A couple of passing skinheads did, though, and
were greatly amused.

"Given the poor bloke the elbow, darling?"  they enquired.

I glared at them and stomped off.  I could hear their laughter
following me down the street.

"What d'you mean?  She's not coming any more!"  yelled Mario.  "Just
like that?  What am I supposed to do?  Wait tables myself?  What's
wrong with her?"

"She's sick," I offered.

"With what?  Is she another one with a bad cold?"  He gave me a nasty
look.

I gave him an innocent one.  "Yes, I think she caught it from me."

"Bloody women!"  moaned Mario and set about punching the pizza dough in
a way which made me very nervous.

"You remember I can't work this evening?  All the cast is coming to my
flat," I ventured.

Mario told me very rudely what I could do with my

Play-In the end I got Po-Ching's phone number from Jimmie.  I rang her
to ask if she knew anyone at all who could wait tables and come in that
evening.  She said she'd bring a cousin along.

"That's all right, then," said Jimmie, the only unruffled one among us.
Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.  Seriously he added, "Let's hope she
doesn't catch this cold that's going round.  You know, I don't feel so
well myself."

I left him peering into a little mirror, pulling down his lower lids to
see if his eyeballs were bloodshot, sticking out his tongue and trying
to see the back of his throat.  If he didn't watch out, he'd dislocate
his jaw.

Chapter Twelve

I got off work at six when Po-Ching and her cousin turned up.  The
cousin was a cheerful-looking girl with one slight drawback.  She
didn't speak much English.  In fact, apart from "Hello' and 'very good'
she didn't speak any.

Mario had given up being furious and now just stood in the kitchen,
banging his forehead despairingly with the palm of his hand.

I suggested that we give the cousin a menu card with all the items
numbered.  That way, she could indicate to the customers that they
should point at what they wanted, and all she had to do was tell Mario
whichever number it was.

"Like in a Chinese restaurant," I encouraged.  "It'll be all right.  If
a customer asks her about anything on the menu, she can say "very
good", and if it gets complicated she can ask Po-Ching."

Mario gave me the look of a man for whom life had lost all meaning.  I
felt quite sorry for him.  Perhaps he was just a pizza cook and not a
villain after all.  Perhaps I was wrong about the involvement of the
pizzeria in any skulduggery.  What had I to go on?  That they wouldn't
give Jimmie any responsibility but hey, if you were opening a new
business and you wanted it to be a success, would you put Jimmie in
charge?  They'd made him titular manager because he'd owned the
previous business and was Silvio's partner.  They had to do something
with him.

I couldn't overlook the existence of the fat man, Max.  Now that I'd
seen that sinister rotund figure for myself, I knew Ion hadn't imagined
him.  But had he imagined Max's visit to the pizzeria had involved
going into the office?  Despite Ion's insistence, I still felt it
possible that he had been mistaken about that.  Ganesh, Susie, Morgan
and Parry, all thought Ion had got it wrong.  To tell you the truth, I,
too, was secretly hoping he had got the wrong idea about that part of
the story.  If Max had really visited the office it seemed to involve
Jimmie, and that was something I just refused to believe.  But without
that one fact, the link with the pizzeria was broken.  Anyone can walk
in and use the customer toilets.  He may be the biggest villain in the
world.  It wouldn't make the pizzeria guilty.  I wished I had been able
to turn up something in my search in the cellar.  That was what I
wanted, something specific I could show or tell Janice Morgan.

I eyed the distraught Mario, now prowling about his kitchen, nervously
picking up and putting down knives in an unsettling manner.  He had
shouted violently at Ion when Ion had appeared at the back door,
enquiring about his brother.  But Mario shouted at everyone.  He might
only be a pizza cook but like those celebrity chefs you hear about, he
was temperamental.  Right now he looked suicidal.

"Honestly, Mario," I repeated.  "It will be all right."

"Go to your rehearsal," he said hollowly.

The gathering at my flat wasn't until eight thirty.  Ganesh couldn't
get there before that because Hari needed him.  Carmel also couldn't
get there earlier because the manager of her supermarket refused to let
her change her shift, insisting she work until eight or collect her
cards.  Carmel, it seemed, had had several disagreements with this
manager and the threat to sack her was nothing new.  This time,
however, she thought he meant it.  She was plotting revenge but, in the
meantime, needed the job.  I didn't tell Mario I had two and a half
hours in hand.  He'd have had me waiting tables until the last minute,
end of shift or no end of shift.

"Cheerio, everyone," I said.

Luigi didn't answer because he was being grumpy over Susie not coming
in any more which meant he wouldn't get another chance to work his
seduction technique.  Her other admirer, Pietro, played tuneless
snatches on his accordion and looked glum.  Jimmie had gone home early
to take some aspirin and drink lots of tea and whisky.

"I hope it all goes well, Fran," said Po-Ching.

"Very good," said the cousin.

It wasn't very good, that was the problem, and I had two and a half
hours to brood on it.  I decided to ring Susie when I got home and
check that she'd left for Margate.  I was worried about her, chiefly
because she was worried herself.  Susie, together with the late Rennie,
had been in and out of many a scrape and was used to walking close to
the edge.  But this time, she was scared.

I went out into the hall to the payphone and tried to reach her.  At
her end, the telephone just rang.  No one answered.  She hadn't left
the answer phone on.  She must have gone to Margate, just as she'd said
she would.

On the other hand, she might just not be picking up the phone, afraid
who might be on the other end of the line.

Dissatisfied though I felt, I forced myself to leave it at that.

By eight forty-five the cast had assembled in my flat.  Marty mostly
wanted to concentrate on the scenes in which Carmel appeared, because
she was still inclined to improvise her lines.  As I didn't appear in
any of these scenes, it was a bit boring for me and I began to think
that, after all, I needn't have bothered to be present or at least, I
needn't have had them all over here in my flat.

Carmel, true to type, had arrived in the usual grumpy mood.

"I had another barney with the manager!"  she announced.

"I feel sorry for the poor bloke," muttered Ganesh.

She soon got fed up and resentful of the fact that more fuss was being
made about her lines than anyone else's.

"You're picking on me," Carmel accused Marty.

"No, I'm not.  You keep messing the lines around."

"Yes," put in Nigel.  "And it really throws me off my stride."

"Well, it shouldn't," said Carmel, glowering.  "You've got to be able
to think on your feet when you're in the theatre.  Anything can happen
out there on stage."

"Anything can," argued Marty.  "But with proper rehearsal, the
likelihood is cut to the minimum.  Now, we'll take the scene where the
butler and his wife, the Barrymores,

confess that the escaped convict on the moor is really Mrs. Barrymore's
brother .. ."

They wrangled on until Carmel sat down and went on strike.  "I'm not
doing it any more.  I'll be all right on the night."

"You'd better be all right tomorrow night at the dress rehearsal,"
Marry snapped at her.  He'd had enough.

As a row was about to erupt, I made everyone coffee.  Then they all
went home except Ganesh.

He settled down on my sofa, resting his back against one arm, and with
his feet propped over the other arm.  "You've got something on your
mind, haven't you?"  he asked.  "I mean, besides this play."

I thought about the lorry and the stick-figures jumping from it.  I was
tired of keeping things from Ganesh.  I wanted to tell him and I did.

"I went to the police today.  I told them all about Ion and the
pizzeria, and that I was on the Tube platform and saw him fall."

He raised his eyebrows.  "I see.  How did they take it?"

"Not too badly, considering.  I didn't just decide to go to them out of
the blue.  Something made me."

"Ah," said Ganesh.  "Something else has happened, has it?"

"Yes."  I told him about Susie's early-morning driving lesson and our
adventure at the old cinema.  "The police have advised her to stay away
from the area for a while.  She's gone to see her sister."

He looked sober.  "Convenient for her.  Susie Duke's skipped out of
town, in other words, and left you to carry the can."

"That's not how it is, Ganesh.  She's afraid they'll trace her through
the car.  They don't know about me being there."

"Well, I'm glad you told Morgan about Ion," Ganesh said after a pause.
"Because his death is the subject of a police investigation and you
should cooperate.  I'm still not sure you should have said anything
about the pizzeria.  You don't have any proof of their involvement."

"I know.  I'm starting to have doubts myself, to tell you the truth. It
sounded pretty thin, even to me, when I told Morgan and Parry," I
confessed.  "I just wish I knew why Morgan was asking about the
pizzeria when she came round to see me that evening."

"Anyway..  ."  Ganesh cheered up.  "I can't say I'm sorry Susie won't
be around for a while.  I always thought she'd get you into more
trouble and, sure enough, she did.  She can stay away as long as she
likes as far as I'm concerned."

"I thought that's how you'd feel," I said.

If she had, indeed, left London.  I really wished I knew for sure.

I worked through from half-eleven in the morning until six in the
evening the next day, Friday, and went home feeling shattered.  It
wasn't just running around the pizzeria, although we had been busier
than normal.  Even the afternoon, when I'd been sole waitress, had been
a rush.  The accumulation of events was taking its toll on me and my
feet were complaining.  I was sure I was developing bunions to rival
those of Sister Mary Joseph, and dreading the dress rehearsal.  I was
looking forward to getting home where I could rest up for an hour or
so.  With luck, I'd then feel better.

However when I got indoors I found Erwin, in his black leather jacket
and pants and gold chains, sitting on the stairs yelling into a mobile
phone.

"What do you mean, they cancelled?  They can't friggin' cancel. Listen,
man, that's a regular gig I know there wasn't anything on paper, there
never is!  They told us they wanted us every Friday and Saturday,
February through March."

The person at the other end was speaking.  Erwin looked up at me and
waved a hand in salute.

I left him to it and went into my flat.  I'd just got my stuff together
for the rehearsal and was deciding whether I wanted scrambled eggs or
tinned ravioli for my supper when there was a knock on the door.

It was Erwin, still steaming gently with rage.  "Hey, Fran," he
demanded.  "You know The Rose pub, don't you?"

"Only too well," I told him.  "I'm going to a rehearsal there tonight.
Were they the ones who've let you down?"

He shook his head.  "Not them.  Another place, down Battersea way. This
Rose pub, what's it like?  I mean, what kind of audience does a band
get there?"

"If they like you, they're fine.  If they don't, they'll chuck things
at you."

"How about the landlord?  Is he on the level?  Does he pay up?"

"I suppose so," I said.  "I don't know.  He has bands of stand-up
comics or singers most weekends.  Only this weekend he won't, because
it's our play.  It's the dress rehearsal tonight and we're doing it for
real tomorrow night.  Freddy, the landlord, has sold a lot of tickets
to the regulars.  As far as I know, he's fair about paying up.  I hope
so, because if there's any money over after our play, he's supposed to
share it out among the cast."

Erwin rubbed his chin.  He wore a lot of gold rings too; at least, I
supposed they were gold.  He might just have got the lot down the
market.

"This place at Battersea, we thought we had a regular gig set up
there," he said.  "But they dumped us.  Just said they don't want us no
more.  Just like that.  Like musicians, they're nothing, you can just
tell 'em, we don't want you.  Like musicians, they don't have to work,
earn money, pay rent, eat."

"Lousy," I sympathised.

"So now we need another engagement, preferably long-term, at least
monthly.  This Freddy, the landlord at The Rose, we heard he hires
bands sometimes."

"Like I said, he has a lot of live music evenings there, when he's not
got stand-up comics or variety acts.  He's sort of stage-struck," I
explained.  "That's why he puts on all those shows upstairs in the
functions room, pantomime, music hall, our play, anything.  I think
he's got a sort of dream that someone famous will one day appear on the
telly and tell the nation he got his first break at The Rose pub."

Erwin nodded.  "We thought we might check him out.  Take a look at the
place first, then see if we can't get him to hire us for a night to
begin with, with the option of a regular arrangement if we go down
well.  Even if he doesn't pay much, it keeps us in the public eye, you
know?  People hear us and if they think we're good, they tell other
people and who knows, someone else might give us work.  You've got to
be out there doing the gigs, Fran.  If you're not,

some other band is.  It isn't just about earning the money, it's about
not being forgotten."

"Acting," I informed him, 'is also an overcrowded profession."

He eyed me speculatively.  "Tell you what, I'll come over tonight to
watch your dress rehearsal and take a look round at the same time.  Get
the feel of the place.  If I'm just there as one of your mates, the
landlord isn't going to try and spin me some line.  I'll be, you know,
undercover."

"Sure, Erwin," I said.  "But, if you don't mind me saying so, you won't
be undercover in that outfit."

He promised to dress casual.  With that, he said he'd see me there
sometime after eight and left.

I'd lost interest in any food.  I put the ravioli tin back in the
cupboard and began thinking about Susie again.  I was still worried
that something might have prevented her from leaving London.  I
regretted I hadn't checked on her the previous evening.  I went into
the hall and tried to phone her flat one more time, but still no one
answered.  It was no good.  I couldn't just leave it at that.  I'd take
a leaf from Erwin's book.  I'd go without my rest, walk over to her
place and check out the situation in person.  With Susie buzzing about
my brain, I wouldn't be able to concentrate on the play.  I'd just nip
quickly over there and settle my fears.

It had long been dark by the time I got to the flats.  The lamp-posts
sent out a glimmering inadequate light.  In the gloom, I spotted the
Murphy brothers and their mates, hanging around the garages, kicking a
ball about, and plotting what sort of mischief they meant to get into
that

night.  A tall blonde came shimmering towards me through the shadows
and I thought it might be Susie, but it wasn't.  It was a sharp-faced
girl with the pale skin of the heroin addict.  She wore a smart suit
with a slit in the skirt which just about let the onlooker glimpse the
tops of her hold-up stockings.  When one set of people is winding down
for the day, another set is getting ready to go to work.  I wondered
where she was based.  She didn't look cheap.  She wasn't off to stand
about on street corners.  She was more the sort that guests in
expensive hotels phone out for.  Sent-in sex like sent-in pizzas.

I pushed open the entry door to Susie's block and stepped inside.  The
downstairs light was broken, and the inner hall so murky I almost
collided with a man coming out.  He was big, tall and muscular, but I
couldn't see his face.  He wore dark clothing, a tracksuit, hooded top
pulled well up over his head hiding his features.  In addition he kept
his head tilted down: a man who didn't want to be recognised.  He
slipped past me and, as he did, I had an impression of a familiar, if
faint, odour.  Then he had disappeared into the night at a jog-trot.  I
felt a tingle of fear run up my spine.  Some people you can sense are
dangerous.  It ripples off them in waves.  I shook myself and ordered
myself not to start imagining things.  It was a local fitness freak,
out for his evening jog.

I stumbled up the first flight of stairs in the dark and found to my
relief that lights in the upper part of the building were working.  The
Murphys were outside by the garages, but there would be others like
them, and I didn't want to meet them, a stranger and alone, trapped in
the confines of the stairwell.

On Susie's balcony, however, even with the lights working, visibility
was poor.  A blueish flicker behind the drawn curtains of one flat
indicated someone was in there watching television.  There was no other
sign of life.  Susie's place was at the far end.  Its windows were dark
but even so I started to walk towards it.  I'd almost reached it when
the world exploded.

Chapter Thirteen

The noise was deafening.  Susie's front door blew outwards, all of a
piece, straight off its hinges, taking with it the protective security
grille.  Grille and door flew over the balcony out of sight.  At the
same time, a giant fist struck me in the chest and sent me flying
backwards.  I bounced off the wall and then off the balcony brickwork
and finally finished up, dazed and winded, in a tangled heap by someone
else's front door several yards away.  Flames were leaping out of the
open doorway of Susie's flat and licking hungrily at the curtains of
the living-room window.  There was a dull roaring sound in my head
which might have been the flames catching hold in her flat or just the
reverberations from the explosion still ricocheting round my skull.

I knew I was yelling "Susie!"  but I couldn't hear myself for the din
inside my head.  I picked myself up and ran towards the flames but the
heat was unbearable and drove me back.

Someone grabbed me.  A man's voice shouted by my ear, "You can't get in
there, love!  Come on!"

He pushed me ahead of him back down the balcony.  Other people had
appeared, a frightened woman clasping a wailing baby, an older woman
holding a big black bag.  A small girl scampered past us gripping a
squirming cat.  We all stumbled down the stairs.  On the floor below
people had poured out of their flats, clogging the stairwell and
demanding to know what had happened.  Like a disturbed anthill the
building emptied, people scattering in all directions.  We milled about
outside shouting and gesticulating.  The kids had deserted the garages
at the offer of a free show.  Led by the Murphys, they were jumping up
and down, the little ghouls, enjoying the whole thing.  I hoped it
didn't give them any ideas for future activities, but I had a nasty
suspicion that burning newspaper would be thrust through letter boxes
all over the estate during the coming weeks.

A woman was shrieking and someone said the fire brigade was on its way.
It arrived soon, closely followed by paramedics and then by the gas
emergency team.  I was rooted to the spot.  I didn't know what to do. I
found myself praying Susie had gone to Margate.  I remembered the man
with the aura of danger who'd passed me in the entry.  A cold hand
gripped my heart as I thought how they hadn't wasted time tracing
Susie's car and she had been right to be afraid.

Someone took my arm and shook it.  "Fran!"  a voice was bellowing in my
ear.

I turned and saw Parry.  He tugged me with him to the back of the crowd
where I saw two police cars and another, unmarked one.  As we came up
to this last car, Morgan got out of it.

"That's Susie's flat!"  I gasped.  "I don't know if she was in there or
not!"

"It's all right," Morgan soothed me.  "Mrs.  Duke has gone to stay with
friends."

"I know she said she was going to do that!"  I shouted.  "But I don't
know if she did!  I tried to ring her.  She didn't answer.  Perhaps she
didn't want to pick up the phone '

"Pull yourself together, Fran!"  ordered Morgan.  "Mrs.  Duke is safe.
She phoned us yesterday afternoon to let us know she'd arrived at her
temporary address."

Jets of water were soaring upwards, hissing.  The spray was soaking the
entire area around.  I could see a yellow-helmeted fireman up there on
the balcony.

"You ought to let the paramedics take a look at you, Fran," Morgan was
urging.

I snapped, "I'm all right!  All I'll have is a few bruises."  "You were
lucky," she said.

I knew that.  Only a few seconds separated me from death.  Just a few
steps further along that balcony and I'd have arrived at Susie's door
in time to be hurled with it over the balcony to the ground.  I'd be a
smashed body lying there amid fragments of door and grille.

Parry came up and eyed me, chewing his moustache.  Could've been a gas
leak," he said partly to Morgan, but mostly to me.

"Don't tell me that!"  I shouted at him.  "Someone put a firebomb
through the letter box!  There was a security grille but he could reach
the slot.  He did it not much over ten minutes ago."

Parry stopped chewing and asked, "How do you know that?"

"Because I saw him," I said.

They both stepped forward.  Hastily I added, "I didn't see him actually
do it, but I'm sure I saw the man responsible.  He passed me as I
entered the building."

"Description?"  Morgan asked tersely.

But I couldn't give her one.  Only tell her he'd worn jogging pants and
top, his face hidden by the hood.  "There was a smell to his clothing,"
I added.  "Not a strong one but familiar in a way.  Perhaps it was
cigarette smoke."

"A jogger who smokes?"  Morgan said.  "Not part of most people's
fitness regimes."

She opened the car door and indicated I should get in the front
passenger seat.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," she said.  "But you should at least sit
down."

I got in and realised I was quite pleased to sit down.  My legs had
suddenly turned to jelly.

"Private detectives," Morgan said as she joined me in the car, 'make
enemies.  This may be connected with what you and Mrs.  Duke reported
and the fact that the lorry driver and the other man saw her car.  It
might, on the other hand, be connected with something else she's been
involved with.  We'll have to talk to her."

"She'll be scared stiff," I said.  "She won't want to come back to
London until you've got this gang."

"We're working on it," she said.  Then she added, "Do you have to be at
work this evening?"

"No oh, heck.  There's the dress rehearsal.  I've got to be over at The
Rose in half an hour.  I must go.  If you want a statement, I'll come
in and make one tomorrow sometime, OK?"  I scrabbled at the door
release.

"When are you working tomorrow?"  she asked quickly.

"Lunchtime shift.  It's the play in the evening.  I'd like to have
taken off the whole day, but we're short-handed."

"Ah yes, you have to be there by eleven thirty, I remember.  The other
staff, the manager and cleaners, presumably get there earlier."

My mind was too full of other things to wonder why she had this
interest in work schedules at the San Gennaro.

"Yeah," I mumbled.  "Jimmie opens up about half past eight, then he
goes for breakfast and leaves Wally, the cleaner, to do his work. Mario
comes about ten thirty to get his kitchen started up.  They're usually
all there by the time I arrive."

I hadn't told her about my early-morning visit to the pizzeria via the
staff loo window and I wasn't about to.  I hadn't found anything in the
cellar anyway.

"Listen, I've got to go now."  I swung my legs out of the car.

"You really should let the paramedics take a look at you," she said
again.  "You um look a bit scorched."

I scrabbled in my pocket for a tissue and rubbed my face.  It felt sore
and tender.  Morgan reached up, pulled down the sun visor and revealed
the little mirror on the other side of it.  I peered in it.  I thought
I looked a bit pink in complexion but that might be from the glare of
the surrounding lights.

"It's all right!"  I said.  "I really must go.  I'll see you
tomorrow."

"Yes," she said.  "Fair enough.  I'll probably see you tomorrow."

I managed to catch a bus which took me nearly to The Rose.  I thought
one or two of the other passengers gave me funny looks but generally,
they were more interested in another fire engine hurtling by, siren
blaring, on its way to the fire.

I ran from the bus stop to the pub and raced through the bar, then
upstairs to the functions room.

I was taken aback to find it full of people.  We seemed to have
collected an audience for the dress rehearsal.  Erwin and the other
members of his group were there, sitting in the front row armed with
cans of Coke and lager, laughing and joking, obviously settled down for
a fun evening.  There were some workers from Carmel's supermarket and
friends of Marty's, Owen's and Nigel's, who'd all come along tonight to
see the play for free.  I scuttled backstage and found the other
members of the cast, Ganesh excepted, dressed in costume and ready to
go.  Denise, Freddy's wife, was also there.  They stood in a group,
arguing as usual.

"The heating will be fine," Denise was promising.  "I'll get Freddy to
turn on the radiators tonight.  By Saturday evening the punters will be
as warm as toast up here."  Silence fell.  I realised they were all
looking at me.  Denise said, "Blimey!"  in an awestruck voice.  Owen
said slowly, "Speaking of toast..  ."  Ganesh appeared then from behind
the curtains, saw me, stepped rapidly forward, grabbed my arms and
demanded, "What happened?"

"I there was an explosion .. ."  I stammered.  "A what?"  yelled
Ganesh.  "It's all right, Gan, honestly.  I'll tell you later."
"Where?"  he demanded tersely, not releasing me.  "At Susie's flat."

"At Susie's place?  Even when she's not in town, she still manages to
make trouble for you!  When she gets back, you tell her '

"Gan!  Let go of me.  It's not Susie's fault, it's mine.  I shouldn't
have gone over there."

"You're sure you're all right?"  he asked anxiously.

"Yeah," said Carmel.  "How's your voice?  It sounds OK.  You haven't
breathed in smoke, have you?  It does for the vocal cords."

"I wish something would do for yours!"  snapped Ganesh.

"I only asked," retorted Carmel.

Marty, who'd said nothing since I'd arrived and was prowling around the
edges of the group, now interrupted.  "Look, I don't know what happened
to you, Fran, but you're here now and if you're all right to act, let's
get this rehearsal underway, or we'll be here all night.  If you and
Ganesh are going to talk about it, talk about it later."  He spoke
sharply and his voice had moved into a higher register.  He looked at
me again and then away quickly as if he couldn't bear the sight.

Ganesh glowered at him but Marty was clearly in directorial mode and
suffering nerves as well.

"She can't," said Nigel, pointing at me, 'go on stage looking like
that."

They all stared at me again.  Even Marty turned a reluctant gaze on me.
I met it and he broke the eye contact at once.  Did I look as bad as
that?

Carmel said quickly, "I'll fix her up.  Get in the dressing room,
Fran!"

I found myself propelled towards our dressing room between Carmel and
Denise.  It was an airless cubbyhole of a place which we shared with
the men.  Since there was no window it was hot and stuffy.  The heat
came from a little fan heater whirring away in a corner and the
electric light bulbs over the mirror.  The smell was compounded of
sweat, cigarettes, the chemicals in make-up and body spray, ham
sandwiches, the remains of which lay chewed on a plate, the musty odour
of stale clothing and the usual yeasty stale beer smell of pubs.

"What a fug in here!"  I exclaimed.  "Turn that fan heater off."

"We put it on because it was so bloody cold," snapped Carmel.  "Sit
down!"

"It stinks in here," I growled as the two of them pushed me into a
chair in front of the mirror.

"The whole pub stinks," said Carmel unkindly.  "I always have to wash
my hair when I get home."

"Oy!"  said Denise angrily.  "It's a good job my husband didn't hear
you say that.  You've got a nerve.  This pub doesn't stink!  We open
the place up every morning and air it through.  We've got extractor
fans going downstairs.  People are smoking and drinking down there,
you've got to expect a bit of atmosphere.  It'd be a darn sight worse
if we did food, I can tell you!"

I said nothing because I'd looked in the mirror and seen myself
properly for the first time.

My face was scarlet and the hair growing at the edge of my scalp had
frizzled away, giving me a bald look like one of those Renaissance
portraits of society women with shaven foreheads.  Nor did I have any
eyebrows, as I discovered when Carmel wiped them with a tissue and they
came off.

"I can fix her face," said Carmel to Denise over my head.  "I'll use
that pale green cream as a foundation.  But I can't do anything about
her hair."

"I've got a wig!"  offered Denise.  "I'll go and fetch it."  She
hurried away.

Carmel began to slap make-up on my face.  I protested I could do it
myself but she ignored me.  She was padded out in her costume as Mrs.
Hudson, mob cap, long skirt and apron, and now she said, "Where's
yours?"

"My what?"

"Costume, you idiot."

It was back at the flat, that's where it was.  "I came straight here,"
I explained.  "You see, I went to see a friend and her flat
exploded."

"Marty will go mad," said Carmel.  "This is a dress rehearsal."

"Look, I nearly got blown to kingdom come!  You're lucky I'm here at
all!  Anyway, I'm not the only the who's late.  Where's Irish?  He's
supposed to be here with his dog."

"Marty saw him this morning," she assured me.  "He'd got the dog with
him and he said he'd be here tonight.  He's not needed until almost the
last scene.  Before that you only hear him on tape.  Denise has shut
Digger out in the backyard to stop him barking when it's played.  It'll
be fine."

"Will it?"  I retorted, remembering what Ganesh had said about acting
with children and animals.

"It's fine by me," said Carmel.  "The less I see of that dog of Irish's
the better.  I don't want it hanging round here.  It's not properly
house-trained.  It's liable to pee on the set, if it doesn't do
anything worse."

,226

I didn't even want to think about that.

Denise arrived back puffing and carrying a large box.  "Here it is!"

She set down the box, opened it up and took out a wig-stand with a lot
of bright auburn curls cascading around it.

"I wear it when Freddy and I go to a dinner dance," she said.  "You
know, any of the do's Freddy sets up for his charities.  Here we go."

Before I knew it, there I was; made up by Carmel to look like a circus
clown, the whole lot set off by enough red hair to cover a sizeable
golden retriever.

"Pity you haven't got your costume," said Carmel.  "We've made you look
pretty good."

Marty stuck his head through the door.  "How much longer are you girls
going to be?  I want to get started.  Where's your costume, Fran?"

"I couldn't bring it.  There was an explosion '

"I haven't got time for all that.  You'll have to do it without
costume, but you should have brought it.  Honestly, Fran, I thought I
could at least rely on you."

"You can rely on me!"  I snapped back.  My nerves were pretty tattered
by now.  "I'll manage without the costume, all right?  I've been
practising walking up and down in it, in my flat.  It will be all right
on the night.  There are enough other things to worry about with this
play without you getting at me over one missing costume!"

Marty seemed surprised by my reaction and backed away.  He mumbled,
"All right.  I didn't mean .. ."  He made off.

"Well," said Carmel, staring after him.  "What did you do to Marty to
make him so scared of you?"

"He's not scared of me.  I was the first person he asked to be in this
play.  His nerves are bad.  So," I added, 'are mine.  I nearly got
blown to smithereens and no one seems to think it matters a toss."

Except for Ganesh and he was simmering like a volcano, ready to explode
himself and engulf me in recriminations.  As if it was my fault!

Once the rehearsal started, things went reasonably well.  Even Carmel
was making an effort to speak the lines as Marty had written them and
not to improvise.  The backdrop of Dartmoor painted by Owen and Nigel
looked really good.  The fireplace built for us by Freddy's carpenter
mate did wonders for the opening set.  To the relief of everyone but
Ganesh, Irish had turned up with his dog and was sitting backstage with
a can of lager, waiting for the dog's big entrance.

Denise and I stood in the wings and watched.  Miss Stapleton, my
character, didn't come on for the first couple of scenes, not until
Watson was sent down to Devon by Holmes.  Denise had been appointed
prompter and was peering at the script.

"Whoever typed this isn't much good at spelling," she hissed at me.
"Some of it doesn't look like English.  What is this, some sort of
Scandinavian language?"

"Marty typed it.  He's dyslexic," I whispered back.

"Mr.  Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"  declaimed
Mick on stage.  His cold was a lot better or the catarrh capsules had
done the trick.  He sounded less nasal but distinctly hoarse.  I hoped
he wasn't about to lose his , voice.  That would really finish us
off.

"Curtain!"  yelled Marty at Denise, who was supposed to be operating it
at this point.  She yanked at the cord and the curtain swished
across.

In the front row of the audience, Erwin and his mates clapped
enthusiastically.

"Is that it?"  asked one of the women from Carmel's supermarket
loudly.

Denise, beside me, gave a sentimental sigh.  "It's going to be great,
Fran."

"Don't say that!"  I begged.  "It will bring down every kind of bad
luck on us.  Besides, they say a good dress rehearsal is a bad omen.  A
bad dress rehearsal is supposed to mean a good opening night."

"All this theatrical stuff," said Denise.  "All these traditions, like
not saying Macbeth."

"Thanks, Denise.  You're doing a great job," I muttered.

"My Maxie loves it all," said Denise.

Irish's dog had come padding up to us just as she spoke and sniffed at
my jeans, smelling Bonnie.  It distracted me.  I thought I'd heard
Denise correctly, but I couldn't be sure.

"What was that, Denise?"  I asked.  I touched the dog's head and he
looked up at me, puzzled, sensing the tension in me.

"I said, my Maxie loves all this theatrical business.  He's so much
looking forward to tomorrow when you do it for real."

"Denise..  ."  I said as casually as I could, considering my throat was
suddenly dry and constricted.  "Who is Maxie?"

The dog uttered a low whine.

,230

She turned her head to look at me and grinned.  "Oh, sorry.  It's my
pet name for him.  I mean my Freddy.  He used to be a wrestler once,
when he was younger, of course.  He wrestled under the name of Max the
Mangler.  He was good, you know.  A lot of people remember him and
still call him Max.  Freddy loved the wrestling because of the
audience, all yelling and booing and cheering.  That's what he likes
about the shows we put on up here, the audience.  Not that tomorrow's
audience will yell and boo," she added hastily.  "They'll be as nice as
pie."

"Max," I said faintly.  "They call him Max."

"Only his mates," said Denise, 'and me.  Everyone else knows him as
Freddy.  The name Max is mostly used by his pals from the old days."

"Is that a fact?"  I said slowly.  "I never knew that."

But I knew it now.

Chapter Fourteen

Ganesh and I left the pub together and in silence after rehearsal.
Ganesh was quiet because he was angry.  I was bursting with my news but
forced myself to say nothing until it was safe.  We waited until we'd
reached the bottom of the road and no one we knew was within earshot,
and then we both began to speak at once.

"Listen, Fran, I've never interfered with anything you've done even if
I've thought it was crazy '

"Gan, shut up and listen to me!  I've found out '

"I've warned you repeatedly about Susie Duke and would you listen to
me?"  Ganesh steamrollered on.  "Oh, no.  Fran Varady, the great escape
artist.  I told you, I told you in plain language that this time you
were getting into something '

"Ganesh!"  I yelled.  "I know what you told me and I'm sorry I nearly
got myself blown up.  I didn't do it on purpose, you know.  Will you
PLEASE listen to me?"

"What?"  asked Ganesh sulkily, standing in the shelter of a convenient
doorway, his hands stuck in the pockets of his blouson jacket.

"I have found out the identity of Max.  Max is real.  Ion didn't invent
him or make a mistake about him.  I know who Max is."

"Oh yes?"  muttered Ganesh with a scowl.

"It's Freddy."

"Freddy?  Who's Freddy?"

"For crying out loud, Gan!  Freddy the landlord at The Rose!"

Ganesh eyed me as if assessing whether the explosion might have
loosened a few more screws in my brain.  "Freddy the landlord?  Are you
nuts or what?"

"Freddy," I told him triumphantly, 'used to wrestle under the name Max
the Mangler.  Denise told me.  She still calls him Max or Maxie
sometimes.  All his old mates call him Max.  Ion described Max as a fat
man and the man I saw in the cinema backyard was certainly paunchy.  Or
so I thought.  But Freddy isn't exactly fat, do you see?  It's muscle
gone to seed that gives him the outline of a fat man.  Freddy looks
like a barrel on legs and if you saw him in poor light and didn't know
it was Freddy, you'd think you'd seen a fat man.  Ion did and I did."

Ganesh was silent for a few moments and I held my breath.

"It could be coincidence," he said.

"No, it's not.  I'll tell you another thing.  Ion said he saw Max go
into the office at the pizzeria.  He was probably right.  Max goes
round all the local businesses getting them to support his latest
charity scheme.  I know he went to see Jimmie, even though I wasn't
there at the time, because he persuaded him to ask Silvio about the San
Gennaro sponsoring the programmes for Saturday night.  That, of course,
was after Ion has seen him there.  But just as I missed seeing Freddy
there that day, I missed him on the other, previous occasions.  I work
shift hours.  I'm not always there.  Ion followed Freddy Max to the
pizzeria, just as he said, and saw him walk in, ignore the restaurant
part and go straight to the office.  Just as Freddy would do.  He'd
gone in there to discuss some fund-raising effort."

"Or," said Ganesh, 'he had gone there to discuss with Jimmie something
to do with this people-trafficking racket and Jimmie is in this after
all, up to his neck."

"Oh, damn," I said, deflated.  "No, Jimmie isn't, but it will look that
way to Morgan when I tell her."

"You are going to tell her, then?"  He raised his eyebrows.  "You want
me to come down to the cop shop with you now?"

"Morgan will have gone home.  I want to tell her and nobody else.  I
need to explain, about Jimmie," I said doubtfully.

Ganesh pulled a face.  "Fran, if you're right, this information is
dynamite."  He cleared his throat diffidently.  "There's something else
which has occurred to me.  I don't know about you .. ."

"What's that?"

"The play," said Ganesh simply.  "It all depends on Freddy, doesn't
it?"

"I haven't forgotten the play," I told him soberly.  "We've all worked
so hard.  It means such a lot to Marty.  Do you think I shouldn't tell
her until after the performance?"

Ganesh signed.  "Actually, I think the right thing is that you should
tell her at once.  Right for justice, that is.  Whether it's right for
you, personally, is another matter.  I really wish, Fran, you hadn't
found out about Freddy being called Max tonight.  My worry has nothing
to do with the play or with justice for your young friend.  It's to do
with self-preservation.  If you're right, Freddy is a dangerous man and
you'll be doing him a very bad turn indeed."

We stared at one another in the shelter of the doorway, then I said, my
voice sounding very small, "But I can't pretend I haven't found out,
Ganesh."

"Right, the police station it is," he said.

On the way there, we reached an Indian grocer who did a sideline in
take away snacks and bought half-a-dozen samos as  Nibbling them, we
continued on our way.

"I've been thinking," I said, breaking the silence which had reigned
since we left the doorway.

"So," said Ganesh, 'have I. But you go first."

"Right.  When Morgan came to see me I thought she was mostly interested
in the pizzeria.  But she did talk quite a bit about the play and the
pub and Freddy's name came up.  I thought that was general chat,
softening me up, but perhaps she's already on to him.  Perhaps she was
getting me to talk about Freddy.  Morgan's like that, pretty tricky."

"The whole thing," said Ganesh, rustling his paper bag to get out the
remaining samosa, 'could be linked.  This smuggling business could be
run by Freddy and, say, Silvio, or someone else at the pizzeria,
together."

"Mario!"  I exclaimed.

"Why Mario?"

"Because he lied to me.  When Ion came to the back door asking for Max,
Mario told me he'd been asking for a job.  Why should Mario try and put
me off if he isn't involved?"

"Because," said Ganesh calmly, 'he's a mate of Freddy's,

isn't he?"

I gaped at him.  "Who?  Mario?  How do you know?"

"I've seen them chatting together in our shop.  You know, one's been in
there already getting a paper or something of a Sunday, and then the
other one's walked in and it's all "Hello, mate, how's the wife?"  and
all the rest of it."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"  I gasped.  "Why should I?  You didn't
tell me Mario had lied to you.  You didn't suspect Freddy of anything
before tonight.  Where was the connection?"  Ganesh shook a finger at
me.  "But it doesn't mean Mario is involved in the people-trafficking.
If you ask me, if he's a mate of Freddy's, he probably knows about
Freddy wrestling under the name of Max the what was it?"  "Mangler," I
said gloomily.

"Right.  He probably also knows that Freddy has a finger in a few dodgy
pies, without necessarily knowing just what they are.  So when that kid
came asking for someone called Max, Mario realised it was probably one
of Freddy's business deals going pear-shaped.  He bawled him out and
lied to you because he was covering for Freddy as any good mate would.
He probably went to see Freddy right afterwards and told him about
it."

My heart sank.  "So Freddy knew, right from the first, that Ion was
hanging around asking for someone named Max.  Poor Ion signed his own
death warrant, right there and then.  If he'd spoken to anyone but
Mario ... to me or Bronia or Po-Ching, it wouldn't have mattered.  But
he spoke to Freddy's mate, Mario, and that was that."

"Be fair to Mario," said Ganesh.  "He may have tipped Freddy off that
someone was asking about him.  But he wouldn't necessarily know what
Freddy would do about it

at least, he wouldn't know Freddy planned for Ion to take a dive in
front of a Tube train."

Ganesh contemplated the scrunched-up paper bag as if it held the
answer.  "My money's on Freddy running the operation," he decided.  "He
has the contacts.  He's a good old local boy.  Everyone knows him.  He
knows all the businessmen, legit and not quite so legit, in the entire
area.  He'd know, for example, who was sending lorries back and forth
to the Continent.  He'd know who had a convenient vacant site, like the
rear of the cinema, and he could go to the owner and ask to borrow the
key.  The owner wouldn't ask questions, he'd hand it over, because this
is good old Freddy, the man who raises money for charity.  Whoever
organises this racket is good at it and we know Freddy is an ace
organiser."

"Yeah," I mumbled.  "Think of our play.  Think of all those people he's
got to sit in baths of baked beans or jelly over the years, or dress as
babies and get themselves pushed in carts down the street."

"Exactly," said Ganesh.  "Freddy has organised any number of charitable
events and, in addition, he runs a popular pub.  Freddy is a very
popular man.  He has a lot of friends, not only Mario.  They range from
street level right up to the top in local government.  He's on
first-name terms with local magistrates, you bet.  Forgive me, Fran,
but you have comparatively few pals and none of us has the influence
that Freddy can bring into play.  Come to that, none of us has the
muscle that some of Freddy's mates have.  Look at that barman of his.
The Incredible Hulk.  He's only one of many.  I personally prefer to
have all my limbs attached to my body."

As I'd expected, when we got to the cop shop Morgan had gone home for
the day.  Neither was Parry there.

"I'll see who is here," offered the guy on the front desk.

"I don't want to talk to someone else," I said.

"Please yourself," said the desk man.  "Either it's urgent or it's not.
Make your mind up."

"It's urgent," said Ganesh, before I could reply.

"Right.  I'll go and get someone in CID."  he said.  "Watch the desk
for me, will you, Jasmine?"

A figure built like a female shot-putter loomed up and gave us a look
of deep distrust.  "Sit over there," she said in what was nearly a
baritone.

We huddled together in a corner.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Gan," I whispered.  "Perhaps you
shouldn't have said it was urgent."

"I thought you said it was," said Ganesh huffily.

As it turned out, I was right to feel uneasy.  A man in a scruffy suit
who looked, beside Jasmine, positively puny, emerged from the back of
the building somewhere and approached us.

"I know you," he said, looking down at me.

"Yeah," I mumbled.  "FranVarady."

"And Mr.  Patel," he said, smiling thinly.

"How are you, Sergeant Cole?"  asked Ganesh, rallying well.

Just our rotten luck.  I'd met Cole when the police had been
investigating Rennie Duke's death.  He hadn't liked me then and I
doubted he was going to like me any better now.  As we followed him to
an interview room, I managed to whisper to Ganesh, "Leave this to
me!"

\

The interview room was the same one Susie and I had talked to Morgan
and Parry in.  There was a radiator but it didn't seem to be working
too well.  It wasn't much warmer than Freddy's functions room.

"Right," said Cole.  "What is it?"

"Inspector Morgan asked me to call by," I said.  "I told the bloke
outside I wanted her.  I'm sorry if he misunderstood and you've been
bothered."  I made to get up but he waved me back down into my seat.

Cole's acne hadn't improved and he still had the habit of touching the
more active spots with his fingertips, in an absent-minded way.  He did
it now, the fingers of his right hand caressing a red eruption on his
cheekbone.  "This is a police station," he said.  "Not a community
centre where you can meet your friends.  If you've got something to
say, tell me."

"Nothing," I said firmly.

Beside me, Ganesh stirred and I was afraid he was going to speak so I
pushed my foot against his.  Ganesh said nothing.

Cole had noticed, however.  He turned his attention to Ganesh.  "Mr.
Patel?  You've got something to tell me?"

"No, he hasn't," I said.  "He just came with me."

Cole rubbed his hand over his mouth and fixed me with his mean little
eyes.  "You wouldn't be wasting my time, would you?"  He leaned his
arms on the table and tilted his upper body towards us.  "We had a bit
of trouble with you last time, as I recall," he went on.  "Sitting on
evidence.  If it'd been left to me, you wouldn't have got away with
it."

I met his gaze and stiffened my own attitude.  "I told you, I'm sorry
you've been troubled.  Just tell your boss I called in as requested.
Come on, Gan."

We managed to escape before he could get in another question.

When we got outside Ganesh asked, "What was all that about?  Why didn't
you tell him?"

"I don't like Cole and he doesn't like me," I said.  "I'm not having
anything to do with him.  He'd only have sneered and told me to get
lost, if I had told him.  It's up to him to tell Morgan I was there. If
he does, she'll be round to see me, you bet.  If he doesn't, I'll wait
until I can see her."

"I just wish," complained Ganesh, 'that whenever the police see you and
me together, I didn't always feel like a criminal.  I thought he was
going to arrest us back there, just for a moment."

"It's not my fault," I snapped.  "The police make everyone feel like
that.  It's the way they treat people."

"No," said Ganesh candidly.  "It's something to do with you.  You upset
them."  "How?"  I demanded.  "I don't know, your manner."

"Tough.  That's the way I am."  I was getting cross now.  Cole had
already ruffled my feathers.  I didn't need Ganesh to start criticising
me.

"Oh, I know that," said Ganesh.  "But I'm used to it and they're
not."

I let it go at that.  I had enough on my mind.  I didn't have time for
introspection.

Instead of getting the good night's sleep I needed, I slept very little
at all.  I tossed and turned as my newly discovered knowledge buzzed
round my brain.  Would the police raid the pub, once I'd told them
about Freddy?  Or was I jumping the gun?  Anything I told them, they'd
take their time checking it out, especially if the job was given to
Cole.  But if they did raid the pub?  Would the play be cancelled? What
would Marty do if it was?  Bonnie got off the bed in disgust and curled
up on the carpet.

I got up in the morning, drank a large mug of black coffee and set out
for work.  As I turned the corner into the street where the pizzeria
was, I saw a sight which drove everything else from my head.  Two
police cars were parked outside the San Gennaro, one behind the
other.

I ran up to the door and found my way barred by a uniformed man.

"The restaurant's closed," he said.

"I work here!"  I retorted.

"Not today, love."

I could see past him now and there was Luigi, arguing furiously with,
of all people, Sergeant Parry.  So that's why they were so cagey down
at the nick.  They were mounting a raid on the pizzeria this morning.
Things had moved faster than I'd anticipated, even without my
invaluable input.

"I can see Parry," I said urgently to the man on the door.  "Tell him
I'm here, Fran Varady."

"Does he want to know that?"  asked the doorkeeper, looking me up and
down.

"Do you want ever to be promoted above PC?"  I retorted.

He gave me a dirty look but called out to one of his colleagues inside.
"Tell the sarge there's a girl here wants to see him.  Name of
Verity."

"Varady!"  I shouted.

The other officer went over to Parry and murmured at him.  Parry
glanced towards the door and said something.  The officer came back.

"She can come in."

Reluctantly, the one on the door allowed me in.

"Sit there," said the other officer, pointing at the nearest table.
"The sergeant will have a word with you in a minute."

I sat down.  From the sound of the kitchen came a crash of utensils and
the sound of Mario swearing vociferously.  Other voices were raised.
The cops were in there, too.  Then, horror of horror, what I'd feared
happened.  Jimmie emerged from his office accompanied by yet another
two officers.

I leapt up.  "Oy!  You can't arrest him!  Not Jimmie!  He hasn't done
anything."

"I keep telling them that, hen," said Jimmie despondently.  "They'll
no' listen to me."

They marched him out.  Then they came back and took away Luigi and
Mario, still swearing.  This left me and Wally, who'd wandered up from
the cellar and stood by us, apparently unmoved, leaning on a broom.

"Right, Fran," said Parry coming over to me.  "Now I've got time for
you."

"Oh, great," I said.  "What's going on here?"

My heart was in my boots.  They'd traced the smuggling racket to the
pizzeria all right.  Jimmie was in deep, deep trouble, and my
information about the identity of Max, when I told them, would only
make things worse.

"Someone," said Parry with his leaden humour, 'has been a naughty
boy."

"Not Jimmie!"  I snapped.

"Yeah, well, we'll sort it out."

"Get him a lawyer," I ordered.  "He should have a lawyer."

"Oh?"  Parry's moth-eaten eyebrows twitched.  "Needs one, does he?"

"Of course he does; you know Jimmie.  You'll get him all confused.
He'll say anything."

"If he wants a lawyer, he can request one," said Parry.

"What's the charge?"  I shouted.

"Someone," Parry confided, 'has been running a pretty little racket.
This pizzeria is only part of it, part of the distribution network."

"Distributing the illegal aliens?"  I asked.

He blinked.  "What have they got to do with it?"

It was my turn to do a double-take.  "Aren't you investigating a racket
smuggling in illegal aliens?"

"Indeed we are.  But we do have more than one investigation going on at
any one time, you know.  This is something else."

The effect of his words on my brain was like someone slamming on all
the brakes of a runaway train.  When the sound of grinding metal had
subsided in my head, I croaked, "How, something else?"

"If only a policeman's life was like it is on TV," said Parry.  "Just
one job at a time.  Instead of having to be in six places at once
following up six different investigations.  This has got nothing to do
with that lorry you reported.  It's something quite different."

"What?"  I almost screamed in frustration.

"Dodgy wine," said Parry.  "They bring in a tanker of the cheap stuff,
take it to a bottling plant they've got hidden out at a farm in Kent,
bottle it and label it as expensive stuff and sell it on to restaurants
and bars all over the country.  They don't just distribute it through
their own places.  You'd be surprised where some of it ends up."

Parry indicated the restaurant around us.  "This outfit provides a
cover for the paperwork.  The wine comes in as if it's coming here,
right?  Or one of the other pizza places they've opened up.  Either
that or to some dodgy import company that normally '

I interrupted him.  "Don't tell me.  It normally imports Italian
decorated tiles."

He looked surprised.  "How did you know that?"

"Inspired guess," I muttered.

"Yeah."  Parry eyed our surroundings.  "Tiles like these.  Nice, aren't
they?  I wouldn't mind some like this in my bathroom.  I've just had a
new power shower put in."

This wasn't worthy of comment and I made none.  I hoped I wasn't to be
invited up to Parry's place to see his new domestic installations.  Not
that I'd go.  But Parry is thick enough to ask me.

Parry, seeing I showed no interest in his private life, returned to the
subject of the wine.  "Once it's labelled up, it can go anywhere. You'd
be surprised at the posh places that have fallen for it.  Some know
they're buying duff goods and some don't.  People trust a label, don't
they?  They think they're getting what they pay for.  It's a real
racket.  The Italian police got on to it before we did.  International
cooperation," he added self-consciously.

Wally cleared his throat noisily in an expression of disdain.  "I've
heared about these international investigations.  They're an excuse for
freebies, that's what they are.  Free jaunts to Italy, was it?"

"No, it was not!"  snarled Parry.  "Leastways I didn't get one."

"Better luck next time," I told him.

"Leave it out, Fran," said Parry wearily.  "I've had enough aggro this
morning."  He nodded towards the corridor and the entry to the cellar.
"We found some of it down there, labelled up as the best stuff."

"I told you," wheezed Wally from his broom-prop.  "I told you his wine
was no good."  He shuffled forwards.  "People think I don't know one
wine from another one.  That Luigi, he tried to tell me it was all good
stuff.  I knew better.  I'd tried it.  He didn't pull the wool over my
eyes.  I know about wine."

"Well, I suppose you've drunk enough of it," said Parry with a look of
disgust.

"That's right," said Wally.  "I'm a connoisseur, I am."  He drew
himself up.  "You can't judge a bottle by its label, right?  His wine
has good labels and it's plonk.  Now me, you'd look at me and give me a
bad label, right?  Think I don't know nothing."

He pushed his whiskery face into that of Parry, who drew back.

"I used to work in the wine trade," said Wally.  "Years ago before I
got me troubles.  I was a buyer for a very reputable company.
Everything else has gone wrong for me, but I still know what's a good
wine and what isn't!  I know about scams, too.  I seen 'em worked
before.  They do the wine trade no good.  Here, I got something for
you."

He began to search inside his voluminous shabby raincoat with its booze
stains and grease marks.  Both Parry and I watched this activity with
some alarm.

Eventually Wally located and withdrew a battered exercise book.  "I
wrote it all down," he said.  "I knew you lot would turn up one day, so
I kept a record, see?  All the deliveries, the dates they come and what
was in 'em.  And I sampled the wines, too," he added virtuously.  "Just
to make sure they weren't the real stuff.  I've drunk some really
horrible muck since I've been working here.  Still, all in a good
cause."

"My heart bleeds for you," retorted Parry.  "You didn't think to come
to us with this information before?"  He took the book gingerly from
Wally's outstretched hand.

"Oh, yes, and you'd have believed me, would ya?"  scoffed Wally.
"Anyway, we'll all lose our jobs now, won't we?  Me, her there' he
pointed a yellowed fingernail at me 'and Jimmie what is a good mate of
mine.  He's done nothing.  He's got no idea what they was up to.  They
run rings round him.  They treated me like dirt.  So I thought, right,
when the coppers do turn up, I'll be ready with a little bit of
information for 'em.  Might even get them to give me a few quid."

"Don't count on it," said Parry.

Wally glowered.  "It took you long enough to get here, international
cooperation or not," he said in a last thrust.

"You'd better go off home, Fran," said Parry to me.  "It looks like
I've got to take a statement from Deep Throat here."

I went to the news agent and sought out Ganesh.

"Why aren't you at work?"  he asked.  He lowered his voice and glanced
towards Hari.  "Have you heard from the nick?"

"No well, in a way, but not what I expected.  Ganesh, I need to talk to
you.  Just as I was thinking I'd got things worked out, it turns out I
haven't.  Something pretty disastrous has happened."

In as few words as possible I described what had happened that morning
at the pizzeria.

Even Ganesh was silenced for a few moments.  Then he whistled.  "You
were right about something going on there, after all."

I took that as an apology for all the doubts he'd expressed and
accepted it graciously as such.  "I was right something was going on.
It just wasn't what I thought it was."  I sighed.  "What really hurts
is that Wally told me, when I chatted to him in the cellar, that the
wine was dodgy.  Why didn't I listen?"

"Because your mind was fixed on Ion's story of Max.  Also because, like
everyone else, you thought Wally was just an old soak whose brains were
pickled."

Yes, exactly.  I'd searched that cellar and even hunted among the wine
racks, handling the evidence, but it had never occurred to me that
there was a different sort of racket being run from there.  As Ganesh
said, my mind had been fixed on Ion and nothing else.

"So what do I do now?"  I asked dispiritedly.

"You do what Parry told you to do," Ganesh said with decision.  "You go
home and rest up.  We've still got to get through the play.  You need
to be able to concentrate.  Besides, you gave Cole a message for Morgan
and she might try and contact you."

He was making sense.  Ganesh usually did.  I went home.

My troubles weren't over for the day.  When I got to the house, the
payphone in the hallway was ringing discordantly, echoing round the
hall.  Everyone else must be out.  I nearly left it to exhaust itself,
following Erwin's advice, but it occurred to me it might be Janice
Morgan.  I grabbed the receiver.

"That you, Fran?"  squawked a familiar voice in my ear.  "You all
right, love?"

"Susie!"  I gasped.  "I've been so worried about you.  Did you know
that your flat '

"The cops were here and told me.  My sister's kicking up a devil of a
fuss.  I've moved out of her place and I'm staying in a B and B. At
least they don't know me here.  I was wondering about you, Fran.
Perhaps you ought to move out of town for a while as well."

"I can't," I said.  "I've got the play.  What I haven't got is a job
any more."  I told her about the pizzeria.

"Didn't I tell you?"  she asked.  "Didn't I say you'd get there one day
and find the place crawling with police?"

"Yeah, you did."  Everyone had been telling me things.

"We were both right, then, after all, Fran.  I thought it was a funny
outfit, so did you."

"Only right in principle.  Yes, it was dodgy.  They were up to
something.  I just guessed the wrong racket.  A scam with wine never
entered my head.  No wonder Luigi didn't like me criticising the
stuff."

"That Luigi," said Susie in a sentimental way.  "I suppose they'll put
him away for a bit."  She sounded regretful.

I hoped they put him away for a long time.  He was the sort to go
looking for revenge and if he ever got to learn that I'd been telling
everyone I thought the pizzeria was dodgy, he'd come looking for me.

Susie saw things in a different light.  "So now you can come and work
with me at the agency!"  she crowed.

Heaven help us.  "Susie!"  I yelled into the phone.  "You haven't got
an agency.  You haven't even got a flat!  It's burned out.  I was there
when it went up.  It cost me my eyebrows and the front of my hair."

"What were you doing there?"  she asked.

"Checking on you and I think I saw the guy who torched it '

I broke off and was silent long enough to make her shout my name
repeatedly down the line.

"What's going on?  What's up with you, Fran?  Are you sure you weren't
hurt?"

"I wasn't hurt," I said slowly.  "But my brain's been on hold.  It's
just started working again."  Before she could start asking more
questions, I added, "Give me a call when you're coming back to London.
I'm really sorry about your flat."  I hung up.

Cole had apparently done as I'd asked.  Shortly after my phone
conversation with Susie, Morgan turned up.

"Right!"  she snapped, marching in and plonking herself down on my
sofa.  "What's all this I hear from Sergeant Cole?  Why wouldn't you
speak to him?  If it was about the arson attack at Mrs.  Duke's flat
you could have made a simple statement.  You're messing me around,
Fran.  You ought to know better than that.  I'm very busy and I have a
lot of things to think about without traipsing out here."

"So," I said, 'have I. "What was more, I'd had some time to think about
them.  She might be in a real old tetchy mood, but I wasn't going to be
hassled.  "First of all, I want to ask you something."

She gave me that blank look the police have to perfection.  "You can
ask me anything you like, Fran.  I'll answer if I can.  But don't count
on it."

"The other night," I began, 'when you came here and talked about my new
job and the play, was that just trying to find out if I knew anything
about what was going on at the pizzeria?  Or were you also asking about
the pub?"

She flicked imaginary fluff from the lapels of her navy-blue jacket.
"General enquiries.  We raided the pizzeria this morning, but you know
that.  You spoke to Sergeant Parry there."

"And I asked Parry if the raid was to do with the illegal aliens racket
you were looking into but it wasn't.  So why, when you came to see me
here, did you link the pizzeria and the smuggling investigation?"

"I didn't," she said.  "You did.  If you recall, I was also enquiring
into a suspicious death."

"Ion Popescu," I said.  "He died because he was looking for the fat man
called Max and he thought he'd seen him at the pizzeria."

She nodded.  "Maybe he did.  A restaurant is a public place.  We have
no reason to link the traffic in illegal immigrants with the pizzeria.
Nor, in our investigations into the business affairs of the pizzeria
and its owners, have we come across anyone called Max."

"But I have," I said.  "Only he's not at the pizzeria.  Freddy, the
landlord of The Rose, used to wrestle under the name of Max the
Mangler.  I found out last night.  That's why I went to the police
station.  But I wasn't speaking to Cole about it.  He makes it clear he
thinks I'm trash.  But look, seen in poor light, Freddy would appear
fat.  Freddy is always visiting other local businesses arranging his
charity events.  Perhaps that's why Ion saw him go in the pizzeria.
Incidentally," I added.  "Jimmie hasn't got anything to do with any of
it, not the wine scam, nothing."

"Stick to the illegal immigrants," she said shortly.  "I'll check what
you say about the wrestling alias, but it could be no more than a
coincidence."

"That pub," I said firmly, 'is where you should be looking.  There's
another thing I've realised, and it has to do with Ion's death and the
fire at Susie Duke's flat."

She stiffened and gave me a steely look.  "Go on, Fran."

"Last night we had a dress rehearsal at the pub.  That's when I learned
about Freddy also being known as Max.  One of the other members of the
cast was grumbling about the smell in the dressing room upstairs.  The
dressing room is just a cubbyhole really and it never gets aired out.
All the pub smells that have found their way up there are trapped
inside.  Do you know the sort of smell I mean?  It's like if you go
past a pub early in the morning when they've got the doors open and are
cleaning the place up after the night before.  A real fug seeps out,
beer dregs, nicotine, disinfectant, all the dust raised from
vacuum-cleaning the carpets and upholstery..  . That's the smell that
lingers in the dressing room upstairs, plus all the make-up scents. And
that's what I caught on the hooded top the man was wearing at Susie's
flat.  I told you about him.  I passed him as I was going into the
block.  He was coming out, in a hurry and not wanting to be seen. I
told you his clothing had a funny smell.  I thought it might be
cigarettes.  It was, partly.  I'd come across it before, but I didn't
register what it was.  The night Ion died, I followed him into the
underground station as you know.  A man stepped in front of me as I
went to get a ticket, a big chap in a jogger's top.  I didn't pay him
much attention, I was concentrating on buying a ticket and catching up
with Ion.  But I got a whiff of the same odour.  Pub odour.  Whoever
the man is, he has to do with a pub, not just as a client but working
there.  He hangs up his jacket in some back room or other and the smell
has got into it."

"Are you saying the man was Freddy?"

I shook my head.  "I don't think so.  I think I'd have recognised
Freddy at the Tube station.  Even at Susie's flat, when the man had his
hood pulled up over his head, I think I might have known it was Freddy,
if it was.  The fire-setter was the wrong shape.  Freddy's broad and
barrel-chested but not all that tall.  All his muscle has turned to
flab.  The guy I passed as I went in was tall and mega-fit, so was the
man at the Tube station.  Anyway, Freddy doesn't do his own dirty
work."

She looked thoughtful but then turned brisk.  "Right, this is what I
want you to do, Fran.  I want you to carry on as normal.  Our
investigations are at a critical point.  We're not ready to move yet
and we don't want to be forced into a move because of a piece of
information from you that we'll need to check out very carefully. Don't
tell anyone about this.  Have you?"

"Only Ganesh," I said.

"So, don't tell anyone else.  Just act natural when you're at the pub.
Tell Mr.  Patel the same.  Concentrate on that play.  It's tonight,
isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, surprising myself with the lack of enthusiasm in my
voice.

She got up to go.  "I hope everything goes well.  I won't wish you luck
because theatre people don't like that, do they?  So, break a leg,
Fran.  Remember what I said.  Behave naturally.  Don't talk to anyone
about Freddy being known as Max.  It could still turn out to be
coincidence, you know."

"It isn't," I said.  "It's not going to be easy, behaving normally
around Freddy."

"You're an actor," she retorted.  "Act."

I told her thanks and watched her leave.  She was right, of course.  I
needed something else to give her before she could start turning
Freddy's place upside down.  Right then, I didn't see where I was going
to get it.

Chapter Fifteen

Difficult as it was, I had to make a real effort on Saturday afternoon
to put everything other than the play out of my mind.  I put on my
costume and tried speaking my lines and making appropriate gestures
acting, in other words while wearing it.  It was immediately clear I
had a problem.  Just walking up and down, concentrating on my feet as
I'd done for Susie, was fine.  It was when I tried to forget my feet
that I kept tripping over the hem.  Finally I lifted it in both hands
to keep it clear of the pink pumps.  That made it safer to move around
but denied me the use of my arms.  I really should have had it with me
at the dress rehearsal.  That's what dress rehearsals are for, to find
out these little problems.  To move around the stage in my jeans and
trainers had been fine.  Moving around in this clobber would be
something else.  I found needle and thread and settled down to shorten
it.  I wished I'd let Susie do it when she'd offered.  I am not a
natural seamstress.  Grandma Varady had been a wizard at this sort of
thing.  She would measure me up and cut out a beautifully fitting dress
or shirt without any paper pattern.  If, from heaven, she was able to
see me sitting there sticking the needle in my fingertips, twisting the
thread into knots and swearing, she'd throw up her hands in despair.
That any granddaughter of hers ... Erwin knocked on the door around
four, just as I'd finished my task and was mopping the blood off my
punctured fingers.  He wanted to tell me how much he and his mates had
enjoyed the rehearsal.

"It was like, really good, you know?"  He sat on my sofa, beaming.
Along with the gold chains and rings, he also had a couple of gold
teeth.  "My mates thought it was great.  They'd never seen a play
before.  Well, only the nativity play at Christmas when they were in
infants' school, you know?"

"I remember doing that sort of thing," I reminisced.  "I played Mary
one year.  The doll they gave me for the Baby Jesus was so old, when I
picked it up from its cradle, the head came away.  It was hard to keep
the illusion going after that.  And then Joseph was sick all over the
stage.  One of the Angel Gabriel's wings fell off.  It was a pretty
jinxed production, even by infant school standards.  The following year
I played the donkey in a papier mache mask, and fell off the stage
because I couldn't see where I was going.  I hope our show tonight
doesn't turn out like that."

"No way!"  said Erwin confidently.

"What did you think of The Rose?"  I asked.

"We liked the look of the place.  If the landlord will hire us, we'd
like to do some gigs there.  We're definitely going to give it a
try."

I made us both coffee and asked him to hear my lines.  He entered into
the spirit of the thing and fed me the cues with gusto.  We got through
it at top speed and without any ghastly silences on my part.

"Hey, girl, you're word-perfect!"  declared Erwin.

"I've got the collywobbles," I said.  "Stage fright big-time."

"Loosen up.  It'll be fine.  You know your lines.  So long as the
others know theirs, what can go wrong?"

"I don't know," I mumbled.  "Everything seems to be going wrong
recently.  Why should the play be any different?  Oh well, at least
Silvio and Mario won't be there."

"Who are they?"  enquired Erwin.

I explained they were owner and cook respectively at the pizzeria where
I'd been working.  "But I'm not working there any longer, it seems.  I
suppose the job as manageress Silvio offered me is out, too."

Erwin asked, why?  I told him, because they were all in gaol.  He
sympathised.

"Maybe they'll get bail," he said.

"Even if they do, they'll be too busy with their lawyers to give time
to come to the play.  Funnily enough, I didn't want them to be there.
Except for Jimmie, the manager.  I wouldn't have minded Jimmie being
there.  Do you remember him?  He used to run the Hot Spud Cafe."

Erwin nodded.  "I remember his baked potatoes.  They were sort of weird
but he was a decent guy.  Shit, the cops pick him up too?"

"I'm afraid so.  I'm sure he hasn't done anything."

"The cops arrest people all the time," opined Erwin.  "But mostly they
don't have the evidence to go to court and have to let them go.  Don't
worry about your mates."

He jingle-jangled away.

When I got to the pub that evening, I found that everything but the
play had been relegated in my mind to 'other business' Tonight was the
show and nothing else mattered.  Get through tonight, worry about all
the other things tomorrow.

I discovered that Denise had been as good as her word and all the
radiators upstairs were belting out raging heat.  The cast had gathered
and it was clear I wasn't the only one nursing stage fright.  Nigel was
as white as a sheet.  He sat on a chair, shaking his head, and saying
he couldn't remember a single word of his part.  Mick had swallowed so
many antihistamines to stop his nose running that he was in a sort of
trance and his throat was too dry to speak properly.  Marty, who was
playing Sir Henry Baskerville as well as being director, if you recall,
kept rubbing his hands together like Lady Macbeth as he prowled up and
down the narrow corridor which led to the dressing room.

Inside the dressing room, Ganesh, Owen and Carmel were getting in one
another's way.  Carmel, in her padded Mrs.  Hudson costume, took up the
most room and kept bumping into things.  The padding was also
inappropriate now the place was heated like a hothouse.  Trickles of
perspiration ran down her forehead and smudged her eye make-up.  She
was grousing non-stop in her usual way.

I got into my costume, making things worse, sticking my elbows into
Ganesh and treading on Carmel's foot.  Irish Davey then turned up with
the hound and slumped down beside his pet in one corner.  "Youse all
right there?"  he enquired cheerfully.

"Keep that dog away from me!"  ordered Carmel.

"And me," said Ganesh nervously.

"Sure, he's just an owd softie," said Irish comfortably.

The old softie fixed Ganesh with a baleful eye and growled deep in his
throat.

"What's he doing that for?"  Ganesh's voice rose hysterically.

"He's in a strange place and you're all running round like maniacs.
Just relax and the dog will relax," said Irish.  "He's picking up on
the atmosphere, so he is."

"He's adding to the atmosphere," muttered Carmel.  There was indeed a
distinct doggy odour now blending with the rest.

"I'll go and make up somewhere else," said Ganesh, grabbing a box of
assorted items and fleeing.

He had the right idea.  I'd begun to think I was going to be sick, just
like poor little Joseph in our school play all those years ago.  I left
the overpowering fug and found the quietest place, ironically the
stage, behind the drawn curtains.  The only other person there was
Denise, shuffling her prompter's script in a harassed way.  I did a few
practice walks in my newly shortened skirt.

"Feeling OK, Fran?"  asked Denise.

"Butterflies," I confessed.

"Be all right once you start.  Got a good crowd out front."

Certainly from the other side of the curtain I could hear a loud rumble
of voices.  I peeped through.  The functions room was packed wall to
wall.  In the front row, left of the aisle, sat Uncle Hari with
Ganesh's mum and dad, his sister Usha and her husband, Jay, and
Ganesh's friend Dilip with his wife and three children.  In the front
row right, on the other side of the aisle, sat a set of beefy gents in
tight suits, accompanied by bottle-blonde females in frilly blouses and
those skirts with uneven hems that look as if they're made out of old
net curtains.  These, presumably, were friends of Freddy.  There was an
empty seat among them which I guessed was to be filled by our landlord
himself.  No sign of Jimmie or anyone from the pizzeria.  They were
presumably all still in custody.  But any seats left empty by their
absence had been filled already.

"Full house," I croaked.

"What's that?"  asked Denise behind me.  There was a rattle of papers
hitting the floor.  "Oh, blast, I've dropped the ruddy thing."

"I said, full house.  You all right there, Denise?"  I turned and saw
her scrabbling on the floor to recover the script.  It hadn't been
bound in any way, and the pages were jumbled.  I knelt down to help and
we managed to sort them into order.

"I'd be all right if I could read this perishing thing," she
grumbled.

"Is Freddy coming up to watch?"  It was hard even to say his name and
sound natural and relaxed.

"Course he is!"  said Denise, wide-eyed.  "Think my Maxie would miss a
stage show?"

"Who's minding the bar?"  I bur bled

"Oh, Trevor's doing that.  You know Trev, our barman, don't you?  He
can manage.  Most of the regulars are up here, anyway."

Too true.  A more critical audjence couldn't have been assembled.
They'd all come to get their money's worth and gaffes on stage wouldn't
be tolerated.  For Ganesh's family, our success was a matter of
honour.

Denise shook her script at me.  "I hope you all know your cues.  It's
no use relying on me.  I've told you, I can't read the blooming
thing."

It's always a comfort when your prompter says something like that.

With any performance, once it starts, you don't have time to be
nervous.  You just have to go for it.  It all went well, too.  It
really did.  I have to repeat this now because it's easy to forget how
smoothly everything clicked together until Irish's hound ran across the
stage.

It wasn't the fault of the hound.  It did just as it had been trained
to do.  The build-up to its appearance had been terrific.  The audience
had heard its howls (tape-recorded) but its actual appearance when it
leapt on to the boards was electrifying.  The audience gasped.  Dilip's
wife gave a little scream.  The kids all cheered.  The ladies in the
frilly blouses squeaked, clutched at their decolletes with one hand and
at their beefy escorts' arms with the other.  Freddy beamed and gave
the stage the thumbs-up.

And then it happened.

Someone downstairs had gone out into the backyard and stupidly left the
door open.  Digger, well aware that something was going on, had slipped
in unobserved and made his way upstairs.  He plodded in at the back of
the functions room just as the hound bounded from one set of wings and
hit the stage in a scrabble of claws.

Since originally hearing the tape-recorded howls relayed from earlier
rehearsals, Digger's suspicions that another dog had been smuggled on
to the premises had festered in his evil little brain.  Now he saw the
intruder for himself.

Bellowing a challenge in a barrage of furious barks, Digger rocketed
down the centre aisle, bounded up on the stage and made straight for
the hound.  The hound had almost disappeared into the far wings but
whirled round and, seeing himself about to be attacked, didn't
hesitate.  His motto clearly was: get in first.  The hound hurled
himself at Digger.  Digger hurled himself at the hound.  The next thing
we knew the two dogs were locked in mortal combat with resulting
pandemonium on stage and off.

On the stage nothing could be made out but a whirl of fur,
blood-curdling snarls and snapping teeth, saliva flying everywhere.

Front of house, Dilip's wife grabbed her children and dragged them down
the aisle to the exit.  All the kids were crying, not because they
wanted to get out but because they wanted to stay.  The frilly ladies
all stood up and screamed.  Some of them, in the hullabaloo, perhaps
confusing dogs and mice, climbed on to their chairs.  Freddy pounded to
the stage, yelling at Digger.  Irish appeared from the wings, yelling
at the hound.  The gents in the tight suits, and nearly every other
male customer of The Rose who was in the room, began to lay bets with
one another on the outcome.

Denise grabbed my arm.  "Downstairs!"  she shouted.  "Soda siphons!"

We got down the stairs somehow, with me stumbling over my skirt,
squeezing past the fleeing women and children.

"Dogfight, Trev!"  yelled Denise.

Trevor grabbed a soda siphon, Denise grabbed another and I did the
same.  We all three raced back upstairs,

followed by those patrons of the pub who had not been attending the
play but now didn't want to miss out on the action.

Our arrival with the soda siphons was greeted with cheers by half the
audience and shouts from the other half, the gamblers, not to
interrupt, since they had money on it.

We jumped onto the stage and sprayed the dogs with jets from the
siphons until they broke apart.  In the split second before they
re-engaged, Irish dashed in and seized hold of his dog and Freddy
tackled Digger.  The combatants were dragged apart still barking
defiance and dripping blood.  The blood had me worried for a moment.
But although both dogs had been bitten I was relieved to see, from
their heroic struggles to return to the fray, that neither was actually
incapacitated.

Freddy began to haul Digger towards the wings.  At that moment, the
hound slipped his collar and Irish's despairing grasp, and leapt at his
opponent.  Freddy, seeing the hound coming at him, released Digger and
jumped back, and the two animals took up their battle where they'd left
off.

"There's no more full siphons!"  shouted Trevor

Something had to be done.  I did the only thing I could think of: I
yanked at the nearest stage curtain.  Old and rotten, it gave way and
fell in a heap on the stage.

"Take the other side!"  I shouted at Denise.

She understood.  She got hold of one side, I grabbed the other and we
threw it over the struggling dogs.  Freddy and Irish threw themselves
on top of the heaving mass in the centre and forced it into two
separate writhing shapes.  Somehow Freddy extricated Digger and Irish
retrieved his collarless animal, hanging on to him by the simple
expedient of wrapping both arms tightly round the hound's neck.

This time Freddy managed to get Digger off the stage.  He dragged him
down the aisle.  Digger protested, growling and trying to sit down.  It
was a good thing Freddy was so strong.  Eventually, the pair of them
disappeared through the door at the back of the room.  We could hear
them going down the staircase.  Digger, still refusing to cooperate,
landed on each step of the descent with a thud.  Freddy's language was
amazing.

I stood at the side of the stage surrounded by empty siphons, my
costume drenched with soda water.  Denise's red wig had fallen off in
the scramble and lay somewhere out there in the auditorium.  Irish was
examining his pet and lamenting.  The hound sat with lolling tongue and
heaving flanks.  He appeared oblivious of his injuries.  Digger's
departure had obviously convinced him he'd won the scrap.  His whole
demeanour was of a dog well pleased with himself.

Ganesh appeared at my elbow.

"I told you," he said.  "I told you I was worried about that dog."

"It wasn't the hound's fault," I protested.  "Some idiot let Digger
in."

Ganesh was having none of it.  "Never act with children and animals.
Right?"

"Right," I said.

After the departure of the two dogs, we attempted to pick up where we'd
been interrupted.  We were troupers, after all.  The show must go on.
But the audience's attention

had been broken and throughout the closing scenes a soft persistent
rumble of chatter from front of house, and distant howls from Digger
shut out in the yard, distracted us.  We got through it somehow and
were enthusiastically applauded.  It would have been nice to think the
applause had been purely for our acting abilities.  But at least we
couldn't say the play had been a failure.  In its own way it had been a
rip-roaring success.  The patrons of The Rose who'd formed the bulk of
the audience left declaring it was the best show they'd seen in
years.

"They're mostly sporting men," explained Freddy to me afterwards.

The place had cleared and we were trying to tidy up.  If he picked up
any wariness on my part towards him, it could be put down to what had
happened.  Freddy was used, in any case, to people being wary around
him.  Marry sidled up, his round face a picture of misery.  He looked
near to tears.

"What's the matter with you, then?"  asked Freddy.  "Worried about your
money?  I'll see you and the others get your cut out of the profits.
Denise will sort out the financial side of it.  She takes care of all
that for the pub.  You come round tomorrow about ten, before we open.
The money will be ready for you."  Freddy added his finest accolade.
"You done well."

"Thanks," I said, reflecting that the same sort of sporting audience
once attended the Roman circus, cheering on the lions and whooping with
delight as one gladiator sliced up another.

"This wouldn't have happened if they'd done one of my plays," said
Marty mournfully, when Freddy had gone.

"It was a pity Digger got in.  It was going really well, Marty, up to
then, honestly.  Anyway, they all enjoyed it."  My poor consolation did
little to cheer him up.

"Yes," he mumbled.  "The dog.  I'll I'll see you around, Fran."

On Sunday morning I was awoken by the telephone ringing out in the
hall.  I pulled the duvet over my head and tried to ignore it.  Then I
heard footsteps running down the stairs as one of the upstairs tenants
went to answer it.  Moments later, he was hammering on my door.

"Fran, hey, Fran!  You awake?  Phone for you!"

Wouldn't it just be?  Probably Susie again.  I crawled out of bed,
pulled on my jeans, and stumbled out into the hall.  The receiver
dangled at the end of the lead.  I picked it up.

"Susie?"

"Denise here," said a woman's voice.  "How are you this morning, Fran?"
She sounded remarkably fresh and cheery.

"Just about conscious," I said.

"That Marty hasn't turned up to collect your money," she said.  "I
worked out what you were owed, divided it up and put it in individual
brown envelopes.  I tried to ring him.  He gave me his mobile number.
But he's got it switched off and he isn't picking up on any messages I
leave.  He hasn't got the phone in his flat.  I expect he just switched
off his mobile for a bit of peace and quiet, and he's overslept."

Lucky him.  "What do you want me to do?"  I muttered.

"Come over and collect it, if you've got a bit of time free.  I don't
want it hanging about here.  Good night last night, wasn't it?  Pity
about Digger.  I don't know how he got in.  Still, nobody seemed to
mind, did they?"

She hung up and I realised I hadn't had time to say I was too busy or
too tired to go over to the pub.

Once I'd showered, dressed and had a cup of coffee I felt better,
almost human.  I began to make plans.  After I'd collected the money
from the pub, I could walk over to the news agent  They're open until
twelve on a Sunday because of the papers.  I could give Ganesh his
envelope and even face Hari.  Poor Hari, he'd have been so disappointed
in the way the play finished up a dogfight, collapsing curtains and
general mayhem.  Still, you couldn't say the audience hadn't got its
money's worth.

Ganesh and I could decide what to do for the rest of the day.  We
didn't have to worry about learning lines or rehearsing.  Now the play
was over, we'd got our free time back again.

I left the house, whistling.

Chapter Sixteen

It was quite a nice, sunny morning and my good mood lasted until I
arrived at The Rose.  Perhaps it was the memory of the previous
evening's disaster, but my heart sank at the sight of its familiar
glazed-tiled exterior.  It was nearly half past eleven.  Though they
wouldn't be open for business until twelve, as it was Sunday, the door
was ajar.  I pushed it wide and went in.

The design of the place didn't admit much daylight.  Even now, on a
fine day, it was necessary to have a single electric light on, dangling
from the ceiling and making a pool of yellow brightness in the centre
of the floor.  It emphasised the brush marks left by the vacuum cleaner
which had recently been passed over it and made the remnants of the
original art nouveau stained-glass glitter.  Chairs were still upended
on tops of tables.  The air had that lingering aroma by now so familiar
to me: beer and nicotine, aftershave and body odour, strong commercial
disinfectant from the lavatories.  It was only slightly dispelled by
the fresh air coming in through the front door.

Beyond the light the bar was in shadows and behind it, moving quietly,
stood Freddy.  He was methodically polishing glasses and setting them
back on a shelf.  Each was placed the exact same distance from its
neighbour, in a dead straight line.  There was a mirror behind the
shelf and in it the glasses were reflected in crystal ranks.  I was
again struck by Freddy's bulbous outline, dark in silhouette against
the softly gleaming rows of glasses and shining brass of the pumps.  A
prickle of fear ran up my spine.  Was I stupidly walking into the
lion's den?  I wished my mind hadn't been so fuzzy that morning when
Denise rang.  Any excuse would have got me out of this visit.  I should
at least have told someone I was coming here.

It was too late to change my mind and slip out again.  He'd seen me.
"Hello, Fran," he said.  "All right?"

It seemed a harmless enough greeting.  I knew he wasn't mad at us
because of the play.  He'd been pleased with that.  He looked happy
enough now.  Well, as happy as Freddy ever looked.

"Denise rang me," I said.  "She said to come over and collect our share
of the takings."

"Yeah, we done well."  He shook out the cloth and hung it over a
polished brass rail.  "Denise has got it all worked out.  Go on in the
back room."

He nodded towards a door beside the bar.

I walked past him and pushed open the door.  I found myself in a small
crowded room.  Here, obviously, was where Denise did the accounts.
There was a large old kneehole desk, oak, with a green leather top.  It
was rather a splendid affair.  Freddy must have got it at auction
somewhere.  The top of it was covered with papers of one kind and
another and among them was a neat stack of little brown envelopes.
Other things were kept in this back room.  There were some spare
tubular chairs, stacked in a tower.  Beside them stood a wonky pillar
of boxes of crisps (cheese and onion).  Beyond that was an
old-fashioned hat- and coat stand the sort with a crown of hooks around
a central pole, like a kind of indoor tree.  Various outdoor garments
hung from it.  Beyond that a door led out into the backyard where
Digger prowled.

Anyone, I thought, coming to work here, would hang his outdoor jacket
up there and, over a period of time, it would absorb the odour from the
bar seeping through the door.

But apart from all these things, the room was empty.  No sign of
Denise.  I wondered what I was supposed to do.  I went to the desk and
checked out the brown envelopes.  Each was neatly addressed to one of
the cast.  They were all sealed down so I couldn't tell how much was in
them, but they seemed fairly fat.

There was a click from the outside door to the yard.  A draught of cold
air wafted in.  I looked up, expecting to see Denise.  But it wasn't
Denise, it was Trevor, the barman.

"Hello, darling," he said.  He pulled the tracksuit top he was wearing
over his head and, as I'd expected, hung it on the hat stand  He put up
a hand and ran it over his shaven head in an automatic smoothing
gesture, as if he still had hair up there.  He was staring at me.  I
didn't like the way he looked at me and I hadn't liked the way he'd
said hello.  I never like being called 'darling'.

I'd never paid really close attention to him before.  He'd been just a
figure behind the bar.  In the small confines of this room, he looked
even bigger.  His face was broad, flat and scarred with what must have
been dreadful youthful acne.  His nose and eyes were all too small for
the size of his face; they seemed lost in that pockmarked expanse.  The
eyes, watching me, were dark and somehow feral.  Though they studied
me, I couldn't engage with them.  The surrounding skin was puffed and
scarred.  At some time or other, he'd been in the fight game.  It was
like being observed by some large, not very friendly wild animal.

There was another click of a door, the one I'd come through from the
bar.  I turned, hoping that this time it was Denise.  But it was
Freddy.  He came in and quietly shut the door behind him.  I was caught
between the two of them.  It was payback time.

I was terrified but I did my best not to show it.  I tried to keep my
head clear.  If I was going to talk myself out of this, it would take
all my wits.

"Sit down, why don't you?"  Freddy suggested.  "Denise will be back
later.  She just had to go out for a while, see a neighbour.  The old
lady's not too well.  Denise likes to keep an eye on her."

I didn't know if this was supposed to put me at my ease.  It didn't.
But I sat down on a chair by the desk.

Trevor had remained by the hat stand  Freddy moved a little nearer and
looked down at me.

"I just wanted to have a little word," he said.  "Nothing to worry
about.  I'm sure we can sort it out."

I wanted to say something but I couldn't.  I gulped.

"You're a good girl, I know.  You and your mates did a nice job on the
play and I'm pleased about that.  But I'm not pleased about some other
things."

"Yes?"  I croaked.

"A little bird's been singing," said Trevor from his hat stand

Freddy glanced briefly at him.  "It seems there's been a
misunderstanding," he said to me.  "You told someone you thought you
saw me somewhere.  But obviously you didn't.  It was a mistake."

A mistake that I had named Freddy or a mistake to have spoken to the
police?  Both.

"I didn't tell anyone I saw you."  I said.  It was true, I hadn't.

His mouth creased upwards in what would have been a smile if there'd
been any humour in it.  "Don't mess me about, darling.  You told the
cops you saw me behind the old cinema, early on Thursday morning."

"No," I said indignantly.  "I didn't say anything of the sort.  I told
them I saw a fat man."

It struck me, as I said this, that it wasn't very polite.  I hoped
Freddy wasn't touchy about his figure.

He patted the swell of his stomach.  "Since I gave up the wrestling
game," he said with regret.

"I didn't say I saw you, how could I?"  I hurried on.  "I didn't see
the man's face.  It wasn't light enough.  I was -I was hiding and I
couldn't see well from where I was."

Freddy and Trevor exchanged glances.  Trevor said, "You gave a name to
the cops."

"No, I only said I saw a fat man."

"You gave them a name later," growled Trevor.

Though already almost paralysed with fear, I felt my insides tighten
even more.  There was only one way they could know this.  Morgan had
put my information into the communal pool and someone on the police
side had tipped them off.  Susie Duke's voice echoed in my memory.  "An
outfit like that has got to have a bent copper or two in its pocket."

If ever I got out of here in one piece, I'd have to warn Morgan she had
a rotten apple to seek out.  But this was a big operation, probably
involving police forces nationwide.  Where did the mole lurk and what
else did Freddy know?

I pulled myself together.  "What's your problem, Freddy?  All I saw in
the cinema yard was a - a shape.  Susie Duke's been teaching me to
drive.  We used the yard.  That's why we were there.  We didn't dream
anyone else used it.  It gave us a real shock when we saw a load of
blokes getting out of a lorry.  We had to report it because Susie's in
the investigation business and she has to keep her reputation clean.
You know, she gets a lot of work from lawyers and even, sometimes,
little jobs from the police."

He was listening closely, watching my lips form the words, as if he
weighed each one.

"So what's your interest in the name Max?"  He raised his eyebrows.
"Why did you tell that woman inspector I used to wrestle under that
name?"

"She came to see me.  She does that," I added, 'drops in from time to
time.  I don't invite her.  She invites herself.  She asked me about
the play.  It was when I was talking to her about that that I must have
let slip what Denise told me, about your wrestling days."

I was getting my story together now.  "I don't know what she made of
it," I said.  "It's nothing to do with me if it gave her ideas.  I'm
not party to police business.  They don't tell me anything."

"But you tell them things, don't cha, darling?"  said Trevor.

"No!"  I snapped at him.  "I'm not a grass!"

Trevor didn't believe me, but Freddy was looking undecided, and it was
Freddy who mattered.

I pushed my luck.  "Why shouldn't I tell Morgan you used to wrestle
under the name of Max the Mangler?"  I asked.  "It's a good name.  Why
don't you want her to know?"

Clearly Freddy's informant hadn't told him everything.  He didn't
appear to know of my acquaintance with Ion.  If I could just stop them
connecting me with Ion, I could yet get out of here, safe and sound. If
they discovered I'd known Ion, I'd had it.  FranVarady, the
disappearing girl.  Just like the magician's cabinet.  In this case,
the cabinet would be represented by Freddy's back room into which I'd
walked, never to be seen again.  Where would they dispose of my body? I
wondered idly.  On a building site probably.  In the foundations of a
block of luxury flats.  Or perhaps they'd just take me down to a lonely
spot on the canal one night and hold my head under the water?

There was a noise from the other side of the door, in the bar.

"Freddy!"  called Denise's voice.  My heart rose.  She was back from
visiting the sick.

Freddy gave me a warning look.  "What d'you want?"  he shouted back.

The door was pushed open and Denise stuck her head into the room.  "I
found four blokes outside, come to see you.  Oh, hello, Fran.  Here for
the money?  It's on the desk.  Freddy, do you want to talk to these
fellers?  They're a band.  They want to know if they can play here a
couple of nights."

"We got references," said a familiar voice from the bar, behind Denise.
"Other people have hired us to play.  They tell you, we're good."

"Erwin!"  I shouted, jumping to my feet.

Trevor took a quick step towards me but the door had opened and Erwin,
followed by the other three members of the band, crowded into the
room.

"Hi, Fran.  What are you doing here?"  His white teeth gleamed and the
gold ones twinkled.

I snatched up the pile of brown envelopes.  "I came to collect our dosh
from the play."

"Hey," said Erwin to Freddy.  "That was a pretty good play.  We didn't
see the real thing.  We saw the dress rehearsal.  It was really
cool."

I could see Freddy and Trevor eyeing up Erwin and the band.  Freddy and
Trevor were big men but there were four of the band.  None of the
quartet was under six-two and hauling all that band equipment around
builds up muscles.

"I'll be off, then!"  I chirped, making for the way out.  "Thanks for
the money."

"Yeah," said Freddy.  "Watch out, now.  Don't do anything I wouldn't."
His face creased in that mirthless smile again.

There was a look on Trevor's face like that of a tiger, suddenly
deprived of the tethered goat.  But he worked for Freddy and if Freddy
was prepared to let me go, that was it.

I squeezed through the band and scuttled out.  I knew I had the play to
thank for my escape.  My story had been thin, but Freddy was still well
disposed towards me because of the show.

I went over to the news agent and gave Ganesh his envelope.

"Such a beautiful play," said Hari.  "A pity about the dog.  But the
play, it was like Shakespeare."  Crumbs.

Ganesh and I usually spent Sunday afternoon together and, because it
was so pleasant, we went for our walk along the canal again, skirting
Regent's Park.

I didn't tell him about my experience that morning.  It was better he
didn't know.  But I felt guilty, not confiding in him, and it made me a
poor conversationalist.

Luckily, Ganesh was still full of his grievance about Digger's entrance
on the scene the previous evening.  I was happy to let him moan on
about it uninterrupted.

When he finally ran out of steam, I said, "Well, we got paid, didn't
we?"

"I am not taking part in any more plays," said Ganesh, still hurry.

"Don't worry, not all plays have dogs in them."

"With or without dogs," he insisted, 'my acting career started and
ended last night."

"I hope mine didn't," I said.

I reflected that, but for the timely arrival of Erwin and his mates, my
career might have come to an abrupt end that morning.  I looked up at
the trees.  What did Dr.  Johnson say about the prospect of being
hanged in the morning serving to concentrate the mind wonderfully?  I
had never thought London so beautiful.

Monday morning saw me with the task of having to contact Morgan and do
it in such a way that nobody else on her team knew.  What I had to tell
her was difficult.  She wouldn't like it.  She might not want to
believe it.  But there was no way Freddy could have known what he did,
if someone down there at the cop shop hadn't told him.

But first of all, I had another job to do: distribute the remaining
envelopes of money.  While I was doing that, I might think up a way to
get hold of Morgan.

I chose the easiest person to find first.  I walked to Carmel's
supermarket, collected a pint of milk and went in search of her.  I
found her on a till marked Baskets Only.  She was involved in a heated
argument with a fat woman pushing a trolley laden with
unhealthy-looking foodstuffs, all high-fat, high-sugar and chemical
additives.  A surly-looking child stood by her, eating a bar of
chocolate.  The kid's teeth already looked to be going bad.

"Only one basket!"  Carmel was saying, jabbing her finger at the notice
above her head.  "That's a trolley."  She pointed at the offending
chariot.

"There's queues at the other checkouts," said the fat woman.  "There's
no queue at this one."

"I can't check your trolley.  Someone might come with a basket and
they'd have to wait.  It wouldn't be fair.  This is a basket-only
checkout."

"Well, I'm not moving," said the woman.  "I'm staying here until you
check my trolley."

Carmel leaned over the shelf and stared hard at the child.

"Where did he get that chocolate bar?"

"None of your business!"  snapped the fat woman.

"It is if he got it in here and you haven't paid for it."

"How can I pay for it if you won't check my trolley?"  asked the
customer triumphantly.

"He's not supposed to eat it if you haven't paid for it.  He's nearly
finished it."

The child crammed the last of the chocolate into his mouth, crumpled up
the wrapper and dropped it on the floor.  He fixed Carmel with a
defiant look.

"Right," said Carmel grimly.  "We have a policy on grazers in this
store.  I'm informing the manager."

"He didn't get it in this friggin' store.  He had it when he come in!"
shouted the woman.  "Persecuting innocent little children," she added.
"You oughta be ashamed of yourself."

Carmel looked past her to me.  "Good morning, madam," she said with
exaggerated politeness.  "Shall I take your pint of milk?"  She reached
out for it, past the fat woman.

"No, you don't!"  snapped the woman, throwing out a beefy arm between
me and Carmel.  "I'm in front of her."

"The lady only has one item," said Carmel loftily.  "I can take that. I
can't take your trolley."

"I'm in a hurry.  I'm double-parked," I said to the woman in a worried
way.  "And I've left my baby in the car seat."

"See?"  said Carmel.  "The lady's double-parked and she's got to get
back to her baby.  You're holding her up."

The fat woman hesitated.  She recognised she wasn't going to win, but
she needed a face-saver.  A wailing infant in a car seat would provide
it.

"Oh, well then .. ."  she muttered ungraciously.

Fortunately a nearby position became free and the woman, still
muttering, backed out her trolley and took it there.  The child
followed.  From somewhere he'd now got a tube of fruit pastilles.  His
pockets must have been stuffed with looted sweets.

"Hello, Fran," said Carmel.  "Play went all right, didn't it?  Except
for the end when that dog of Freddy's got in.  You want that milk or
you just using it for an excuse?"

"An excuse," I said.

"Leave it there, then."  She pointed at a space by her till.  "I'll get
someone to put it back."

I fished out her brown envelope.  "Here's your share of the money.  You
haven't seen Marty since Saturday, I suppose?"

"No.  Don't much want to.  He nearly drove me bonkers with his
directing on that play.  Honestly, who did he think he was?  We weren't
putting it on in the perishing West End, were we?  I mean, I'm serious
about my acting, too.  I've been to umpteen auditions."

"So you haven't got any idea where I can find him?"  I interrupted.

She shook her head.  "Only if you try his flat.  What do you want him
for?"

"To give him his money."

"He'll turn up," she said.  "Here, Fran, if you've left a baby in a
car, you ought to get back to it.  You oughtn't to leave a baby like
that, all on its own.  People are weird.  They might steal it."

"I haven't got a baby," I explained.

She thought about this.  "So, whose baby is it?"

Oh, for heaven's sake ... I wanted to act again but I hoped I wouldn't
have to do it with Carmel.

From there I went to the used-car business where Owen worked.  Here I
was lucky enough to find Nigel as well.  They were leaning on a car
marked Guaranteed and chatting.

"Hello," said Owen.  "Looking for a motor, Fran?"  "I haven't passed my
test yet."

"When you have, come and see me," he offered.  "I'll fix you up with a
nice little second-hand number.  I'll give you a good deal.  You're a
mate.  I'll see you all right."

I thanked him and handed them their envelopes.  They, too, seemed happy
enough with the way the play had gone.  I began to think Marty and I
must be perfectionists.  I asked them if they knew where to find Marty,
but they didn't know where he went during the day or if he-had any kind
of job.

"Try his flat," said Owen.  "Excuse me, I spot a punter."  He made off
towards a man wandering around a nearby vehicle.

Nigel set off with me; it seemed he had nothing else to do.  We went
over to Marty's place.  He had a flat in a converted house, not unlike
mine in outward appearance, but a lot less well maintained.  At
Marty's, the paintwork hadn't been touched for years and had faded and
blistered.  Weeds grew out of the steps leading up to the front door.
The bow window to the left had developed a structural fault and the
brickwork was sagging.  I rang the bell with Marty's name next to it.

No one came, so I rang all the other bells in turn.  Eventually someone
came to the door.  It creaked open to reveal a cross-looking girl with
tangled hair and a real shiner of a black eye.

"Sorry to disturb you," I said politely.  "But I'm trying to find
Marty."

"You rang my bell," she said.

"Yes, because he didn't answer his bell."

"That means he isn't there, then, doesn't it?"  she pointed out,
reasonably enough.

"I know," I said.  "But I'm wondering if you've heard him moving around
the house, coming or going.  I need to contact him."

"He's been directing a play," she said.

"I know, we were in it.  That was Saturday.  Now it's Monday.  No one's
been able to contact him since we all parted on Saturday."

"Well, I don't know anything about it, do I?"  she snapped, slamming
the door in our faces.

"Tell him I've got his money!"  I shouted at the panels.

"Is that right?"  Nigel asked as we walked away.  "No one's been able
to contact Marty?"

"Denise hasn't had any luck.  He's got his mobile switched off.  I'm a
bit worried about him, to tell you the truth.  The play meant so much
to him and the dogfight just ruined it.  He was so disappointed.  I
honestly thought he was going to cry."

"Oh, right," said Nigel.  "Yes, he must be a bit fed up.  But he isn't
going to go and jump off Waterloo Bridge, is he?"

"Well, I don't know," I said.  "He was really stressed out at the last
couple of rehearsals."

"I'll look out for him," said Nigel.  "I'll put the word round that you
want him."

"Thanks.  Nigel."  An idea struck me.  "If you not doing anything else
now, you wouldn't do me a favour, would you?"

"Like?"  Nigel asked.

"There's someone down at the local cop shop I need to speak to.  An
Inspector Morgan.  Only I don't want to go in there myself.  Would you
go in, ask for her, and when you see her, tell her Fran needs to speak
to her urgently?  You must speak only to her, not to anyone else, got
that?"

"Blimey," said Nigel.  "I thought we'd left all the mysteries behind
with, the plot of the play.  What's going on?"

"I just need to see her.  There no catch, Nigel.  Honestly."

He took a bit of persuading but, in the end, curiosity got the better
of him, and he did it.

"I told her," he said, when he came back.  "She said she'd meet you at
one o'clock at the cafe in the middle of Regent's Park.  It sounds like
a perishing James Bond yarn.  What on earth are you doing?"

I ignored the question and looked at my watch.  "Crumbs, I'd better get
going.  Thanks again, Nigel!"

I hurried away before he could quiz me any further.

It was a dry, cool day and it was nice in the park.  When I arrived at
the little cafe I saw the silhouette of Morgan against a window.  She
had decided against sitting outside in the paved area.  It was probably
just a tad cold for that still, and somebody might conceivably have
strolled past and seen us together.  I went inside and made for her
table.

"What's all this about, Fran?"  she asked when I joined her.  "Why did
you send that friend of yours to speak for you?  Why didn't you come in
yourself?  This is my lunch hour.  It'd better be good."

She took a bite from a Danish pastry and flakes drifted down on to her
plate.  Outside, two women had arrived with a mob of dogs.  There must
have been a dozen of them.  No two were remotely alike.  There were big
dogs, small ones, fluffy ones and smooth ones.  Each woman held
half-a-dozen leads and was in the centre of a circle of trotting tykes,
the leads strung out like the spokes of a wheel.  One of the women sat
down at a table and unleashed the dogs.  They began to potter about
without attempting to run off.  This was clearly part of their daily
routine.  The other dog-walker came into the cafe and bought two
coffees which she took back outside.

Morgan and I had been watching the scene.  Now we got back to business.
"I had to speak to you on your own," I said.  "You won't like this, but
I have to warn you.  Someone on your team has a loose mouth."

She had been hoovering up flakes of pastry with a damp forefinger.  She
stopped, hand in mid-air.

"Go on," she said ominously.

I'll say this for her.  She always listens.  She never says not to talk
nonsense before she hears what you've got to say.

I told her about my run-in with Freddy.  "There is no way he could know
Susie and I reported what we saw on Thursday morning, much less that
I'd passed on the information that he used to wrestle under the name
Max the Mangler, unless someone in your outfit tipped him off."

"This is a very serious allegation, Fran."  Her voice was quiet and she
seemed to have herself well under control, but I'd spotted the
split-second flicker of panic in her eyes.  It was the one thing no
senior officer wanted to hear.  "Do you realise," she asked, 'just what
trouble this is going to cause?  Everyone will have to be investigated,
from the top down, including me.  It will have to be done in a way that
won't tip off the guilty party.  I'll have to inform

Superintendent Foxley," she added in a voice which betrayed her
emotion.  Poor Morgan, all those male colleagues waiting for her to
mess it up and now..  .

"I know," I told her grimly.  "It's already got me into one tight
corner and the next time I mightn't be lucky enough to get out of it in
one piece."

She had pulled herself together.  "You're right, you should stay away
from the station.  The same goes for Mrs.  Duke.  I'll get in touch
with her and tell her to stay in Margate for the time being."

"By the way," I said.  "I don't think the blabbermouth is Wayne
Parry."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Neither do I. But it's not like you to defend
Sergeant Parry."

"I don't think he's crooked just because he's a pain," I said.

I also didn't think Parry would drop me in it with Freddy because I
knew he fancied me.  But I didn't tell her that.

"Will you be investigating Freddy now?"  I demanded.  "If he's on the
level, why would he be getting tipped off by a dodgy copper?"

She gave me that steely look.  "I'll sort it out, thank you, Fran." She
then relaxed her attitude a degree and added, "I'm sorry I couldn't
warn you about the restaurant you worked at.  I suppose that's left you
without a job."

"I was going to pack it in anyway."  I eyed the dogs outside.  "I'll
think of something else I can do."

She left the cafe first.  I gave her five minutes to get clear and then
left myself.  The women had gathered up the dogs and gone.  Faintly,
from across the park, I could hear a shrill whistle.

I set off back down the Broad Walk, heading towards the Gloucester Gate
by which I'd entered the park.  At this time of year there were fewer
tourists and people spending their lunch hours in the open.  It was too
damp and chilly for sunbathers on the lawns and even the seats along
the Walk beneath the trees were empty except for one or two huddled
forms with heads sunk into their chests.

I was about to turn right, towards the exit, when I heard the soft
regular thud of running feet behind me.  I whirled round.  A figure in
a tracksuit was jogging down the path towards me, but as I turned he
veered off and ran away across the grass.  I didn't need to see his
face to know who he was.

I hadn't spotted him hanging round the cafe and, with luck, he'd not
seen Morgan.  All the same, I couldn't be sure and I didn't like his
being there.  It seemed unlikely to be a coincidence.  I suspected
that, either on Freddy's orders or on his own account, Trevor was
keeping an eye on me.

Chapter Seventeen

Nothing happened for a couple of days after that.  This didn't make the
period restful.  I was on tenterhooks, wondering what was going on,
whether Morgan had found out who had tipped off Freddy that his name
had been mentioned and if Trevor had seen me with her in the park,
asking myself where Marty was and if he was all right, and fielding
daily phone calls from Susie in Margate, wanting to know if it was in
order for her to come home.

"You haven't got a home to come to, Susie," I said brutally.

"I know, I've been on to the council about that.  I've written to the
insurance company about the flat's contents, too."

"How did they take it?"

"The council or the insurance company?"

"The insurers," I said.  I had a shrewd idea what the council had told
her.

She was frank.  "They just about accused me of setting fire to my own
place.  Imagine!  Luckily I was out of town at the time.  I think
they'll pay up.  They paid up when Rennie died.  The only thing is,
they might be a bit funny about insuring me again.  They say I'm
high-risk."

Ganesh would agree with that.  To be honest, I wasn't that keen to see
her back in town too soon.  She'd be round, wanting me to join her
detective agency, even if it didn't have a base from which to operate.
She'd probably suggest it operate out of my flat!  I certainly wasn't
having that.  Not only because I'd found out it was difficult enough
keeping my privacy even with my own place, but because I'd seen what
had happened to Susie's flat.  Unfortunately, I hadn't the excuse of a
job at the San Gennaro now.

We'd moved into March and, true to folklore, a gusting wind was
rattling my window-panes.  I was cooking my supper frying up bacon and
eggs when my doorbell rang.  I knew it couldn't be Ganesh because
earlier I'd left him at the shop, where I'd been doing two hours a day
helping out, and he hadn't said he meant to come over.  I peered out,
hoping Susie hadn't, after all, taken it into her head to return.
Whoever it was huddled inside the shelter of the porch, mostly out of
sight.  I could just make out that the visitor appeared to be male.  He
didn't look large enough to be either Freddy or Trevor so that was all
right.  That left Wayne Parry.  I went to open the front door, fingers
crossed against this possibility.

It was Marty.  He stood on the doorstep shuffling his feet and looking
utterly miserable.  The wind drove drizzling rain into the porch and
tossed the rubbish on the pavement behind him into the air where it
became trapped in the skeletal privet hedge.  It was bitterly cold.
Marty was wearing a big polo-neck sweater which made him look even more
like a large knitted toy.  His small pale blue eyes blinked nervously
at me behind his rain-speckled spectacles.

"I've been away," he said without preamble.  "I got a message last
night, when I got back to London, from someone in one of the other
flats.  She said you'd been at the front door with some bloke, and you
wanted to see me."

"That's right.  I've got your money," I told him.

He looked warily at me.  "Who was the bloke with you, then?"

"Only Nigel, why?  Are you going to stand out here while we both get
pneumonia, or are you coming in?"

He trailed in after me, looking as suspiciously about him as Ion had
done on his first visit.  It prompted me to ask him, "What's the matter
with you?  You've been in my flat before."

He just hunched into his woolly pully and sat down on the sofa in a
heap of cable-stitch despondency.  I made him coffee which he took with
mumbled thanks and then sat, nursing the mug in his hands, without
drinking it.

"Do you mind if I eat my supper?"  I asked, growing impatient.  "It's
getting cold.  Do you want any bacon?"

"Thanks, I'll have it in a sandwich," he said.  "If you've got enough
to spare."

"You'll have to cook it yourself."

He took his mug to the kitchenette whence the sound of sizzling rashers
could soon be heard.  I finished mine and took the plate out there.  He
was cutting his sandwich into two precise halves.

"Where have you been?"  I asked curiously.  "Since you weren't in
London.  You didn't say you were going away."

"I went down to Wiltshire to see my parents."  He contemplated the
sandwich.  "They farm.  Pigs."

"Oh, right.  So you've been eating a lot of bacon.  Pig-farmers?
That'sum interesting."

"No, it isn't," said Marty.

We had progressed back to my sitting room and he sat by the gas fire,
munching his sandwich.  The awful thing was, now that I knew his people
kept pigs, I couldn't help but see Marty himself, with his round pink
face, as a large porker in a sweater.

"Cheer up," I said, quelling a giggle.  "Is it the play you're
depressed about?  Is that why you went off to Wiltshire?  Most of the
audience was delighted."

"Philistines," said Marty indistinctly through a mouthful of bread and
bacon.

"Look, what kind of audience did you expect at The Rose?  It went
really well until Digger got in on the act.  Freddy paid up."  (The
circumstances in which I'd collected the money were none of Marty's
business.) "I've got your envelope here.  Hang on, I'll get it.  Yours
is the only one I haven't delivered."

I got to my feet, intending to fetch the envelope.

Marty looked up and behind his spectacles his eyes sparkled with
unexpected anger.

"That bloody Trevor," he said.  "He let that dog in on purpose, I'll
swear he did!"

"Let in Digger?"  I was taken aback.  "I shouldn't think so.  He works
for Freddy and the play was Freddy's idea.  Trevor wouldn't
deliberately mess things up."

"You don't understand."  Marty was despondent again.  "Trevor did it on
purpose because of me."

I sat down again, trying to work that one out.  I'd not been aware that
Trevor and Marty had been acquainted 2g8

Vouching Out other than Trevor pulling the odd pint for Marty to drink.
I said as much.

He had finished his coffee and sandwich.  He took off his spectacles
and began polishing the lenses with the sleeve of his sweater.

"Fran, I've got things to tell you.  Things I should have told you
before."

He broke off and I urged him to go on.  Whatever it was, his mind
clearly wouldn't be at rest until he'd told someone.  If it had to do
with Trevor and The Rose, I wanted him to tell me.  Perhaps, after all,
he was more involved than I'd realised.

"You'll understand, won't you?"  he pleaded.  "I'll do my best.  But I
don't yet know what it is," I pointed out.

"That play meant so much to me."  His little blue eyes blinked
pathetically.

I joined him on the sofa, put an arm round his woolly shoulders and
attempted comfort along the lines I'd already put forward.  The play
hadn't been a failure.  The audience had been happy.  Freddy was happy,
etc.  We'd been paid.

"Yes, yes!"  he interrupted.  My words, far from consoling him, seemed
to have irritated him.  But I lack the womanly gifts, the gentle touch,
the hand on the brow, that sort of thing.  It isn't my style.

I took my arm away.  "Go on, then.  Tell me about it.  Get on with it,
Marty."

"That's it!"  he shouted.  "I wanted to get on and stage the play.  It
mattered more than anything else to me.  I thought, if we did well and
word got round, I'd be asked to do some more work in some other venue.
Not a flippin' pub!  Freddy's got influence.  He'd spread the word.  I
was absolutely determined that nothing, nothing at all, would interfere
with the play, do you see?"

"Yes, I do see," I assured him, although I was beginning to feel that I
didn't.

"And now," he said, "I feel as though I got it wrong.  I was so set on
the play and its importance to me that I refused to see anything else
might be as important."

"You're not the only one who's been getting things wrong lately,
Marty," I told him.

He turned his head to look full at me.  I was reminded of those 'happy'
or 'sad' faces people draw, just a circle with two dots for eyes and a
curve upwards for a smiling mouth or downwards for a sad one.  Marty's
face with its drooping mouth and screwed-up little eyes could have made
a Greek mask of tragedy.

"You remember that evening I met you by the Roundhouse?"  he asked
unexpectedly.

"I remember."  How could I forget?  It was the night Ion died.

"You were looking for someone.  I walked with you down the High Street
to the Tube station.  Then you saw the person you were looking for and
took off."

"That's right."  I was beginning to get a crawling feeling in my
stomach.

"I followed you into the Tube because I decided I might as well go
home.  You didn't have a ticket.  I had my Travelcard with me, so when
you went to buy a ticket I went on.  There was a man in front of me, a
big bloke '

"With a hooded top?"  I broke in.

He nodded.  "That's right.  I followed him all the way down to the
platform.  It was pretty crowded there.  He was pushing his way
through, so I tacked on behind him, taking advantage of the space he
opened up.  Perhaps he sensed someone was following him, because he
glanced back at me and I saw his face.  It was Trevor, the barman at
The Rose."

Trevor, who else?  I should have known.  Trevor, with his clothes
smelling of the pub.  Trevor, Freddy's loyal employee.  Trevor, surely
the man who'd passed me in the entry to Susie's block of flats.

"I didn't see you," I said dully.  But I had been intent on searching
only for Ion.  As a result, I'd missed seeing other things I should
have noticed.

"The thing is," Marty was saying, 'he saw me and obviously recognised
me.  He gave me a dirty look.  I was a bit taken aback.  I mean, I
didn't expect him to act delighted to see me.  But he knew I was in the
play at the pub and I'd have thought he'd at least say hi!  But what he
did say was, "You want something?"  He said it very nastily, too, I can
tell you.  I didn't want trouble.  I never do.  Trevor's built like a
brick barn and there's something about him always did remind me of
Digger, that dog of Freddy's.  A mean look, you know what I'm
describing?"

I nodded.  Too well.

"So I dropped back," Marty went on.  "But I kept an eye open for him
because I didn't want to go bumping into him again.  I watched him make
his way down the platform.  He's tall, taller than most of the people
down there.  He was looking around him.  I thought at first it might be
me he was after, and it worried me.  But then I decided he was looking
for someone else.  I got curious and I sneaked a bit further down,
towards him."

Marty pushed his spectacles back on to his snub nose.  "Then I saw this
young kid."

I couldn't speak.  Marty had paused as if he expected me to say
something but all I could do was nod again.

Perhaps Marty thought I hadn't got the message because he began to
describe the youngster he'd seen.  "Dark hair, very thin, small build.
His clothes looked too big for him.  Then he, the kid, saw Trevor. I've
never seen anyone look so scared.  The kid would have run if he'd been
able to, but with so many people on the platform he couldn't. Trevor
had spotted him.  He went after him.  The train was coming in. Everyone
was moving forward.  No one was looking at Trevor or the kid except
me."

Marty stopped.

I whispered, "Go on."

"The kid was trying to wriggle his way through the crowd and looking
back over his shoulder to see Trevor closing in on him.  He reached the
end of the platform and couldn't go any further.  He turned to face
Trevor.  He was saying something, or, at least, his mouth was moving.
Trevor reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, like you do if
you're trying to reassure someone.  Then the crowd shifted.  The train
came.  The kid fell."  Marty made a snuffling noise.  "I can't swear
that Trevor pushed him.  Maybe he was just trying to get out from
Trevor's grip on his shoulder and he stumbled."

I said slowly, Whether Trevor pushed him or not, Trevor is responsible.
Ion fell because he was trying to get away from Trevor."

Marty swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.  "What did
Trevor want with him, Fran?"

"It's a long story," I said.

Marty licked his lips.  "Well, I didn't then know the kid was a friend
of yours.  All I knew was, I didn't want any trouble with the pub
because of the play.  So I didn't tell anyone what I'd seen.  Then,
coming to rehearsal one night, I was handed a leaflet at the Tube exit.
The police were looking for witnesses.  That's the leaflet which fell
out of my pocket and you picked up.  You said you'd known the kid.  I
felt dreadful."

Marty hiccuped.  I realised he was very near tears.  "I should have
told you what I saw.  I should have told the police.  But I didn't,
because of the play.  The play just seemed to matter more than
anything."  He looked at me sorrowfully.  "But it wasn't more
important, was it?"

"You need to tell the cops, Marty," I said.  "The person to speak to is
Inspector Janice Morgan.  But things are a bit tricky down at the
station just now.  If I fix up a meeting with Morgan here, you'll come
along and tell her about it?"

He hesitated.  "All right.  If I can meet her here.  I don't fancy
going to the police station.  Someone might see me going in and, you
know, want to know why."  He leaned forward.  "That business with
Digger.  I'm sure it was Trevor sending me a message.  He knows I saw
him on that platform.  He may suspect I saw him with the kid.  He was
letting me know.  Don't mess with him."

"Marty," I said.  "This is something much bigger than you know."

I told him all of it.  Ion's search for his brother, the
people-smuggling organisation the police were after,

Susie's flat being fire bombed, everything.  I didn't tell him about
the pizzeria and the dodgy wine racket, because frankly I was
embarrassed by the way I'd misread the signs on that.  Anyway, in the
end, it hadn't had to do with the people-trafficking.  Ion had got it
wrong and so had I. Marty didn't say a word as I spoke.  His face got
whiter and more frightened but when I'd finished he croaked, "I
understand."

"They're bad people, Marty," I said.  "If you and I keep quiet and do
nothing there will be more Ion Popescus falling under Tube trains or
off bridges, whatever suits the bad guys best."  He didn't look
entirely convinced, so I went on, "You remember talking to me about my
role of Miss Stapleton in the play?  Our conversation wasn't really
about her, was it?  It was about this.  About keeping quiet when you
see evil at work.  The cops are investigating Ion's death and they're
investigating the smuggling racket so, in a sense, if we go to them
with this, we're not telling them something they're not already on the
track of.  You can't swear to seeing Trevor push Ion, but what you saw
matters all the same.  It's a little piece of the jigsaw and without it
the picture can't be completed.  Do you see?"

He nodded.  "I see."

At the end of our lunch in Regent's Park, Morgan had given me a contact
number, should I need her.  I rang it and she came over to the flat
straight away, where Marty told his story.

She said, "Thanks very much.  We'll be in touch."

The police are always annoyingly casual about any help they get. Still,
Marty said he felt better after she left.  It wasn't on his mind any
more.  He knew he'd done the right thing.

"But I think I'll pop back to Wiltshire," he added.  "My mother said
she wished I'd stayed longer.  It might be a good time."  His round
face turned pinker.  "I'm not running away.  I'll be back for the
inquest if I'm needed."

"Strategic withdrawal," I said.

"Yes, that's it.  How about you, Fran?"

"Nowhere to go," I said.

He shuffled his feet.  "I just don't want to get a threatening phone
call in the middle of the night, you know."

"Marty, just go to Wiltshire and chill out," I begged him.  "Stop
agonising over it.  Don't forget to tell Morgan where you are."

That night I couldn't sleep.  I couldn't put it all out of my mind.  I
was glad Marty was going back to Wiltshire for a while.  It was the
safest thing for him to do and his absence had probably kept him safe
until now.  The police have a witness protection programme but, even if
they'd applied it to Marty, with a leak somewhere in the system it
might not be enough.

Around two in the morning I heard the front door close and then a door
inside the house.  Bonnie sat up and whined.  I told her to be quiet,
it was only Erwin coming home from a gig.  But Bonnie wouldn't settle
again.  She jumped off the bed and ran to the door, still whining, and,
when I didn't get out of bed, she began to scratch at it.  To save my
paintwork I had to crawl out from my snug nest beneath the duvet.

"Honestly, Bonnie," I said as I picked her up.  "It's too cold for
fooling around."

But she wriggled in my arms and, when I put her down again, back she
went to the door where this time she gave a little bark.

I sighed.  She didn't normally need to go out during the night but now
it seemed that she did.  I looked out into the street.  The rain had
stopped and the cloud cover blown away.  It left a fine if breezy
moonlit night.  Everything was bathed in silver and I could see almost
as clearly as by daylight out there.  I pulled on my jeans and a
sweater.

I intended to let her into the garden but as soon as I opened my door
she ran to the front door and gave another sharp little bark.

I shushed her.  "You'll wake everyone up.  Just round the block once,
right?"  I couldn't let her out into the garden if she was going to
bark and if she chose to disappear into the jungle darkness out there I
might have a job getting her back.  I fetched my jacket and we set
off.

In fact, being out of doors in the cold night air wasn't unpleasant.
The quiet of the surrounding streets was soothing.  I felt the stress
seep from my tense muscles and battered brain as I drew in deep
lungfuls of oxygen.

Bonnie hurried along in an agitated way.  She kept stopping and
listening.  I felt more relaxed but she was uneasy although I couldn't
see why.

We had nearly completed our tour of the block, and had just turned the
corner back into my road, when I saw him.

In the clear moonlight he was unmistakable.  He stood on the pavement
before the house where I lived, wearing his jogging outfit with the
hood pulled up over his head as he'd worn it in the park, and when I'd
seen him at Susie's, and before that at Camden Tube station.  The
moonlight threw his inky-black shadow across the forecourt in a second
grotesque figure.  It was as if the Grim Reaper accompanied him, as in
fact it so often had.  I grabbed Bonnie and stepped back, with her in
my arms, into the alley where I'd found the glue-sniffer the night Ion
died.

With my hand clamped over Bonnie's muzzle to stop her barking, I peered
out of the alley.  Trevor was contemplating the house front.  He moved
to stand directly before the window of my flat.  The hair prickled on
my head and Bonnie wriggled in my arms like a creature possessed.

Trevor was holding something in one hand.  I couldn't see what it was
but then, with his other hand, he pulled what must have been a
cigarette lighter from his pocket.  There was a tiny flicker of flame
which suddenly grew bigger as he held it to the object.  The black
shadow mimicked every movement and now raised its arm, which became
elongated and splashed across my window, reaching out to claim a new
victim.  With horror, I realised what Trevor was about to do.

I leapt from my hiding place and yelled, "Trevor, don't!  I'm not
there!  I'm not in the house!"

Startled, he whipped round towards me and, fatally for him, he
hesitated.  Bonnie hurled herself from my arms and raced down the
street towards him, barking her head off.  She seized his pants leg in
her strong little teeth.  He kicked out, sending her flying.  The
bottle which I could now see he was holding slipped from his grasp.
There was a crash of breaking glass, a whoosh, and an explosion.  The
flame escaped its prison and grew in an instant to a dancing monster. A
high-pitched scream issued from Trevor as it reached him and turned him
in a split second into a pillar of fire.  He came stumbling towards me,
still screaming, and holding out his burning arms in useless
supplication.

Chapter Eighteen

"Molotov cocktail," said Parry.  "He was going to chuck it through your
window, burn your place out like he burned out Susie Duke's.  Nasty
type, our Trevor."

He sat on my sofa.  Bonnie crouched nearby, keeping an eye on him.
Bonnie can tell a police officer at once, even in plain clothes.  She'd
met Parry before and she knew he was allowed to be there, on the sofa,
but she also knew the permission was a temporary one.  He still wasn't
a friend.

"How is he?"  I asked dully.

Parry hissed.  "Not so good.  Touch and go.  They got him in a
specialist burns unit.  You should see him.  He ain't half a mess."

"I don't want to see him again," I said.  "I saw him then."

"Right, you've seen enough nasty sights to be going on with," Parry
agreed.

"I tried to help him," I said.

My actions had been panicky, probably muddled, and, as I recalled them
now, seemed to be part of a nightmarish whirl of events spinning
increasingly out of my control.  I'd run indoors and dragged the duvet
from my bed.  On my way out again, passing Erwin's door, I'd hammered
on it and yelled for him to come and help.  I knew he hadn't long
arrived home and there was a good chance he was still awake.  He came
charging out and together we smothered the flames with the duvet as
Trevor squirmed and squealed like a tormented animal.  Then Erwin
called an ambulance on his mobile.

I shivered as I relived the scene in my mind.  Everyone had come
running into the street, out of our house, out of the neighbours'
houses, all in their nightwear.  They stood round asking what was
happening, staring down at the scorched form of Trevor like he was a
freak show.  His clothes had burned away and his skin had split and
peeled, but he wasn't unconscious.  He kept moaning, moving his
blistered lips, and closing and unclosing his fingers which looked like
so many grilled sausages.

I told the police, when they came, that he'd been about to torch the
house and everyone in it.  That's why I had yelled out to him.  It was
me he was after, not anyone else.  I couldn't stand there and let him
throw the bottle into the building.

Now Parry said in a thoughtful voice, "I particularly don't like
fire-raisers.  An ordinary common-or-garden murderer, he goes after one
victim.  An arsonist doesn't care how many he kills.  You've got guts,
Fran.  He might just have chucked his home-made incendiary straight at
you, you know.  It wouldn't have been him went up in flames, it'd have
been you."

"Yes, I realise that now," I said testily.  "I didn't have time to
think about it then."

"We won't be able to question him," said Parry.  "Not for a long
time."

As it turned out they didn't question him, ever.  That night Trevor
died from his burns.  I supposed that, for him, it was the best thing.
I didn't like to think what he might have looked like had he
survived.

Doing the right thing isn't easy and it isn't always simple.  People
don't divide up into the sheep and the goats.  There's always someone
on the fringes who gets hurt more than seems justified.  That's life, I
guess.

The person in this case was Denise.  I always liked her.  I don't know
how much she knew about Freddy's illegal activities.  She must have had
some idea something was going on.  She was the one who kept the
business accounts, after all.  But other than keeping the books, I
don't think she knew about the dirtier side of it.

The police raided the pub and arrested Freddy in connection with the
smuggling racket.  They objected to bail because of the possibility
that witnesses might be intimidated, even though Freddy had lost his
hit man in Trevor.  Funny thing, Freddy's influential friends who'd
been happy to be pictured with him in the local press, accepting
cheques for charity, suddenly couldn't remember who he was.  Denise ran
the pub on her own for a while and then the brewery put in temporary
managers. Denise left the district.  I never saw her again.

They held the inquest on Ion, and I went along but I wasn't asked to
give any evidence.  I hadn't seen Trevor, not to recognise him, on the
platform.  Marry came back from the country and gave his evidence, but
it was weak, what one man thought he'd seen and no one to back it up.

It was obvious the coroner had his doubts.  But in the end he said
there wasn't enough evidence to return a verdict of unlawful killing,
especially as it was not now possible to question the person whose
actions at the time had been suspicious, meaning Trevor.  Ion's death
was put down as an accident.

As I walked away from the inquest I heard a voice call, "Hang on,
Fran!"  and Wayne Parry caught up with me.  He fell into step beside
me.

"I know how you felt about that kid, Fran.  But accidental death was
all we could hope for.  Your mate didn't see Popescu pushed.  He only
saw him appear to be frightened of Trevor and Trevor take his shoulder.
He couldn't swear to the cause of the fear being Trevor.  Some people
get panicky in crowds and some people don't like being underground.
Popescu's scared appearance could have been due to any number of
things."

"I know what he was scared of," I muttered.

"Well," said Parry, "Trevor paid a high price, whether he did it or
not."

"I know," I said.  "It wasn't a nice thing to happen, even to a lowlife
like Trevor."

I stopped and turned towards Parry so that he had to stop, too, and
face me.

"What's up?"  he asked.

"Ion's brother," I said.  "What are you doing about him?"

"Fran," he said gently in a remonstrating tone.  "What do you want us
to do?"

"Look for him!  The Romanian police can ask Ion's family for details,"
I shouted.  "They'll back Ion's story!"

"That's been tried.  At first the family didn't want to admit either of
the sons had left the country.  They insisted they'd gone to Bucharest
to look for work.  The family lives out in the sticks somewhere in a
tiny village.  Informed of Ion's death, they were frightened enough to
come clean and admit both boys had set out for England.  The elder,
Alexander, left home first over a year ago.  The younger, Ion, six
months later.  But there's no record of their journey.  A year is a
long time if you're trying to find someone who went out of his way to
leave no trace of himself.  It's over six months since the family had
word from him, a single printed or typewritten letter, the only one
they ever got, and it gave precious few details, just that he was here
and to send the other boy, he'd meet him.  There was no return address.
We don't know where he lived or where he worked.  We don't know the
names of any associates or what plans he might have had.  There's no
record of his entering the country, just as there's no record of Ion
coming here.  From the point of view of the authorities it's as if both
boys didn't exist and that's just the way they wanted it.  We only know
Ion was here because he fell in front of that Tube train.  It's chasing
shadows, Fran.  For all we know, Alexander might have left the country
again, moved on to pastures new.  There again, he might never have got
here.  The family burned the letter they had from him, afraid it might
fall into official hands and lead to his being traced.  So we can't
even check it was genuine.  Perhaps Alexander never reached England.
Perhaps he came to grief en route and the traffickers sent the letter,
making it look as if he'd got here.  After all, they didn't want news
like that getting back home.  It would be bad for future business.  If
you want to know what I think, I think Alexander Popescu was never
here.  That what the traffickers didn't want young Ion to find out.
When he wouldn't give up the hunt, he had to be taken out."

"So," I snapped.  "You're going to do nothing at all."

"Oh, we've opened a file on him and a pretty slim one it is.  Now the
trafficking organisation, we'll get that.  Police forces across Europe
are on to it."

"But you're not taking any more action to look for Alexander?  That's
as good as doing nothing at all, as far as I'm concerned."

I stomped off.  Parry followed me.

"You know what, Fran?"  he said after a few minutes, when he reckoned
I'd calmed down enough to listen to him.  "You want to get over this
habit you've got of playing Good Samaritan.  Leave things to the
police, eh?"

"You don't get the results I want!"  I snapped.

"We don't always get the results we want.  To be honest, we rarely do.
Still, we do our best."  He waited for me to say something, but there
was nothing I wanted to add.  He went on, "You remember a sergeant
called Cole?"

I looked up in surprise.  "Yes, I remember him."

"He got chucked out of CID, sent back to uniform, traffic division.  He
got busted back down to constable, too."

Parry didn't explain why, but I could guess.

"Why didn't he get chucked out of the force altogether?  Blabbing
information around," I asked.

"Investigation still in progress.  I didn't tell you that," said Parry
craftily.  "You deduced it."

"Yeah, well, I like to play detective, don't I?"  I returned sourly.

Parry hesitated.  "You keep stum about that, right, Fran?  Or they'll
have me for passing on inside information to you."

"Sure.  So long as Cole isn't still chatting to the wrong people.  I
don't want a visit from a couple of guys wearing ski-masks and carrying
baseball bats.  I've had enough trouble."

"It won't happen.  Too risky for anyone to try it with all the arrests
we've made recently.  You've got a sort of protection, Fran."

"Great."

He smiled.  "For the time being, anyway.  Just don't get into any more
scrapes.  See you around."

He strode off down the street, his hands in the pockets of his old
waxed jacket.

I do think of Ion quite often.  People will continue to traffic in
human misery, offering hope where there is little to be had, a better
future where only exploitation lies.  Sometimes I think of Ion's
family, back home, wondering what really happened to both their sons,
and destined never to know.

There was an inquest on Trevor.  I went along and this time was the
main witness.  That returned a verdict of accidental death too.  As far
as the law is concerned, it seems to me that 'accident' covers a lot of
things.

As regards the other business, at the pizzeria, Silvio and Luigi were
charged in connection with the dodgy wine scam and sent down.  Neither
had previous form, so they got negligible stretches.  The police found
lots of helpful information on the computer which had sat in the corner
of Jimmie's office.  I can see now why Silvio wanted some
techno-ignoramus like Jimmie as manager.  Anyone else would've played
around on the computer and found some very interesting stuff about
Silvio's business deals.  But they'd known Jimmie wouldn't touch it.

Mario wasn't charged, and went off to be a cook somewhere else.  Ganesh
sticks to his opinion that Mario did no more than tip off Freddy that
Ion had been asking for "Max'.  Ganesh says, as Mario wasn't even
charged over the wine scam which was being run from the pizzeria, it's
unfair to accuse him of being involved in Freddy's trafficking
business, which wasn't.  Look, says Ganesh, when the police finally
busted the trafficking ring, they'd have found Mario, if he were part
of it.  Me, I'm not so sure.  I tell myself, better the police catch
the big fish, even if they have to let the smaller ones slip the net.
There are always unanswered questions in anything to do with people and
their motives.

Jimmie was eventually released without charge for lack of evidence, but
with a warning.  Theoretically he still owns half the pizzeria.  The
last time I saw him, he was talking of turning it back into a baked
spud cafe if Silvio will agree from his gaol cell.  I told him I still
thought he should get Silvio to buy him out.  Silvio was the sort of
entrepreneur who, released from prison, would soon be on the up again.
He wasn't short of cash, that was for sure.  He'd have some other
fantastic business project up his sleeve and, very likely, some other
scam.  The biggest danger to him comes from the taxmen.  I heard they
were taking the accounts of that tile import company apart.  I doubt
they'll find anything.  There are company books and there are company
books.  I don't know how many sets Silvio kept.

"You don't need him as a partner, Jimmie," I urged.  "If

you ask him to dissolve the partnership now, he can hardly refuse.
Don't let the opportunity slip."

Jimmie said he'd think about it.

I'm sorry Freddy won't be putting on any more shows at The Rose.
Resting actors like me need every chance they can get.  So do
musicians, and Erwin also lost a possible gig.  But his band has been
signed up for others, so he isn't worried.  Carmel landed on her feet
too.  She went along to another audition and got a tiny part in a TV
soap opera.  Now, that does hurt.

Susie came back.  The council declared itself unable to rehouse her for
the time being.  She was a single woman without children and had low
priority.  I could have told her that.  They offered her a room in a
bed-and-breakfast place.  She took one look at it and turned it down. I
couldn't blame her.  She was renting privately, living in a bed sit in
a shared house.  The insurance company, though surly, paid up for the
lost flat contents.

"My Rennie always believed in insurance," she said.

It struck me that the late Rennie Duke had been a walking example that
insurance is good for you.  I don't have any myself, mind you, but
who'd insure me?

She came to my flat and perched on my sofa, looking quite happy and
confident.  She'd changed her hairstyle again and this time gone for a
smooth bob, aiming for the professional look.  I thought I'd liked her
better with the curls but I admired the bob politely.

"You're looking good," I said truthfully.  She'd also acquired a black
business suit and a red shirt, black tights and high heels.  She was
one of those people to whom life isn't always kind but who, no matter
the circumstances, pops up again undaunted.  I had to admire her.

"Yeah, well," she said, smoothing her short black skirt over her knees,
"I reckon if the bad guys were going to do anything more to me, they'd
have done it by now.  Inspector Morgan says I won't have to testify in
court about what we saw.  You know, the people getting out of that
lorry, because we couldn't identify either the driver or the other man
for certain and we didn't get the licence plate."  She frowned.  "We
should've got the licence plate.  That's basic detective practice, that
is."

"The light was too poor, Susie.  Besides, how could we have read the
licence plate of the lorry from forty feet up in the air, on top of a
roof?"  I added that Morgan had told me the same thing, I wouldn't have
to testify.  "She did say we were right to report it, though.  It all
added to the knowledge they already had about the way the racket
worked."

Susie was looking thoughtful.  "You know, if it was that Trevor who
fire bombed my flat, he did it because he was a mean bastard and not
just because he thought I might have been able to stand up in court and
tell everyone about the lorry."

"Marty thinks Trevor let the dog loose."  I had told Susie about the
play and the interruption of the dogfight.  "Just as a warning."

"He might have done," she agreed.  "It's the sort of thing Trevor would
do.  When I think how he used to pester me to go out with him, but I
never would."

This was news.  I wondered if, despite his attempt to torch my place,
there hadn't been a personal reason why

Trevor had fired Susie's flat.  He was the sort of macho type who
wouldn't take kindly to a woman turning down his advances, especially
if he'd heard that she'd started dating Luigi.  I remembered how Morgan
had pointed out to me that private detectives made enemies.  Pretty
women did too.  Perhaps Susie had just made an enemy of Trevor.  In
that case, she was lucky only the flat had suffered damage.

"Listen, Fran," she said to me now.  "Have you thought any more about
coming into partnership with me in the agency?  I'm still running it
from my new address.  I've had some new cards printed.  Here .. ."  She
delved in her bag and handed me a small white rectangle.

I drew a deep breath.  "Yes, I have, and Susie, I can't do it."

Her face fell.  "Why not?  We can work together."

"Yes, but..  ."  It was hard to explain.  Partly, Jimmie's experience
with Silvio had warned me that having business partners can turn
tricky.  Partly it was because I'd realised that I worked best on my
own with Ganesh to back me up if necessary.

"I need my independence, Susie," I told her.

"And I need you to work with me," she said sadly.

I noticed for the first time how small she was.  I'm short but stocky.
Sitting on my sofa with her black-stockinged legs dangling, Susie Duke
looked like a child.  I also noticed how, beneath the make-up, her fine
skin was crumpling like tissue paper, crow's-feet about the eyes and
lines engraved either side of her mouth.  She was right about time not
being on her side.

I felt rotten but there was nothing I could do about it.  It had struck
me that Susie's life tended to run to complications and so did mine.
Put us together and the complications would be likely to get completely
out of hand.

"I've been on my own since I was sixteen," I said, twisting her card in
my hands.  "I've got used to it.  I like waking up in the morning and
knowing that whatever I do, it will be something I've decided on and
not anyone else.  I appreciate the offer, I really do.  It means you've
got confidence in me and that's very nice to know.  But I just can't
join you."

Perhaps unwisely, because she looked so despondent, I added, "If you
find yourself really short-handed in a case and need someone, I might
help out, just as a one-off thing, you know.  Depending on what sort of
case it is," I added hastily.

She brightened.  "I'll remember that."

I was afraid she would.

That night I went to see Ganesh.  We sat on the old faded red velvet
sofa in front of the TV while Hari, in the background, fretted over the
paperwork as usual.

"By the way, Gan," I said casually.  "I'm not going to join Susie in
the detective business.  I've told her."

He turned his head and I saw the relief on his face.  He'd been
seriously worried I'd do it.  "Good," he said simply.

"I'm not giving up on being a detective.  I mean, a freelance,
non-professional one.  I might still look into things for people, if
they ask me."

He groaned.  "I suppose you will and I can't stop you."

"The thing is," I went on, "I prefer to act independently and have you
to back me, if you can or want to.  I know you don't approve of my
investigating things.  But you've helped me before, haven't you?  So
really, I couldn't go into partnership with Susie.  I sort of like
working with you."

"Just don't call on me too often!"  said Ganesh firmly.

And then he did something he'd never done before.  He reached out and
patted my hand.

We sat in silence for a while, watching the screen.  It was one of
those programmes where experts move into some poor soul's house and
transform it into something you wouldn't want to live in if you valued
your sanity.

"You're not going to ask me to be in another play, though, are you?"
Ganesh said suddenly.  "Because I'm not interested.  I'm never setting
foot on stage again."

So now I'm back at square one, having to think up a way to make some
money.  Silvio was an organised man and a fair one.  The accountancy
system still functioned, even though the Pizzeria San Gennaro remained
closed.  Po-Ching and I, and Pietro the accordionist, each received a
week's wages in the post, together with our P45 forms.  The squat
accountant sent them.  We were officially on the labour market again,
only as far as I'm concerned the labour market doesn't seem very
interested.

But seeing the dog-walkers in the park has planted an idea in my mind.
I have to walk Bonnie anyway.  I could walk other people's dogs.  I'll
ask Hari if I can put up a small ad in the shop.  But I'll have to
choose my moment carefully, because I don't know how Ganesh will take
it.  Well, I do know.  That's the trouble.

With the inquest on Ion over, Marty was another one who now returned to
the area.  I bumped into him in the street.  This time he looked his
old self with his smiling round face.

"I'm glad I've seen you, Fran," he said.  "I know things got a bit out
of hand when we did the last play.  But you were good.  If I get the
chance to direct another play, would you consider being in it?"

I thought of the quarrels at rehearsals.  I thought of how cold it had
been in the functions room and how grubby the costumes had looked as
they came out of the wicker basket.  I remembered the cramped dressing
room and the smell in there.  I pictured the disaster of the dogfight
and reflected on the uncertainty as to whether we'd be paid.  I thought
of Ganesh's horror at the idea of being on stage again and I knew that
this was one thing Ganesh would never understand about me.

"Of course I would!"  I said to Marty.  "As soon as you've got a role
for me, get in touch."

Risking it All

Ann Granger

When Fran Varady, aspiring actress and part-time sleuth, is approached
by Private Investigator Clarence Duke, she mistrusts him on instinct.
But she can't ignore what he has to tell her.  Her mother, Eva, who
walked out on Fran when she was only seven years old, has hired
Clarence to find her daughter.  And for good reason.  Eva is dying.

Within days, Fran is reunited with the mother she hasn't seen for
fifteen years, and is soon to lose again.  But the biggest bombshell of
all is still to come.  Eva has another child a daughter she gave up
soon after her birth and she wants Fran to find her.

Matters aren't helped by the fact that slippery Clarence Duke seems
intent on discovering what she's up to.  But it's when he's found dead
in his car outside Fran's home that the trouble really begins ...
Praise for Ann Granger:

"Ann Granger's skill with character together with her sprightly writing
make the most of the story ... she is on to another winner' Birmingham
Post

"A good feel for understated humour, a nice ear for dialogue' The
Times

"A delight.  Darkly humorous but humane .. . fluent, supple and a
pleasure to read' Ham and High

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