Grandmother's Footsteps
by
Carol Smith


Also by Carol Smith

DARKENING ECHOES

KENSINGTON COURT

DOUBLE EXPOSURE

FAMILY REUNION

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

CAROL SMITH

Grandmother's Footsteps

LITTLE, BROWN

A Little, Brown Book First published in Great Britain in 2002 by
Little, Brown Copyright Carol Smith 2002 The moral right of the author
has been asserted.  All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.  All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the
publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the
British Library.

HARDBACK ISBN 0316 85966 4

Typeset in Berkeley by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont,
Stirlingshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St. Ives
plc Little, Brown An imprint of Time Warner Books UK Brettenham House
Lancaster Place London we2E 7EN www.TimeWarnerBooks.co.uk
Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Roger Anson of Oxford Brookes University for so
patiently explaining to me the rudiments of cartography, to Andrew
Puckett for clueing me in about blood, and to Dr.  Paul Mapleston Smith
for correcting my punctuation and casting a fraternal eye over the
medical bits.  Thanks, too, to my agent, Jonathan Lloyd; my editor,
Tara Lawrence, and Rebecca Kerby whose expertise on small children has
helped to make those details accurate.  As always, I am indebted to the
wonderful sales and marketing teams who do such a tireless job.
Prologue

It was lambing season and fresh new leaf time but the Urquhart family
were oblivious.  They were quarrelling.  "Mum," wailed India from
somewhere in the back.  "Make him stop playing with my Game Boy."  She
had saved for weeks to afford this coveted toy.  It was typical of her
brother to try to spoil things.  "Give it back," rapped out Annabel
distractedly, most of her attention still glued to the pages of Vanity
Fair.  She was sick and tired of these family expeditions, not least
when the old trout, Adrian's mother, came along.  "It's kid's stuff
anyhow," snorted fourteen-year-old Hugo dismissively, withdrawing back
into his football magazine.  Annabel sighed.  These days it seemed they
couldn't go anywhere together without perpetual bickering.  And not
just between the kids.  "Can we please have a pit stop soon?"  moaned
Adrian's mother testily.  She always claimed car sickness and bagged
the best seat.  Stuck in the front with her tweeds and silly felt hat,
she looked like the Lady Muck she purported to be.  There were times,
like today, when Annabel would gladly have crowned her.  If only she
wouldn't keep sucking those disgusting mints, a smell as unpleasantly
pervasive as gum.  Though she did have a bit of a point, it was quarter
to one.  They could all do with stretching their legs, and it might
help defuse the growing tension in the car.  The kids must surely be
starving by now.  It wasn't like them at all not to have mentioned it
yet.  "Pull over at the next service station," Annabel instructed, but
Adrian, now in one of his snits, drove doggedly on.  He adored this car
but preferred it empty.  Alone on the road as in his youth, with just a
snatch of Verdi for company.  He longed for his bachelor days and the
open Jag.  The BMW was highly enviable but still just a company car.
"Watch out for that caravan," his mother said sharply.  She made him
edgy with her persistent commands.  "All over the road, they ought not
to be allowed."  Hoi polloi, he could sense her thinking.  God, but
she'd grown into such a snob.  "Don't drive too close!"  She grabbed
for his wrist.  Careful, she'd have them all in the ditch.  He shook
her off.  Who's driving this goddamn car?  he wanted to snarl, but knew
it wasn't worth the hassle.  If he put on some speed they'd be there in
half an hour.  He glanced at his watch.  His mother was right, the
caravan was swaying, a road hazard waiting to happen.  He couldn't see
the driver as it swung and bounced all over the place but it was
clearly overloaded and not entirely under control.  This Sunday
expedition to Salisbury Cathedral was turning out worse than even he
had expected.  They had missed morning service but the kids didn't
care, they were right little heathens, and his mother was well on his
wick.  "Watch out!"  she screamed urgently as he pulled out past the
caravan, then froze into stunned silence, like a rabbit caught in
headlights, as the dreadful inevitability loomed ahead.  "Didn't stand
a chance, poor bastards," said the first cop on to the scene.  "Not
even in hardware like this."  He kicked the buckled German-built
fender, envious but also respectful.  But then this stretch of the A303
was notoriously treacherous.  The other car, a lightweight sports car,
was infinitely more damaged, crushed like a beer can in a hooligan's
fist. Yet, despite its shattered glass and the blood, it was the
Urquhart family who were dead.  There was still the flicker of a
failing pulse in the other driver, trapped like a rat in the wreckage. 
Sirens and flashing lights isolated the accident scene, and a traffic
policeman in fluorescent yellow stood in the centre of the highway,
importantly waving people on.  Two ambulances arrived at breakneck
speed, weaving their way through the crawling traffic, with a pair of
wailing fire engines right behind them.  It was touch and go whether
they'd get the poor blighter out in time.  And that was quite apart
from the petrol danger.  The cop was pacing, his radio on the go. 
They're sending an air ambulance," he assured the horrified bystanders.
The cars immediately following had all pulled over, their drivers keen
to do anything to help.  Looked pretty hopeless but you never could
tell, and at least the emergency services were doing their stuff.  The
immediate witnesses were kept back for questioning; the others, mainly
rubber neckers were asked politely to move on.  The fewer vehicles that
clustered, the clearer the road would be, and they needed space around
them for the airlift.  "Jesus," breathed a second, younger cop, wiping
his sweaty face.  One glance inside the BMW was more than his stomach
could take.  Those kids and that pulverised old lady, with her head
right through the windscreen, virtually severed.  At least the other
guy had had more luck the paramedics seemed to think he might still
have a fighting chance.  Though from the look of him and all that blood
.. . The policeman's head was swimming again.  He was obliged to
withdraw for a quiet puke.  They didn't cover this sort of eventuality
at training college.  Nobody's fault, was the consensus of opinion,
though a formal investigation was bound to follow.  They came at each
other on a blind dip in the road.  No one could have foreseen it, just
one of those tragic black spots.  The driver of the caravan was
fortunate to have escaped.  He had witnessed the collision as they
raced towards each other, powerless to do anything more than swerve.
The usual tests would have to be done, of course, to check if either
driver had been drinking.  Though at this time on a Sunday morning the
odds against it were great.  The driver of the BMW had, after all, the
family along.  It might have happened to anyone at any time.  And these
expensive sporty models had more power to them than was healthy.  If
anyone was likely to be at fault, it was the dreadfully injured victim
in the wreckage.  And he had surely suffered enough, poor sod.  "Move
along now," said the policeman, back on the job.  Then the jarring
noise of the helicopter landing drowned out all further speech.  The
trouble with these flimsy foreign cars," said the coroner carefully as
he scanned all available facts, 'is they look good and move fast but
crumple like sodden cardboard the minute they meet any resistance on
the road."  And yet it was this chancer in his dashing Alfa-Romeo who
had managed to pull through, at least for the time being.  The reports
from the hospital were tenuous.  He had taken such a bashing, his life
was still in the balance.  Resuscitative on-the-spot surgery plus an
urgent complete blood transfusion.  He was lucky to have kept all his
limbs, not to mention his life.  The coroner thumbed through his notes,
then raised an eyebrow.  "Survivors?"  he asked.  "Anyone else
involved?"  Someone they could interview who might be able to throw
light on what had actually happened.  Going like the clappers, they
said the Alfa-Romeo had been, though to mention speeding at this stage
would be heartless in the circumstances.

"One," said the clerk, consulting his own papers, 'who seems
miraculously to have stepped out of the wreckage and walked away
unhurt.  Wouldn't stay around for more than a cursory check-up or even
some professional counselling, which we usually recommend.  No doubt in
shock.  I hope there were no repercussions."  But they couldn't hold
anyone against their will when no one had broken the law.  And the
accident scene had been so grim, all attention had been focused on
saving the trapped driver.  "Inquest adjourned then."  The coroner
signed the document.  He was keen to get back to his golf.  Part One

ONE

Jcame to Alton Coombe under cover of fog, as befitted the clandestine
nature of my mission.  The trees were blanched and skeletal after a
tougher than usual winter, their branches glazed with ice like brittle
glass.  I got off the train at Kemble around mid-morning and found the
station deserted and banked with snow.  This was something I had not
expected.  It looked as if it had not been in use for months.  I stood
in the empty forecourt, figuring out what I should do.  Luckily I had
little luggage with me for I always make a habit of travelling light. A
taxi service's toll-free number was conveniently posted on the door of
the booking hall, but I, not wishing to herald my arrival, preferred
the hour-long wait for the local bus.  I came in stealth, in the
footsteps of my prey.  For I had serious business on my mind.  Murder.
The village, when I eventually got there, was all that the guidebooks
had led me to expect.  Steep, winding streets, studded with antiques
shops.  Yellow Cotswold stone and dry crumbling walls.  Rows of
handsome, protected houses dating back several centuries, and, in the
centre, the original covered meeting place, once the focus of local
commerce but now the Saturday flea market.  A pale disc, like a phantom
moon, hung low in the sky as the sun burned its way through the vapour,
and groups of locals emerged from behind stout doors to get on with the
business of the day.  There was a pervasive smell of woodsmoke in the
air and the distant promise of spring.  An enchanting place which I
fell for at once.  In any other circumstances, I think I would have
wanted to stay on.  At this time of year, before the tourist invasion,
finding suitable lodgings presented no problem.  I took a couple of
decent-sized rooms in a winding lane close to the church, explaining to
the landlady (as if she would care) that I had some urgent business to
attend to.  And would not be staying very long, though I couldn't yet
give her a definite departure date.  For I had plotted and lain in wait
and tediously followed up false trails all these years until my brain
was practically numb.  Had I known what I was taking on, I might never
have got started, but now there could be no turning bach.  The amount
of research I had put in already might have earned me a doctorate in
sniffing out the truth.  I was proud of how much I had achieved so far,
and now was all set for the next stage.  God hnows, it had taken me
long enough.  Three years to complete my list.  It was time for the fun
and games to start.  And number one was a certain Miss Jane Fairchild.
I saw her first in the parish church that Sunday when, with my
landlady, I attended morning service.  All unknowingly, she obligingly
pointed her out without my having to ask, which was just as well.  In a
village this small, a cesspool of gossip, Jane Fairchild was a
prominent fixture and, to my mind at least, fair game.  She stood
self-importantly in front of the altar, making minor adjustments to the
Flowers, while the organist practised his opening chords and the choir
boys giggled in the vestry as they robed.  We had come deliberately
early.  I had explained that I wanted to look at the graveyard because
of my interest in tombstones but we also had a good wander around the
church.  The windows were Fairly impressive, though the stained glass
nothing very special.  Not one of the finer examples of its kind,

but then, you could say I've been spoiled.  I made some suitably
enthusiastic noises and my landlady beamed her approval.  Jane
Fairchild, however, was no disappointment and I studied her with total
fascination.  There's a bossy type of woman, quintessential British,
who manages always to set my teeth on edge.  Exuding an innate aura of
virtue that smacks every time of crass hypocrisy.  As though she
possessed her own hotline to heaven and was confident that God was on
her side.  Well, not any more He wasn't, as she'd shortly be
discovering.  My heart started quickening at the prospect and I
wondered if I'd have the guts to see it through.  I watched her,
spellbound, throughout the service, keen to pick up every little
detail.  She was tall and spare, in a velvet hat and serviceable brown
suit, and boomed her responses loudly from the front pew.  Local
aristocracy, as I'm sure she would like to pretend, though I knew
enough of her former life to know that wasn't actually the case.  A
retired headmistress, she'd been raised in Luton with an elder brother,
acclaimed as an academic.  Throughout her life, no doubt to her
chagrin, she had had to live in the shadow of his brilliance.  Until
here, in Alton Coombe, she had settled on her retirement and finally
achieved the lifestyle she'd always desired.  Her cottage, close to the
duck pond, was quaint and pretty and well kept.  She had obviously put
a lot of effort into its maintenance.  The paintwork was fresh, the
thatch in excellent trim.  The garden, even in winter, freshly turned
over.  It was plain Miss Fairchild was something of a perfectionist,
which fitted exactly the profile I had drawn.  She took her parochial
duties extremely seriously and ran a regular charity stall in the flea
market.  Proceeds to the Haemophilia Society, which she'd been helping
to fund since she'd first put down roots in the village.  I checked it
all out the following Saturday and boldly loitered in front of her,
fingering the bric-a-brac.  Lace doilies, Victorian knife-rests, the
usual sort of clutter stuff accumulated over the years that no one
could conceivably actually want.  Brooches and pill-boxes and garish
glass bowls.  It was amazing quite how much of it there was.  I paused
to examine a slightly chipped Toby jug, while listening unashamedly as
she gabbled away to the woman on the adjoining stall.  Her shoes were
sturdy brogues, her stockings thorn-proof lisle.  No doubt, tossed into
the back of her car would be the requisite Barbour and green wellies.
At her feet, half hidden by the tablecloth, shivered her silly little
dog.  White curly hair freshly laundered, and decked with a blue satin
bow.  Jane Fairchild had recreated herself as a bit of a country
cliche.  Village Lady Bountiful and doer of good works, still with that
attitude that was holier-than-thou.  Fake upper crust and quite
insufferable with it.  I itched to wipe the smugness from her face. 
"My brother this' and 'my brother that' snobbishly punctuated the
ceaseless flow.  It was clear the other woman was well used to her and
tool?  the condescension in her stride.  "Anything I can help you
with?"  At last I had her attention.  "Thank you but no," I said with
an amiable grin, replacing the jug and casually strolling away.  Her
spectacle frames were tortoiseshell, a few sparse whiskers sprouted
from her chin. Around her withered throat she wore a fine gold chain
with some sort of number engraved upon a disc.  Whether she'd know me
again I couldn't be sure, but even if she did, it would be too late.  I
experienced an adrenalin surge so powerful I went across the road for
an early drink. I had laboured so long and hard to reach this point. 
Nothing in the world could stop me now.  My most immediate need was a
job to tide me over, something to keep body and soul together while I
perfected my careful plans.  Bar work was usually the simplest thing
and, by chance, The Snooty Fox had posted a vacancy.  Casual labour,
cash in hand.  Few questions asked, my luck was certainly in.  I
started that evening, pulling pints in the public bar, my ears wide
open for any fresh snippets of gossip.  Not that the lady in question
was likely to venture in here.  A gin and orange would be her wildest
tipple, and even then she would drink it discreetly in the privacy of
her home.  I knew the type.  They were a friendly bunch in Alton Coombe
and I found it very easy to fit in.  By constantly smiling and keeping
my mouth shut, I

was able to draw no attention to myself.  I saw very little of my
landlady, too, other than at breakfast when she liked to discuss the
weather.  The place was ideal and suited all my requirements a. hearty
breakfast to set me up for the day, plain but comfortable rooms that
were clean and warm.  And time on my hands just to wander and observe
and recall past memories, now long gone.  Right on the edge of the
Cotswolds, too.  The scenery was sensational.  A vast improvement on
Milton Keynes but that, of course, went without saying.  I would have
liked to go riding but hadn't the proper clobber; in any case, wouldn't
be there long enough to make it worthwhile.  Besides, this was no time
for splashing out, not with my list still to work through.  I had only
my meagre earnings to keep me going, in addition to the joint savings
we had carefully put aside to provide for a glorious future that never
came.  So instead I trawled the antiques shops and wandered around the
village, enjoying the rawness of country life and patiently biding my
time.  I stalked my prey discreetly and soon had a fair idea of her
fussy routines.  You could practically set your watch by her, her
movements were so predictable.  It was easy to imagine what she must
have been like at school.  Thursdays at ten to the hairdresser, to have
the greying curls spruced up, with a manicure thrown in once a
fortnight.  Tuesdays a.m. to help with the Red Cross, in which, I soon
discovered, she was a general.  Saturdays, the flea market followed by
lunch at the vicarage.  She was very pally with both the vicar and his
wife, who must have been veritable saints.  Just the sound of that
trumpeting, affected voice jarred me to the core.  Plus I never could
forgive her for the terrible thing she had done.  Part of my reason for
being here in the first place.  She regularly walked the dog in the
early mornings and again last thing at night before turning in.  A
woman much set in her ways was our Miss Fairchild, which made her the
perfect target for a hit, particularly for a beginner.  After all those
solitary years of dreary research, the time for action was finally
here.  All I needed now was to pick the right spot, after which I would
be able to move on.  I narrowed it at last to the church, where she did
the flowers on every third Friday, according to the rota.  From ten
until twelve, as part of a regular team.  Convenient that they left
details like that in the porch.  But in these country villages folk are
still trusting.  The weather was fast improving and the flowers she had
brought were impressive.  Hothouse blooms, not fresh from the garden,
but all the more showy for that.  They were heaped around her as she
worked on the altarpiece while her dog was tethered whimpering outside.
An elderly verger pottered nearby, stacking hassocks and sorting piles
of hymnals.  While he was still there, there was little I could do, so
I simply lurked tourist-like in the shadows of the lady chapel
Eventually, however, he finished and shuffled away.  The time had
suddenly come for swift action before I lost my nerve.  I nodded to him
cordially as I passed him in the nave, then stopped beside her to
admire her work, at which she was amply proficient.  "Beautiful
flowers," I said with unfeigned sincerity.  "Aren't they just," she
replied with her customary satisfied smirk.  She scarcely bothered to
glance at me as she secured each sturdy stem with green picture wire.
She had a mass of mixed foliage arranged in a marble urn into which she
was skilfully weaving each separate stalk.  Bronze and gold
chrysanthemums, spiked with a deep russet red.  A veritable cornucopia
of winter glory.  "Are you from around these parts?"  she asked idly as
she snipped, hacking away at the stems with lethal-looking secateurs. I
told her I was but I doubt she took it in; she certainly showed no sign
of remembering my face.  The coil of wire lay tantalisingly close. One
swift, sharp movement and I would be able to reach it.  Just then the
church clock struck noon and I realised, with a sudden chill, how
little time there was left.  Five minutes, at most, before the
lunchtime influx or else I would have to put it on further hold. Which,
having finally plucked up my nerve, I wasn't prepared to do. And she
might well know who I was another time.  So I took a chance and grabbed
for the wire, then looped it over her head and wrenched it tight.  She
was a big, strong woman but I had the advantage of surprise.  As well
as being less than half her age.  She struggled and tried to scream,
and knocked over the flowers, but I gar rotted her until I felt her
choke.  Then took the secateurs which she'd dropped on the floor and
swiftly completed the job.  I needed the world to know that this was no
accident.  Simply the visible start of my bloody campaign.

I left the church as discreetly as I'd entered, pausing only to deal
with the dog on the way out.  Well, Miss Fairchild, it was interesting
to make your acquaintance.  One down, only seven left to go.

TWO

Don't bother waiting supper for me," said Edwina Huxley as she rushed
through.  William, patiently coaxing Morwenna to finish her eggs before
they got cold, looked up mildly.  He was used to his wife's erratic
timetable, also her fanatical dedication to her work.  In recent weeks
she'd been coming home later and later.  She rarely explained why, just
blamed it all on the job.  "Something exciting?"  He was always
politely receptive, found the crazy whirl in which she lived oddly
invigorating just as long as he wasn't obliged to join in.  Edwina was
driven to an extent he could only admire.  At times it seemed that her
feet barely touched the ground.  "Meeting with possible investors.  One
of the big German banks."  Since she'd embarked on this crazy dot com
scheme of hers, she lived, breathed the internet, scarcely taking time
off to eat.  In fact, she was telling only half an untruth.  They
really did have a big investment session at five, but if she mentioned
the aerobics class too, he might just take exception.  And not without
cause.  But it was imperative she worked off those few extra pounds or
she'd soon be heading down the slippery slope.  And that wouldn't do at
all, not with all she currently had at stake.  Edwina returned in her
coat and grabbed a slice of the buttered toast her husband had cut into
neat soldiers.  That way went her figure, but today she couldn't resist
it.  Nursery food was perfect when her nerves were so much on edge. The
new company was teetering on the brink of a yawning abyss, but now was
not the time to be talking about that.  Not that William would
understand or was even likely to care much.  He had long ago left it to
her to act the adult role.  "Remember to ring the plumber," she said.
"His number is there on the pad."  The bathroom tap still persistently
dripped and was etching a stain into the porcelain.  Other people's
husbands would have fixed it long ago, it was probably only a question
of a new washer, but Edwina had given up complaining.  At least he
would be there to let the fellow in.  For such small mercies she knew
she should feel blessed.  She stooped to kiss her child's small
egg-stained face.  "Bye, bye, precious.  Mummy has to go."  She glanced
at the clock.  It was heading towards half past.  Any second now and
the taxi would be here, ready to brave the horrors of the rush hour.
"Have a good day," said William placidly, pouring himself another cup
of tea and switching on the regional news to check out the weather
forecast.  Days for him were all much the same since he'd quit work.
Or, rather, since the job had let him go.  Instead of just sitting
there .. . Edwina itched to scream, but instead just bit her lip and
pocketed her keys.  There was no point in getting at him now, not while
the child was having breakfast.  A horn sounded sharply from the
street.  "Must go."  She pecked his cheek and ruffled his hair and was
off up the basement steps in her ultra smart boots.  Well, rather her
than him, thought William contentedly as he flicked out the pages of
The Times.  It was Mrs.  P's morning so he cleared things into the sink
and made a desultory attempt at tidying up.  He scrubbed his daughter's
face with a damp corner of her bib and lifted her down from her high
chair.  It was this time of day he had grown to love best, while the
rest of the civilised world was still fighting its way to work.  He
didn't miss the rat-race one bit, had let it all go with relief.
Morwenna was asking for cartoons so he carried her into the playroom
and switched on her favourite Cobbleywobs series, all that was ever on
at this time of day.  Then settled back comfortably at the kitchen
table for a bit of well-earned peace and quiet.  "Lord," said Mrs.  P
as she bustled in at nine.  Talk about lovely weather for ducks.  It's
teeming."  She was wearing her old trench coat, which had seen better
days, the usual fag sticking out of her mouth and a colourful headscarf
tied low over her forehead in obvious imitation of the Queen.  She
shook out her coat and hung it on a peg, then coughed her way over to
the kettle.  "Another cup pa  she asked as she fluffed out her platinum
curls.  She was a cliche copy of the old-fashioned daily, straight out
of Andy Capp.  William found her an endless source of amusement.  She
always enlivened his day.  He glanced at his empty mug.  "Please." 
Mrs. P did for them a couple of times a week and they started off most
mornings in just this way.  While William sorted the laundry and
tackled the dishes, she set to work with a hoover and duster, trying to
bring order to their chaos.  Twice a week wasn't really enough, with
the child to keep clearing up after, but since they'd had only the one
salary coming in, they had tried to make a few basic economies.  At
least, Edwina had.  William really wasn't bothered.  Left to his own
devices, he'd have been content to do it all, provided he didn't have
to hurry or be too meticulous.  He genuinely enjoyed this new role of
house husband, did not miss the workplace one bit.  First, however,
they had to review the week and catch up on the gossip, to which both
were increasingly addicted.  Soap operas, scandal and the ghoulish
stories the papers were so satisfyingly full of.  Even The Times was
going more and more down market and had started to carry stories
formerly found only in the tabloids.  Mrs.  P carried two full mugs
over to where he was sitting, took the weight off her feet and lit up
again. "Awful about that Paula Yates."  It had been all over the
weekend papers.  William, who sometimes struggled to keep up with Mrs. 
P, for once knew what she was talking about.  Even The Times had
carried the story, the tragically premature death of a high-profile
celebrity. That's what fame does," added Mrs.  P, the arbiter of
popular culture. She shook her head as she blew out the match and
flicked it into the sink.  Edwina would have tutted but William didn't
care.  He enjoyed these cosy twice-weekly sessions, had grown to look
forward to them. Mrs.  P lived down by the viaduct, on the far side of
Westbourne Grove. He couldn't even begin to guess her age but suspected
she might be far younger than she looked.  She had raised a motley
collection of kids and was full of funny stories about them.  She
particularly doted on Morwenna, a surefire way to William's heart. 
"Come here, duck," she called through the playroom door, and Morwenna,
instantly distracted from the cute little woodland folk, came running
to her obediently with open arms.  Mrs.  P stooped and hoisted the
sturdy child on to her lap, where she settled benignly, thumb in mouth,
to listen to the grown-ups' conversation.  Edwina would also have
clucked at the thumb but again William didn't care.  Sucking a thumb
was a natural way to seek comfort; there had even been occasions when
he felt like doing it himself.  She'd grow out of it soon enough as
normal children do.  No point in fussing over what was perfectly
natural.

Mrs.  P dunked a biscuit in her tea then gave half of it to the child
to suck.  She kicked off the short fur boots that she wore in all
weathers and got stuck into her chat.  Plenty of time later to get some
order into the house.  She savoured these sessions with William as much
as he did.

"Did you see there's been another nasty murder?"  She stretched across
to her shopping bag and pulled out the Daily Mail.  No, William hadn't.
The Times was concerned with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who had
just been voted the most unpopular ever.  The Mail had a far more
sensational front page.  He took it from her hand.

Family murdered on picnic, the headline shouted, above a collage of
heart-rending photographs.  Appalled, William read on.  A housewife in
Northampton, with her two small daughters, had been attacked and killed
while picnicking in a meadow.  In the act of making daisy-chains, it
said.  The smudgy photos showed a sweet-faced young woman, probably no
more than her middle twenties, with two cute replicas of herself.
Lauren Marsh with Melanie and Sadie, aged seven and four.  They'd been
bludgeoned with a pickaxe, then savagely chopped to pieces.  Reading
the gruesome details made William want to throw up.

"Shocking, ain't it," said Mrs.  P with relish, breaking into her
racking cough which seemed to be getting worse.  She loved nothing more
than a juicy bit of drama, could take as much blood and guts as she
could get.  She continued to puff, filling the kitchen with smoke,
apparently oblivious of the health hazards.  William felt it wasn't his
place to warn her.  Wordlessly he reached across and shifted his
daughter to the cleaner environment of his own lap.  No point in
risking her health at this young age.  Rain or not, Edwina would have
made Mrs.  P stand outside.

William scanned the inner pages where more of the story was detailed.
The husband, a chartered surveyor, looked rather distinguished and was
currently helping the police with their inquiries.  Poor bastard.

"It's nearly always the husband that did it," said Mrs.  P
knowledgeably, reluctantly rising to her feet.  "You mark my words, I
bet they arrest him.  Terrible, really, to think of the things that go
on."  She burrowed inside her capacious bag and produced a flowered
pinafore that had seen better days.  Her nails, fairly ludicrously,
were painted a dashing damson and looked as though they were fresh from
the beauty salon.  One of the daughters was a stylist, William knew, so
perhaps Ma's upkeep was all part of the package.  Mrs.  P shuffled
across to the sink and rinsed the mugs under hot running water.  There
seems to be a lot of it about," she remarked.  "What?"  asked William
abstractedly.  "Murder," said Mrs.  P cheerfully as she started to do
her work.  Playroom first then the stairs and upper floors.  With a
good long clean down here before she was through.  William went on
sitting there, studying the details in the Mail.  The Times had
dismissed it in a single paragraph, their minds still on loftier
matters.  Though no doubt when the case came to trial, they'd exact
their four pennyworth along with the rest.  IF it came to trial.  He
wasn't at all convinced that the father was the culprit, he looked too
responsible and honourable for that.  Arresting the closest male
relative was fairly routine; however innocent he might appear,
statistically he had to be checked out.  But what kind of monster would
slaughter his own children, not to mention their mother, his wife?
William looked down tenderly at his own beloved infant, slumbering now
in the crook of his arm, thumb firmly back in her mouth.  He gently
kissed the nape of her delicate neck.  He loved Morwenna more than
anything else in the world, and that, he was bound to admit, included
Edwina.  He would do anything in his power to shelter her from harm.
Part of the privilege of having full-time care of her.  "More likely
some kind of nutter," he said, folding the paper and returning it to
the bag.  He really ought to get going himself.  There was the plumber
still to phone and other assorted chores which Edwina would not be
pleased to find left undone.  The murders in the meadow had really
caught his attention.  The bodies were brutalised and drenched in their
own blood.  The details rang an uncomfortable bell; it took him just a
few moments to connect.  Edwina's Aunt Jane had met with a similarly
gruesome death, an apparently motiveless murder, her dog hacked to
pieces nearby.  That had happened four years ago, before Morwenna was
even a twinkle in his eye.  He'd still had a proper job in those days,
but had taken time off to go down to the Cotswolds to find out more.
She had, after all, left them her cottage.  A little family involvement
was the least the poor woman might expect.

Northampton was not that far from the Cotswolds.  Maybe a coincidence,
for the actual locations were still some distance apart.  Nevertheless.
That trail had petered out almost immediately though the ghastly state
of the body had made William gag.  She had been gar rotted with picture
wire, her throat gouged out with her own secateurs.  Slashed almost
through to the spinal cord, the altar-cloth drenched in her blood.  And
her poor little Bichon Frise outside, impaled on the railings like a
macabre sacrifice.  It was hard to imagine a mind as sick as that.
Almost as disgusting as those poor kids.  Aunt Jane herself had been
something of a handful, yet respected in Alton Coombe for her
charitable works.  William had never particularly warmed to her, but
could not imagine anyone bearing such a terrible grudge.  These
atrocities made no sense to the sane mind but the world was growing
sicker by the minute.  As Mrs.  P would be the first to point out.

"Right, then," he said, making a reluctant move and peering out of the
window to check the weather.  The rain had stopped and pale sunshine
flooded the basement steps.  He'd sort the laundry for Mrs.  P then
take Morwenna off to the swings before it started again.

"It's not that I don't love him any more, it's just that he's started
to drive me slightly potty."  Never one to beat about the bush, Edwina
had finally come to the end of her tether.  She sat in the crowded bar
of the Oxo Tower, sipping her Seabreeze and confiding in her friends.
Sue and Meryl, devoted allies and staunchest of confidantes through
many a shared tribulation.  She felt at ease with them; they spoke the
same language and understood the stresses of her life, especially now
with all this dot com business.  The aerobics class was over and done
with, the trio felt stretched to the limit, virtuous too.  Not,
however, to the extent of cutting out alcohol.  A girl had to draw the
line somewhere.  Meryl was even smoking.  "So go on," she said now,
through a haze of smoke.  "Give us a for instance."  She had to lean
forward to hear through the babble.  This trendy watering-hole was
filling up fast.  "It's not just one thing or another," said Edwina.
"He seems to have given up looking for proper work."  That was the real
drag.  He no longer seemed to care.  There can't be a lot of call for
his sort of expertise."  William was a cartographer.  He had been axed
with the Nicholsons merger two years before.  "But there are other
avenues he could explore.  He really is awfully gifted."  Despite her
frustration, she remained quite proud of him.  It was his expert
draughtsmanship that had attracted her in the first place.  That and
his amazing imagination.  Edwina, ever the high-flyer, was impressed by
anyone creative.  The left side of the brain, and all that.  A
brilliance she entirely lacked herself.  For no matter how formidable
her business skills might be, in no way could she ever be described as
creative.  Practical, maybe, and certainly go-getting.  Determined and
stubborn and impossibly exacting, though without a single original
thought in her head.  She couldn't even tell a bedtime story.  Yet it
hadn't stopped her getting on in life.  Look what she was on the brink
of right now.  Success beyond imagination.  A glittering dot com
career.

Meryl exhaled a thin stream of smoke.  Secretly she'd always rather
fancied William, while aware that he was also a bit of a dope.
Charming, though one of life's losers.  Sooner Edwina than her.  Meryl
preferred a man with a bit of financial substance.  She had long been
on the hunt for one but was lately beginning to lose hope.  Thirty-four
was pushing it a bit and the rules were growing dirtier by the minute.
She glanced around the trendy bar two-thirds women and most of them on
the pull.  She sucked in her stomach and smoothed her streaked blonde
hair.  Upkeep at this age was becoming increasingly costly, and once
past thirty there was no looking back.  "Well," said Sue briskly in her
usual no-nonsense way.  "I think you should insist that he get out
there and look."  Everyone knew that Edwina was on to a winner but it
wasn't entirely right that a man should permit himself to be kept.
Letting down the side somehow.  Not enough of the stiff upper lip. 
"Not quite that easy," said Edwina.  "He actually enjoys being home
during the day.  Seems not to get bored at all.  Can you imagine?"  She
certainly couldn't, all those tedious hours of mind-blowing boredom,
chatting inanely to a two-year-old and having constantly to pick up
after her.  Potty training, marmalade in his hair.  That terrible
television series.  He certainly was a marvelous father, she couldn't
deny him that, and secretly she envied the special relationship he was
forging with their child.  But someone had to bring home the bacon and
lately she'd been doing that on her own.  She was honest about the fact
that she wasn't by nature maternal.  In that way their union was
proving a perfect fit.  Though they had not envisaged a situation like
this when they'd first tied the knot four years ago.  "How does he
spend his time?"  asked Meryl.  It was wet in the extreme for a man to
be little more than a nanny.  The usual sort of domestic things.  Shops
and tidies and takes Morwenna to the park.  Messes about on the patio
while she's napping.  Does the crossword puzzle, watches tennis.  And

Neighbours, he confesses, when he can.  As well as old movies in the
afternoon.  It really is the life of Riley for him."  The bitterness
was evident in her voice.  She wished now she hadn't raised the
subject, regretting them knowing too much.  Edwina's marriage had
always been something of a fairytale.  She hated to reveal her
underlying discontent.  Though that's what close friendships were all
about.  And a good old moan did nobody any harm as long as they kept it
within the group, which was not always easy.  "What happens when
Morwenna goes to school?"  With a family of her own, Sue saw herself as
an expert.  That's not for at least a couple more years.  Though I'm
not entirely sure I can hang on that long."  As bad as that.  So now
they were getting to the real nitty gritty.  All three of them shuffled
their stools a little closer and Sue signalled to the bar girl for
another round.  Although they genuinely were dyed-in-the-wool best
mates, there was a secret thrill to be had from another's misery.  Made
Sue feel smug and Meryl less insecure.  Edwina, with her slightly
superior beauty, rarely showed even a chink in her outward calm.  She
always appeared to have conquered the world, what with the job and the
man and now the baby.  And recently she'd been cresting the wave of
unimaginable success so shortly wouldn't have any financial worries
either.  It was therefore refreshing to discover that all was not
necessarily roses.  Of course, they both wished her well, they did
sincerely, but it wouldn't be quite human not to feel the teeniest fris
son of smug delight.  They were keen to sniff out every tiny detail. 
That, after all, is what girl talk is all about.  "So what are you
going to do?"  Meryl held her breath.  "Don't know exactly' Edwina
admitted.  "In some ways the situation works ideally for us both."  If
only he'd not be quite so humdrum, had some sort of stimulus in his own
life so they'd at least have something to talk about at night.  Other
than domestic issues which bored the pants off Edwina.  "Morwenna
really loves her daddy and it means we save money on the nanny."  Not
that that was going to matter any more if things worked out the way
they looked.  But a full-time nanny was something she preferred to be
without.  Having one underfoot in those first few months had driven her
virtually to snapping point.  She recalled the rows and petty
irritations, the invasion of her territory by a stranger perpetually
there.  It also meant they didn't need to run a second car.  All these
considerations added up.  And it gave her space for girls' nights out
like this, away from the grinding monotony of her home.  Most other
mothers of a two-year-old would be guiltily racing home the minute the
whistle blew.  It was eight o'clock already.  Her husband must be a
saint.  It would never even occur to him to ask what she had been up
to.  He'd be ready waiting with a meal all ready and a welcoming drink
already poured.  But that only added to what was really troubling her.
There were times when she wondered if he still loved her.  "Gotta go,"
she said reluctantly, picking up her things.  Fortunately, by this time
in the evening, taxis were easily found.  Blackfriars to Netting Hill
would take less than half an hour.  She certainly did have blessings
though these days rarely found the time to count them.  As long as he
hadn't left the kitchen in too much of a mess.  William sat in front of
the evening news, finishing the crossword puzzle.  The sensational
slaughter of the Marsh family came only second to the petrol crisis,
though with fewer details than in that morning's Mail.  The injuries
had been horrendous, said an obviously shaken policeman.  They had a
man in custody who was helping them with inquiries, and would probably
be holding him overnight.  Poor devil, thought William again, glancing
up.  First, to lose his family like that, then to have to face such a
barrage of publicity.  The two little girls looked like miniatures of
their mother, bambi-eyed and similarly sweetly smiling.  Just looking
at their images brought spontaneous tears to his eyes.  Children were
so vulnerable.  How could anyone possibly harm them?  There was an
interview with a distraught neighbour who spoke of what darlings the
three of them had been.  "Find this killer!"  she implored on camera,
tears gushing down her stricken face.  Yet Mrs.  P was right and
statistics went against him.  William knew that in the majority of
cases the trigger was invariably domestic.  The programme changed and
he popped upstairs to check that Morwenna was sleeping.  She had had
her bath and he'd read her a story and had not heard a peep from her
since. He wondered idly when Edwina would be home, had baked a
shepherd's pie which was still keeping warm in the oven.  She certainly
put in long hours, bless her heart, but he was scarcely in a position
to complain. The only thing that mattered was that one of them was
earning real money, or this house, for starters, would almost certainly
have to go. And after they'd spent so much time finding it and fixing
it up, he knew that would for certain break her heart.  Morwenna lay on
her front in her cot, her beloved Eeyore tucked protectively under one
arm, her thumb as usual in her mouth.  He tiptoed over and straightened
the covers then stroked her glossy little conker-like head with the
softest of angel touches.  People often laughed when they saw father
and daughter together, for there could be no doubting her parentage. 
Same dark hair and extravagant lashes, same rosy cheeks and impish
grin. Edwina complained that he had the dominant genes but they had
worked out very nicely in their daughter.  He kissed her gently then
crept back downstairs.  Edwina had told him not to wait supper and he
was starting to get slightly peckish.  First, though, he'd open a
bottle of wine to breathe and then fill in the last of the crossword
clues. Edwina was often quite edgy when she got home; he tried to
smooth things out as much as he could.  One of these days, sooner
rather than later, he knew he would really have to look for a job.  He
was just reluctant to give it all up now, the full-time parenting that
had become so all-engrossing.  He was proud of all he had achieved so
far, helping this lively infant to develop.

Then he remembered he had forgotten about the plumber.  Oh Lord.  Yet
another black mark.

THREE

Edwina's workplace could not have been further removed in character
from the cosy domesticity of her husband's.  A stark high-rise building
close to Blackfriars Bridge, it had mirrored windows, round-the-clock
security and electronic sensors all over the place.  She and her
partner had rented space on the eleventh floor, in which they were
developing their brand new internet company, Dotcom-Whatever they
hadn't yet decided on the name.  It was designed to help small-time
punters invest their savings safely without being messed around by the
high-street banks.  Gareth was supposedly working on the package while
she got on with the financial under-pinning.  Which of their different
roles was more crucial to the project, she hadn't yet had the time to
think about.  She sat in an open-plan office, surrounded by banks of
computer screens.  All she could hear were endlessly ringing phones
with an undercurrent of the heavy thrum of state-of-the-art technology.
Soulless and lacking in creature comforts, it was nonetheless a
paradise to Edwina and where, these days, she - 29

increasingly felt most at home.  Working on her own behalf, with the
promise of making a killing.  With a long-term future stretching ahead,
devoid of financial stresses.  Provided they got the fine-tuning right
and the market didn't subside.  It was after seven on the following
evening, and again she was in no great hurry to get home.  "Still at
it?"  Gareth Prendergast, once just a compatible colleague but now her
business partner, halted as he wandered by and propped himself
nonchalantly against the wall.  He was wearing one of his chic designer
suits with a black silk open-necked shirt.  His greying fair hair was
clipped severely short to disguise a receding hairline.  But he still
had the looks of a sixties rock idol, something of which he was very
much aware.  Edwina stretched and tilted back her chair, wearily
massaging her neck.  "I'm just running over these co stings one last
time."  What the Germans had proposed had been close to miraculous.
They had loved the simple concept, spotted its vast potential and
seemed extremely keen to come aboard.  All that remained now was the
paperwork and then they could probably go public.  Fruit of several
months' hard planning, the pinnacle of their dreams.  She could hardly
believe they had got this far.  Was scared that something might still
go wrong.  Gareth glanced at his watch.  "Well, I'm off over to the Ivy
to meet up with some chums."  He sighed and stretched and adjusted his
collar.  Wow, but the man had some front.  He admired Edwina's extreme
dedication, but had a far more casual attitude to work himself.  This
potential money-spinner had originally been his inspiration, but he
needed her grounded common sense to make it work.  Once a boy wonder of
the investment world, Gareth, at forty-something, had shifted to
e-commerce, shrewdly foreseeing that that way lay the future.  They had
worked together as market traders and always hit it off remarkably
well.  He admired her style and the way she looked as much as her
formidable intelligence.  He also found her sexy but that was by the
way.  One of these days, when he felt in the mood, he rather fancied
seducing her, just for fun.  Today she was wearing a black leather
skirt with knee-high, spike-heeled crocodile boots, which he found
disturbingly erotic.  Her thick dark hair was tied severely back and
she frowned with concentration as she stared into her screen.  One
classy chick, well worth a bit of effort.  A cut above his usual
mindless dollies.  He knew she was no pushover, respected her for that.
Which would make the eventual chase that much more exciting.  "You can
join us if you like," he said casually, but still hoping.  "Can't,"
said Edwina abruptly.  She was already unforgivably late.  "Ah yes, the
husband," said Gareth mockingly.  "Marital bliss in trendy Notting
Hill."  Edwina glanced up with rising irritation, then laughed when she
saw his pained expression.  "You're just jealous," she said, 'because
you've got no one of your own."  Nobody waiting for him at home with a
hot meal ready to be served.  No enchanting toddler clambering on to
his knee, begging him for a favourite bedtime story.  No bath time
frolics or innocent night-night games or the moving sight of an
exhausted child falling gently asleep in her father's protective arms.
No one to carry upstairs to bed, not, at least, to a nursery.  Gareth
had none of the traditional appendages of his age and position in
society.  And yet there certainly was no shortage in his life of
gorgeous willing aspirants for the job.  Very often desperate, always
over-compliant, she knew his life patterns so well.  Women, some of
them pretty remarkable, prepared to abase themselves at the snap of his
world-weary fingers.  Gareth Prendergast was, in short, a louse, little
more than a traditional old-fashioned bounder.  He ran them in droves,
paid them minimal attention and usually ended up breaking their silly
hearts.  Not hers, however; she was far too clued up and considered his
obvious charm too fake to be effective.  But she did find his company
in the workplace stimulating, enjoyed his caustic wit and weary
cynicism.  Also she liked being seen out with him at functions.  Face
it, there weren't too many men like him around.  Yet William really was
extremely long-suffering.  She had to concede him that when she finally
walked in and found her gin and tonic already poured because his sharp
ears had heard the taxi.  Devoted or what?  All she felt was guilt and
silently vowed to be nicer to him, if only he weren't such a doormat.
The kitchen was a warm safe cavern with the most appetite-inducing
aromas wafting from the stove.  Tonight she couldn't fault him on a
thing.  He was there to give her a welcoming hug and help her off with
her coat.  The house, for once, was remarkably quiet, with only the
muted strains of a Debussy nocturne drifting through the open living
room door.  He had even made something of an effort to clear up.  The
sink was stacked with the pans he'd used but the table, for once, was
immaculate.  A clean, crisp cloth already set for two, with a bottle of
Merlot thoughtfully opened to breathe.  Fresh flowers too, her
favourite freesias.  She stretched up impulsively and pecked him on the
cheek.  She had married him after a string of unsatisfactory
relationships, largely because of this same intrinsic thoughtfulness.
At first he hadn't particularly made her knees tremble, but he had more
important qualities than that.  Like loyalty, steadfastness and a great
sense of humour, with patience and honesty thrown in.  Not to mention
that remarkable artistic talent, if only he would put it to some real
use.  He always called when he said he would and had never been late
for a date.  People had married for far less, she reasoned.  At least
with William Huxley she had known she would always be safe.  "She in
bed already?"  "Off like a lamb," said William, beaming as he fished
the iron casserole from the oven.  "We watched her Bob the Builder
video and she went up good as gold."  The truth was she'd grown so used
to an absent mother, she no longer kicked up a ruckus when bedtime came
and still Edwina wasn't home.  These days they'd become almost like a
single-parent family, though he wouldn't risk spoiling his wife's
genial mood by drawing attention to her inadequacies.  It was good she
was currently so hyped-up about her work.  Her cheeks were flushed and
her eyes unnaturally bright.  He found her, in this mood, quite
irresistible.  Once she'd relaxed and her adrenalin level was back to
normal, he'd remember to ask for a general update.  Sometimes she liked
to talk about the job, at others she chose to shut him out completely.
It all depended on her mercurial moods.  He couldn't always foresee how
she would react.  "How's Gareth?"  he asked casually as he served the
stew.  "Coping," was all she said.  The two men met only rarely, on
official occasions; she preferred to keep it that way.  She sensed the
disdain in Gareth's eyes, knew also that William couldn't abide him.
Found him phoney and unnecessarily acerbic, disliked his
pseudo-intellectual pose.  He might have been a Balliol scholar but had
done very little with his first-class degree, had always been something
of a wastrel.  Until he'd teamed up with the focused Edwina and
produced that vital spark of inspiration.  Gareth might take credit for
the seed of the big idea but any success the new company might have
would be due, almost totally, to her.  Of that William had no doubt, he
was a fan.  Regardless of his unvoiced disapproval of her somewhat
suspect business partner.  Chalk and cheese were these two main men in
Edwina's life.  William, with his ingenuous charm; Gareth the
calculating sophisticate.  Both of them clever and attractive in their
way yet light years apart in their approach.  And she had to admit, if
only to herself, that Gareth was the one currently making her tingle,
though she tried her level best not to let it show.  Four years with
William had somewhat dimmed her ardour, especially since the arrival of
Morwenna.  Broken nights and relentless domesticity were surefire sup
pressers of sexual passion.  Ideally, right now they should be trying
for a second child so there wouldn't be too much of an age gap. But the
mere thought of a new pregnancy filled Edwina with horror.  She wasn't
a natural mother, had not been raised in that way.  Her own mother, now
in her seventies, still worked full-time with no thought of retiring. 
Her Highgate practice was always fully booked, her text-books still
widely available.  Helge Dorfman was a giant in her field, a Jungian
psychiatrist, originally from Vienna.  And married to Arnold Fairchild,
the famous economist.  Think how our grandmothers fought to get the
vote."  That was the mantra with which Helge had raised Edwina, who had
no intention of dropping out now, on the threshold of such a glitzy
future.  When supper was over, Edwina wiped her mouth and folded her
napkin.  There was still a little wine left in the bottle but she'd
leave it for William to finish.  With all that was going on in her
life, she needed to keep a clear head.  "I'm off upstairs for an hour
or so's work," she said.  "We have to sort out the German deal and
still have a fair way to go."  She was doing it again, thought William
despondently, excluding him from the most important part of her life. 
He was actually keenly interested in the progress of her company, but
she always kept him waiting till she felt like opening up.  Edwina, all
over, self-absorbed, unaware of just how much she sometimes hurt him. 
One of the flaws that he blamed on her hothouse upbringing.  When she
went at something there was no deflecting her. Not even her own little
daughter was permitted to get in her way. Which was one hundred per
cent selfishness, and he knew that some day she'd regret it, once
Morwenna was finally grown and had moved away. Luckily there was little
chance of his daughter inheriting her chilliness, for she took after
him in so many integral ways.  His expression softened as he thought
about his child.  He would just give these pans a preliminary soak,
then pop up to check on her.  Edwina, engrossed in her financial
calculations, was unlikely to have given her a thought.  Morwenna could
be missing when she sauntered home from work, yet he wasn't entirely
convinced that she'd even notice.  While he was still pottering around
at the sink, he switched on the television to catch the news.  They
were still banging on about those horrible murders.  Stuff about the
mother with her blameless, innocent life and the hard-working father
who had provided for them so well.  A model, middle-class family, or so
it appeared on the surface.  Not so much as a breath of scandal or hint
of why it might have happened.  Dishcloth in hand, William stood
transfixed, soaking up every detail of the crime.  Quite what it was
that so engaged his attention, he hadn't yet been able to figure out. 
He wasn't by nature a True Crime enthusiast and rarely ever opened a
detective novel, while even Morse on the box made him yawn.  He could
never get to care about the meandering plot. But there was something so
horrific about these real-life killings that he just couldn't shake
their savagery from his mind.  Perhaps it was this empty existence
beginning to addle his brain, with all those hours of gossip with Mrs. 
P. If he had a little more drive, like the lovely Edwina, he'd be up
there now beside her, doing his stuff.  Putting his talents to work on
something worthwhile, finding himself a real man's job to earn back
Edwina's respect.  Earning a bit of hard cash for a change.  No wonder
she got fed up with him, what a drag he must be to come home to. 
Stand-in housewife, surrogate mother, general dogs body incarnate.  It
was time to shake a leg and get a life.  He'd enjoyed the last job,
producing atlases.  It was possible that he'd strike lucky like that
again.  But not if he didn't get up off his arse and start doing
something about it.  First thing tomorrow, or possibly the day after,
he'd log on to the internet and see what he could find.  Yet the
prospect of having to part from Morwenna, even for just a few hours a
day, filled him with utter despair.  To let some stranger put ideas
into her head was almost too painful to contemplate.  At two years old,
she was already a fully formed person, his baby, his creation, his
whole life.  At the same time, he knew it made sense.  He flicked his
cloth round the sink and rinsed it out.  Then tiptoed up the stairs to
say goodnight.  He'd not risk disturbing Edwina at her work but he
might, if he was lucky, get a cuddle from his daughter.

"FOUR

Children and all they stand for, meant virtually nothing to me ken.
Life was far too exhilarating even to think of settling down, with
mortgages and other shackles like that.  Love, of course, in those
heady far-off days, had barely even touched me.  I was a green and
ignorant fool with far more worldly matters on my mind.  There was
still so much I wanted to explore and far too little time in which to
do it.  Or so it appeared to me in my breathless youth.  I suppose I
was way too cocky and self-absorbed and left the serious business of
living to others.  While my friends were mellowing and beginning to
pair off, I was still out there having a permanent fling.  Of course,
had I known then what I've had to learn the hard way ... But that's how
it is with life's ups and downs.

For through these recent monochrome years I have known more than my
fair share of sorrow.  And have consequently learned how to hit someone
where it hurts most while also letting the world know it was me.  No
point in hiding your light beneath a bushel.  I intended to leave my
signature on each crime.

Next on the hit list was a man called Robert Marsh, apparently yet
another exemplary citizen.  He lived, conveniently, on the fringes of
Northampton, a relatively easy ride from Milton Keynes.  Which meant I
was able to operate from home and save myself both money and anxiety. I
had kept on the flat, and the mortgage was fully paid up.  Marina could
well have wanted it but she didn't.  She was actually terribly
reasonable when it came to dividing the spoils.  She was ever the lady;
1 will always respect her for that.  She had ample reason to hate me,
but amazingly appeared not to do so.  Believed, so they tell me, with
unusual compassion, that I'd already been punished enough.  So here I
was now, with no need to look for new digs and run the constant risk of
recognition.  I could do the next one at my leisure and give it all the
time that it required.  Also continue with the dreary little job which,
though mind-numbingly dull, I could see was essential.  As well as
allowing me access to the files, it also provided me with the requisite
cover.  Locating the right Robert Marsh had not been easy, for lots of
Marshes were listed in the booh.  Also, it transpired, he had moved
around quite a bit, so I wasted valuable months on futile trails.
Eventually, however, I did strike lucky and managed to track him down.
He was, by profession, a chartered surveyor.  I'd established that fact
early on.  And worked from an office in his spacious home, popular,
successful, much admired.  Best of all, he appeared to have a perfect
marriage with two little cute-as-pie kids.  The ideal scenario, I
couldn't have made it up.  Matching little angels, miniatures of their
mother.  Enough to bring a lump to the throat.  I had found his name on
the electoral roll after numerous fruitless searches.  And the man who
responded so politely to my call seemed to fit all the necessary
criteria.  He would, he told me courteously, be delighted to take on
the job.  At more or less any time convenient to me, he could come
round and look the place over.  I said I'd call back to arrange a
definite meeting but that was no longer necessary, not now I'd
established who he was.  So instead I took the bike out for an
early-evening spin and popped over to his neighbourhood for a recce.
The house was situated in a pleasant leafy lane with a handy public
garden right alongside.  The weather had turned quite balmy, ideal for
an evening stroll, so I pushed the bike under the cover of some willows
and continued my cautious investigation on foot.  There was no point in
taking unnecessary risks, not at this early stage.  For this time my
prey was Lauren Marsh and her daughters, three instead of one, a
perfect hat trick.  For a while the papers had been full of the
Fairchild murder and I still got a buzz whenever I saw it mentioned.  I
had got away with that one apparently scot free and these days was
feeling considerably more confident.  The police had made little
progress with their fumbling inquiries and the story had inevitably
died a natural death.  The crucial thing was that we had met only that
once.  There was nothing else whatsoever to connect us.  No mutual
friends nor interests, no ties.  It seemed that, beginner though I
might be, I had pulled off the perfect crime.  I was starting to feel
quite good in this new profession.  Killing was something that
stretched me to the limit and gave back some feeling of purpose to my
life.  Still, as a safety precaution, after the Fairchild murder I lay
low for a few more years and allowed things to drift while I
concentrated on my research.  Every name on my list was important, for
each had played their part in the destruction of my life.  They had all
of them, in one deadly swoop, harmed me irreversibly.  So it was only
right that now I should turn the tables.  An eye for an eye and all
that.  It was, after all, the ethos on which I'd been raised.  It
seems, looking back on my childhood, that the sun nearly always shone. 
Which can't have been true but that's the impression I have.  I was
always right there in the spotlight, never one to linger in the
shadows, and might have had any person that I chose.  Male or female,
it made little difference but all came down to the same thing in the
end.  My power over others, call it charm if you will.  I found very
few who could resist me.  I was bold, I was adventurous and had my fair
share of looks.  And was in there in the centre of things, wherever the
action was.  By the age of fourteen I had learned to drive a car and
practised in the farmland round where we lived.  My mother was dubious
but Pa was okay and since he was very much king of his own back yard,
what he said usually went.  My brothers and I were allowed to run wild
and I don't think it did us any harm.  Certainly it made me confident,
which has stood me ever since in excellent stead.  If you have faith in
yourself, a priest once told me, then that's the largest part of
winning life's battle.  Stand up for what you believe in and never ever
back down.  No need to resort to fighting at all if you know in your
heart you can win.  Provided, of course, you have right on your side,
though he felt that that went without saying.  Wise words on which I
reflected now. My thinking might not be conventional, but I've always
known what I wanted and gone after it.  From what I could glean from
the local rag, Robert Marsh was soundly established in this town.  He
more than pulled his weight in local affairs, had even served his stint
on the parish council.  He was a governor of his children's school and
a spirited member of the football club, was widely respected and
considered a regular bloke; this last I found out by drinking in his
local.  He also sang tenor with the Gilbert & Sullivan Society and was
currently in training for the marathon.  A good all-rounder; by the
time I'd completed his dossier I almost found room in my heart for mild
regret. Except that it wasn't him I was planning to kill I couldn't
help accosting him in the pub that Sunday morning.  I have always been
over-impetuous and inclined to take foolish risks.  Which is how I
landed myself in this mess, though I prefer not to think of that now.
Certainly Marina used to cluck and shake her head, half admiring the
madcap antics I got up to.  That was in the early days when I think she
still rather liked me.  What happened later was to change all that,
though, to be fair, it was not entirely of my doing.

Anyhow, Marsh was leaning on the bar when he spotted me drinking alone
and included me in his next round.  I was surprised.  "Just a half," I
insisted when he pointed to my glass, rewarding him with an enigmatic
smile.  Soon I was in there, the hub of his intimate circle, and he
introduced me around to all his cronies.  He had clear blue eyes and
well-kept teeth and you could see, beneath the grey jogging suit, how
fit and muscular he was.  Mid-forties or thereabouts, I would guess,
though he'd certainly worn well.  And the iron-grey hair didn't age
him, just added distinction.  When he finished his drink, he said
regretfully he must go.  "They'll be waiting at home to start their
lunch.  Mustn't upset my little women."  He touched me lightly on the
shoulder as if he had known me for years and said he truly hoped we
would meet again.  Asked how long I was likely to stick around, and I
smiled and told him I wasn't entirely sure.  Then he was gone, at a
loping trot, and those still left at the bar began to discuss him.  The
camaraderie of the public house.  I shook hands all round, left my
glass on the bar, muttered a bunch of platitudes and was off.  I had
accomplished what I'd come in for, a closer acquaintance with my prey.
What I had in mind for him was far worse than any easy death.  I wanted
his suffering, like mine, to be infinite.  When I first saw London it
nearly blew my mind.  This was what I'd been waiting for all my life.
At that time, in the eighties, life was one continuous party and I
threw myself right into it up to my neck.  I got a job in Sloane Street
and aflat in Cadogan Gardens.  I couldn't really afford it but had
help.  Restaurants and clubs and the whole busy drug scene.  I couldn't
get enough of it and burned all my candles at both ends.  Who knows
what might have happened to me, I would probably be dead by now.  But
something entirely unforeseen came out of a clear blue sky.  A
thunderbolt struck me when I wasn't paying attention, thus totally
altering the course of my life.  In one blind unthinking moment, I fell
in love.

Marina has always put the blame on me, but that's actually not how it
happened.  The coup de foudre at that crowded reception hit us both
simultaneously.  We couldn't have helped ourselves, it was written in
the stars.  And all the other clumsy cliches from popular songs.  We
stared transfixed, then fought our way through the throng, and stood
there, smiling foolishly, in clumsy silence.  And from that moment on,
we never looked back, until death inevitably came along to divide us.
Due to my other commitments, I was obliged to snatch time where I
could.  I even feigned the occasional bout of sickness in order to
further my plan.  Having tasted blood once, I was longing to do it
again, but had to be sure that my plan was entirely foolproof.  The
more times I did it, the more they'd be watching out for me.  Just one
false move and my neck would be on the line.  So in mid afternoon, as
often as I was able, I biked over to Northampton and lay in wait.
Regular as clockwork, just a little after three, Lauren would let
herself out of the house and walk the few blocks to the school.  There
she would pick up the two little girls and take them off somewhere for
a treat.  I could see from just watching what a marvelous mother she
was, pretty too and apparently permanently happy.  I confess I watched
her with something close to envy, though there wasn't room in my life
right now for regret.  Where to do it was the problem, for I had to
tread very carefully in this town.  My face had been clocked by Marsh
and his gang and might well be recognised again.  It would have to be
somewhere outdoors, I decided; the house was far too difficult to
breach.  Besides, he worked from home, I now remembered.  The local
baths were one possibility but perhaps that bit too public for me to
risk.  Also, drowning was relatively tame, not the way I wanted to
leave my mark.  I selected my tools with precision, having learned my
mistake from the first time.  Killing is a serious business.  It was
vital I should come already prepared.  Close to where I lived was a
builder's yard, so it took no more than a skilfully picked lock to
collect the necessary essentials.  I hesitated over the pickaxe, I
confess, but this time there were three of them to dispatch.  After a
few trial swings, I made my decision.  Never send a boy to do a man's
job.

The rest, as they say, is now history.  The media folk went to town.
Talk about slaughter of the innocents, they just couldn't get enough.
The most horrendous triple murder the world had seen in years.  What
kind of vile depravity could have led to such a thing?  I watched my
friend, Marsh, that evening on the news and saw, with satisfaction, the
agony etched into his face.  Precisely what I'd intended.  Let the
hurting continue for ever.  Now he knew what it felt like too and would
for the remainder of his life.

FIVE

The Express, which William picked up on his way to the park, gave
additional gruesome details of the murders.  What some crazed, depraved
animal had done to those poor little girls positively made his gorge
rise.  It was obscene.  He glanced instinctively down at the stroller
and pulled Morwenna closer.  Soon they'd move on to the Princess Diana
playground but only when he was good and ready.  Here, in pale sunlight
by the Italian fountains, he wallowed in every grisly detail.  He had
that sort of mindset, an attention to minutiae that regularly drove
Edwina wild, usually not without cause.  Despite the fact that he
always knew most of the answers on most subjects and could probably
have made it on to Mastermind.  For heavens sake," she would shriek at
him.  Tut that aside and get on.  There are far more important things
that need doing."  Things pertaining to the real world, was what she
meant.  She just couldn't stand all this constant aimless
wool-gathering.  And yet that was a main part of Williams intrinsic
charm.  A refreshing change from the crashing city bores she'd been
stuck with until she met him.

It was one of their fundamental differences; she was a pragmatist, he
an unstructured dreamer.  It still amazed him secretly that they'd ever
got it together, but he'd admired her hugely from the moment of first
meeting and when William wanted anything enough, nothing could stand in
his way.  It was all part of the paradox that made up his complex
character and explained how he'd held her entranced all these years
when some occasionally saw him as a wimp.  Edwina always charged in
with both feet while he was more inclined to think things through.  His
little Boadicea, he liked to call her, as he proudly stood on the
sidelines and watched her conquer the world.  She had been astounded
when he was suddenly without a job yet made no instant attempt to find
another.  He'd always been so happy with his topography and maps; the
house was strewn with the evidence because he was constantly browsing.
But he liked the leisure to look around and now had Morwenna to teach.
What riches he would be able to pass on to her as soon as she was old
enough to understand.  It worried him not at all that his wife was the
sole provider.  He felt quietly confident there'd be work out there for
him when the time was finally ripe.  Talent like his did not come
cheap, of that he had always been certain, and the distinguished
vocation, of which he was a part, grew more specialist year by year.
What Edwina had never taken the time to comprehend was that the mapping
industry was no longer what it had been.  When William first came to
it, with his brilliant degree, the profession was still very much based
on dedicated graphics.  He had had a ball in his first two jobs,
experiencing a sense of real achievement.  Not so now, however.  In the
past few years those perfidious purveyors of crap maps were
increasingly taking over with their computers and IT skills.
Cartography as a career choice was losing its aesthetic allure,
William's principal reason for being in no particular rush to re-enter
the fray.  Plus, of course, there was the advent of Morwenna which had
brought him more joy than he could believe.  He hadn't so much as
dreamed he would feel this way about fatherhood, but now knew these
precious hours with her could never be replicated.  Unless they did
have that longed-for second child, which he was starting to fear was
unlikely.  Not as things stood between them lately.  There were too
many broken bridges that needed fixing.  Some day, when she was old
enough, he would pass on his delicate draughts man skills to his
daughter.  She already showed signs of sharing his talent, which
brought him immeasurable pleasure.  "Come along, cherub," he said now
briskly, binning the newspaper and rising to his feet.  Time to head on
towards the new playground, always a highlight of their day.  The park
just now was looking particularly luxuriant, touched as it was with a
hint of autumn magic.  If they made fast tracks, they'd be bound to
catch up with some friends, regulars sharing the swings.  "Hi!"  said
several of the mothers, when William arrived and released Morwenna from
her stroller to join the other children in the sand pit  William
watched her crowing with delight as she toddled on sturdy legs from
child to child.  "Morwenna's looking particularly bonny this morning,"
remarked a mother he encountered occasionally at the doctor's.  She was
plump, bland and comfortable, intent on crocheting something small and
white.  She lived quite near him in Hillgate Village; he couldn't for
the moment recall her name.  William smiled.  He was a favourite among
this particular klatch, a rarity by virtue of his sex.  Not many
fathers ever ventured into this territory, certainly not during weekday
working hours.  He made appropriate comments about her own pallid child
and then they briefly got on to things like the weather.  After that,
for a painful few moments, he found himself utterly stumped.  His mind
was absorbed with the details of the murders, but that was hardly a
subject for idle chat.  How did other people fare when they knew each
other only slightly?  Women were so much better at handling these
things.  Small-talk for beginners, it ought to be on the curriculum. He
thought very hard while he racked his brains.  Then inspiration struck.
"I don't suppose," he said brightly, pretty confident he was on the
right track, 'that you have a really good recipe for orange marmalade?"
Then was able safely to return to his morbid thoughts, pretending all
the while to be absorbed.  William came to his vocation in a slightly
roundabout way.  At school in Devon he had excelled at art, though not
quite enough, his teachers felt, to make it a viable career choice. 
Also his family wasn't keen.  All you heard about art students in those
days were their bawdy rags and the Chelsea Arts Ball, and William's
parents were far too grounded to take such a chance with his future. 
As was he.  With two good As in Maths and Geography, he was headed for
something more mundane until he chanced to take a holiday job in
Exeter.  In a shop that dealt exclusively in old maps, where he found
himself instantly seduced by their musty appeal.  He had long been a
crossword addict and loved the challenge of working things out.  So the
study of how the land once lay immediately sucked him in. He was a
genius at jigsaws and an early addict of Rubik's Cube, which he
cracked, when it first came out, at the age of eleven.  He would gnaw
at a problem with dogged persistence until he had got it solved. He
was, in short, a natural lateral thinker.  So he took a course at
Oxford Polytechnic and ended up with a joint honours degree in Computer
Studies and Cartography.  From there he landed a job with Reader's
Digest and after that moved on to Nicholsons for what he perceived as
more scope and additional prestige.  A mistake, as it turned out, for
soon they were gobbled up and were forced to streamline their staff,
which meant having to let him go.  A halt, for a while, to his
glittering career and the start of his full-time nannying.  Which,

after the first hard jolt, no longer fazed him.  There'd be time enough
in the future for his maps.  Right now he was overwhelmed with delight
at just being Morwenna's dad.  On sudden impulse William decided to
take a trip down to Alton Coombe, the pretty Gloucestershire village
where Aunt Jane's cottage was situated.  They hadn't been there for far
too long and she had, after all, been good enough to leave it to them. 
The weather was bright and, for once, not raining.  A bit of country
air would do them good.  They could stop off in Tetbury and look at
antiques.  Already the child was starting to appreciate quality.
Edwina, predictably, thought he was off his rocker.  All those dreary
hours of driving with only a baby for company.  And he was bound to hit
the worst of the traffic on the long journey back.  William, however,
was undeterred.  Aunt Jane had been neglected quite long enough.  He
still had nightmares when he thought about her death and that terrible
confrontation in the mortuary.  The least he could do now was help to
cherish her memory.  He hadn't cared much for her in life but could not
get her out of his mind.  "What are you planning to do?"  asked Edwina
suspiciously.  They had stopped their regular visits because of the
domestic upheaval.  Just transporting one child for a two-day weekend
resembled an army on the move.  They were both worn out by the time
they even got there and then had to turn right round and reverse the
process.  Also, on a more practical level, she felt Aunt Jane's
possessions were hardly the setting for a lively, destructive child.
Among the general old-ladyish clutter were items of genuine value.  It
needed a thorough sorting out, which neither had the time to do right
now.  "Oh, this and that," said William, deliberately vague.  He
hesitated to tell her he had murder on his mind, but since he'd become
obsessed with the recent Marsh massacre, curiosity was getting the
better of him.  Alton Coombe was a fair distance from

Northampton, yet some vague inner instinct was quietly starting to hum.
"We might even stay overnight?  Would you like that, duckie?"  Any
adventure with Morwenna along was bound, by definition, to turn out
fun.  She was so clued into everything at this age, he loved to see the
wonder on her face.  And it meant he needn't feel guilty, at least for
today, at still not making a move towards finding real work.  For
despite his personal contentment on the domestic front, he sensed
Edwina was growing increasingly testy.  It wasn't natural, he could see
it in her eyes, for a man to take such pleasure staying at home.  And
those supercilious girl friends, to whom she was constantly gabbing,
were doubtless sowing dissension in her mind.  Of course she hmm-ed her
disapproval as she sorted through her briefcase but couldn't stand in
his way if he wanted to go.  It would, at least, get him out of the
house instead of just idling all day.  Or distracting the cleaner with
all that pointless chatter.  Or doing one of his endless crossword
puzzles.  "If you go you can tidy up the garden," she said.  "After all
this rain, it must be like a wilderness."  But gardening was not on
William's current list of priorities.  There were far more important
things he wanted to do.  The hedge needed trimming and the last of the
roses deadheading, but the cottage, on the whole, appeared to be still
in good nick.  It was a pity they had neglected it so much.  The
village was chocolate-box pretty and they ought really to make more use
of it.  Perhaps when Morwenna was slightly older it would finally come
into its own.  Or otherwise they should consider putting it on the
market, though he doubted Edwina would agree.  She felt they should
honour her aunt's bequest and use it at least occasionally.  William
parked outside the white gate and released Morwenna from her car seat.
She ran unsteadily on her fat little legs and cooed with delight at a
neighbour's geese while William wrestled open the heavy front door.
There was a mass of junk mail scattered across the hall and a spider's
web artfully veiling one window, Otherwise all seemed in apple pie
order since Edwina's effective last onslaught.  There was a slight
smell of mildew around the kitchen sink and the bedclothes would need
to be aired.  He opened a few windows to let the breeze blow through,
then scrambled eggs and tomatoes for their lunch.  Aunt Jane had spent
her last years here and her touch was still very much apparent.  He
could almost sense her presence around, with a strong whiff of her
trademark lavender.  It seemed, slightly eerily, like entering a time
warp.  He half expected her to come striding through the door.  They
never did catch her murderer, just wrote it off as a random killing and
doubtless closed the file out of lack of interest.  But William
couldn't forget her nor the horrible way she had died.  That sad little
lifeless dog of hers, pinioned like a rag doll on the churchyard
railings.  Whoever had done that had got to be seriously deranged.
Suddenly William found he had lost his appetite.  "Come along,
sweetheart, eat up," he urged.  Then Daddy will take you out for a nice
walk."  Their first port of call was the parish church, scene of poor
Aunt Jane's untimely death.  They lingered in the churchyard to check
the state of her grave, and William felt a renewed pang of guilt when
he saw how overgrown it was.  For the first year or so they had paid
for its upkeep but somehow that service seemed to have slipped by the
wayside.  Before he left he would try to come back and weed it, perhaps
plant something lasting like a rosebush.  He slowly pushed open the
creaking door of the church and inhaled the aroma of candle wax and
polish.  The vicar, already robed, was by the font, preparing for a
christening.  William introduced himself, reminding him of their sombre
earlier meeting, and the vicar bowed his head in mute respect.  Jane
Fairchild might have been a bit of a thorn in his flesh but her passing
had been truly shocking.  It had brought reporters to the village in
their hordes, but public memory was fickle and they had very soon faded
away.  Even the police inquiry had been closed these past two years.
She was hardly ever even spoken of these days.  And now this amiable
stranger with the small enchanting child was asking questions to which
there were no answers.  The vicar, suddenly wary, was reluctant to get
involved.  The last thing he needed now was any more trouble.  "Are you
living down here?"  he asked.  William shook his head.  Explained they
kept the cottage solely as a weekend retreat and regretted they
couldn't make use of it any more often.  "I just wondered," he said,
after a suitable pause, 'if anything more had surfaced about Miss
Fairchild?"  The vicar looked at him blankly, sudden panic in his eyes.
He needed some space to compose himself before the christening.  "What
kind of thing did you have in mind?"  The whole world knew that her
killer had never been caught, was almost certainly a vagrant passing
through.  They had combed the place in their cursory way then finally,
when the heat went off, declared the whole matter closed.  She was,
after all, a woman on her own, never particularly liked.  Until this
minute the vicar had forgotten the existence of relatives at all.  The
thing is," said William, suddenly confidential, "I've been wondering
about these latest beastly murders."  The Marshes?"  asked the vicar,
fully aware.  The story was still on all the tabloid front pages.
William nodded.  "Dreadful business," said the vicar, shaking his head.
Another horrible tragedy stirring up trouble.  Though he couldn't, for
the life of him, see any connection here.  The Fairchild business had
happened four years ago.  '1 just have the strangest feeling the two
cases might be connected.  Both apparently motiveless and also
excruciatingly bloody."

Also two counties apart.  It didn't add up.  Compassionate though he
tried to be, the vicar felt William was stretching things quite a bit.
Having to do the identification must have unsettled the poor fellow's
mind.  The police had shown him all the relevant photos including the
sad little carcass of the dog.

"Are you a reporter?"  He was suddenly on his guard.  The last thing
they needed now was any more scandal.

"Just an amateur," said William reassuringly.  "Wondering what I can do
about my wife's aunt.  I might look in at the police station," he
added, 'and see if they've managed to turn up anything new."

"I'd do that," said the vicar, relieved, glancing surreptitiously at
his watch.  "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get on."

The village bobby could hardly have been less helpful, but that,
William now recalled, was nothing new.  An ungainly figure with a
vacuous stare, he could barely contain his irritation at William's
unwarranted questioning.

"So what's your interest?"  he asked belligerently, looking as though
he was ready to pick a fight.  William patiently explained again the
family connection, reminding him that they had met before at the time
of the actual murder.

"I wondered," he said, 'if you had come up with any more evidence.
Surely she can't be forgotten just like that."  He thought of all her
charity work, of the splendid floral arrangements in the church.  This
slob of a man had been unhelpful then, apparently taking as a personal
slur any of William's questions.  Even though, at that time, he'd had
every right to ask them.  And, to William's thinking now, still did.

"None whatsoever," said the policeman without reflection.  He had quite
enough on his hands in this village without scraping up things from the
past.  The woman was dead and buried and that was that.  He was
surprised anyone even remembered her, let alone cared.

"Only these latest murders, the ones in Northampton, strike me as
having similarities."  A blank stare.  "What with the very savagery of
the crimes."

"Northampton's a different area.  Nothing to do with us here."  Go and
pester them, he implied, and let me get on with my job.

Thanks for your help," said William blithely, determined more than ever
to chase things up.  He remembered this soulless bureaucracy well from
four years ago.  If they weren't going to help, he would damn well go
it alone.

SIX

William's morbid interest in murder was something comparatively new.
Edwina privately blamed it all on his current idle state, with not
enough else to occupy his brain-cells.  That was the way she'd been
raised herself, never to waste a second of precious time.  Instead of
squandering whole days on end just bumming around with the baby, he
ought by rights to be back there in the competitive world, doing
something profitable as well as intellectually stimulating.  Making his
mark, as her father would say.  Of course Edwina also made the
connection with Aunt Jane's murder.  Poor William had been the one
coerced into having to identify the body.  Her parents were travelling
in South Africa at the time and had only got home for the funeral,
which was anyhow delayed by the police for a couple of months, to fit
in with their inquiries.  Father had been shocked, of course, and had
made the right sort of public mumbles, but, deep inside, he had always
despised his sister and did not consider her shocking demise to be
anything much more than a nuisance.  Which might seem coldblooded, but
was how it was.  Edwina hadn't liked to discuss it.

William, on the other hand, had been pretty nearly traumatised.  He
hadn't known Jane Fairchild well, but the very least she had been was a
human being.  Not to mention flesh and blood to his own wife.  A single
glimpse of the desecrated corpse had been sufficient to send him into
shock.  He had never seen anyone dead before, hoped not to have to do
so again.  Not for a good many years, at least.  Old age was a
different thing.  "I just can't get her out of my head," he kept
saying, snuggling close to Edwina in the night, trying to blank out the
memory. She would pull him towards her and cradle him in her arms,
whispering and soothing till he finally nodded off and she felt his
rigid muscles start to relax.  "Poor baby' she'd murmur as she rocked
him gently to sleep, stroking back the glossy hair that was so
touchingly like Morwenna's.  Though Morwenna, at that time, was way in
the future. They were then still in their honeymoon phase.  It was the
first real break they had taken since the wedding and Alton Coombe in
April was burgeoning with new life.  The police investigation had been
finally wrapped up and Jane Fairchild's defiled body laid to rest.  It
had all been the most horrendous trauma from which the Huxleys were
trying to recover.  The will had disclosed that she'd left them all her
things, and now Edwina was suffering remorse for not having cared for
her more. "She wasn't the easiest person," she explained.  "Forever on
at me to do my prep."  Having a headmistress as an aunt was bad enough,
but she'd also fawned upon Arnold all the time.  Which, in Edwina's
mind, was fairly yucky She knew her father privately shared her
opinion, though was too detached and absorbed in his own world to care
about it one way or another.  "She really made me sick," said Edwina
with absolute candour.  "Acting as though my father's house were her
own.  I can't imagine why my mother ever put up with it.  I suppose she
just didn't care."  There was something quaintly Victorian about Aunt
Jane, who had behaved as though she had family rights which gave her
automatic precedence over wife and daughter.  She styled herself
grandly "Miss Fairchild' at all times, and took it for granted she was
welcome to stay whenever she came to town.  Which was more often than
they wanted her, especially Edwina.  She'd appropriated a bedroom as
her own where she left a change of clothes and a cluster of
possessions.  Luckily the house was large so they still had several
spares.  Helge, with her mind on higher things, had managed to rise
above it, but Edwina loathed coming home from school to find her aunt
installed.  She bossed around the long-suffering cook and interfered in
the kitchen.  Behaved as though the house were an entailed family
property and not just the fruit of a lifetime's hard work.  She took,
as though by right, her place at the head of the table while Helge
simply smiled grimly and shrugged it off.  If it weren't so damned
annoying, it would actually be quite funny.  Arnold, as ever, didn't
notice.  She was hot on Edwina doing her cello practice and scolded her
if she ever cut it short.  Also she insisted on checking her homework
before she was allowed to go to bed, sometimes had even been known to
make her redo it.  Life with Aunt Jane on the premises was worse even
than boarding-school.  Why they'd allowed her to act in this way
remained to Edwina a mystery, but both parents had always been so
self-involved, it had probably suited them well.  A handy babysitter as
well as unpaid governess.  They had had the child late deliberately and
didn't want her constantly underfoot.  "She was always terribly stingy
with presents," said Edwina, still feeling guilty as she had a look
around.  "And at meal times she bored us all to tears.  Chewed every
mouthful at least a hundred times and talked incessantly about the
school.  We'd be sitting there for hours, just waiting for her to
finish.  Father occasionally left her to it but even that didn't stop
her flow.  She was a proper horror, an archetypal old maid.  And now I
feel really dreadful that she's dead."  She laid her head against
William's chest and he saw that her eyes were brimming.  He had just
romantically carried her over the threshold and was still a little out
of breath.  He held her gently and tenderly kissed her hair, touched by
this sudden emotional display.  '1 expect she loved you really, it was
just her way of expressing it.  Why else do you think she would have
left you all this?"  The cottage was slightly stuffy and smelt a little
of mildew but otherwise was still in excellent repair.  Even the thatch
had recently been re-done, another major expense they were glad to
avoid.  It was years since Edwina had bothered to pay her a visit which
only went to make her feel guiltier still.  "Only because she had no
one else," she sniffed.  "I am the sole remaining natural heir."  They
stripped off the faded old eiderdown and replaced it with an expensive
goose-feather duvet, bought ceremoniously at Conran for just this
purpose.  Eventually the curtains would also have to go, as well as the
antimacassars on the wing chairs.  It was amazing that, in this day and
age, she had still clung so resolutely to the past.  But she had always
been a traditionalist whose intrinsic taste could not be faulted.  Each
piece of furniture had been meticulously selected to fit the age and
ambience of the room.  The effect was homely and pleasing and stirred
something basic in William's heart.  He envisaged a future, after their
as-yet-to-be-born children had left home, when the two of them could
grow old together in this cosy little nest.  Which brought him back
neatly to the matter in hand.  "Let's try it out," he said hopefully,
closing the curtains.  "It's only right that we christen the place
appropriately."  Things had been so perfect then; where had it started
to go wrong?  Losing his job, of course, had not exactly helped and the
withering scorn of her parents had made things worse.  Arnold
Fairchild, emeritus professor of economics, still worked long hours in
his early eighties.  He despised what he considered a shirker and made
no bones about it.  Whoever married his precious daughter needed to
pull up his socks.  "What that young man needs is proper employment,"
was one of his regular moans.  He had no time at all for the concept of
New Man, considered his son-in-law a bit of a sissy.  In his day a
woman's place had been firmly in the home, no matter that his own wife
was a prominent feminist.  Helge Dorfman had always had a voice and had
ruthlessly raised her own daughter in her image.  Which was a large
part of Edwina's confusion now.  She didn't know which way to turn.
When she'd first met William, in South Kensington, he was one of a
group of spirited youths who had hung out together in the various wine
bars and contrived to have loads of fun.  He was working then for the
Digest, his first job.  Edwina, fresh from a shattered involvement, was
grateful to meet up with such a lively crowd.  She had never had any
problem with finding new admirers but was not yet nearly ready to
settle down.  William's ambivalent situation suited her down to the
ground.  And she found his boyish enthusiasms rather endearing.  He had
bright dark eyes, like a questing robin, and thick shaggy hair, nearly
always in need of a cut.  He took an intelligent interest in
practically any subject, in particular (at that time) astronomy and
Egyptology.  When he got on to one of his hobbyhorses, he sparkled like
a merry little elf.  She liked the way he looked and his infectious
zest for life and started to keep an eye out for him at parties.  Her
daughter, she was glad to see now, had inherited that bustling
curiosity.  It was one of the strong similarities she treasured most.
"I'm just going out to look at the stars," was what had led to that
first furtive kiss.  She was astonished when she actually found him
sexy.  Take away the faux aura of schoolboy nerd and there within
lurked a man of genuine depth.  Plus originality.  He shared with her
the wonders of the solar system and also started to teach her
hieroglyphics.

Father was slightly sceptical when Edwina first brought William home
but her parents were tired of the strings of Lotharios and felt it was
definitely time she settled down.  They still had mixed views on a
woman's proper role but agreed they would dearly love a grandchild. All
had gone well till he'd suddenly got the sack.  Arnold Fairchild had
disapproved of him ever since.  So what was she to do?  She was still
very much in awe of her parents, found it hard not to play for their
approval.  They doted on Morwenna, dropped hints about wanting another,
yet let their basic disillusionment with William show through. Though
they did allow, somewhat grudgingly, that he was an excellent father. 
On the other hand, they were proud of Edwina's career and showered her
with praise as they watched it grow.  Arnold, the economist, was
particularly pleased with her progress.  This latest collusion with
Gareth seemed to him an excellent thing.  He had met Gareth once and
approved of his debonair manners but, then, Gareth had always known how
to pile it on.  Ever a bit of a star-fucker, he was impressed by the
distinguished academic.  The Fairchild name carried considerable clout,
especially in financial circles.  "Perhaps we should offer him a
directorship?"  suggested Gareth, but Edwina was emphatic in her
refusal.  Father offstage, giving an approving nod, was good for her
ego as well as reassuring.  But Father hands-on would be a nightmare
quite unthinkable.  Apart from the obvious snub it would mean to her
husband.  She let him know the basic parameters of what they were
doing, that was all.  Possibly, at a later stage, she might also permit
him to invest.  Now, as she worked on her abs in the gym, her thoughts
were fully concentrated on Gareth.  She would loathe him to see her hot
and sweaty like this but was proud of the way she was toning up.  She
ran her hands appreciatively over her flat, taut midriff,

then did fifty extra crunchies just for luck.  When you saw someone
daily, you dared not ever slack off.  Though she still remained
outwardly haughty, inside she was definitely wavering.  She was due
very shortly to meet the girls for a meal in a Butler's Wharf bistro.
Just time for a ten-minute sauna and shower and then she would have to
get going.  "No William?"  asked Meryl hopefully, as if it were even
likely.  Everyone smirked; they had been through it all before.  Edwina
shook her head.  "What do you think?  He's home playing happy families
with the kid."  She knew as she said it she was being unfair.  Just
occasionally she couldn't help herself.  They'd had the whole dialogue
again that morning, just before her taxi arrived.  Sue was hosting a
'family' get together; even the elusive Nick was rumoured to be turning
up.  And they'd promised to lay on something toothsome for Meryl.  A
cosy meeting of the six of them was something they didn't often do. But
William, rot his socks, had failed to come through.  Even though he had
to be the least stressed of the lot.  By quite a long chalk from her
reckoning.  "You know we can't leave Morwenna," he had said, as if she
had suggested some depravity.  Making Edwina, quite unfairly, feel
uncomfortable.  Not just for this once, to see her friends?  It wasn't
as if they couldn't afford it or did it all the time.  He was turning
into a seriously odd homebody, with definite views on child care that
she didn't necessarily share.  Though Arnold and Helge, she knew, would
approve which was probably why she wanted to rebel.  "Doesn't he ever
get out on his own?"  Sue, diplomatically, had cancelled the other two
men.  Nick, the rising Eurocrat, would be glad not to have to spare the
time but at least, when it was necessary, was amenable.  But then, for
years, they'd had the backup of a round-the-clock nanny.  Yes, it could
be inconvenient, not to mention claustrophobic, but neither of them
would change the arrangement for the world.  It enabled Sue to hold
down a high-flying banking job and still find time for these sessions
with the girls.  Which was really, if she were honest, what it was all
about.  Helped to keep the marriage harmonious and her sane.  Nick,
with his separate agenda, amiably went along with it.  As a result they
were popularly viewed as the perfect couple.  "Not very often," said
Edwina, answering honestly.  "But then, he's his own man, isn't he,
during the day."  Bitchy again but she couldn't help resenting it.
Somehow he'd managed to arrange a perfect lifestyle.  Time to play with
the kid and gossip with the cleaner.  Now to chase murderers to his
heart's content.  But she didn't want to discuss this with her friends.
She suspected they already thought him a bit of a wally.  "How's
Gareth?"  asked Meryl hopefully.  She had only ever glimpsed him and
had been angling ever since for an introduction.  So far Edwina had
succeeded in keeping them apart.  Meryl was deceptively brassy but
fragile underneath; a head to head collision could prove disastrous.
"Okay' she said off-handedly aiming to steer clear of the subject.  But
soon her resolution slipped and his name came creeping back in. Gareth,
she told them with a fair degree of pride, was currently in New York. 
Raising the profile of their dot com venture, hoping to rope in mammoth
bucks.  "He really is a terrific schmoozer," she said, the glint in her
eye unknowingly blowing her cover.  William, if he were honest, was
rocked to his socks by these latest murders.  Aunt Jane's death had
been quite horrific enough; he still had the occasional nightmare.  But
this, by anyone's standards, was far worse, as well as being constantly
in his face.  Despite the fact that he hadn't ever known them, he felt
a distinct affinity with the Marsh family, and found it hard to eclipse
them from his thoughts.  This time he didn't try talking to Edwina; she
would only think he was losing it altogether.  Instead he ran it past
his most reliable supporter, Mrs.  P, who didn't have a lot to add to
the equation.  But at least she paid him the courtesy of listening to
every detail, then giving it the benefit of her reasoning.  What these
two disparate crimes had basically in common was the more than sheer
brutality of the killings.  In other words, the absolute bloodiness.
Both had also included innocent extras: in Aunt Jane's case, the
pathetic dog; in this, the duo of cute little under-age daughters.  And
both in broad daylight with nobody hearing their screams.  Though
things like that did occur all too frequently, most recently the
snatching of schoolgirl Sarah Payne.  The police confessed to being
utterly in the dark about the Marsh case and had drafted additional
manpower on to the job.  What interested William most was the killer's
motivation.  Could it, perhaps, all be part of some private vendetta?
Interestingly also it was trumpeted in the press that Robert Marsh had
lived a blameless life.  Like Aunt Jane.  That faintly resounding bell
just wouldn't stop ringing.  "I still think he did it," said Mrs.  P
dogmatically, though she did give thought to what William had to say.
He had taken to following her around the house, shouting to be heard
above the hoover.  She smoked all the time, dropping ash as she
progressed, then efficiently vacuuming it up before moving on.  "But
why?"  asked William.  "And why Aunt Jane?"  Being a pain in the neck
was just not enough.  And to do it so gorily, it didn't make sense.
"Don't really know," admitted Mrs.  P. "It's just that it's nearly
always someone in the family."  Which was true.  She was, as it
happened, wrong in her supposition.  Forty-eight hours after his
apprehension, Marsh was released on police bail.  The television
cameras caught him returning to his home, an obviously broken man.
William watched the newscast over and over, channel-hopping out of
morbid fascination.  Marsh had visibly shrunk since the ordeal and
looked at least twenty years older.  Mrs.  P might consider it a sign
of his guilt but William remained far from convinced.  This was a man
clearly going through living hell and finding it hard to carry on.  Not
a kind of monster, just an ordinary guy who'd experienced the worst
sort of depravity.  The cameras lingered on the firmly closed front
door and filmed him as he rapidly pulled down the blinds.

Leave the poor sod alone, thought William with real empathy, and allow
him to do his grieving in peace.

SEVEN

J've always had a bit of a thing about graveyards.  I'm not quite
certain why.  Perhaps because the public affirmation of our mortality
serves as a reminder that we all end up the same.  Death, after all, is
the great leveller.  Whenever possible, I idle among the graves,
deciphering the inscriptions and thinking about those who have gone
before.  Who now include among their number the two I loved best in the
world.  It comforts me to think they are up there together, waiting for
me to arrive.  I like the vast, archaic, moss-covered tombs and the
children's scaled-down monuments, often quite moving in their very
mawkishness.  The Victorians made an art of all this, but then they
were so much more at ease with death.  Families in those days were so
much larger and infant mortality high.  Losing eight out of a total of
fifteen must surely have put a different spin on things.  They may have
swept sex beneath the carpet in those days but they gloried in all the
public trappings of death.  They wore full black for at least a year,
presumably finding it cathartic.  Occasionally, when I have nothing
much else to do, I take a picnic to the cemetery and bathe my agony in
the timeless peace you find in that sort of place.  Face it, the dead
won't ever desert you or let you down.  But remain there eternally,
unchanging.  Watching.  Or so I like to imagine.  I considered for a
while attending the funeral, until reason luckily got the upper hand.
You can't be too casual in this killing game and I couldn't rely one
hundred per cent on the crass ineptitude of the police.  I would like
to have seen for myself those three matching coffins, each one covered
with a mass of white daisies and followed by a crowd of stupefied
mourners, outraged by such a brutal and senseless crime.  The daisies,
I suppose, were symbolic.  They'd been making daisy-chains when it
happened.  Doubtful taste, I privately thought, though maybe somebody
simply didn't think.  I would have liked to have mingled among the
bereaved and tasted their grief first-hand, but the fact I was a
stranger might have drawn attention to me.  And that was the last thing
I wanted.  In the end I watched it on the news in the pub and enjoyed
it vicariously when the ceremony was over and a handful of mourners
came in.  Everyone was so angry and outraged I think they might well
have lynched me had they known.  I slipped away with a feeling of quiet
satisfaction.  Do as you would be done by, I've always believed.  My
next target was a schoolmaster, Alan Hargreaves, who lived in Dorset,
quite a distance away.  Which meant another tedious shift of lodgings,
but by now I was fairly used to that.  And it helped to cover my trail
by moving on.  All my possessions fit into two modest bags; I have
grown adept at travelling light.  Landladies invariably ask me what I
do, and I spin them some piece of nonsense about being in sales.
Everyone these days seems to be some sort of salesperson; they are
thicker on the ground than autumn leaves.  Or else, depending where
I've reached in my research, I attach myself to some government
department and rely on adlibbing from there.  My story has never once
been challenged so I'm gradually beginning to relax.  Blind them with
science; it never fails.  They are invariably overworked and
self-involved, absorbed by their narrow little lives.  They rapidly
lose interest and cease their prying so I reward them by being no
trouble as a guest.  Permanently smiling and polite, that's me,
grateful for whatever might be on offer.  The ideal lodger with no
tiresome little ways.  Plus I always tidy up and make my bed.  Of
course, they never get to know my real name or identity.  I am certain
they quickly forget me once I've gone.  Total invisibility, that's my
secret.  I have learned, chameleon-like, to merge effectively with my
background.  I had spent a great deal of time on Mr.  Hargreaves and
tracked him down at last to a minor boys' prep school.  Forty-three and
married, with a family of his own, he was active in the scout troop,
and his hobbies included sailing and playing the saxophone.  Definitely
one of the boys, I would guess, and fitting the profile precisely.
Gaining initial access is always the hardest part, but here, once
again, I was lucky enough to strike gold.  While trawling the local job
ads in search of some casual work, I chanced upon a vacancy actually in
the school.  Someone up there was finally on my side; I couldn't have
hoped for better had I planned it.  They were in need of temporary
assistance in the bursar's office, transferring data to their brand new
computer system, stuff like that.  Not quite my usual style but perfect
for the advancement of my mission.  The vacancy hit the spot; that was
all that counted.  The present incumbent was off on maternity leave;
they were seeking a three-month stopgap, which was ideal.  No tricky
question of references or even a P45.  Payment straight from the petty
cash with no questions asked, I would wager.  And even if they did ask,
I would have an alibi ready.  I had bluffed my way through trickier
situations than this.  The thing about me is I can turn my hand to
practically anything, have all the basic skills to back me up.  That's
one of the pluses of growing up on a farm.  My brothers would laugh if
they could see me today, polishing my keyboard skills while toning down
my act.  Not like those days when we kicked a ball around and vied to
drink each other under the table.  I doubt they would even recognise me
now.  Even the Armani suits have gone.  Trouble has sobered me, at
least for the time being, and totally quenched my desire to play the
clown.

Of course I had to rework my CV but no one was likely to give it more
than a glance.  I backed my application with the plain unvarnished
truth.  You can't go very far wrong if you stick to that.  I had
recently relocated, I explained, and hinted at family problems.  Keen
but not eager, respectful but not too much.  I was doing them the
favour; I wanted to make that clear.  My luck was in and I landed the
job.  To start the following Monday.  Now I needed a plan.  I had
allowed myself only three months and so far still hadn't a clue.  I had
grown accustomed to lying in wait, but it was the time for swift
action.  Once inside that chaotic office, however, the pieces began to
fall into place.  My very first task was to transfer the personnel
data, as a result of which I was able to filch Alan Hargreaves'file.  I
was aware of the bursar regarding me askew, suspicious and slightly
resentful.  He was obviously surprised I would want such a menial job.
I was more than aware myself that my face didn't fit.  I waited for him
to make some sort of move but, since I was always punctual and polite,
there wasn't really a lot he could say.  He was a blustering,
ruddy-faced bear of a man who instinctively I mistrusted on sight.
Maybe the fool thought I was after his job, he certainly had all sorts
of delusions of grandeur.  There is just no telling where paranoia will
strike, and the poor fellow had been stuck there most of his life. Once
he even asked me point blank why I'd wanted to work there in the first
place.  I stared back coolly and produced my standard reply, not that
it was any of his business.  I'd been recently travelling abroad, I
explained, and needed a breather like this to get myself sorted. Family
commitments, that sort of stuff.  Problems with ageing relatives, I
knew he'd understand.  He did have the grace to look faintly
uncomfortable, though it did nothing to deflect his curiosity.
"Married?"  he asked and I mutely shook my head.  If he fondly imagined
we had anything in common, he couldn't have figured me more wrong.  He
was the absolute antithesis of all that I respect, the sort of guy I
normally avoid.  Almost certainly latently repressed and never,

ever amounting to very much.  Stuck in a time warp from his middle
teens with an appetite for beer and scatological humour.  England's
minor public schools abound in this sort of misfit, devoid of any savvy
or the aptitude to cope.  But as long as I had to work alongside him, I
would make sure I kept things harmonious.  So I kept out of his way as
much as I was able and concentrated on maintaining a low profile.  In
spite of himself, I was clocking up points by acting the congenial
spare pair of hands.  The schoolmaster, Hargreaves, I discovered from
reading his file, had an unremarkable past.  Redbrick university
followed by teacher training.  A model teacher, popular with pupils and
staff.  This last I got from the bursar in one of his rare expansive
moods.  "Though the wife's a bit of a pill," he added grudgingly.  He
gave all the signs of not much liking women which, given the way he
lived his life, came as no big surprise.  Not that it mattered to me
either way.  Each to his own and my tastes were more refined, though
I'd not be trying to ram them down his throat.  Internal politics were
to be avoided at all costs, especially when my life could hang upon the
merest slip.  Right now I needed to keep my head well down and all my
de fences up.  Should anything go wrong, it would be my neck on the
block.  That was what kept my adrenalin level high.  "I'll close up,"
I'd occasionally offer, 'if you want to be heading off home."  Down to
the boozer was closer to the truth, though of course I never let on how
much I knew.  The bursar's home was a rundown bungalow in the grounds,
which meant he was, technically, permanently on duty.  Only we in the
office worked regular hours and were viewed by the school as civilians.
I usually contrived to be out of there by six.  With barely three
months before I had to move on, there was still a huge amount to be got
through.  Things finally fell into place when I sneaked a look at the
teaching rosters and spotted that Alan Hargreaves had a wildlife field
trip planned.  Eight boys in a minibus on an outing to Portland Bill.

Superbly rugged scenery with a conservation area thrown in.  They would
leave at the crack of dawn and take packed lunches and not return to
the school until after dark.  I bought myself an Ordnance Survey map
and studied the terrain minutely.  I wished now I'd paid more attention
to geography; certainly no room here for careless errors.  If he took,
as I assumed he would, the scenic route, there were one or two obvious
spots he was likely to stop.  For this was more than just a jolly
summer jaunt but also a serious wildlife lesson on wheels.  To
strengthen my plan, I went out of my way in an effort to get to know
him better.  He wasn't exactly my usual cup of tea but it pays to know
your prey, a golden rule.  Also there was the additional motive of
wanting to know what made him tick.  He was a keen, fresh-faced
enthusiast with thinning hair and a hearty laugh, inclined to wear long
shorts and sandals with socks.  Another overgrown schoolboy if ever I
saw one but, nevertheless, kind-hearted and sincerely dedicated.  The
sort of born teacher I think I'd have liked for my own kids, though I
tried not to dwell on that now.  We fell into an easy discussion about
the beauties of the local countryside.  He was only too willing, in his
obliging way, to share with me the benefits of his knowledge.  He had
lived in these parts for most of his adult life and bur bled with
infectious enthusiasm.  Even sketched, on the back of an old envelope,
the basic route he thought he might take the boys.  There were so many
natural beauties he wanted to show them, he'd be hard-pressed to fit it
all into one day.  "Come with us, if you like," he added spontaneously.
"There's room inside for another one, just, if you don't mind squashing
up."  Caught completely off my guard, for a second I was lost for an
excuse.  So I pleaded pressure of work, which sounded wet and also made
me look a touch ungrateful.  "Some other time .. ."  I said vaguely,
and he beamed and promised we'd make that a definite date.  "Any time
that suits you," he said.  "Provided, of course, that the weather holds
up." He drove me home he was going my way and dropped me off outside my
lodgings.  I hadn't wanted anyone from the school to know where I was
staying, but, at this advanced stage of the game, it no longer seemed
to matter.  For if everything went according to plan, he would soon no
longer be there to blow the whistle.

It was always a bit of a family joke how much I liked to tinker with
engines.  They seemed to find it hilarious, though I really can't see
why.  We all learned to drive at an early age and there's not much
under a bonnet I cannot fix.  It didn't sit well, they said, with my
clothes and lah-di-dah manners, all thought I was getting ideas above
my station.  Engine grease under my nails wasn't quite Armani.  But I
didn't care.  Messing about with cars is a great way of relaxing, and I
could often be found in a neighbour's barn of a weekend, doing
something tricky to a tractor.  Which was excellent experience for this
latest little project.  Odd how these things always seem to work out in
the end.

I let Hargreaves play around with my bike and he, congenial fellow that
he was, reciprocated by showing me his engine.  Of which, I may say, he
was justly proud.  Even though the van was now ten years old, he had
kept it in tiptop condition and fingered that lump of lifeless metal as
though it were a prize animal on show.  It was parked beside the
playground and we lounged there as we chatted.  So that by the time we
were done with gabbing, I had every detail I needed off by heart.  It
should only be the work of seconds, providing I got my timing right. So
far my most ambitious crime yet.  I could hardly wait to get going.

Shame about the boys, of course, but the truth is you can't make an
omelette without breaking eggs.

EIGHT

The shocking Hargreaves massacre made all the front pages.  Plus
headlines on the evening news: van goes over a cliff.  Nine dead, with
blood-curdling pictures of the accident scene, showing the horrifying
skid-marks.  At first they put it down to pure bad luck until they
detected the skilfully sawn-through brake cable.  And the fact that
Hargreaves had had his throat sliced.  After he went off the road.  One
of the neighbours, Polly Graham, was giving a charity coffee morning.
William and Morwenna went along.  She lived just round the corner in
Callcott Street, in a pretty blue-washed townhouse that had once been
an artisan's cottage.  The front door was open and the hallway packed
with prams.  William folded his stroller and stowed it helpfully
outside in the porch to allow extra room for latecomers.  "Children
into the nursery," called Polly over the buzz.  She was wearing a
fashionable long Indian skirt, with earrings that dangled to her
collarbones.  Her nanny, aided by three others, was holding court amid
an array of cuddly toys.  There was even a juggler, a fresh-faced young
man who looked barely out of the cradle himself.  William had grown to
enjoy this kind of event.  It was fun for Morwenna, meant that she met
other children, and also took him out of his rut.  It was one of Mrs.
P's mornings, but they'd still found a minute for their regular update.
"Imagine," she had said, through an aureole of smoke, 'those poor
innocent kiddies all smashed to smithereens."  Excellent fodder for
such a compatible pair of ghouls.  They pulled up their chairs with
unusual relish and settled down for a comfortable chin wag over a fresh
pot of tea.  In Mrs.  P's opinion, it was likely to be one of the
parents. Out to bump off an unsatisfactory teacher, unaware that there
would be children involved.  William was doubtful.  What kind of parent
would consider going to such lengths when the problem could be solved
simply by removing the child from the school?  Or by launching a formal
complaint through more regular channels.  There had recently been a
case in America where a child beauty queen had been neatly dispatched
by the overly ambitious mother of a circuit rival.  Perhaps it was one
of the boys who had been the actual target.  The swot of the Lower
Fourth or something like that.  "But someone slashed the master's
throat."  No getting away from that gruesome fact.  He had been
savagely finished off, the papers said, by someone foolhardily
slithering down the cliff and knifing him as he lay there, fatally
injured.  The van had dropped more than two hundred feet.  There was
blood all over the accident scene.  Not one of the boys had survived,
poor little beggars.  Mrs.  P gave a delicious shudder.  There was
nothing she liked more than a catastrophe.  William was still pondering
this topic as he took his place in Polly's designer kitchen.  She had
had the house completely gutted and walls knocked through for more
space.  Her husband was something impressive in insurance, no sign of a
shortage of available income here.  The walls were lemon with dark-blue
fittings, with flagstones of polished granite on the floor.  Edwina
would be green with envy should she ever get to see it, though she
wasn't part of Polly's social scene.  Edwina was always dreaming of
home improvements they might make.  If only more cash were available
day to day.  But with just the single salary coming in, it was
something that, for now, they couldn't afford.  Certainly not till the
fabled dot com ship came in.  William, for his part, felt not a twinge
of guilt.  He liked his own house just the way it was, perhaps a little
down-at-heel but comfy and homey, in which he could go to ground.  This
house was more like a department-store showroom.  Even the pristine tea
towels were an exact match.  There were eight young mothers, including
Polly, but William was, as usual, the token male.  He really couldn't
have cared less, was used by now to the imbalance of the sexes and
rather enjoyed being in the limelight.  He helpfully handed round
plates and mugs and was useful for lifting things down from high
shelves.  The women all clucked and made little-girl jokes.  Every
housewife ought to have one, they all agreed.  It did make him feel
occasionally like a kissogram or male stripper, but he'd always been
fundamentally at ease with his sexuality and some of these women were
developing into real friends. Tell us what you've been up to lately,
William."  One of Polly's girlfriends was ogling him without shame.  He
was wearing cords and a fisherman's jersey, and his hair, with its
ragged fringe, could do with a cut.  He looked, Polly thought, like a
mischievous five-year-old who would soon have his hand in the cookie
jar.  Her own husband, Martin, was anal and tense.  When he wasn't in
his office, he was studying the financial pages.  William beamed his
beguiling smile and answered with considered seriousness.  "Not a lot,"
he was obliged to admit. "Domestic chores and stuff like that.  Nothing
much out of the ordinary.  "Life's a bitch."  They all agreed, yet not
a single one of them had a job.  All had nannies and cleaners, some
also a personal trainer yet, what with the tennis and the beauty
parlour, there weren't enough hours in the day.  They all complained
how stressed they were. It made him want to poke fun.  In these days of
enlightenment, he privately thought, these women were an anachronism. 
At least he had the spirited Edwina crashing home at the end of a long
trying day, full of news and energy and irritation, ready to be
smoothed and fed and counselled.  At which he had become rather an
expert.  He had certainly had enough practice.  Edwina couldn't have
cared less about the murders, had far more important worries on her
plate.  Grow up, William, she thought testily, dropping her coat at the
foot of the stairs and venturing up behind him to dip her finger into
his cooking.  "Lay off." He hated it when she disturbed him at the
stove or, worse still, attempted to interfere.  He squinted again at
the list of ingredients, sheltering it firmly from her questioning
eyes.  He preferred to produce a. fait accompli, not have her nosing
through his recipe.  If a man couldn't have a bit of privacy in his own
kitchen, things were certainly come to a pretty pass.  Tonight he was
trying out something from Jamie Oliver which, at this stage, required
his full attention. "Go and put your feet up, love, and I'll pour us
both a drink."  Better still, get up dem stairs sharpish and have
yourself a relaxing bath. She was always better when she'd had a chance
to unwind.  A G and T should fill the bill once he'd got this thing
safely into the oven. "Hard day?"  he asked sympathetically later, when
calm was restored and Morwenna tucked up in bed.  Edwina lay supine on
the sofa, her bare feet cradled in his hands.  She had delicate feet
with neat little toes, immaculately garnished with frosted polish.  She
loved to have her feet rubbed, it was one of William's best treats, and
purred like a jungle cat with real pleasure.  William knew what he was
up to.  If the food was okay he might well be in luck tonight.  Though
these days nothing was ever quite that certain.  Her mood could swing
sharply like a weathervane.  Things at the office were difficult, she
told him, but was not yet prepared to go into much detail.  She was
worried about the German funding.  Something didn't smell entirely
right.  William was great at analysing situations but also
infuriatingly fair-minded. Which was something she really didn't need
right now.  She wanted Gareth to give her more support and not act
quite so flippantly.  They might be finding their way slowly out of the
wood but had quite a distance still to go.  And one false step at this
precarious time could wipe out all they had achieved.  But she didn't
want William to start fussing about it now.  Had had quite enough for
one day.  Her colleagues were all great but needed to pull together,
and Edwina had her work cut out just keeping them on their toes.  Team
spirit ought to be the name of the game, but whenever she nagged,
Gareth turned a deaf ear and rapidly disappeared.  He seemed to believe
that his own contribution, conceiving the basic idea, had been enough. 
But without hard graft and full attention to detail, they could still
find themselves in deep trouble.  She longed to talk it all through
with William but was reluctant to reveal too much of the true
situation.  Even though she knew he would back her up.  The fish pie
was pronounced a success, and William started the coffee while Edwina
switched on the news.  This reversal of roles was quite natural to them
by now; neither ever commented any more.  What they were was a team; he
felt satisfied with that.  And if he could manage to make his wife
content, then he had achieved his main objective.  Edwina removed the
combs from her hair and let it sweep softly forward on to her
shoulders.  He was proud of her looks, her striking exotic beauty, glad
she had never succumbed to having her hair cut.  William trailed his
fingers through the long luxuriant tresses, pulling her forward gently
for a kiss.  Slightly to his surprise, she didn't resist and snuggled
into his shoulder, as trusting and warm as Morwenna.  He kissed the top
of her fragrant head and massaged the back of her neck.  Soon, if he
was lucky, she'd suggest an early night, a fitting finale to a pleasant
and unstressed meal.  And then he involuntarily stiffened and pushed
her away as he took in precisely what the newscaster was saving.  The
schoolboy massacre was still the principal item and occupied almost all
of the news.  There were moving shots of Hargreaves with his children,
and film of the anguished widow being assisted back to her home.  So
far no one had come forward with information.  They were appealing
urgently for any firsthand eye-witness accounts.  Or anything else that
might be conceivably relevant.  The police were obviously still in the
dark and groping for any clues that they could find.  The headland
where it had happened was pretty much out of the way, far from even the
most minor roads and cloaked by dense foliage and arid scrub.  "He was
always so keen on nature," sobbed his wife.  He took a select group of
boys from the school on this kind of field trip several times each
year. Occasionally they even took sleeping-bags and camped out
overnight.  It was always a highlight of the year, one of the parents
contributed. Hargreaves was such an inspiration to them all, almost
like one of them himself.  "A dedicated teacher," pronounced the Head. 
"Popular with the boys and pulled his weight with the staff.  Alan will
be sorely missed."  There followed details of his exemplary career,
honed for the benefit of the viewers.  Scoutmaster, chorister, almost
too good to be true.  Modest and self-effacing, devoted father. 
Something vital clicked in William's brain; it reminded him all of a
sudden of Aunt Jane.  Robert Marsh's family, too, seemed to fit a
similar profile genuine all-round good guys.  Someone, it very much
appeared, was bumping off the saintly and the good.  The question to be
answered now was, was there something sinister going on?  Or were all
these bloodthirsty crimes purely coincidence?  Edwina had quite lost
her patience by the time she regained his attention and stomped up
grumpily to bed.  William shrugged.  Slowly he cleared the dishes and
stacked the machine.  Left to his own devices, he would have allowed
them to sit until morning, but Edwina was fanatical about tidiness and
hygiene. He'd grown used to doing things her way.  He shook out the
cloth and brushed away the crumbs, then flicked a yellow duster over
the table. Some of the petals from the roses had dropped so he scooped
those up as well.  He would one day make someone a perfect wife, his
mother was constantly joking.  But really he wasn't like this at all,
just conditioned by this endless domesticity.  He could hear Edwina
clumping around upstairs, expressing her displeasure by the banging of
closet doors.  By the time he got up there she'd be stiff and turned
away, but he'd lost his own enthusiasm by now.  After four years
together, the edge had gone off their passion.  He still, on occasion,
found the old flame stirring, when just looking across a room at her
could arouse him.  But he had grown to expect and dislike her uncertain
moods which he always found such a total turnoff.  He feared he was
turning into a self-pitying ersatz hausfrau so went to the fridge and
opened himself a beer.  If that was the way she preferred to play it,
it was all right with him.  He would wait down here till he was certain
she was asleep, thus avoiding another of their spats.  Something was
bugging her, he'd been aware of it for days, but if she didn't care to
share it with him, he was damned if he was going to ask.  Mutual
support had always been one of their strengths and had kept their
marriage alive through uncharted times.  If they lost that intimacy,
they'd be in serious trouble.  And he dared not face serious bickering
because of the child. A small flicker of something unsubstantiated
continued in William's brain, so he bolted the door and slipped on the
chain, then carried his opened beer up to his study.  Edwina had
grabbed the attic for herself but this, the smallest bedroom, was his
favourite.  It overlooked the patio through a tangle of wisteria and
remained his ultimate sanctuary whenever the heat was on.  Of course he
would have to forfeit it if they did expand their family, but right now
it was an oasis of calm, filled with his books and maps.  And his
childhood collection of fossils, lovingly gathered on the Devon coast
and arranged in a showcase on tiny wooden shelves that Mrs.  P always
complained about having to dust.  Maps had been a feature of William's
life since that fortuitous holiday job so long ago.  He spent more
money than he really ought to on them, was regularly under attack for
being a spendthrift. It wasn't worth the argument but he had few other
extravagances. Whereas Edwina's bank account was a faucet of gushing
outlay, facials, massages, re-touched roots, exercise classes and
clothes that she really didn't need.  Whenever they planned economies,
those were the last things to go.  She needed them all, she explained
to him patiently, since upkeep was so important to her career.  If she
failed to look smart and immaculately groomed, she wouldn't cut the
mustard with the city.  William didn't care, had never been preoccupied
with money.  He did love his maps, however.  Over the years they had
become a bit of an addiction.  At times when he was feeling
particularly frazzled, a sortie up here always helped to calm him down.
Also, he seemed to think better when engrossed in them; he liked their
deft precision and the delicacy of execution.  To think, a human hand
had traced those lines while minutely recording the changing face of
history.  Edwina now seemed to think it all a great waste of time but,
then, she hadn't the mindset to enjoy them.  Hers was a more analytical
sort of mind without the patience or dedication you really needed for
maps.

Now he spread out an ancient map of the south west and compared it to a
detailed modern road map.  All those new roads that had sprung up over
the years, webbing the whole of the country with faster transit.  It
wasn't the main arteries, though, that held his concentration, but the
minor byways and winding lanes that plotted the earliest journeyings of
man.  He took a sheet of tracing paper and drew a freehand circle to
encompass the murder sites.  These he carefully shaded in with all the
rapt absorption of Morwenna.  There had to be some sort of connection,
though what it might be continued to elude him.  Aunt Jane, the Marshes
and now this sad van load of kids.  All that apparently linked them so
far was the vileness and horror of their deaths.  Blood shed profusely
yet for no apparent reason.  As though someone were killing them simply
for the thrill of it.

NINE

Edwina was badly out of sorts, though not entirely sure why.  She had
spent a restless night, tense and hurry with her husband, yet knew in
her heart she was being grossly unfair.  For what was really troubling
her had little to do with William.  She was worried about their
financial state, which was more precarious than she pretended.  Being
sole earner was a lonely burden, and she longed to be able to share
with him just how scared she actually was.  The idea was sound, as the
Germans had endorsed, yet actually taking the company public was far
more dicey than she'd imagined.  Dotcom fortunes could be made
overnight.  Just as easily also lost.  Setting up with Gareth had
required a lot of guts, leaving a safe and well-salaried job to hitch
herself to a shooting star that might very quickly burn out.  She just
didn't know.  He was bright and charismatic yet lacked a basic
gravitas, which was why he hadn't really made it until now.  Though
already in his forties, he still acted the feckless blade, without any
adult responsibilities to weigh him down.  She liked to grouch about
William's lack of drive, yet secretly valued him more than he'd ever
know.  For she relied on his stability, the knowledge that he was
there, but was often far too stiff-necked to let it show.  In recent
months they'd been bickering more than ever so that sometimes she
feared for the survival of their marriage.  Although he increasingly
drove her wild, life without her husband was unthinkable.  He was both
her ballast and guiding light, not to mention her conscience.  She
needed him there to fall back on.  And the thought of risking losing
Morwenna froze her blood.  Edwina had never had a proper childhood,
despite all the advantages showered upon her.  Growing up in Highgate
had been comfortable yet severe.  Her parents, the academic and the
fashionable shrink, willed her to pass every single exam before
accelerating on to the next hurdle.  She had never had dolls or a
dressing-up kit.  The presents they bought her were purely educational.
And instead of watching television, they forced her to practise her
cello, with extra Latin coaching on the side.  Which was why, she now
realised, she found it hard to relate to Morwenna.  She lacked the
basic instincts of a mother.  What worried her more, though, were the
dreams she had lately been having over which she had no control.  It
was doubtless to do with her currently sexless state the two of them
hadn't made love in quite a while so that now her eroticism was
spilling out of her subconscious and waking her with embarrassingly
graphic thoughts.  All of which, disconcertingly, centred upon Gareth.
She had always viewed him with a measure of suspicion, while liking the
arrogant swagger of his lifestyle.  He was so far removed from the man
she had married that his very raw maleness excited her.  The dreams
were crude and vivid to the extent that, on suddenly waking, she
occasionally, for a second, believed them real.  She would come to with
a start with a dampness in her groin and the terrible fear she'd been
having sex without any memory of the act.  It felt about as frightening
as society's latest fad, date rape, with some sort of mind-numbing drug
slipped into her drink.  She feared she was being unfaithful in her
sleep, yet the sensations were seductive.  She was sorry when she awoke
to find William turned away from her, a solid, unyielding back.  If
she'd had less inhibition she might have made the first move, knowing
that he would melt the instant she touched him.  But her mother's
constant telling her that women were very silly stopped her showing
spontaneous love to the only two people who really mattered.  William
and Morwenna; at least they had each other.  The fairies had been
generous when Morwenna was born and the child had inherited her
father's sunny nature.  When she got to the office, she found Gareth
already installed there, leering at her in an all-knowing way as though
he could read her guilty thoughts.  "You're looking particularly
fetching this morning," he said.  "Had an active night?"  He was
constantly taunting her with crude insinuations and she no longer knew
how to respond.  "Mind your own business."  She tried to keep her cool,
scared that she'd blush and give the game away.  If only he wasn't so
damned attractive.  She could sense the sexual fallout from across the
room.  She risked another cautious glance and he was still leaning
back, watching her with obvious approval.  "I like the blouse; is it
new?"  She had bought it yesterday lunchtime, an extravagant whim, and
William, needless to say, had not even noticed.  It was really more
than she ought to have spent while their finances were so precarious.
But the colour, deep violet, went well with her eyes and she'd wanted
to wear it right away.  "Just some old thing I dug out of my closet,"
she said stiffly, alarmed as she felt her cheeks beginning to glow. She
wanted to tell him to leave her alone, that it wasn't fair to toy with
her like this.  She wasn't one of his pathetic trophy bimbos, hated
herself for allowing him to rattle her.

Gareth walked over to where she was sitting and bent down with his
hands on her desk.  In a low soft murmur he looked her straight in the
eye and told her just how much he'd like to fuck her.  William was at
the kitchen table, hunched over the travel section, when Edwina came
blustering through.  It was Saturday morning and she was dressed for
the supermarket: jeans and trainers and a smart navy Sloppy Joe, with
her hair tied severely back in a bandanna.  Later they had a tennis
court booked; she didn't hold with wasting a single second.  "What's
that?"  she asked as she scribbled down a list, ignoring the fact that
he was nominally in charge of the shopping.  Even though, these days,
he did most of the cooking, she was determined to keep in her hand.  It
made her feel more like a proper wife with chores of her own she had to
do.  With an element of wistfulness, she remembered the early days of
their marriage when she'd still been allowed to be the star of the
kitchen.  Growing herbs along the windowsill, snipping interesting
recipes from the supplements.  All that had really intervened was a
surplus of solid work, and Edwina had temporarily taken her eye off the
ball.  She would hijack Morwenna and balance her on the trolley and for
once reap the kudos of having a really cute kid.  They adored Morwenna
in Sainsbury's and everywhere else, with her cherubic smile and merry
eyes and questioning air of wonder.  "I'm thinking of taking off for a
sailing weekend," said William, stopping her dead in her tracks.  It
had always been a passion of his, the solitary thrill of battling with
the elements, growing up as he had on the Devonshire coast.  He still
had a mooring in Falmouth harbour, though the boat had long been in dry
dock.  Among the small sacrifices he had made to this marriage had been
his innate passion for the sea.  But the drive was too long and he
refused to compromise with the lesser thrill of an urban gravel pit.
And then had come the advent of Morwenna and, quite simply, that was
that.  It was all far too complicated, he no longer had the time, so
had hung up his oilskins for a while.  He had never said so much as a
word about it, but now this newspaper article had caught his eye.  Two
days away with only the north star for company.  Even the most lowly
employees were granted a break.  "You're insane!"  said Edwina, with
her usual delicate tact.  As if he needed respite from just staying at
home.  There were loads of useful things he could do with any spare
time: decorating the playroom, sanding the floors, finishing the
bookshelves he had started in the attic, digging over the patio,
planting shrubs.  All of it seemed like a holiday when compared with
her gruelling workload.  She couldn't believe he had even said it.
Wanted to slap him in sudden rage.  "It was only a thought," said
William mildly.  "You lock up and I'll go and get the car."  He left
her to her glory once he'd dumped them off at Sainsbury's, and slumped
in the car to wait for them, not feeling in the mood to trail behind. 
Too many couples came to serious blows over something as banal as
Saturday shopping.  And if she wouldn't even allow him to touch her, he
knew when it was safest to back off.  He'd brought the paper, so
settled down to read.  Quiet moments at the weekend were all too rare. 
Whoever was committing these truly horrific murders seemed to be
systematically stepping things up.  As yet more gory details of the
schoolboys' deaths were revealed, William found his gorge beginning to
rise.  No one who had ever had a child of their own could possibly
stomach such cold-blooded carnage.  Whoever the perpetrator, he had to
be out of his mind, though it still wasn't remotely clear why he was
doing it.  That tantalising link again; it nagged away at his mind and
he ran the tape right through again to see what he might have missed.

Somebody somewhere possessed a terrifying grudge and had to be stopped
before he killed again.  What, wondered Edwina, as she wandered along
the aisles, would happen to baby Morwenna if the marriage should come
unstuck?  Not that she'd ever allow it to, but Gareth's outrageous
suggestion had certainly rocked her.  He had never before gone quite
that far and she sensed that he hadn't been joking.  It was almost as
if he were in on her salacious dreams and knew just how much he
disturbed her.  Which was really quite a lot, considering everything.
After all these years, too, when she had thought she knew him so well.
Morwenna, like Cleopatra on her trolley, rode regally around the store,
graciously acknowledging every passing acquaintance, ruthlessly taking
hostages with her charm.  She could certainly turn it on when she had a
mind to, drama queen that she was.  She was going to become a right
little handful when she reached that difficult age.  Edwina just hoped
they'd still all be together.  And quaked at the thought that they
might not.  It was still very much on her mind that afternoon as they
walked out on to the tennis court and William started practising his
serve.  Though not especially athletic, he was still quite nifty at the
net and gave her a really hard working out, exactly what she needed.
She was aware, as she ran around in her short pleated skirt, of
admiring glances from the adjoining court, where two young
exhibitionists in matching track suits were battling each other to the
death.  Edwina smiled inwardly, vain as her daughter.  She knew that in
tennis whites she looked particularly fetching, with her well-toned
body and impressive legs.  Which brought her thoughts back to Gareth
again with a shiver of half-fearful apprehension.  The attraction was
certainly there and it was mutual.  Now that she acknowledged that, it
wouldn't go away.  Gareth Prendergast,

with his earthy allure, was a lot more exciting than the man she'd
already got, altogether in a different league.  She knew he was
shallow, with the morals of a sewer rat, but also that she couldn't
help herself.  He was temptation and she was balanced on the edge.  As
she bashed away, returning William's serves, she tingled in
anticipation of his touch.  Would he could she?  What would it be like?
The fantasy was beginning to make her crazy.  Since she'd first met
William, she had never considered straying, but four years was a very
long time for her.  She was a super-charged, sensuous woman on the
brink of dazzling success.  She had to go where fate led her,
regardless of the consequences, for this was no dress-rehearsal, it was
life.  High on adrenalin, she played like a tornado, beating William
easily in three short sets.

"Wow, old girl, what in the world has got into you?"  He was half
admiring, half a bit miffed that a slight little thing like Edwina
could trounce him so soundly.  But that was all part of her extra
special magic, one of the reasons he had always found her so
stimulating.  Stubborn and dynamic with the tenacity of a bulldog.
Whatever she went after she invariably got.  He had a nasty suspicion
her daughter might turn out the same.  Which gave him the uncomfortable
feeling of sadly lacking behind.

And succeeded in finally getting him up off his backside with renewed
determination to continue with his quest.  Why not?  If the police in
two counties could be so lethargic, what was there to prevent him going
it alone?  The least he could do for poor Aunt Jane's memory, more
productive than planting a rosebush, was programme his intricate and
highly trained brain in an attempt to discover the truth.  He could
certainly do with the mental stimulation.  Lately he'd felt his mind
was beginning to atrophy.  It might also earn him bonus points from
Edwina, who seemed to be drifting away.  Something elusive still gnawed
at his subconscious.  He wouldn't be totally satisfied until he had
worked out what.

All of a sudden he was hugely inspired and went upstairs to his study
to look at his maps.  They were like a mantra when he needed to
concentrate, helped to stimulate his draughts man eye and focus his
teeming brain.  In his professional life they called it 'cartographer's
reality', which meant building up an artist's impression as parallel as
possible to the truth.  Which, for now, was enough for him.  He trusted
his own instincts to work things through.  He spread out his careful
tracing of the older map and boldly pinpointed the murder sites in red.
Then laid it alongside the up-to-date roadmap and slipped into almost a
catatonic trance.  If you took away the arterial roads it all became
infinitely easier.  His practised eye studied the topography of the
land until, like an image from a Magic Eye book, a three-dimensional
pattern began to emerge.  After a long, long while he leaned back
wearily in his chair, reflectively tapping his teeth.  What he needed
more than anything right now was someone with specialist knowledge to
confide in.  He didn't think the police would be persuaded by his
theories but he had a sudden crazy notion that he knew of a man who
might well be.  At the very least, it was worth a shot.  The worst that
could occur would be a door slammed in his face.  Robert Marsh's house
looked prosperous and well kept; also, from one rapid glance, deserted.
William parked boldly right outside and studied it with open curiosity.
It had clean paintwork, tidy lawns and a swing in the garden, legend
of a family life now over.  William thought of the poor man's dreadful
suffering, facing a barren future on his own.  He didn't know if the
police still had tabs on him.  The latest atrocity had driven him off
the front pages.  He opened the car door slowly and stepped out, still
doubtful whether to pursue his outrageous plan.  An authoritative voice
from the next-door garden challenged him, stopping him dead in his
tracks.  There's nobody there," said an elderly woman, rising from
where she was weeding behind the hedge.  She looked him up and down
suspiciously, hostility on her face.  Not another of those intrusive
reporters, she thought, though William, with his ingenuous smile,
certainly looked harmless enough.  He crossed to talk to her and she
put down her trowel.  The weather this morning was unseasonably mild. 
She seemed actually quite glad of the diversion.  "Don't know where
he's gone to, poor man.  Probably into hiding.  The police let him go
about a week ago which shows there is still some justice left in the
world.  What he's had to go through would drive most people mad. Hasn't
begun to come to terms with it yet, poor fellow."  William shuffled,
embarrassed by his duplicity, and muttered about it being just a
spontaneous visit because he'd been driving by.  "I ought to have
called first to make an appointment," he said and the woman agreed.  As
he headed back to London, the plan wouldn't budge from his head.  It
might be grasping at straws and over the top but Robert Marsh, in a
way, was the only survivor.  And all the more relevant for that.

TEN

Contrition hit me like a blow to the solar plexus.  I was infinitely
shaken by the terrible thing I had done.  Of course, there was no
denying it, I had known all along about the children, yet still had
gone ahead and acted regardless.  What kind of a monster was I turning
into?  Was I really as sick as the papers were now saying?  I had
become as conscienceless as a terrorist lobbing grenades in a shopping
mall, regardless of whom I might injure along the way.  As I carefully
picked my way among all those sad little corpses, the pain in my throat
was threatening to choke me.  For it summoned back memories I had tried
for so long to suppress, culminating in a year in hospital under
constant heavy sedation.  For not even one of those poor little
blighters had survived the terrible crash.  Their frail little necks
had snapped like twigs when the van went over the cliff.  I checked
each body carefully to ensure I was leaving no witnesses.  One slip up
now, and the game would be over for me.  Hargreaves himself was still
breathing shallowly, jlung half out of the driving seat, a great jagged
gash in his head.  I pulled out the butcher's knife I had this time
remembered to bring and finished him off with one efficient stroke.
Mission accomplished, though it lacked the customary high.  I was sick
to my stomach to acknowledge I had acted so vilely.  Of all life's
obscenities, surely the death of a child must be the worst.  Innocence
snuffed out before it has had a chance to develop.  The Victorians took
it more in their stride but we, more sophisticated but also
thinner-skinned, have grown acutely more sensitised to such things.
Even Hitler, when it came to it, could not face shooting his dog.

How I had grown so corrupt, I had no idea, for there had been a time
when I too was a rational being.  Nine lives lost and all through my
own ruthless actions.  I had given no thought to those faceless parents
who tomorrow would wake up bereaved.  Had I thought it through before I
began, I might well have just walked away.  Not even my mother could
forgive me now, and her revulsion would not be misplaced.  And as for
my brothers, who had always looked up to me ... I shied away from the
thought.  One wrong turning and I'd descended into the pit.  For me now
there could be no possible hope of salvation.

Lest I arouse suspicion, I resisted quitting the job ahead of time.  A
single false move and I risked giving myself away, and caution must be
the byword of the killer.  I went to ground and effaced myself so
effectively I don't think anyone noticed me at all.  Me, the lowest of
the low; I have become adept at such psychological disguise.  In recent
years particularly it has stood me in excellent stead.  The school and
its grounds were swarming with police and reporters, keen to detect the
perpetrator of such evil.  It was, of course, my coup de grace, the
slashed throat, that gave it away, which had now become my signature,
widely recognised.  If even one of them had had the wit to spot it,
that single tenuous link which connected the crimes.  I got quite a
buzz out of silently standing by, listening to their various theories,
each one that much more famous than the last.  Not a single one of them
was remotely on my trail.  I was tempted to encourage them by leaving
some sort of a clue.

I suppose it was conscience that prompted me to do it, or else the old
daredevil spirit which wasn't quite dead.  Whatever it was, on a
spur-of-the-moment decision, I carried a bunch of chrysanthemums round
to the widow.  I had never so much as glimpsed her before, except in a
brief news flash on television, but something deep in my heart refused
to lie quiet.  She had, like me, just lost someone very close.  The
least I felt I could do was show some solidarity.  Also, I admit it, I
was curious to talk to her and find out how effective my vengeance had
been.  I needed first-hand evidence that my action had not been in
vain.  For the dead, once dead, can unfortunately no longer suffer.  I
rang her doorbell tentatively and she answered it after a while.  An
ungainly woman in a heather twin set that clashed unattractively with
her high colour.  She held a lace handkerchief up to her nose as though
in the throes of a cold.  And, when she saw the flowers I had brought,
exploded in a burst of frantic weeping.  For a moment I froze and
didn't know what to say, then introduced myself clumsily as having come
from the school.  "Come in," she said, through a volley of violent
weeping, and I had no choice but to follow her inside.  This was
slightly more than I'd actually bargained for, but I hesitated to
offend her in any way.  She clung to me hard in her narrow, dark hall
and for a minute or two just let go.  Told me what a paragon of a man
he had been, perfect husband and father, loved by all.  The thought of
having to continue without him was something she had never even
envisaged.  It was, in fact, only the children that kept her going.  I
was moved, indeed awed, by such outpouring of grief, and all for that
rather ordinary little man.  I located a box of tissues and made
appropriate noises, then led her into her sitting room and suggested
she should sit down.  "I'll go and stick the kettle on," I said,
thrilled to the core at just being there.  Talk about revisiting the
scene of the crime.  I could practically hear his footsteps on the
stairs.  I took a quick look round her kitchen while I rummaged for
mugs.  It had Ikea cabinets on plain whitewashed walls and a
serviceable patterned lino on the floor.  Certainly by no means an
affluent home but one that was lovingly cared for.  The plain pine
furniture showed signs of wear but had been carefully cleaned and
polished to look their best.  I was touched to see standing, forlornly
in a corner, a fishing-rod and a pair of ancient skis.  "He was always
so keen on his sport," she said, when she popped her head round the
door to see what was keeping me.  I had luckily just closed the larder
door, having scrutinised her rows of immaculate shelves.  Homemade jams
and pickles, all kinds of preserves.  Mrs.  Hargreaves was a modern-day
Mrs.  Beeton.  She bent, with some effort, and located a pewter teapot,
which she lovingly warmed beneath the running tap.  These household
rituals would be what kept her sane.  I had been sloppily searching for
tea bags to steep.  But she even had a caddy and cosy that had seen
better days.  To my sudden alarm, I feared I might show some emotion. I
grabbed the sugar bowl and a packet of digestives and rapidly preceded
her from the room.  "Tell me," I said softly, once we were seated
again.  I needed to know, to ensure it had all been worthwhile. So the
poor woman told, and I think it made her feel better, as she listed his
achievements and countless virtues.  "He meant the world to me," she
said at last simply, and again I found myself reaching for her hand. 
Careful now, I warned myself.  Don't go giving things away. Best get
out before she begins to suspect.  I had done my bit, any more might be
excessive.  Word could seep out to that merry band and then I'd be
really in the soup.  "I must be off," I said, edging towards the door,
and suffered another damp hug that left powder on my lapel. "Please
come again, you have been such a comfort."  And she meant every word of
it too, foolish woman.  I marvelled at, and envied, the love they had
obviously shared.  It is easy to mock, but her feelings came straight
from the heart.  And now she was having to face living with her loss. 
I knew how she felt.  I had been there.  Love of that dimension, even
homely love like theirs, is something almost humbling to behold. 
Laertes flinging himself into Ophelia's grave, Juliet snatching the
dagger on Romeo's death.  I, too, have suffered, though in a less
dramatic way, and therefore could imagine how she felt. Those I hung
out with in the casual, careless days would scarcely have credited I
had a heart at all.  It had all come too easily, I was selfish and
quickly bored.  And no one who ever caught my eye had been beyond
reach.  Which was, I suppose, how the whole thing came to happen.  Up
till that point in my life I'd been utterly spoiled. Until, without
warning, I met my Waterloo when I suddenly crashed unwittingly into
love.

Love, there is nothing like it, worse than adult measles.  The fever
and inner turbulence I had never experienced before.  A rapid,
unthinking exchange of glances and my world was turned upside down.  We
fought our way to each other's side, abandoning any foolish attempt at
pretence.  We stood and smiled awkwardly, then cautiously touched
hands, our fate in that single exchange irrevocably sealed.  By late
afternoon, we had made it into bed, by morning had plighted our troth.
Despite agonising obstacles, we knew we had no other choice.  Our
roller-coaster ride was just beginning.

Later I did feel sad about Marina.  But this was far more powerful than
any of us.

These days I stand in the shadows, remembering how it once was.  Our
love was as strong as a forest fire, consuming all that stood in its
way.  We caused irreparable damage, I know, and shattered a number of
lives.  Yet all we could see in that selfish state was our passion and
mutual need.  We had five brief, beautiful, illicit years, a mere drop
in the enormity of time.  After which it all screeched to a
catastrophic end, as happiness inevitably is bound to.  We were
wrenched apart forever and yet had done no real wrong.  Only fallen in
love, if that can be called a crime.

ELEVEN

There was a man sitting near the swings when William got there, just
outside the railings.  He had seen him before.  Thin with wispy hair,
huddled in an ancient tweed overcoat, raw bony hands tucked between his
knees to ward off the chill autumn wind.  The weather just lately had
been unremittingly dire and the forecasts warned of still worse to
come.  Floods in Yorkshire, a tornado in Bognor Regis.  Gale-force
winds, the most serious since the war, bringing down trees and
disrupting traffic.  The Channel tunnel was closed, the airports
severely restricted and thirteen rivers were now on full flood alert.
It seemed that the country was sinking like Atlantis.  In a million
years' time it would be little more than a legend.  "An island once
known as Britannia," future archaeologists would say.  Assuming the
human race survived at all.  William trundled the push chair along a
path that was inches deep in soggy leaves, brutally ripped from the
trees. Morwenna had her hood up and was wearing scarlet mittens.  When
he leaned forward to look down at her, almost all he could see was the
tip of her tiny nose.  And a red one at that.  "Don't worry, poppet,
we'll not stay out too long.  But a go on the swings will do you good."
He paused to blow on his own chapped fingers.  Next time he'd risk
looking like a wimp and wear gloves.  The stranger was watching the
children in the playground, his eyes forlornly fixed on two little
boys.  On an impulse William went to sit beside him.  For some unknown
reason he was intrigued by the man and suddenly wanted to know more
about him. Something about his behaviour seemed not quite right. 
"Nippy this morning," he said cheerfully, adjusting the blanket over
his daughter's well-padded legs.  The man nodded agreement and
continued to hug his hands.  His coat was threadbare, his scarf
moth-eaten.  His shoes looked like rejects from a charity shop. 
Morwenna, ever the party girl, looked up at him coyly through her
gorgeous lashes and smiled in provocative greeting.  She reached out
one little scarlet paw and coyly touched his knee.  The man responded
surprisingly looked uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, then
shifted nervously further along the bench.  Even though there was quite
sufficient room, with inches of clear space remaining between them. 
This was no natural with little children, William could see that at a
glance.  Morwennas presence clearly made him uneasy.  William's
suspicions were immediately aroused; there was something about this
shiftiness he didn't like.  Or trust, come to that; you could not be
too careful, and strangers hanging around children were very often
suspect.  So why bring Morwenna needlessly to the fellow's attention? 
Edwina would be quite sharp with him for taking unwarranted risks.  But
she was not part of this friendly morning routine, where almost every
person they met was known to them.  He looked across at the little boys
playing on the slide, on whom the man's attention seemed fixed.  He
might be their father, though it didn't look much like it.  If he was,
he should be in there playing with them, not furtively skulking around
out here.  Those your kids?"  asked William casually.  The man appeared
startled, then shook his head.  I'm just out for a walk," he said, as
though it was any of William's business.  But he made no immediate sign
of moving away so William stayed firmly put.  He knew it was nothing to
do with him, but there was definitely something here he didn't quite
like.  He pulled out some peppermints, then offered the tube to his
neighbour.  At first the man hesitated, then gave in and accepted one. 
Thanks."  "I don't think I've seen you around here before.  Do you live
locally?"  asked William.  Again the man paused before finally shaking
his head.  He came from over Paddington way, was simply out for some
exercise and fresh air.  William, remembering his own unemployed state,
sternly chastised himself for jumping to unfair conclusions.  And
bothering the poor blighter with his intrusive prying.  All that
gossiping with Mrs. P was obviously doing him no good.  But a quarter
past ten on a Thursday morning was an odd time to be loitering,
especially in weather like this.  "Well," he said cheerfully, rising at
last to his feet. This won't get the baby bathed.  Time to get on and
do some work."  He grinned and nodded and wheeled Morwenna away.  When
he turned at the swings to check, the man had gone.  There was a
slightly unsavoury cove this morning, hanging around at the
playground."  Edwina, doing her nails, showed her usual lack of
interest.  For once she'd managed to get home early and put Morwenna to
bed herself, even taking time to read her a story.  Normally she was
too late and far too frazzled. Something must have nudged her, perhaps
her conscience.  She was wearing fetching brushed-cotton pyjamas and
had braided her thick hair into a single plait.  He loved her most when
she looked like this, as guileless and unpainted as her daughter. 
Innocent, somehow, no more the hardened high-flyer.  His heart suddenly
melted towards her and he wanted to give her a hug.  But he knew she
was likely to push him away and whine that he'd only smudge her nails. 
"Well it takes one to know one," said Edwina eventually.  "Perhaps he
was there with a kid."  "No, he wasn't.  I checked," said William. 
There was something slightly furtive about him."  He refrained from
mentioning his original theory, that the man was almost certainly
unemployed; he knew the sort of biting rejoinder that sort of statement
could provoke.  Even at her most benign, Edwina could be a right bitch.
He wondered now why he'd brought it up at all; it showed how little
else of interest he had to tell her.  But he did find it worrying when
predators sniffed round kids.  Fatherhood had altered his social
awareness in a fundamental way.  The man was there again a few days
later, smoking in the shadow of an enormous oak.  The tree was so large
and enveloping that if it weren't for the recent severe storm spoilage,
he'd hardly be visible at all.  This time he was in a different part of
the park, but just as intent on his voyeurism.  A group of small boys
were kicking a ball around, apparently the focus of his attention.  Or
so it would appear from where William was walking, approaching the
famous statue of Peter Pan.  "Fairies!"  shouted Morwenna with her
usual scream of delight, straining at the straps that held her in.  She
leaned forward with both little chubby arms, drumming her heels
impatiently as he stooped to unfasten the buckles.  This particular
walk was one of their absolute favourites.  William looked forward,
before she was very much older, to taking her to see the show on the
London stage.  Magic was one of the most valuable gifts you could give
to a child, especially at this age when they were still so receptive. 
They'd already embarked upon Beatrix Potter at bedtime, and William was
hugely enjoying reliving so many happy memories from his childhood.

Poor Edwina was missing out on so much by being such a regular glutton
for work.  She came home late and crotchety most nights, then raced
around like a wild thing at weekends.  She was constantly shifting
furniture and turning out cupboards and had become a dab hand at doing
home improvements.  These days it seemed she could never sit still.  If
she'd only learn to let go a little she'd be that much easier to live
with.  And would also get to know her daughter better and realise what
an individual she was becoming.  After Morwenna had gone through her
ritual of fondly stroking the heads of Peter's animals, William
persuaded her to get back into her chariot and allow him to push her
home by way of the shops.  The seedy man was still watching the
football game, but when William raised his hand in casual greeting, he
turned abruptly away.  Maybe he was just short-sighted, but William
wasn't convinced.  It was nearing Morwenna's bedtime and the Huxley
kitchen was a warm, safe haven of contentment.  The empty bowl from
which she had eaten her eggs was in the sink and she sucked up her
orange juice from a plastic beaker as she watched her daddy perform.
The Archers was on the radio and Mummy would soon be home.  She had to
be in her pyjamas by then, washed and combed and all ready for bed.
That was one of the rules.  Then, if she was lucky and Mummy not too
tired, Edwina would carry her up to her bed and read her another
chapter of Winnie the Pooh.  William, meantime, was hard at work,
completing his Noah's Ark in chalk on the large slate blackboard they
kept on the wall for reminders.  He'd been at it now for much of the
afternoon and was entirely absorbed in the task.  Every now and then he
would consult Morwenna as to what precise colour she favoured for each
new animal, and an adult discussion of contrast would ensue as he tried
to accommodate her demands.  The table was strewn with his coloured
chalks and an ancient, dog-eared copy of Britannica from which he was
checking his sources.  A harmonious scene.  Outside the rain had
started again and the ominous creaking and banging of shutters heralded
yet another force-nine gale.  Not a night for being outside.  He hoped
Edwina was all right and glanced at the clock.  He'd be happier once
she was home.  "Come along, sweetheart, and finish up your orange.  And
then we'll go upstairs and get you into your jim-jams."  The Bengal
tiger was the piece de resistance and Morwenna could hardly bear to
tear herself away.  "More, Daddy," she pleaded, rising up on her toes
to finger it.  "Make another tiger for Morwenna."  "Careful, lovey, or
you'll rub out its whiskers."  With the corner of a duster he smoothed
away the smudge.  There's already a second baby one, look, down here."
He pointed to the corner where a miniature tiger cub was peeking out
from behind an elephant, a mindlessly daft expression on its face.
Edwina often chided him for wasting so much time doodling, but Morwenna
adored it when her daddy drew for her, and could watch him, mesmerised,
for contented hours on end.  Secretly he hoped she'd inherited some of
his talent.  It was likely never to make her rich but should add to her
feeling of fulfilment.  Which was all that really mattered, part of the
quality of life.  People were far too driven these days.  It was good,
just occasionally, to stop and take a breather.  Edwina arrived home in
a flurry of raindrops, her nose bright red and her mood sour.  She
shook her umbrella at the foot of the basement steps, then stuck it
into the sink to dry, ignoring Morwenna's supper bowl.  "God, it's a
terrible night," she said.  "With more bloody storms on the way."  The
forecasts had been full of nothing else for days.  Once The Archers was
over, William switched on the television news and they both watched
scene after scene of devastation, with miserable people in waders
attempting to salvage their homes.  Yet everyone seemed still in
remarkably good humour.  The famous blitz spirit reborn.  "We're
expecting another three inches of rain," said the weatherman, 'with
seven more rivers about to burst their banks."  Edwina paused briefly
to admire his ark but he could see that her heart wasn't in it.  Then
she bustled up to the bedroom to change her clothes.  Their basement
area was already inches deep; he hoped they were not going to have to
shift the furniture upstairs.  But this weather was exciting and gave
him a secret buzz, a throwback, he supposed, to his rural childhood. 
Sudden snow made him whoop with glee and he'd rush Morwenna off to the
park with her sledge.  One day, when she was old enough, they'd all go
to Austria for the skiing.  They needed to spend more time together as
a family.  Tonight Edwina seemed unusually subdued.  She did her
maternal duty and read Morwenna a chapter and the child went off to
sleep without a struggle.  William had poured Edwina a hefty gin and
tonic, which she downed quite quickly as he set the kitchen table.  He
left his chalks in a jumble on the side and for once she was too out of
it to make a fuss.  Tonight he had cooked a pork and cider casserole
with garlic mash as a special treat.  She smiled and pushed back her
heavy damp hair.  "You're turning into a really good chef," she said. 
"We ought to try getting you on the telly' With all the practice he'd
been getting at home lately, he was every bit as competent as the pros.
Down to earth too, which was also a bonus.  All he had learned about
culinary matters was mainly just plain common sense.  "Far too
disorganised," said William with a grin.  The potatoes were slightly
lumpy but wonderful all the same, and the casserole was great.  Edwina
wolfed it all down with hearty appreciation.  Just the job for a
blustery, chilly night.  He had even done leeks which he zapped in the
microwave and had bought his favourite fudge ice cream for afters.  He
might be somewhat lacking in the ambition department, but certainly
knew how to make a girl feel good.  Not to mention pampered; she knew
she didn't deserve it.  She found herself fearing for her waistline,
remembered Gareth and laid down her fork.  All of a sudden her appetite
was gone.  She couldn't even touch the special ice cream.  William
cleared the plates without a word.

The flooding brought back memories of Aunt Jane.  He hoped the cottage
was all right.  He would go straight down there again to check, only
the roads were probably closed.  Edwina, tearing her thoughts from
Gareth, tried hard to be conversational.

"Any luck with the police?"  she asked.  She knew what a bugbear it had
all become, to her mind wildly out of proportion.

William shook his head.  "Not a peep," he said derisively.  They didn't
even care about the Marshes.  For a second he thought of sharing it all
with her, of telling her about his latest idea.  She was shrewd and
canny with a fast analytical brain; he would be very grateful for her
input.  Might even get her interested, that would be something of a
turn-up.  It was, after all, her relative who had died, and these days
they seemed to have very little else they could share.  He pulled out a
chair and was about to unburden when he caught her surreptitiously
checking the clock.

"More work tonight?"

"Fraid so," she said.  She needed to be alone to sort out her head.

Part Two

TWELVE

When Howard Pilkington was offered early retirement, he V V grabbed it
gratefully with both hands.  They had moved to Bournemouth several
years before, in anticipation of just such an event.  The bank had been
gradually closing its branches.  It was only a question of when.  Joyce
was delighted, since it upgraded her social life as the town had a
certain cachet.  The house was even nicer than the one they'd left
behind, and through the bungalows opposite you could catch a glimpse of
the sea.  Joyce had her sewing bee and voluntary hospital work but her
friends all worried about her having Howard under her feet.  If only
he'd take up golf, they said, but he'd never been one for much
exercise.  "Don't worry' he said airily, "I've plenty of reading to
do." He'd rarely so much as opened a book so now was the time to catch
up. But of course, in only a matter of weeks, he'd adjusted so
effortlessly his days were already full.  After a leisurely breakfast,
he'd take a short stroll along the sea front.  Or potter lightly in the
garden, though they had a man in for the heavy stuff.  He joined the
library and thought about evening classes, but quickly discovered he
hadn't the time.  He committed his services two mornings a week to
helping at the Citizens' Advice Bureau and occasionally lent his car
and chauffeuring skills to collecting stuff for the local charity shop.
And then, of course, there was the Rotary.  Always a strong feature of
his life.

"My' said his sister when she came to stay.  "Howard is even busier
than before."

"Well, it keeps him out of the house," said Joyce.  And meant she
didn't always have to cook.  Her own social activities were soaring.
She certainly didn't intend to be housebound again.

He found he enjoyed this cosy little world, smaller than in his banking
days.  No more meetings with anxious, supplicant customers nor dreary
afternoons of endless meetings.  For the first time in his life he was
his own man and determined to enjoy every second.  He also saw no
reason now for costly holidays abroad.  All he could need in the way of
sun and sea was right here in his own back yard.  He thought about
renting a beach hut, but Joyce felt it wasn't really them.  Smacked a
little of common, she felt, remembering her own frugal childhood.  Ham
sandwiches on the front at Swanage and shivering in the brisk breeze.
The English summer with its endless cloudy days.  At least here in
Bournemouth there were shops.  Howard regarded her shopping with
indulgence.  They were far more comfortable now the kids were off their
hands.

He had long been a Rotarian, since they'd unanimously voted him in. One
of the perks of working for the bank.  And it gave him a feeling of
worthiness, knowing he was giving something back to the community.  He
tried never to miss a single meeting and was always on tap to lend them
a willing hand.  They sponsored bazaars, raised money for the hospital
and sent deprived children off to camp.

"Goodness," said Joyce admiringly.  "You will soon be needing a
break."

Howard laughed and puffed himself up.  He was a short, dapper man with
thinning slicked-back hair and a new, slightly racy taste in ties.  Now
that he didn't have to dress up for the bank, he had taken to wearing a
sports jacket most of the time.  And the constant subjection to sun and
sea air had burnished him with a perpetual tan.  He would drop in at
the Grosvenor Hotel for Rotary Club meetings on Thursdays and, if he
should bump into a kindred spirit, would often arrange to meet them
again for lunch.  Game pie and salad or a spot of steak and kidney,
with a slice of apple and Stilton to finish up.  No point in stinting
himself after all those years of solid graft.  Howard Pilkington was a
hugely self-satisfied man.  "Done my bit for society," he would bluffly
inform his cronies.  "Now it's my turn to sit back and relax, knowing
that I have put something back."  But nemesis stalks on deceptively
silent feet.  If only he might have been forewarned.  Joyce was off on
a jaunt to Scarborough, for a long weekend in a spa with the ladies of
the Inner Wheel.  Howard was always quite easy about such things.  She
was such a support that he didn't begrudge her some fun.  What they got
up to be never did find out, but she laughed herself silly if he ever
enquired and said it was all one huge giggle.  Saunas and general
pandering seemed to be the order of the day, plus quite a hefty bar
bill at the end, which wasn't at all in character.  At home she rarely
drank more than just the one medium sherry with perhaps a glass of hock
to go with lunch.  But the light in her eye on her return from these
sprees more than made up for the cost.  Also he quite enjoyed being
left on his own.  Cooked himself sausages and the things he really
liked without her beady eye on his cholesterol.  But he wasn't
particularly handy in the kitchen so usually took himself out for a
proper lunch.  On this particular Sunday he thought he'd drop down to
the Grosvenor, have a few noggins at the bar with his mates, followed
by a leisurely meal.  The menu was especially good at weekends:
traditional roast beef with all the trimmings.  And homemade apple pie
to follow, topped by a sinful dollop of clotted cream.  He would walk
it off later by leaving the car at home, which meant he needn't worry
about what he drank.  A bracing stroll along the blustery promenade
would be just the ticket to round off a perfect day.  He fairly smacked
his lips in anticipation.  He was either early or else a little late
but the bar was unusually deserted.  He peered around in its darker
recesses but none of his friends seemed to be there.  Was it, he
wondered, one of those special Sundays, or perhaps there was an event
on locally which somehow he'd failed to register.  Fortunately he'd
remembered to bring the paper so settled down in a half-barrel seat and
ordered a whisky and soda.  A waiter glided up with a dish of hors
d'oeuvres but Howard scarcely gave him a glance.  The staff at the
Grosvenor were constantly changing, not like the old days when he'd
known each one by name.  These days they even employed some foreign
chap pies  Women, too.  There were some of those around.  Tut it
there," was all he said as he sorted out the paper, discarding the
sport and appointments sections and turning straight to the hard news.
Revolution had broken out in Serbia and the evil dictator Milosevic
deposed.  For a moment he found himself pondering the implications to
the financial world, then recalled with relief that he was no longer in
harness.  It was somebody else's headache now and good luck to them.
He'd drink to that.  His whisky and soda arrived at record speed and
was silently deposited on the table.  At least the standards of
discreet service had not slipped.  There was nothing Howard disliked
more than a chatty barman, unless it was a loquacious taxi driver.  He
finished the drink and called for another, and still the room remained
unnaturally quiet.  Odd that.  He turned to ask if there was anything
he'd missed out on but now not even the barman was in sight.  "Hello,"
he called, beginning to grow slightly alarmed.  What in the world could
be going on?  "Coming, sir," called a distant voice, and he waited
resignedly to be served.  Lunch was as good as he'd hoped it would be
and he made quite a pig of himself.  Seconds of everything, especially
the Yorkshire pud, with a spicy spoonful of horseradish on the side.
Recalling that Joyce was off spoiling herself, he even indulged in a
particularly good claret that he wouldn't normally run to.  Well, he'd
done quite well from his deal with the bank.  If he couldn't afford the
occasional indulgence what a very dull dog he would be.  The dining
room was reassuringly filling up, which meant he was able to relax.
Nothing worse than eating alone in silence.  Even the children at a
nearby table failed to encroach on his contentment.  This was the apex
of a lifetime's achievement.  Howard was well at peace with himself and
the world.  "Coffee, sir?"  He hadn't heard the waiter approach, the
floor was so thickly carpeted.  "In the lounge," said Howard
decisively. He would crown this excellent meal with one of Fidel
Castro's best. He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the bill and
preceded the fellow into the next room, where saggy chintz-covered
sofas beckoned and a corner television was silently showing the
horse-racing.  Just the place for a leisurely snooze.  Today there was
nothing to rush home for.  And while he was at it, he might also have a
brandy.  Shame to begrudge himself that final ha'p'orth of contentment.
Howard had not led an adventurous life but was satisfied with what
he'd achieved. Steady advancement in a respectable career.  No real
risks but an eye for the main chance.  Adequate marriage without too
many hiccups and children he actually quite liked.  More than many of
his contemporaries could boast.  At a recent college reunion he'd been
able to feel quietly smug.  He didn't give handouts to beggars on the
street but that was purely from social awareness.  The more you doled
out, the more they would ask for when they ought to be pulling their
socks up and looking for work.  Youth today was not what it had been. 
At least both his children had good, responsible jobs.  Howard smiled
and shifted his position.  That lunch had really hit the spot, now
enhanced by the brandy.  He wondered hazily what his wife would be
doing and actually looked forward to welcoming her back home soon.  She
was always far friskier after one of these all-girls breaks.  As if her
libido had been restored simply by getting out of the house.  Howard
smiled fondly.  She was a bit of a brick, was Joyce, and he had never
regretted marrying her.  Always neatly dressed, with her hair just so,
she had never embarrassed him in any way.  Young Conservatives both of
them, and once he'd even stood for the council.  He thought back over
those years as his eyes flickered shut.  He wondered where he might
have got to by now had he persisted up the tree.  Possibly in
parliament or even higher still.  One thing he could say, when he faced
his Judgement Day, was that he'd lived a good and exemplary life of
which he was justly proud.  He was dimly aware of somebody
straightening his paper and then the chink of china as his coffee cup
was quietly removed.  Soon he'd have to bestir himself and trundle off
back to his house, but his legs appeared to have turned to jelly and
his determination was nil.  There was nowhere at all that he needed to
be or anything special he had to do.  He could take that healthy sea
walk he had planned or else remain slumped right here.  No one was
bothering him, he wasn't in anyone's way.  The choice was his entirely.
He would take forty winks and then make a decision.  No one would ever
be the wiser, provided he was home ahead of Joyce.  He drifted back
into a dreamless doze, floating in an apathy of languor.  His legs felt
weightless, his gullet beautifully relaxed.  Slowly and melodiously,
Howard began to snore.

The pain when it came was so sudden and incisive that his head snapped
up and he attempted to struggle to his feet.  Something appalling, like
the sting of a giant bee, had assailed him in the throat close to his
Adam's apple.  What the .. . ?  He clutched at his face and felt the
strong pulsing of blood as it gushed out steadily from just below his
chin, saturating the front of his shirt.  He tried to call out but his
throat was completely blocked and he felt himself drowning as he fell.
Help me, he whispered, but already it was too late.  Besides, there was
no one close enough to hear him.

Ill

THIRTEEN

An ice pick through the jugular, the latest news headlines blared. 
Bled to death in a matter of seconds, poor fellow never even stood a
chance. "Gross!"  said Mrs.  P, using her children's vernacular, for
once in her life quite genuinely repelled.  Just reading the gruesome
details made her feel queasy.  Newspapers were no longer what they once
had been when such unsavoury matters remained discreetly veiled. 
Violent death might be one thing and, in principle, thrilled her
vicariously, but there was still a line across which even she was not
prepared to step.  Blood all over the carpet came far too close to
reality, as well as offending her housekeeping sensibilities.  At least
she hadn't had the job of clearing it up.  Practical to her fingertips
was Mrs.  P William sat in silent contemplation, slowly re-reading the
lurid front page.  Bournemouth was nowhere near the locations of the
other murders, yet again he had that odd feeling that in some way they
might be connected.  He couldn't quite put his finger on it but the
hunch refused to budge.  He ran through the victim's details again and
read them aloud to Mrs.  P. "Rotary Club.  Well thought of by the bank.
Even the Citizens' Advice Bureau.  The man's another bloody saint.
What's going on?"

"Don't know, petal," said Mrs.  P, lighting up, ready as ever to drop
her duster and talk.  She came and peered over his shoulder, shuddering
theatrically.  There was a list of Pilkington's other achievements,
including the long and happy marriage.  The police, it was stated,
again had no leads.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"  said William, laughing.

"Still, a bank manager's pretty fair game," said Mrs.  P cynically.
"It's probably the open season.  I've often been tempted to have a go
at me own."

"But this one's been retired for several years.  And, according to
this, not known to have had any enemies."

No one at the Grosvenor Hotel had seen anything amiss that particular
Sunday.  The man had been pretty well known to them there, would often
drop in for a meal.  He had lunched alone, then taken a nap in the
lounge, where his body had been discovered by the evening shift.
Swimming in a pool of his own gore, choked by the blood in his lungs.
Whoever had wielded the ice pick had done an effective job.  Skilful
butchery by a practised hand like each of the other recent murders.

"Odd no one heard him scream," said Mrs.  P

"He must have been caught unawares."

William went upstairs and got his map, then carefully extended the
radius of his circle to include the new murder site.  It did still fit
his topographical theory except that the area in question was now
wider.

"What are you trying to prove?"  asked Mrs.  R

That the same unknown killer had a motive to bump them all off."  And
since the victims appeared to have no other obvious connection,
geography would do as a start as well as the sheer bloodiness of the
crimes.

If he concentrated hard on another matter entirely, the elusive
something lurking on the periphery of William's mind was likely to come
popping back into sight.  He zipped Morwenna into her cosy fleece-lined
playsuit and the two of them set off briskly down the hill.  He had
promised Edwina he would pick up some fish for tonight.  Because her
time keeping was lately so erratic, he'd wait till he actually heard
her key in the lock before popping it into the pan.  The fish shop,
with its open front, was a paradise to Morwenna.  Father and daughter
solemnly examined the array of strange sea creatures displayed on a
slab while white-coated men in Wellingtons sluiced the floor.  Nearly
as good as a trip to the new aquarium, though handier by far, being
just round the corner.  And here you could actually touch them and
inhale their briny smell.  Morwenna, for purely visual reasons,
hankered after the exotic-looking octopus, like a small deflated set of
bagpipes waiting to be played.  But a nice piece of turbot was what
William had in mind, which he'd sear and serve with wild mushrooms and
rice.  He would also pick up a suitable bottle of wine to turn it into
a bit of a feast. The child could make do with fish fingers, her
favourite, with frozen chips and baked beans.  Which meant, of course,
another long detour, back over the hill to Safeway's on the High
Street.  Still, it wasn't as if his time was exactly pressured.  Edwina
would snort with impatience and tell him some people didn't know when
they were well off.  But she had a demanding and responsible job which
caring for this beloved child, at least in the eyes of the rest of the
world, was not. Certainly for a man.  Edwina and Gareth were seated at
lunch in an unpretentious pizza place close to the office, which
surprised her.  It had been a last-minute invitation but she hadn't
demurred.  She knew now that what was coming was inevitable.  Had lain
awake nights just imagining the details, waking with a guilty flush on
her cheeks.

Normally she avoided eating anything starchy, but today would be an
exception, though she'd not admit that to him.  She'd make up for it
with a salad tomorrow or even skip lunch altogether.  She was far too
nervous to eat, as it was, and only picked at her Veneziana.  Gareth
ordered wine.  She had quite lost the thread of what he was saying, but
that hardly mattered, he was confidently self-absorbed.  He leaned
closer to her with a look of intensity and, as though by pure accident,
his fingers brushed hers.  Edwina felt lightning course through her
veins.  It had been so long too long.  The words of the Streisand song
burst into her brain and it was all she could do to keep herself from
humming it.  Moving off shop talk, he started describing an innovative
new play he had seen just the night before, all the time studying her
reaction.  A first from an interesting young director from Los Angeles,
raunchy yet well-written, stretching many boundaries.  And starring an
ageing Hollywood legend, who took off her kit every night, which was
certainly brave.  He asked if she had seen it.  Edwina shook her head.
They didn't get out much these days since they'd had the child, what
with finding a babysitter and so forth, and William was always
reluctant to leave Morwenna.  It was, he kept reminding her, the most
crucial stage in a child's development.  Suppose they should happen not
to be there when she made that gigantic leap forward, whatever it might
be.  And who wanted babysitters cluttering her mind with mental
popcorn?  Childhood lasted for so very few short years.  There'd be
time enough for themselves once she was grown.  Edwina said it with
real conviction but Gareth sensed that she wasn't entirely convinced.
The light in her eye was challenging; he responded in his groin.  If it
weren't for her middle-class conscience he'd be tempted to call it a
day right now and not return to the office at all.  Ring in and simply
tell them they weren't coming back.  Whisk her off to his bachelor pad
or even go mad and do something really bold.  Head for the coast or
take the Eurostar to Paris.

He loved extravagant gestures and they were, after all, on the brink of
making their fortunes.  If now was not the time to go wild, he would
like her to tell him when it would be.  "Children are a tie," is what
he actually said, still in the role of the sympathetic listener.  He
had no wish at all to have any of his own, had so far succeeded in
avoiding that sort of commitment.  But he also knew when he was on to a
good thing and reckoned Edwina might be almost ripe for it.  He pushed
his advantage and refilled her glass.  Today she was looking especially
delectable.  He liked the way she'd started doing her hair, feminine
yet also making a statement.  She had great boobs too which along with
those legs .. . "How are things at home these days?"  he asked, ready
for her outpouring.  She had been on the brink of confiding in him
before.  It was only a question of timing.  He privately thought she
was wasted on William, considered the man to be a dolt.  What sort of
wuss stays at home with a child, allowing his wife to support him?
Edwina looked back at him with uncertain eyes, wondering how far she
dared go.  But her pulses were racing and her palms were damp; she
couldn't rid herself of that pervasive dream.  It invaded even her
waking hours and made her feel very uncomfortable.  She could hardly
think straight any more, not when Gareth was around.  "Dull," she said
treacherously, seeing where this was leading but no longer able to hold
things back.  "But that's what marriage is like.  You find the perfect
person then have to learn to adapt."  Once the ring is on the finger,
romance goes out of the window.  That's what she really wanted to say,
to tell him how frustrated she was these days.  And oh, how she longed
to be enfolded in Gareth's arms, to give in with grace and fly with him
to the moon.  He needed only to press the right buttons and she
wouldn't be able to vouch for her reaction.  The waiter arrived and
Gareth paid the bill.  Thanks," said Edwina simply.  "My turn next."

He ushered her out of the restaurant and impulsively hailed a cab.
"Where to?"  he challenged her and she barely hesitated.  "Surprise
me," she said, getting in.  Morwenna had developed an irritating cough,
so William dropped in at the surgery.  He knew he could sometimes be a
bit of a fusspot but wouldn't risk dicing with her health.  It wouldn't
hurt to let the doctor have a look and ought not to take more than a
minute.  The Holland Park surgery had recently been revamped and shone
now with sunshine and clean paint.  There was a spacious area in front
of the reception desk, strewn with brightly coloured, much-played-with
toys.  A couple of other toddlers were already ensconced there with
mothers who smiled at him in friendly recognition.  William smiled back
and went across to join them.  This was another part of parenthood he
enjoyed, the companionship of the mothers.  They were a nice lot, the
ones he had met in the neighbourhood, civilised and welcoming, making
him feel included.  "All right?"  Laura had had chicken pox but now was
declared non-contagious.  Nathan, like Morwenna, had developed a
troublesome cough.  They settled down for a good old gab till the
receptionist called out their names.  There was usually something of a
wait in here but William had all morning to finish his chores.  With,
as it happened, his afternoon clear as well.  When the other children
and their mothers had been called, he picked up a magazine and embarked
on the crossword.  Not one he was accustomed to but far easier than The
Times.  He had almost completed it by the time their names were called
and was tempted to take it into the surgery with him, but resisted.
Mustn't be viewed by the doctor as anything less than a fully committed
parent.  Being in charge of a toddler was serious stuff.  The doctor
was Asian and quite ravishingly pretty with glossy black hair drawn
severely off her face.  She had a slight look of Edwina.  They both had
magnificent eyes and the same flirty grin but, of the two, he would
guess that his wife was the tougher.  This woman was a committed
healer; he could see the dedication in her eyes.  Morwenna gurgled with
pleasure when she greeted her and held up her arms to be lifted.  The
doctor laughed and did readily as bid.  Morwenna was a favourite in
this practice.  "And how are you today, young lady?"  she asked as she
settled the child on the examination couch.  Morwenna beamed and
drummed her booted feet.  The doctor fished out her stethoscope and
listened intently to her chest.  "Sounds all right to me," she
reported. "Nothing very serious there.  I'll prescribe her some cough
mixture." "And how is Dad?"  she asked as she scribbled the
prescription. "Coping with all this constant running around?"  She
cocked an enquiring eyebrow at him and he grinned like a guilty
schoolboy.  "Loving it," he said heartily, really meaning it.  He
ruffled his daughter's silky head.  They are almost edible at this age.
Wouldn't have missed a second of it for the world."  Nice man,
reflected the doctor.  Clearly a caring father too.  Some women didn't
know when they had it made.  She had met the wife just fleetingly and
hadn't warmed to her at all. Obstinate, vain and self-obsessed,
preoccupied with her career.  If she wasn't careful, one of these days
someone was going to snatch him from under her nose.  Given other
circumstances, the doctor might even have been tempted herself.  Men
like William Huxley, with proper old-fashioned values, these days were
very rare indeed.  Plus he was terribly nice.  Tell me something,"
asked William as an afterthought when she ushered them to the door. 
"Do you know a lot about blood?" It was a daft question, as he
instantly saw, but he wasn't quite sure how else to phrase it.  The
doctor looked up at him with interest.

"What exactly is it you need to know?"  She stood there, politely
waiting, despite there being so many patients on the other side of the
door.

That's the problem.  As yet, I'm not quite sure.  Not till I've done
some more basic digging and worked out what it is I need to know.  But
once I've done that, do you mind if I come back?  I promise I'll try
not to waste too much of your time."

She laughed.  "I am at your service.  Try me any time.  Though I hope
it's nothing too serious."

"Nothing to do with us," he reassured her.  "Just an odd little
conundrum I've been trying to figure out."  He stopped, embarrassed,
feeling a bit of an ass.  He would have to work out the right questions
before taking her up on her kind offer.  He liked the warmth and
interest in her eyes, knew that she was unlikely to treat him with
scorn.  It was too early yet to involve other people, yet comforting to
know he had an ally.  If only he knew what the questions should be.
That was always the hardest part.

FOURTEEN

There was something about Howard Pilkington that instantly repelled me.
Unctuous, smug, inordinately self-satisfied, with greased-back hair
that gave him the air of a spiv.  Not a person you felt you would ever
want to know.  An archetypal bank manager, I'm afraid.  Even the MCC
tie only added to his phoney ness  It had taken me so many tedious
years to track him down that I ought to have been relieved I had found
him at last.  But I was not.  The terrible mistake of killing those
innocent schoolboys stuck in my craw till I very nearly choked and made
me wish myself dead.  But the grim truth was that the list existed, the
promise still remained.  There was no wriggling out of it, not even had
I wanted to.  I was bound by a sacred vow to see it all through.

I had sworn on that sad little coffin that one day I'd have my revenge
and, since that's a dish best served up cold, was not backing off from
it now.  I hardened my heart by recalling that scene when she faded
away in my arms.  Someone had snatched my darling from me.  Now was not
a time for second thoughts.

The bungalow was precisely what might be expected of a man of his age
with pretensions.  Whitewashed, pebble-dashed, with boldly striped
window blinds, permanently at half-mast to shield the furniture from
the sun.  Conformity at its stifling worst; I would not have been
surprised to see garden gnomes.  I traced him via the Rotary Club, his
obvious environment, and wrote on one of my phoney letterheads with a
PO Box address for his reply.  Since I first embarked on this killing
game, I've become quite an expert at deception.  In his case, carefully
chosen, raising funds for dialysis machines for diabetic Romanian
orphans.  Or some other twaddle like that.  Tailor-made, I rather felt,
to hit the spot with his sort of charitable groupie.  From all I'd
managed to dig up about him, I doubted he'd be able to resist.
Definitely his Achilles' heel now that his children had left home.  He
responded almost immediately, as I'd rather thought he might, and I
made an appointment to meet him.  As by now you are aware, I prefer to
get to know my victims first.  It gives my life some feeling of
purpose, something it has been lacking all these years.  Simply
snuffing them out is no longer enough.  I need the reassurance that
they will suffer.  The boys might have been regrettable, but this was a
worthy victim.  All of my rage came flooding back; I could hardly wait
to get my hands on him.  I would, I explained, be in his area later
that week, and suggested that we meet somewhere mutually handy.  I
would not have the time, alas, to visit him at his home since my diary
was already so crammed with pressing dates.  I proposed that we convene
at the bandstand at eleven.  I would know him from his picture in the
papers.  Also the flower in his buttonhole.  I might well have guessed
at that.  And he by no stretch of the imagination could possibly
recognise me.  He was sitting in a deck chair wearing a blazer and the
aforesaid cricket tie, plump knees crossed, dark glasses slipping down
his nose, and the morning's unfurled newspaper on his lap.  The band,
in their scarlet uniforms, had just struck up with a waltz, and a drift
of strollers, local residents at a guess, were clustering around like
pigeons keen for a crust.  I took a seat right across from him but
decided to bide my time.  I didn't betray, by a flicker of recognition,
the secret of who I was.  Let him wait and wonder; what else did he
have to do?  Should I decide to make myself known, it would be at my
own pace.  There need be no hurry.  The morning was cloudless and warm,
and the mellifluous band music was lulling me into a torpor.

As the next on my hit list, he came as a welcome change with no
sentimental plucking of the heartstrings.  I confess I got a kick out
of knocking off Jane Fairchild, felt she was better off dead, along
with her dog.  But the savage slaughter of so many innocent children
was starting to drive me insane.  I realised, with a jolt, what I was
in danger of becoming.  A totally depraved monster without an iota of
pity.  Lately I had problems even looking myself in the eye.  I avoided
the bathroom mirror whenever I could.

But a former bank manager, surely, has it coming.  I had thought of
confronting him and chatting him up for a while, spinning some
ludicrous tale while I sussed him out.  Get inside his head a bit, find
out what made him tick.  All the better to kill you with, my dear.  But
after I'd studied him for a while, I found myself losing interest.  On
a magical morning like this, it was not worth the effort.  Sitting here
comfortably observing him was enough.  I would catch him off guard, in
a moment of weakness, and he'd never even know that I had been there.

He glanced fairly irritably at his watch a number of times and I could
see him fast becoming crotchety.  Certainly not the type to tolerate
lateness, not even on a balmy morning like this.  Soon, I knew, he
would give up waiting, which is exactly what he did.  I shadowed him
through town, keeping at his pace, and saw how he puffed as he walked.
Not a fit man, unhealthily overweight.  He ought not to take too much
effort to finish off.  And when eventually he turned along East Cliff
and entered the Grosvenor Hotel, a plan became instantly obvious.
Casual bar work as I'd proved before, was usually pretty simple to
obtain.  Especially in a resort like this, right at the start of the
season.  I could do the deed swiftly then lose myself in the crowd,
just another of many faceless itinerants.

For those first few glorious years together we were deliriously happy,
content just to be alone in each other's company.  Every waking moment
was uniquely just for the two of us.  All that had gone before had been
eclipsed.  I regret all the damage we did to others, the wrecking of
innocent lives.  In particular I'm sorry about the children, though
they survived.  At the time we lived precariously, just for the moment.
We even contrived to work together; the company obligingly slotted us
both in.  And once it was all out in the open at last, there need be no
more deception.  Happy and proud, in the flush of our new love, in
those days I certainly walked tall.  It seemed we had it all then, each
other, our love and our health.  The only thing we lacked was a child
of our own.  Marina would say I was selfish to want it all.  But greed
has always been my particular failing.  She had got her own life well
sorted and children she knew adored her.  Now it was my turn for a bite
of the cherry while there was still the time.  We begged and cajoled
her but all to no avail.  She said her piece then turned her back on
us, refusing any sort of compromise.  So we had to go ahead without
her, thereby committing a mortal sin.  I suppose, on reflection, it was
bound not to last.  Idylls like ours rarely do.  All my childhood
teaching came flooding back to reproach me.  I knew I could never face
my mother again.  We were damned in the eyes of both God and man, with
me the main sinner on account of being the catalyst.  But disaster was
out there, waiting to happen, and just when we least expected it, it
struck.  One tiny misjudgement, an innocent error, that led to the
total destruction of all we had.  Patience has, of necessity, become
one of my principal virtues, and working part-time at the Grosvenor
proved excellent cover.  Occasionally I did the evening shift though
they liked to move me around and, due to my obliging attitude, I found
that I fitted in well.  And living right there, on the sea front,
brought back poignant memories from my youth.  When not on duty, I
would walk for many miles, breathing in the past along with the ozone. 
Things might never go right for me again but at least I'd already had
my taste of paradise.  Despite what happened at the bitter end, which
irreversibly set my course on this bloodthirsty mission.

Simply by eavesdropping at the bar, I discovered that Pilkington's wife
was due to go off on a toot.  Which meant, since the old buffer
presumably couldn't cook, we'd be seeing a little more of him at the
weekend.  I used some excuse to alter the duty roster, then added the
final touches to my plan.  Timing was essential; there could be no
second-guessing him and Sunday is a particularly busy day.  Risk is
something 1 had lately learned to relish.  Without the possibility of
something going wrong, killing, like anything else, becomes quite
banal.

It went off like clockwork and nobody guessed a thing.  By the time
they had even found him, I was long gone.  Lost in the crowds on the
teeming promenade, a cipher whom no one in the Grosvenor even
remembered.  The police did their usual cack-handed job so that
probably no one remarked on me or my absence.  Once again I slipped on
my cloak of invisibility and read the screaming headlines with
satisfaction.  I packed my solitary bag at my lodgings round the corner
and was on the train to Cambridge by half past six.

FIFTEEN

There was a distinctly frosty atmosphere that morning at breakfast.
Edwina had come home late with no explanation.  William, while
recognising the stresses she must be under, was fast beginning to lose
patience with his wife.  After all, they were supposed to be a team.
Lately she'd been taking too many uncalled-for advantages.  He had
tried having it out with her but found her unreceptive.  There were
problems with the launch, was all she'd say, and a certain wariness in
her eyes warned him roundly to back off.  There'd been a lot in the
papers recently about the plunging fortunes of all these bright young
things.  Millionaires one day, with the world at their feet, they could
wake in the morning to find that their share price had plummeted.
People were even starting to get off on it.  Such largesse, so
effortlessly earned, appeared unfair, especially amongst these brash
twenty- and thirty-somethings.  It was the lottery mentality that had
taken over the world.  Mindless greed which could surely not be
healthy.  He looked at Morwenna, playing contentedly with her building
blocks.  He'd do all in his power to prevent her growing up so
grasping.

Morwenna, fortunately, being not much like her mother, had an
altogether far sunnier temperament.  She was bright and questioning but
infinitely more relaxed, with a warm, cheerful nature like his.
Provided the maternal grandparents weren't allowed too much leverage,
there was a strong chance she'd make it into adulthood without the
trailing baggage of her mother.  He was encouraging her to express her
individuality while at the same time not pressuring her to perform.
They looked at things together and carefully discussed them, and he
read to her whenever he found the time.  She was a lovely kid and
developing fast.  She surprised him each new day with her sharp eye and
intelligent grasp.  It wouldn't be long before Morwenna became aware of
the gathering tension, which he was keen, at all costs, to avoid. 
"What are you doing tonight?"  he asked carefully, as Edwina crashed
around the kitchen, searching for her keys.  "What?"  Edwina, her
attention not upon him, was flustered and not at all her usual self. 
She was managing to tune out William altogether, could no longer face
even having to talk to him.  Just lately, with all that was happening
at work, he'd started to get on her nerves big time.  Watching him just
sit there, engrossed in the morning paper, idly stirring his second cup
of tea, really got up her nose.  Wearing, too, that ratty old sweater
that should by rights have been thrown out long ago.  Soon he would
lose all his self-esteem and even give up bothering to shave.  It was
bad enough at weekends when he did that.  These days, no longer with
the discipline of an office, the least he could do surely was learn to
conform.  He was a nice enough looking man when he bothered to take the
trouble but she couldn't abide this new thoughtless scruffiness.  She
blamed a lot of it, unfairly, on Mrs.  E They'd become far too cliquey
for Edwina's liking and she had to acknowledge that the woman was
blatantly common.  And would be in shortly.  She ought to get a move
on. The taxi had been waiting twenty minutes.

"I'm off," she announced brusquely, as she headed towards the door
without having answered his question.  For all she cared, he could do
what he bloody well liked, provided he continued to look after the
child.  Tonight?"  said William patiently, fighting a sudden urge to
slap her.  "When will you be home and should I cook?"  She looked at
him astonished.  Who else did he think was going to do it?  If he
didn't cook, what on earth would they eat?  Unless she made other
arrangements, which was possible.  Her heart beat uncomfortably at the
treacherous thought.  She hoped he couldn't see it in her face.  "I
don't know," she told him after a short pause.  "I'll try and call you
later from the office."  This new state of agitation really suited her.
She looked even more beautiful than usual.  Whatever it was distracting
her was certainly having an effect.  A twinge of wistfulness swept
through William, though he didn't say any more as he watched her go.
Morwenna pointlessly waved at the retreating back.  There had been a
time when the child would try to stop her, but those days of female
bonding were long over.  Now Morwenna looked on placidly as the tornado
that was her mother whirled through.  She was far more excited by the
arrival of Mrs.  P, who regularly gave her the spoiling she deserved.
"Bye bye, Mummy," she cooed dreamily to herself, then turned away, back
to her toys.  After the first blast of shocked outrage, there was
surprisingly little about Pilkington in the papers.  This new case
lacked the emotional impact of the little boys or the
still-reverberating Marsh murders.  Somehow the police appeared not to
have hooked up, though William was still working doggedly on his
theory.  Either that or they were operating undercover.  Even Susie
Lamplugh's lot had finally, after fourteen years, got a lead.  But so
far no one official had spoken up, not in connection with these cases.
Most extraordinary, as Mrs.  P agreed.  She had started off sceptical
but had been swayed by William's eloquence.  It seemed there could well
be a new serial killer whom nobody in authority was aware of.  Or so it
would appear from the lack of official statements.  If only he could
establish that one crucial link.  Somehow he felt it might be staring
him in the face.  Which is why he couldn't let it go.  The card had
been lying there on his desk all these weeks, submerged beneath a
welter of tracings and road maps  It was only when William, frustrated
out of his mind, began putting things in order that he found it.  The
annual meeting of the International Cartographic Association, to be
held at the Royal Geographical Society.  The following evening.  He
hadn't seen any of his former colleagues since his banishment into
full-time fatherhood.  It was time he got out there, back into reality,
if only for a few stolen hours.  He checked the date.  Nothing in the
diary that night, not for either of them.  Edwina could damn well come
home on time for a change and do a spot of hands-on mothering.  It
would be no bad thing, help to reacquaint her with her daughter.  While
he was out with the lads.  "It isn't convenient," she snapped when he
told her, but William, for once, remained resolute.  He needed the
break, to exercise his brain, to re-enter the solid male company of
cartographers.  So he left her grumpily tidying the living room,
changed out of his customary jogging pants and sweater and into a
halfway decent suit, and was off.  The rain had stopped and the evening
smelt fresh as he trotted over the hill to Kensington High Street.
Twenty minutes' brisk walking at the most before he reached the
dignified sanctum that still felt beguilingly like home.  He hadn't
fully realised till now how deprived he had been of the aura of
academia.  He instantly spotted a few familiar faces and crossed the
handsome panelled room to join them.  After a brief reception and a
number of hearty greetings, the president entered and the meeting
kicked off to a healthy murmur of interest and affirmation.  This
year's president was William's former tutor, recently retired from
Oxford Brookes.  He was a distinguished-looking man, with a head of
iron-grey hair and the weatherbeaten face of the much-travelled.
William's heart started to buzz with anticipation.  He was back in his
proper environment.  It felt good.  The address was inspiring and the
following debate pretty lively, with William adding his bit along with
the rest.  All of them were united in a mistrust of computers and the
geographical information service that was playing havoc with many of
their lives.  Things just weren't the same any more.  Even Ordnance
Survey no longer employed cartographers, with the result that the job
had ceased to be aesthetically pleasing.  His tutor, Martin Staveley,
lingered for a word with him, then invited William to join him at The
Goat.  It was their customary stamping-ground from many years back and
brought back pleasant memories.  Despite the hour (it was almost ten)
he felt no compunction at not hurrying straight home.  Edwina would
understand.  She had done it herself often enough.  There's something
I'd quite like to talk to you about," said William once they were
settled.  Staveley nodded and led him further from the jukebox.  This
pub was always busy, night and day.  William wasn't quite certain how
to begin, suddenly feeling a bit of a prat.  His theory was so
insubstantial as yet, but he'd started so he'd have to go on.  The
older man waited calmly as William assembled his thoughts.  This was
one of his brightest students ever.  He was sorry things hadn't worked
out better for him.  Slowly, aided by the back of an old envelope,
William began to sketch out his spurious theory.  Without going into
specifics at all, he indicated the different murder sites, then linked
them with his own connecting arrows.  Staveley listened, instantly
alert, totally understanding what he was driving at.

These different places, for whatever reason, are, you think, linked by
their topography?"  His experienced eye didn't need an Ordnance Survey
map.  He was able to envisage the hilly terrain in his head.  Take away
the main motor ways and their closeness was much clearer to the
initiated.  Cartographer's reality once again.  Better than anything
dreamed up by a computer.  "So you don't think I'm totally off my
rocker?"  asked William, once he'd filled him in.  Staveley thought
silently then slowly shook his head.  William always had been amazingly
quick off the mark.  It was quite a different matter, of course, to try
explaining it to an amateur.  But as long as he could feel confident
that he was roughly on the right trail he'd be happier following his
theory through to its conclusion.  "Ever thought of teaching?"  asked
Staveley as he rose to go.  William was exactly the sort of recruit
they needed to keep the profession alive, full of enthusiasm and flair.
Plus an almost uncanny eye for seeing things as they really were, and
not being fooled by what seemed obvious.  "Give me a ring if you ever
want to discuss it.  In any case, do please now keep in touch." 
Working alongside Gareth grew more dangerous by the minute.  Edwina had
only to raise her eyes to find his fixed on her.  Which was profoundly
distracting, especially now.  The German finance had not, in the end,
been forthcoming.  There'd been a last-minute hitch and they'd taken
their money elsewhere.  So now she was back to networking frantically,
hoping to turn up another possible source.  It was hugely frustrating,
since everything else was in place.  Nine thousand outlets and a
rapidly rising share price.  All they needed, and badly, was the seed
money to keep them afloat.  The session in Gareth's flat had thrilled
but also scared her.  Fantasy was one thing and kept her senses
buzzing, but actually doing it had never been part of her plan.
Adultery was not a pretty word; she feared to think how her father
would view such behaviour.  Now, however, she could think of little
else, at a time when she really needed her wits about her.  She peeked
again; he was still there, openly studying her, relaxed and nonchalant,
hands clasped behind his head.  He smiled as he caught her eye and blew
her a mocking kiss.  If he wasn't careful, the others would catch on
and then she really would be in serious trouble.  It had to have been
that extra glass of wine.  She tried not to drink in the middle of the
day.  She liked to keep her head clear, especially now, but her
nervousness caused by Gareths close proximity had rapidly led her
astray.  He had tempted and she'd recklessly followed, too stirred by
his sexy appeal to stop and think.  "Clerkenwell," he had instructed
the driver, giving the address of his loft.  He had never invited her
there before but she followed him docilely up the stairs, her pulses
racing, her heart in her mouth, spurred on by a frenzy of desire.  Once
through the door, they fell into each other's arms and landed very
neatly on the wide and serviceable bed.  "Shouldn't we call the
office?"  she whispered nervously.  "Later," he said, beginning to tear
off his clothes.  Total madness.  She knew it immediately, shocked by
her loss of control.  But his hands were all over her, his lips at her
throat, and she wanted him so badly she could no longer hold back.  She
had dreamed of this moment so many times and he certainly didn't let
her down.  His prowess as a lover was extraordinary and brought to mind
all those pathetic other women who seemed not to be able to leave him
alone.  Edwina now discovered the man's secret power and found herself
as helplessly ensnared.  At five they surfaced briefly and he made the
necessary phone call  Stuck in a meeting, he blithely informed the
office, unlikely to get back before they all went home.  Everything was
running smoothly, he reported as he crawled back into bed, bringing an
opened bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses, thoughtfully
chilled.  He grabbed two handfuls of her tangled hair, murmuring
endearments that she had never imagined she'd hear.  She knew she
shouldn't trust him, remembered his cheque red past, but was utterly
unable to resist him now.  William, in bed, was warm and cosy, but this
man was a veritable tiger.  She feared that his passionate embraces
might physically leave their mark, but was unable as well as unwilling
to put up a fight.  She would take the consequences, work something
out, say she had taken a tumble in the gym.  Right now she was living
entirely for the moment.  And wanted it never to stop.  But that was
two days ago, and now they both sat on either side of an open-plan room
with a bunch of young technicians in between them.  And she ought to be
thinking about getting off home and resisting his raunchy animal
magnetism.  "Drink?"  he asked as he passed by her desk, pausing to
finger her hair.  She shook him off.  "Not tonight," she said abruptly.
William had been positively frosty when she got home, the dinner
spoiled, the baby asleep, having called the office and found the answer
phone on.  A meeting in the City, she'd told him, trying to avoid his
eyes yet hating herself for lying.  Even last night's dutiful racing
home had been insufficient penance.  If she wasn't careful, she was
going to lose him.  She wasn't quite ready for that yet.  "When then?" 
Gareth's mouth was brushing her ear, his hot breath making her blush. 
She nudged him away.  Nobody yet had a clue, she was certain, but it
must only be a matter of time.  And once they started to gossip here,
who knew where it could lead?  To public shaming and the end of her
marriage, even -heaven forbid the forfeiture of her child.  "Must go,"
she said, starting to gather up her things.  She dared not be late or
William would start to suspect.  William, as it happened, was deep in
the crossword, with Morwenna perched on the sofa beside him, engrossed
in the end of Pet Rescue.  What was it, he was thinking, as he wrestled
with a quotation, that all those worthy citizens had had in common?
Clean-living, hard-working, decent everyday folk.  Like the cast of The
Archers, totally sanitised.  It drummed in his brain like the dripping
of a tap the tap he still hadn't managed to get fixed.  Something
uniting them, even though they were strangers.  And had nothing else to
connect them that he could fathom.  Decent folk with a conscience, that
was it.  It hit him like forked lightning and he tossed the puzzle
aside.

"Eureka!"  he shouted out loud as he reached for his notes.

SIXTEEN

Six hardy stalwarts had turned out this dismal morning.  Jasmine could
hear them laughing together as she padlocked her bike outside the
village hall.  Mandy and Pam and Sarah and Maureen, all regulars.  Oona
and Jackie were making herbal tea.  Usually there was also a handful of
strays but not today.  And who, in weather like this, could possibly
blame them?  The track was almost impassable, the village sheeted in
rain.  "Morning, ladies," she said as she entered, noticing that no one
had bothered to switch on the heating.  So she'd put them through their
paces extra briskly to stop their joints aching or seizing up.  She
sneezed.  "Getting a cold?"  asked Maureen with concern.  "I thought
you were far too healthy a creature for that."  Jasmine laughed as she
stepped out of her tracksuit, revealing the aquamarine Spandex she wore
beneath.  "Just a sniffle," she said.  "I hope it won't develop." There
was nothing more dreary than having to take a class when feeling a
little bit under the weather yourself.  Mind over matter was what she
preached, plus a mug of this excellent green tea they were making, to
which, due to her, they had all become mildly addicted.  "Radish juice,
that's the thing," she said as she jogged up and down on the spot to
shake out her legs.  "Whirr it up with your carrot juice in the
morning.  You'll find it does all kinds of wonderful things.  Including
slowing down a cold."  "I know it's supposedly good for the bladder,"
said Pam, cautiously unzipping her sweatshirt to test the temperature
in the hall.  Chilly now, but wait till they really got going.  Already
Jasmine was inserting one of her bouncy disco CDs.  She didn't hold
with wasting valuable time.  Always on the go, she was, off to the next
appointment.  And right after this she had a very special client and
particularly didn't want to be running late.  "Good for a lot of mild
ailments," she said.  There's nothing to beat raw juice for keeping you
fit and detoxed."  They laughed.  To the rest of them, mainly
middle-aged and defeated, Jasmine, with her sparkling eyes and glowing
complexion, was a picture of rude health.  Straight off a poster for a
spa, she looked.  An excellent advertisement for what she peddled:
fitness and exercise for the weary and overweight.  Plus those with not
enough to fill their day.  The beat was starting so she turned up the
volume and the class fell obediently into line, high-stepping
vigorously to her lead.  "One and two, and one and two .. ."  She
certainly worked them hard, but this lot were loyal and had stuck with
her for the six months she had been there.  She enjoyed the camaraderie
of her general classes, though, if she were honest, got more
satisfaction from the private one-to-one sessions she also gave.  Like
the one later this morning, to which she was looking forward.
Individual yoga lessons for those who could afford them.  Her
reputation was growing steadily, her diary increasingly full.  She had
even attracted a couple of mild celebrities: a silver-haired actor
famed for his sixties' stardom and an ageing foot baller trying hard to
get back to his form.  She enjoyed the women but worked better with
men, felt she had more to contribute.  It hadn't always been like this,
oh no.  As she mounted her bike after the gruelling session and
pedalled back carefully along the sodden track, she wondered what they
would feel if they'd known how she'd been in the old days, before she
had sorted herself out.  Too much drinking and too much sex.  Too much
everything, if the truth be told.  Her memories of that period were
hazy; like Mick Jagger, she admitted to huge gaps.  She had not been
rebelling against anything in particular, it was just her age and the
times in which she'd grown up.  Too much freedom, her father always
said.  Whatever it was, she'd made a right botch of things and had been
rapidly deteriorating into a brain-damaged fool.  Until she'd met Marco
and he'd more or less saved her life by leading her off on a pilgrimage
and thence to her ultimate salvation.  She would always be grateful to
Marco, even though he had dumped her along the way.  He had taught her
to have more belief in herself and not trade her body for sex.  To
recognise her true potential and learn to stand up for herself.  She
had come off the booze, switched to a strictly vegan diet and gradually
started to build up some self-respect.  And as her spiritual
consciousness grew and her physical strength increased, she slowly
discovered an exciting new wholeness in the universe, a pattern she
hadn't discerned before.  She was part of a far greater entity, she
knew that now.  Whatever was up there would keep her from harm and give
her the spiritual guidance she required.  She remained on her own in an
Indian ashram for a period of several years and there had discovered
the benefits of yoga and deep meditation.  Jasmine Brookes had returned
to England a wiser and happier person, able at last to look forward to
a proper future.  Fuelled by her own determination, financed by the
money she earned.  Knowing that, at last, she was going to be all right
and could face up to whatever lay ahead.  The cottage she rented in the
village was small but sufficient.  Room for herself, her bicycle and
her cat, with a handy extra space that had once been a laundry room,
which she'd converted into a studio for private lessons.  Right on the
main street, too, which she liked.  People could literally stick their
noses through her window.  She got quickly sucked into village life.
After the years of prayer and seclusion, she hugely enjoyed this new
involvement.  People, on the whole, were welcoming and kind; she had
never really been aware of that before.  And it felt good, she had to
admit it.  She was tired of always doing everything on her own.  Being
part of a community reminded her of the ashram.  Only here she suddenly
felt she was pulling her weight.  Her next class was at noon, with the
fading actor, after which she would be free for a couple of hours.  She
might nip into Cambridge for tea and a film or see what the shops had
to offer.  Jasmine lived frugally, was more or less self-sufficient,
but enjoyed the unaccustomed wealth of Western civilisation.  It was
still a bit of a novelty just to wander and window-gaze, though mostly
she returned home empty-handed.  Her needs these days were basically
very frugal.  She'd long grown out of the profligacy of her youth.
Gerry was waiting in his tracksuit on her step, having jogged the two
miles from his mansion.  He grinned as she dismounted, genuinely
welcoming.  "No hurry, darling', I'm early.  Just felt like a breath of
fresh air."  His famous night-black hair was streaked with silver; the
pouches beneath his eyes gave away his age, though he was still in
excellent shape for sixty-two, credit in some part to her.  Their
thrice-weekly sessions kept them both on their toes.  For her it was a
proper workout just keeping up with his constant amazing energy.

There had recently been a rumour in the papers that he was tipped for a
comeback starring role.  She hesitated to bring it up but knew she
could count on his garrulity.  Blowing his own trumpet came naturally
to the man.  These days, since he'd slid from the ratings, he had very
little else to do but potter.  Or pursue women, so the gossip columns
would have it, though with her he had always remained a gentleman.

"Before you mention it," he told her now with a chuckle, 'those rumours
are not without foundation."  He listed those involved as she led him
into her home.  A Hollywood director, an impresario of note, and
funding from a very reputable source.  Couldn't fail.

"And get this, darling', it's a musical this time!  Can't you just see
me up there struttin' me stuff?"  He struck a pose and walked duck-like
into the studio, then threw back his head and laughed heartily. Jasmine
laughed too.  She liked this rogue, even found him still quite sexy. 
If he did make a pass, she probably wouldn't object.  The wife, his
third, was rarely around these days.  Spent most of her time in
Portugal soaking up sun.  And Jasmine deserved a break, it had been so
long.  Her sex life could do with a spot of geeing up.

"So we need to get you into tiptop condition."  She didn't use music
for these private yoga sessions, but helped him to breathe properly and
relax.  She rolled out the mats on the sanded wooden boards and
switched on a couple of strategically placed lamps.  If she ever had
real money she'd invest in a place of her own.  Meanwhile, this cottage
was adequate for her needs.  This time, if she played it right, she
might get to be part of his team.  Official trainer to the major star,
even with a credit of her own.  That, most certainly, could do her
career no harm.  She was starting to covet some of the limelight for
herself.

Which was how it always had been in the good old days when she'd still
been the fashionable It Girl of her set.

The weather was still lousy when she got to her evening session an
aerobics class for the under-fifties, held in a school gymnasium in the
next village.  As she took off her tracksuit in the changing rooms, it
steamed.  There was a depressing smell of damp wool and old gym shoes
which reminded her all too vividly of school.  Jasmine sighed as she
did a few quick warm-ups.  She was tired and unenthusiastic, aching to
get back home.  These were the sessions she liked the least, a spectrum
of amateurs, few with their hearts really in it.  After the inspiration
of an hour with Gerry Handscombe, the prospect of these bumblers filled
her with gloom.  A hotchpotch of stragglers, many of them new, who
could stray in off the street at whim provided they forked out the fee.
The lighting in the gym was harsh, and rain still rattled the windows.
They stood around like disconsolate cattle, awaiting her signal to
begin.  "Hi!"  said Jasmine with an over-bright smile, belying the
sinking dismay in her heart.  She cranked up the volume of the worn-out
music machine and tried to get them all performing in sync.  Forty, she
counted, as they did their first swoops, most of them women, just a
sprinkling of men.  Many seriously out of shape who would not last till
the end.  Poor souls, she wondered why they let themselves get that
way, with all that extra poundage to weigh them down.  She would never
get out of trim, even if she progressed to better things.  At
thirty-six, she still had firm thighs and a stomach that was the envy
of her pupils.  But how she had to work at it.  She was, after all,
only human, and occasionally liked to hinge when she was unhappy.
Staying fit meant punishingly hard work and never letting up, no matter
what.  She looked again at this bunch of pathetic no-hopers and
privately despised the lot of them.  She had dropped out of the social
scene for reasons of her own, but at least had had some life before she
did so.  There were a couple of newcomers tonight she didn't remember
ever seeing before.  A slim, dark woman with immaculate hair, who stood
out because she was so supple.  And a smoky-eyed youth with the grace
of a dancer, a peacock among a flock of fattened-up geese.  She watched
them both curiously as they separately worked away, wondering why they
needed to come here at all.  Both had class and definite potential,
though they seemed not to be together, an odd coincidence.  This part
of the country was primarily residential, most of the men commuting to
the City.  So who was this graceful mysterious man with the haunting,
aesthetic beauty?  Perhaps a professional, here from the town, using
her class just to limber up.  Even, perhaps, an acquaintance of Gerry
Handscombe.  The woman was undoubtedly just another bored housewife,
whiling away some time till her husband returned.  Jasmine made a
mental note to seek them both out after class.  She could do with
making a few more friends; it wasn't just a lover that she needed.
Being a teacher she found quite restrictive and was cautious of growing
too intimate with her pupils.  But, what the hell, she was new to these
parts.  And occasionally needed a little cheering up.  Gerry, of
course, could well prove the exception.  She had sensed a definite
warming in him today, plus a spark in his eye that could well spell
danger.  She wasn't entirely clear about the ethics of it all, but it
couldn't be as unprofessional as a doctor.  And even though he was that
much older, at least he still had fire in his loins.  Jasmine
instinctively tightened her pelvic muscles and doubled the speed of
their dance routine.  By the time she had chatted and answered their
various queries, collected their money and switched off the music
machine, there were very few stragglers still left behind in the gym. 
Both the intriguing strangers appeared to have gone.  Well, it wasn't
the end of the world, thought Jasmine.  Maybe they'd both come again. 
And, even if they didn't, she was hardly missing out.  She didn't
intend to remain here long and could always pop into

Cambridge if she wanted new friends.  Or back to London to do a bit of
clubbing, perhaps look up some faces from the past.  She'd been
teetering on the brink of that, yet was scared of disturbing old
ghosts.  Life then had been so different from life now.  She wasn't
entirely sure she had the courage.  Or the stamina to resist the
inevitable temptation.  She pedalled home through relentlessly heavy
rain, soaked right through to her innermost layers, her hair plastered
wetly to her face.  She could feel a drip forming at the end of her
nose but her hands were too frozen to brush it off.  There were times,
such as this, when she wearied of this life, though she liked the money
and freedom that it brought.  Never again would she do a regular job;
she needed the space and freedom to spread her wings.  Though she could
also use some company at times.  Only the cat would be waiting for her
at home.  She had left a window open right on to the street.  She
noticed that immediately as she dismounted.  That was pretty stupid,
considering the foulness of the weather.  She hoped her curtains
weren't ruined, that nothing in the room had been disturbed.  She
pushed her bicycle into the woodshed and wiped it down with a cloth.
Then closed the door without bothering to lock it.  People round here,
on the whole, were very honest.  She kept the heavy main door key on a
string just inside the letterbox.  It was far too cumbersome to lug
around.  Many of her neighbours didn't bother to lock up at all.
Everyone here knew everyone else; it was supposedly very safe.  One of
the pluses of a small community after the adventurous life she had been
leading.  The cat was usually waiting but this evening there was no
sign of him.  She took off her anorak and shook it outside, then hung
it on a hook in the passage to dry.  "Orpheus," she called as she went
through to the kitchen, switching on lamps to lighten the gloom and
make the place feel more like home.  His bowl was empty but of him
there was no sign.  She turned on the two-bar electric fire and longed
for a wood-burning stove.  Baked beans it would have to be again
tonight, she was far too de-energised to cook.  But first she must feed
her hungry beast, unless he was out on the tiles.

"Orpheus," she called again as she opened his tin, then went into the
studio on an impulse.

When she saw what had been done to the cat, she very nearly threw up.
He was pinned to the notice board with a skewer through his throat, his
eyes popping out and scarlet with blood, his usually glossy black coat
matted and repulsive.  The poor creature's mouth was fixed open in a
terrible silent rictus; whatever it was that had happened to him had
caught him unawares.  When, at last, she willed herself to touch his
slimy fur, she found he was still warm.  He could only have been dead
for a matter of minutes.  Whoever had done it might well be still
around.  Jasmine glanced nervously back at the front door, suddenly
wondering if she'd remembered to lock it.  And then she recalled the
window and realised immediately what had happened.  She hadn't left it
open at all; some intruder had forced his way in.  She moved
instinctively to close it now.

Too late, she heard the movement just behind her.

SEVENTEEN

Marina always used to say, in the days when we were still speaking,
that the very best thing you could be given in life was good health.
Children, she said, could turn out a disappointment, and love in the
end always faded.  Sexual attraction, the scientists had decided,
lasted only a maximum of four years.  After which you were stuck in a
decaying relationship designed to drive you barmy in the end.  I, the
idealist, obviously didn't agree, but how much did I know then about
real life?  My own close-knit family had always got on well, a bunch of
boisterous kids with tolerant parents.  We'd been fortunate and I think
it showed in our confidence and ease of manner.  Based on that
mercurial quality known as charm.  Also, I suppose, our innate
unquestioning selfishness.  We accepted good luck as our natural due,
expected people to let us into their lives.  Helped ourselves to
whatever we fancied, then thoughtlessly went on our way like a careless
band of cuckoos.  But I never ever argued with Marina.  She had a calm,
madonna-like approach to life and, no matter what platitudes she
occasionally came out with, put husband and, later, children resolutely
first.  She was a good woman, Marina; I am privileged to have known her
and still feel pangs about what eventually happened.  If I had it all
to do again, I believe I would almost certainly desist.  Too much anger
and definitely too much pain.  For what she thought about marriage
turned out to be true.  We are now both left to get on with our lives
alone, when each, I suspect, could well use some propping up.  It is
lonely out here for us sinners.  Once the passion is past, all that's
left is the routine and the long dark suffering nights of endless
regret.  She was there at the hospital right after the crash, but I was
in far too much turmoil even to see her.  She hung around but I slunk
away and nursed my anguished emotions in anonymity.  I ought to have
been there for her I see that now but hadn't the guts, when it came to
it, to stand up and continue with the fight.  We had both loved
colossally and both of us had lost.  Or so it would appear at that
bleak time.  I tried writing her letters but always tore them up,
unable to get my feelings down on paper.  It was my fault entirely, of
that there could be no doubt, so how could such a woman even start to
forgive me?  I badly needed to talk to a priest, but couldn't raise the
courage to enter the church.  When I needed Him most, He had apparently
forsaken me.  I was out there in the wilderness on my own.  Cod knows
what Marina was thinking, I dared not imagine, but her agony must have
been quite as profound as my own.  I had staked my all on this one
insane transgression, only to watch it disintegrate into ashes.  I had
wronged her right from the start, there was no getting round it.  But
nothing I could say or do could possibly make amends.  At least she
still had family to comfort her while I was now entirely on my own. One
by one, she would turn them all against me, just as surely as I had
alienated her.  They would hate me forever, which I knew was only fair.
It's just that, after everything else, it hurt so much.  Often at night
when I cannot sleep, I stare at the ceiling and reflect.  Is Marina's
hatred as intense as my own and might she ever be fired to hunt me
down?  In a way, it would almost come as a relief to find I had my own
personal nemesis stalking me.  For the thrill has gone out of this
creeping up behind.  I would welcome a bit of combat face to face.  Yet
what would be achieved by that?  You cannot restore the past.  I'd do
anything in my power to atone, but by now it is far too late.  And even
Marina must surely have moved on.  I cannot begrudge her that, for she
was blameless.  Not so Jasmine Brookes, however.  A different story
entirely.  And I blamed her more than I did any of the others for the
ultimate destruction of my happiness.  I can't imagine what she
expected, foolish woman, after the irresponsible way she had carried
on.  No matter how much, latterly, she might try to clean up her act,
at no time had her life been a model of decorum.  She was always a bit
of a swinger, right from the start.  I had learned that much from my
years of detailed research.  Indiscriminate in her choice of sexual
partners, no telling what nasty diseases she might have picked up.  For
when she was growing up, in the early eighties, the London club scene
was at its most frenetic.  And Jasmine, fresh from suburban Ilford, was
wide-eyed and easily led.  I can well imagine what she must have been
like at that age naive and excitable, prepared to take dangerous risks.
Always living life to the full, mindless of the damage she might be
doing.  A clone, in short, of my own capricious set, who hung around in
a pack, ever on the pull.  I'd not be surprised if our paths had
actually crossed then.  Who knows what we might have got up to when we
were zapped.  We were young, we were silly, in search of instant
gratification.  A bunch of thoughtless sybarites in need of a bloody
good kicking.  I had to kill her and it made me feel better to do so. 
I studied her eyes as I watched her die and the baffled incomprehension
gradually faded.  I hadn't explained there had not been time and now I
regretted my haste.  Whatever relish I got from each new murder was
somehow inevitably spoiled.  Perhaps that is just how things are in
life.  Nothing is ever quite perfect until nirvana.  Which is where,
I'd discovered, lately Jasmine had been heading.  I hope my action
hurried her on her way.  She deserved to die.  As unpleasantly as
possible.

1 struck her name from my list with vicious pleasure.

And yet, and yet.  As I roamed those barren streets, contemplating the
senselessness of it all, my grieving heart should have been enough to
remind me that too much unnecessary dying is merely wasteful.  I had
lost everything in life that I cared about most while Marina, at least,
still had the children.  And would almost certainly make a new life for
herself, of that I felt pretty confident.  She'd always had her share
of admirers, was not by any means remotely past it.  Plus she had money
of her own.  And her generally prosaic attitude towards destiny would
not preclude her finding another great love.  Even though I had
contributed to the shake-up of her life, I had done more than enough
penance now, I felt.

I, on the other hand, was not in tremendous shape.  I had tried to cure
the insomnia with too much whisky, which had proved to be one of my
less good ideas, for it seemed I'd developed an intolerance.  After the
night that I crashed the bike, I found myself in hospital, heavily
sedated.  To be released only into a private clinic where I stayed for
almost a year, which I barely remember, sweating out the excesses that
had landed me there and trying to come to terms with my terrible
grief.

They used to bring me violets on my breakfast tray and hold back the
newspapers in case they proved too disturbing.  I lay there in a
perpetual daze, thinking about nothing much at all, listening only to
classical music on my headphones.  Life had halted completely as far as
1 was concerned.  I had no reason whatsoever to try to get better.

Until, quite by chance, I caught that brief item on the radio.  And was
hurtled back into reality, doubtless too soon.

EIGHTEEN

William spotted it first as a single brief item of news, sandwiched at
the back of the evening paper.  It was so understated that he almost
overlooked it, then flicked back as an afterthought to read it a second
time.  Some yoga teacher had been stabbed to death at home in a village
outside Cambridge.  Far from the scenes of the other crimes, but her
cat had been brutalised too.  Which was what initially caught his eye,
triggering an instant twitching of the antennae.  He tuned in hopefully
to the lunchtime regional news, but that area was not included in the
South East.  For some unexplained reason, the plight of this
unfortunate seemed not to have attracted general media attention.
William, for the life of him, could not understand why this should be.
Murder, after all, was murder and this a quite horrendous-sounding
crime.  And then, in early evening, he happened to catch the fading
sixties' film star Gerald Handscombe, speaking live on air of his
profound shock.  "A smashing girl, Jasmine," he was telling the
interviewer.  "One of the absolute best.  We've worked closely together
for the past few months.  I'd grown to look upon her as a genuine
friend.  Shocking business, I'll certainly miss her."  And yes, I will
soon be opening in the West End.  They had picked up on Handscombe
because of his rumoured new starring role and were able to make a neat
item of it on the pretext of plugging the show.  Otherwise, so William
thought, she might have been little more than a traffic statistic, for
all the murder squad appeared to be doing about it.  Even Mrs.  P had
completely overlooked it when she bustled in next morning, bursting
with news.  One of her many daughters was getting hitched, to a boy
she'd known only a couple of months.  For once she had no ears for
William.  All she could talk of, as she warmed the pot, were
bridesmaids' dresses and satin shoes and the shocking expense of it
all.  "Wait till it's your turn," she said as she petted Morwenna.  The
years go by so fleetingly.  It seems like only yesterday that our
Sharon was still just a babe."  William laughed cynically.  Over his
dead body.  They would have to scale the fortress walls to get anywhere
near his daughter.  Slay a few dragons too.  But that was not a
priority right now, he was starting to become preoccupied with the fate
of Jasmine Brookes.  At last he did get Mrs.  P's attention when she
temporarily ran out of steam.  "Another murder, you say?  And with a
sickle?  Gracious, how grotesque can a person be?  Do tell."  "She was
pretty near decapitated is all I've managed to glean.  Head hacked half
off, left bleeding on the floor.  No one, for some odd reason, seems
very concerned."  Too much in the papers right now about the American
election.  And all this miserable flooding everywhere."  She was right.
Lately the volume of sensation in the news was enough to pale the
public's interest in a minor anonymous killing.  Villains had even
stormed the Dome in the biggest failed heist of all time.  Whatever
next?  They both had a chuckle at the incompetence of the thieves and
the way they had all been neatly nabbed by policemen disguised as
cleaners.  They had even had a speedboat standing by for a clean fast
getaway on the Thames.  The diamonds weren't even real!"  laughed Mrs.
P. "De Beers swapped them for fakes just the night before."  One thing
that could be said for the Brits, when it came to farce, they certainly
topped the league.  Straight out of an Haling comedy, in fact.  Pity
flicks like that had now gone out of fashion.  But the murder,
persisted William.  The plight of this Jasmine Brookes was nagging
away, he wanted to run it again past Mrs.  P. Though there wasn't a lot
more to add, as far as it went.  The item had been picked up by a local
reporter, who just happened to have been the first one on the scene.
He'd been riding his bike on a shortcut home and had noticed her open
front door.  Some prurient curiosity, inspired by he didn't say what,
had caused him to stop and investigate, and thus stumble across the
bloodied corpse.  If it weren't for this old actor chap pie who'd
managed to get involved and was bolstering his ego at the dead woman's
expense, it was doubtful it would have appeared at all, not at national
level.  Shocking, really, when you considered the details.  Not to
mention the fate of the poor cat.  "You're not suggesting they're
linked in some way?"  Mrs.  P was instantly back on the ball.  She had
grown to understand the workings of William's mind as well as his many
and weird obsessions.  Was touched and intrigued by the interest he
took, while privately believing he was probably wasting his time. 
Ought to be out there in the real world, silly fellow, finding himself
a proper job, helping to bring in some cash.  It wasn't quite healthy
to be stuck home all day with Morwenna.  No wonder he went off on these
flights of fancy.  "I really don't know," admitted William.  "I agree
it is starting to sound a bit far-fetched.  But there seems to have
been a spate of motiveless murders, each of them gruesome in the
extreme.  And yet apparently unconnected.  Doesn't that strike you as
odd?"  Which, put that way, it did.  "So how come the coppers aren't
making a similar assumption?"  Mrs.  P had little time for the police,
her family had been in too many scrapes for her to view them as
anything but inept. Talk about Haling comedies; this beat the lot. 
Rather than harassing high-spirited kids, they ought to get their act
together and do some proper detecting for a change.  Protecting the
community was supposed to be their main function.  But they turned too
many blind eyes to too many crimes.  And it didn't help either if your
skin was the wrong colour.  She could continue in this vein for hours
so William tactfully stepped in.  He tried to explain his thinking so
far.  Without going into too much technical detail, he showed her on
his map how the murder sites roughly connected, despite the fact they
were all so widely spread out.  Though, now he had another look, at
fairly consistent distances.  If only he could pinpoint the hub of this
rough circle, he might get that much closer to the killer.  Mrs.  P
stared at the map and tried to comprehend what he was saying.  She
didn't understand a word but the diagram spoke for itself, in a sort of
way.  "Like a web," she said slowly.  "With a spider in the centre." 
"And that spider is our murderer?"  William nodded.  "So now you can
see what they're up against."  Each of the murders had been in a
different catchment area, with a separate local police force taking
control.  None of them particularly senior since the crime-scenes had
all been fairly rural. A lot of these stations were increasingly
under-manned.  "So why don't you go and tell them?"  she said.  He
laughed and shrugged and gave her a rapid hug.  She was nobody's fool
when she put her mind to it.  He would rather rely on the cleaner than
almost anyone.

"I've tried," he confessed.  They wouldn't listen.  Which is why I'm
thinking of going it on my own."  Edwina might think he was barmy but
this woman didn't.  "I just happen to think I'm right," he persisted.
"So do something about it," she said.  "You don't think, then, that I'm
totally barking?"  "Not if you say not."  She had a healthy admiration
for William's intelligence.  Pity that uppity wife didn't share her
view.  Hard as nails, was Mrs.  P's private opinion.  Also totally
devoid of charm.  In a fair world, she'd come unstuck in the end.  And
Mrs.  P would definitely be there, cheering.  Edwina, predictably,
showed her usual lack of interest when William tentatively outlined his
master plan.  It was as he'd expected she was so immersed in her own
small world, she found domestic trivia trite and boring.  He didn't,
for once, plan to involve Morwenna, but would leave her for the day
with Polly's nanny.  He was owed a good few favours by some of the
local mothers, which he knew he could always call in if he needed to.
Moral support when he felt he could use it, though now was not yet
quite the time.  He needed to do more investigation, to seek out any
more details missed by the media.  To get his facts in order before
taking things any higher, or else they would think he was seriously out
of his tree.  He overcame Edwinas immediate disapproval simply by
telling a whopping lie, not his usual style.  The less she knew, the
better, at least for now.  She would only scold him for wasting time
and give him a list of household chores still waiting to be done.  If
only he'd put that sort of energy into finding a proper job.  Nag, nag,
nag; he was used to her acid tongue.  It was easier not to tell her
what he was doing.  "Cambridge?"  she'd said, with only marginal
interest.  "Who there can possibly be offering you employment?"  The
Fitzwilliam," he lied promptly, without so much as a flicker.  They
want to extend their map division and I have the necessary knowhow."
"Well, I hope it won't mean us having to uproot."  As usual, she put
her own convenience first.  She had no need to worry; he would tell her
they'd turned him down.  Nothing very new in that; it had happened so
often before.  "Well, don't be back too late," was all she said.  She
wanted that child safely fed and filed away before she got home from
work.  The Argus offices were hidden up a narrow side-street, close to
the town centre.  William arrived there late morning and trudged up
three flights to a shabby door with a peeling notice inviting him to
enter.  The Evening News was the dominant local paper, this just the
also-ran.  There was only one person in the large and cluttered office,
a harassed-looking youth with specs and a crop of acne, studiously
working on an ancient PC, surrounded by heaps of old clippings.  Taking
him for the office boy, William looked round hopefully for an adult.
"Yes?"  said the lad as he bashed away.  Anything I can help you with?"
William explained that he was looking for the reporter who had stumbled
across the body of Jasmine Brookes.  The youth instantaneously
brightened and pushed back his keyboard, glad of any distraction from a
tedious job.  That's me," he said, extending one bony hand.  Tim Hardy.
Crime reporter.  At your service."  "Crime reporter?"  "Plus general
dogs body."  He grinned.  "A little bit of everything, in fact."  Since
it was very nearly lunchtime and the phones were hardly ringing, Tim
was content just to shut up shop and lead William round the corner to
the pub.  Something about this visitor vaguely intrigued him, the
familiar manic gleam of a driven man.  This menial job was mainly solid
drudgery with the occasional high spot in between.  He grabbed his
notebook and cheerfully accompanied his visitor down the stairs.  Tim
turned out to be older than he looked, as well as considerably more
clued up.  They carried their beers to an out-of-the-way table where
William sketched out his main thesis.  Cautiously at first till he saw
the reciprocal light in the younger man's eye.  To describe himself as
a crime reporter was stretching the truth quite a bit.  Tim's actual
job was a hotchpotch of minutiae as he learned the newspaper business
from the bottom.  But crime reporting was what he'd set his heart on,
with Wapping, or something similar, his ultimate goal.  He dreamed of
one day having his own byline in one of the national dailies.  If only
he could chance upon that first elusive break.  He was keen, committed
and definitely up for it.  William's sort of chap.  Without weighing
him down with too much detail, William briefly outlined his thinking
thus far.  He had little more than a gut feeling, he was bound to
admit, that the murders might, in some so far unspecified way, be
linked. That, substantiated by his professional observations of the lie
of the land on the Ordnance Survey map.  The knowledge he'd gained from
years of studying maps had given him an experienced eye for detail.  He
would sketch in more if Tim would let him, though it still remained
very much a long shot.  Tim listened alertly, scribbling the odd note,
enthusiasm bubbling up as William talked.  "You're saying you think
they could all be the work of one killer?  Like the Yorkshire Ripper or
his predecessor perhaps?"  The crimes were certainly grotesque enough
and might well have a similar MO.  Only, instead of street trash and
ladies of the night, aimed at the opposite end of the spectrum, the
principled and clean-living.  Tim had witnessed first-hand what had
happened to Jasmine.  It wasn't exactly how William would have worded
it, but the younger man had obviously got the gist.  He nodded.

He was encouraged to have encountered a kindred spirit; these days such
devotion to detail was all too thin on the ground.  "So what next?" 
Tim asked him, with rising excitement.  "Oughtn't you now be taking it
to the police?"  William shook his head.  "Not yet."  He was adamant. 
He explained about the doltish bobby who had so witheringly dismissed
him in Alton Coombe.  And his later conversation with the Northampton
police.  He was not going to risk another snub, not till he had more
substance to back him up.  It would only be counter-productive.  If it
worked at all.  "Tell me all you know about Jasmine Brookes."  Now it
was William's turn to take notes.  There's not a lot more I can add,"
said Tim honestly.  "It looked, at first, like nothing much more than
just a casual break-in.  Not even that, to be strictly accurate,
because the door wasn't even locked.  Whoever it was must have been
there waiting, since the cat had also been clobbered.  Some sort of
crime passionnel, I would guess.  Even a revenge killing.  Or a
stalker."  "Someone she knew, is that what you're suggesting?  One of
her pupils maybe?"  "Well, hardly."  Tim laughed and scratched his
spiky hair.  "Yoga fanatics aren't usually quite that short-fused. 
Doesn't exactly go with the job description."  Not in a village this
close to Cambridge.  It was all far too civilised round here.  "Family
or any significant others?"  "Not that we know of so far.  It seems
she'd always been something of a gypsy.  Only back in this country a
matter of months.  There was one thing further," he remembered after a
pause. "As I entered the cottage to check things out, I distinctly
heard a powerful engine revving up in the background.  A motorbike, I
would say, with a hyped-up engine.  Close to the cottage and going off
hell for leather.  I forgot all about it when I found her."  The trauma
of the discovery had driven it out of his mind.  Tell you what," he
added when William had replenished their pints.  "What you've just told
me might make an interesting filler.  Mind if I write it up for the
paper? All that stuff about cartography and studying the lie of the
land? And your theory of linking the crimes together topographically. 
You never know what it might uncover."  Already he could see that
dreamed-of byline looming.

William gave it serious consideration.  Just so long as it didn't in
any way implicate him.  He dared not risk a ruthless killer getting
wind of the fact he was possibly on his trail.  That would be
irresponsible because of the family.  Yet it might provoke interest in
the appropriate quarter, in which case he'd be doing a public
service.

"Okay' he said eventually.  "Provided you keep my name out of it." Tim,
as eager as a greyhound in the slips, nodded before he'd even had time
to think.

"No problem," he said, flicking to a fresh page.  "Now, mind if we run
those details through one more time?"

William's heart softened.  He was being overly cautious.  It was good
to encounter enthusiasm that matched his own.  If the police wouldn't
listen to a private citizen, a newspaper piece would carry much more of
a punch.  It wasn't a national, true, but a beginning.  The Argus had a
steady readership.  One look at Tim's flushed face and bright eyes and
he hadn't the heart to say no.

"Go on," he said.  "And do your damnedest.  The very least it can do is
stir things up."

NINETEEN

More, as it happened, than William could have guessed.  A hornet's nest
of quite alarming proportions.  For a day or two after his meeting with
Tim he put it all out of his mind.  Firework night had already been and
gone, and the weather grew progressively wetter.  A nasty draught blew
in under the kitchen door and William promised faithfully that he would
see to it at the weekend, when he had time to pop over to B & Q for the
necessary bits and bobs.  "Don't forget," said Edwina sternly, aware of
the still-dripping tap.  For the life of her, she couldn't see why he
didn't go right away, but William had plans of his own for that morning
which he didn't intend to discuss.  Edwina was fretting about Christmas
already, refusing to pipe down till it was sorted.  Normally they went
to her parents in Highgate, to the grim rambling house at the top of
the hill, with its book-lined rooms that were inadequately heated,
where a child could lose herself for hours and not be missed.  Her
mother, harking back to her European heritage, inevitably cooked a
goose,

while the professor made a pompous flourish of carving, at the same
time expounding on some weighty subject which sucked all merriment from
the spirit of the day.  William was always relieved to get away.  At
least, since the Fairchilds possessed no television, there was nothing
to prevent them returning home as soon as the meal had been cleared. No
waiting around for the Queen; no crackers or board games nor charades. 
Not even a reading from A Child's Christmas in Wales, something he
always regretted.  It had thrilled him to the core when he had listened
to it in his youth, but the Fairchilds considered even Dylan Thomas
trivial.  Usually they were back in time for tea and the Bond movie in
front of a roasting fire.  Hillgate Village couldn't match the grandeur
of Edwina's parental pile but at least it was friendly, brightly
painted and warm, if cluttered with toys and general mess.  A living
environment for an active child.  A home.  This year, for a change,
Edwina was set on showing off.  For the first time since their marriage
she had decided to host the lunch herself and dazzle her critical
parents with her newly found housekeeping skills.  If William could
handle it on a daily basis, it surely couldn't be that hard, and there
were loads of trendy new books around on the subject of Christmas
lunch.  With a growing child, it was time to play domestic, and once
and for all prove to her mother that she was finally a fully fledged
adult.  They would get a tree, a turkey and all the trimmings and, for
a change, push out the culinary boat.  William could take care of all
the draggy details the shopping, the tidying, the table setting while
Edwina worked her magic in the kitchen.  All her life she had craved
centre stage but was far less hot on the chores.  William didn't mind.
Christmas to him, with a hyped-up infant in tow, was a season of
genuine delight.  He, in his role of protective parent, had the joy of
seeing it all through her bedazzled eyes, while Edwina was seriously
missing out.  He preferred to keep quiet about the special treats.
Hence this morning's furtive expedition to Harrods.

Mrs.  P was hoovering when they returned at half past twelve.  She
poked her nose round the living-room door and told him he'd had a phone
call "Someone called James Brown," she said.  "Didn't leave a message
or say what he wanted.  I told him you'd certainly be back by
lunchtime."  William shrugged.  The name rang no bells.  Presumably, if
it was important, he'd call again.  He peeled off Morwenna's outer
layers and switched on the television in the playroom.  With a bit of
luck, he'd have a relaxing half-hour before he needed to think about
anything else.  The doorbell rang.  "I'll get it," he called to Mrs. 
P, who was virtually out of earshot because of the hoover.  He opened
the door and was halted in his tracks.  A camera boom was looming in
his face.  "James Brown from Anglia Television," said a smooth young
man. "About your murder theories in the Argus."  William, stunned, for
a moment was lost for words.  Then: "What the hell are you talking
about?"  he said.  The piece in yesterday's paper.  About a serial
killer.  Is it true you believe that a new one is on the rampage?  Mind
if we come in and talk?  I know all our viewers will be fascinated."
James Brown himself was a mild man in a blazer; it was the cameraman
who William wanted to hit.  A sound engineer stuck his mike in
William's face, causing him instinctively to step back.  The very thing
he had wanted to avoid, and now they were getting footage of his house.
After a frenzied few seconds, he pulled himself together and managed to
get back inside and slam the door.  "No comment!"  he roared through
the letterbox.  Wait till he got his hands on that traitor, Tim Hardy.
He'd have more on his face than acne to worry about.  "What do you
think you were doing?"  he asked when he finally got through to Tim. 
"I expressly asked to be kept right out of it."  Now the whole world
knew what he looked like and where he lived.  Luckily he'd had the
presence of mind to stay shtoom.  Up to a point.  His head began to
ache when he thought about all he'd told Tim.  "Sorry," mumbled Tim,
though actually he was elated.  When Anglia Television had called, he
hadn't hesitated. Slip them a few good stories like that and who knew
where it all might lead.  He rather fancied a stint himself in front of
the cameras.  It was only a matter of time.  And William was making too
much of a fuss. He ought to be grateful for the coverage.  Slightly
mollified he never stayed cross for long William was forced to agree it
had been nifty footwork.  And he hadn't said a word on camera so, with
luck, it could do him no real harm.  Just never trust a journalist, he
thought.  Tim Hardy had his uses but must be watched.  It was
extraordinary, really, how few people seemed to have caught William's
fleeting moment of fame. Of course they ran the item, with James Brown
outside William's closed front door, with the name of the street and
number clearly visible.  It simply went to illustrate how blinkered the
public could be.  He quietly heaved a grateful sigh of relief.  He had
to put up with a bit of flak from Edwina, whose colleagues had pounced
on it and now wouldn't leave it alone.  Kept ribbing her about amateur
sleuths, which showed they knew her husband wasn't working.  He might
not care but she most certainly did.  Especially when they had an irate
call from the head of the Cambridgeshire police, ordering William to
cease his meddling or else risk facing prosecution.  If only he'd put
his mind to getting a regular job, none of this sort of thing would
happen.  "Why didn't you talk to me first?"  she scolded.  William
simply shrugged as he dished up the meatballs.  The truth was he'd
known she would not be remotely interested and had wanted to avoid
another domestic ding-dong. He had done his bit for the public good and
was in no way fazed by the police reaction.

Now that he'd even calmed down over Tim, he was curious to see what
happened next.  "So you're actually doing the cooking this year?" 
Meryl and Sue were impressed.  Edwina's blatant lack of domesticity had
long been a bit of a joke, and the pair never tired of making fun of
the house husband, eternally chained to the stove.  Sue, as efficient
as a field marshal herself, always had everything in order, but Meryl,
the loner, only ever ate out and was secretly more than a little
envious. Christmas to her loomed large and alarming; she was angling
for an invitation to join them.  Otherwise it would have to be the
Maldives again, but she had no one she liked enough to go with.  Again,
the tragedy of the single life.  She could not understand Edwina's
discontent.  "How is Poirot?"  asked Sue with a grin.  She had caught
the news flash been impressed by his air of authority.  Especially the
moment he had slammed the door.  That had been perhaps his finest hour.
There was clearly more to William than she'd ever imagined.  He had
even, in that one split second, looked rather dashing.  Edwina sighed
and theatrically rolled her eyes.  She was sick of the inevitable
chaffing.  "I only wish he'd find himself a proper grown-up job."  The
same old heartfelt cry, sincerely meant.  She was worried about this
new fascination with all these gruesome crimes.  It wasn't quite
healthy; she blamed Mrs.  E And feared for what it might be doing to
Morwenna.  Too much morbid gossip in her presence.  No telling the
effect on her delicate psyche.  She might end up an axe murderer or a
doped-out anorexic.  These days almost anything was possible.  "But he
adores Morwenna," said Sue with approval.  She found the pair of them
together very dear.  If only her own husband could spare the kids more
of his time, but Nick was increasingly out of the country and, when he
came home, was whacked.

Luckily they had the wherewithal to afford round-the-clock child
minding but from all she'd heard about Edwina's new e-company, she
would shortly be in a similar position.  More so, in fact, from the
recent rave in the papers.  Edwina and Gareth were set to make a
killing.  Which brought them neatly to their regular topic, Edwina's
budding affair.  "So how's it going?"  Meryl, though openly covetous,
was seriously eager to know.  Some women, it seemed, had all the luck.
It was positively piggy of Edwina to want Gareth when she already had
the dishy William at home.  Talk about dog in the manger.  Despite her
natural caution, Edwina instantly lit up.  It was currently her
favourite subject and she loved to speak his name, though still feeling
slightly awkward that they knew.  Sometimes she saw what a fool she was
being, couldn't believe he wouldn't dump her very soon.  But she needed
to discuss it, to run it through one more time, and these were her two
closest intimates in the world.  Especially now she seemed to be
drifting away from William.  Of course it was not something she could
ever share with him, but she often yearned for his counsel, even on
this.  They had always been such buddies, before things had started to
come unstuck.  William was so calm and level-headed, he'd be the one to
tell her what she should do.  She bet that awful Polly Graham shared
secrets of this intensity with him, occasionally wished he weren't so
annoyingly discreet.  She wasn't sure she trusted that woman at all.
"He wants me to go to Rome with him.  Has a financial meeting there
next week."  He'd even suggested that they do it quite openly; they
were, after all, business partners.  In the run-up to Christmas there
would be loads of festivities.  She could do her present shopping there
as well.  But Edwina knew she'd never handle the guilt.  How could she
look her husband in the eye and tell him such a major untruth?  He'd
see straight through her, was bound to do so.  She would blush and
stumble and give it all away.  And then the shit would seriously hit
the fan and, before she knew it, she would lose him.  She had rehearsed
this scenario over and over again and needed her two friends' wisdom
and support.  They looked at each other, Sue with one eyebrow raised.
She devoutly believed in preserving the bird in hand.  "Is it really
worth it?"  she said sensibly, guessing the inevitable outcome.  From
all Edwina had told them, the man was a louse.  The flush on Edwina's
cheek and the manic light in her eye told them all that they needed to
know.  Meryl, on her third consecutive cigarette, wanted to know more
details of what he was like.  Edwina giggled like a lovelorn teen and
buried her burning face in both her hands.  "I can't begin to describe
it," she said.  "Better than anyone else I have ever been with."  "So
tell us," demanded Meryl.  "Chapter and verse.  Remember some of us
live through you vicariously."  It was a hard admission but accurate.
She hadn't been sexually active for a while.  There were times she
could strangle Edwina, who had it all, and was vain and showy and
heartless as she bragged.  But Meryl loved a bit of lascivious chat;
the dirt was far too tempting to ignore.  Also, she still had an eye on
Gareth for herself, was prepared to hang in there long-term.  "Well,"
said Edwina, inhaling deeply.  "For starters, he has the most versatile
tongue I've ever known."  And was off, amid gusts of infectious
laughter, while Sue and Meryl couldn't help themselves, swept along by
the sheer vulgarity of it all.  "It will all end in tears," prophesied
Sue as they filtered outside.  Edwina had already left them in a rush,
anxious to get home before she was missed.  She was balanced
precariously on such a sharp knife's edge, one slip and she knew she
would be finished.  And it wasn't just William she would ultimately
lose, but possibly her beloved daughter as well.  And what would her
parents have to say about that?  It was more than her fevered brain
could possibly encompass.

"But she's having such a ball," said Meryl wistfully.  If only such a
thing would happen to her.  She was always on her own, eternally on the
hunt.  And he did sound total dynamite in the sack.  "And," she added,
climbing into a cab, 'she never did tell us whether or not she's
going."  They took a brisk walk when the rain finally ceased, though
the storm clouds still lingered overhead.  By half past three it would
be almost completely dark so they couldn't stay out for very long. 
There weren't many people about in this weather and William thought
himself crazy as they progressed.  Just one fast circuit of the Round
Pond, he told Morwenna, and then they would head for the Muffin Man and
tea. She liked the shops, especially now at Christmas, straight out of
the picture books they loved.  All the Kensington lamp stands were
adorned with lighted fir trees, and Morwenna would clap her hands with
delight and coo.  He smiled at her predictability, then caught a
glimpse of a figure he thought he knew.  Close to the palace, where the
rollerbladers practised, a man in a shabby duffel coat stood forlornly
watching the swans.  A sharp breeze ruffled his thinning hair; he
looked the essence of misery.  For a second William was touched with
compassion, then all his earlier misgivings flooded back.  The man was
nothing but a layabout and certainly up to no good.  For what other
reason would he be always hanging round children?  They quickened their
pace to hurry straight past him but the man had already turned and
shuffled away.  She was a right little cherub once he'd got her into
the bath, bright red cheeks and a rosy nose, with dancing raisin-black
eyes.  Her silky hair fell in a thick fringe like his own and soon
would need to be cut.  But now, freshly clean and wrapped cosily in a
bath towel, she looked so scrumptious he could eat her.  "Grrrrr," he
said fiercely, pretending to nibble her toes, and she squealed with
spontaneous delight.  How could anyone hurt them?  thought William as
he carried her gently up to her bed.  Predictably, Edwina was still not
back from work.  He was becoming seriously irritated by these
over-extended absences.  Even if she had stopped loving him, she ought
to be here with her daughter. Two years old was a precious time and a
small baby girl needs a mother. It was all to do with this damned dot
com rubbish.  He wished she had never got caught up in it.  She worked
far too hard and was turning into a shrew.  He couldn't hold her
attention any more.  He was closing the book when the front door
slammed.  "Hi!"  called Edwina breezily up the stairs.  "Shush!"  said
William fiercely, going out on to the landing.  Morwenna had just
dropped off to sleep; it would be criminal to wake her now.  Edwina
shrugged and slipped out of her coat, then went to the fridge for a
glass of wine.  She looked entirely ravishing, with her mass of
luxuriant hair and a heightened glow to her cheeks, he presumed from
the cold.  She was wearing a suede skirt he couldn't remember seeing
before, and her hair had sprouted subtle aubergine tints.  If he didn't
love her so much, it would be that much easier, but it still gave
William a pang to see her this way.  They met at the foot of the stairs
and she gave him a hug.  She smelled deliciously of some expensive
soap, and he led the way back into the kitchen.  Supper was almost
ready; he poured himself a scotch.  He only needed to microwave the veg
and then they could sit down.  "Oh, by the way' said Edwina later,
after they had made a makeshift sort of peace.  It was Friday night,
with the whole weekend ahead, and he'd privately vowed he would try to
woo her back.  It was not her fault, the way she had been raised,
driven to excel in everything.  If only those monsters in Highgate had
given it any thought, they'd have allowed her a proper childhood.  She
was, after all, Morwenna s mother, and at times he saw flashes of it in
her smile.  Like now.  He reached across to stroke her peach-like skin.
 Perhaps tonight, if he offered to rub her feet .. .

"I have to go to Birmingham on Wednesday," said Edwina.  For a two-day
convention, an electronics fair.  I may stay on through the weekend,
too.  We all of us at the office agree it's important."

The slight edge in her voice challenged him, as though she expected
some opposition yet was ready to fight her corner if she had to.  It
was she, after all, who currently paid all the bills.

William had heard it all before and no longer particularly cared.  He
returned her challenging stare without comment; it simply wasn't worth
it.  Just when he was beginning to warm to her again, he saw her as a
shallow conniving bitch whom he didn't much like any more.  He was well
accustomed to being shoved around.  She would doubtless just assume
that he would cope.

TWENTY

It was purely by fluke that I happened to catch that news flash  I had
lost the habit of watching television when I embarked upon all this
cloak and dagger stuff.  Even a small portable would be cumbersome to
lug about and was likely to slow me down if I needed to run.  Mostly I
spend my evenings nose in a book, though I also read the papers pretty
thoroughly.  Somehow I'd managed to miss the Argus piece or, believe
me, I'd have been out of there faster than light.  As it was, the shock
was enough to have given me a coronary.  I swear my heart stopped in my
chest for a solid second.  I had been pondering who on my hit list
should be the next: the social worker, the politician, even the
unfortunate bankrupt.  Though he, poor fellow, had taken so many low
blows and even I am not entirely without heart.  Except that his
current sad state didn't excuse him or alter the past.  He had not been
quite so community-spirited in the days before his fortunes took a
tumble.  Of the three remaining, he'd be the hardest to pinpoint,
though already I had an approximate lead as to where he might be found.
It would mean another massive upheaval, but by now I am more than used
to that.  I never stay anywhere longer than I need, except, of course,
for the covering of my tracks.  It was largely a geographical choice as
I worked my way around my web.  The politician would, of course, be the
hardest of all to finger, but I rather relished the danger of it all.
My victims so far had all been relatively ordinary.  This man was known
to be wily and corrupt as well as constantly surrounded by heavy
security.  It was the challenge that most attracted me here; I saw him
as the acme of my desires.  Meanwhile I'd be patient and sharpen my
teeth on the rest of the list.  At least he was unlikely to slip out of
sight, with the eyes of the world's media upon him.  Also there was a
general election brewing.  The ideal time to strike for mega publicity.
I came home early with the start of a shivery cold, to be waylaid by my
landlady the moment I opened the door.  She was hovering in the
hallway, as she very often did, anxious for some company, poor soul.
She invited me into her chintzy parlour for a glass of sherry while she
watched the evening news.  Sherry would not normally be my preferred
choice, but my head was pounding, my nose bunged up and I found the
cosiness of the room enticing.  Upstairs my own quarters were
depressingly sparse and chilly.  A few moments lingering down here
could do me no harm.  "Dreadful business about the murder," she said
cheerfully, passing me the macadamia nuts.  And there he was on the
screen right behind her, some keen young news reporter in a blazer,
standing outside a closed front door in a street that looked up-market,
even for Cambridge.  "Hillgate Street," the sign said clearly, plus
"Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea'.  London, then; I looked that
much more intently What in the world had this to do with them?  "Pull
your chair a little closer to the fire."  I wanted to tell her sharply
to shut up.  He spoke with solemn authority about this latest murder
and seemed to have a theory he was aching to share.  Something to do
with an article in the Argus.  And a possible serial killer striking
again.

"It'sparky out there tonight," she chirped, unaware of my palpitations.
"You don't want to go taking too many risks with your health."  If she
only knew the half of it.  She must have noticed my pallor.  "Some yoga
teacher," she explained, once more drowning him out.  It turned out
she'd seen it all before, at lunchtime.  "Murdered in her own cottage. 
No more than a half-mile from here."  She shuddered with positive
relish as she topped up my glass.  Twelve years a widow with her
children flown the nest.  It was clear that she was lonely and looking
for friends.  But what was it he was saying now?  I did my best to
shush her.  No disrespect, but I desperately needed to know.  My safety
could well depend upon it, perhaps, indeed, my life. I couldn't believe
I had possibly been so careless.  It turned out this was one James
Brown, a rising Anglia star, following up a story from yesterday's
paper.  Based on the ingenious reckoning of some unknown backroom
boffin, who had talked, it appeared, quite expansively to the Argus.  I
leaned a little closer, straining my ears, and finally, thank goodness,
she got the message.  Together we sat in silence and listened to the
rest.  "This is where Mr.  Huxley lives.  A cartographer by
profession."  It wasn't exactly Number Ten but looked very nice all the
same.  He strode up purposefully and rang the doorbell, and then came
the humorous part.  After a short pause, the door was flung open by a
man with shaggy dark hair and an engaging grin.  Until he heard what
Mr.  Brown had to say, when he acted like a badly scalded cat.  Backing
off with one arm protectively raised, he virtually told the crew where
to stick their sound boom.  Before brusquely slamming the door in their
foolish faces.  I have to say, I warmed to him for that.  And also to
them for the fact that it hadn't been cut.  They were either inept or
else had airspace to fill.  But now I knew what he looked like, this
William Huxley, as well as, even more handily, where he lived.
Obviously Mr.  James Brown hadn't thought about that.  The programme
cut to a newspaper office, where the youth responsible for the original
article was eager to expand on the little he knew or thought he knew;
it was clear he hadn't totally grasped it.  A lot of cheap blah about
maps and things; I almost expected the phases of the moon.  I would
have been smirking along with the rest, if only I hadn't been so
scared.  For this total stranger, this amiable Mr.  Huxley, seemed
unnervingly right on my wavelength.  Something I'd never encountered
before, other than that one occasion, long ago.  And look at all the
damage that had led to.  It is seven long years since I embarked on
this crusade, the first months simply spent in detailed research. 
After I discharged myself, when the crying finally ceased, I wandered
alone in a hostile world, not knowing what to do with the rest of my
life. Steeped in self-pity, half crippled with grief, I must have cut a
very sorry figure.  When I'd held that frail dying body in my arms, I
had cursed the God who'd forsaken me and vowed that somehow some day I
would have my revenge.  For whatever my sin, it did not deserve a
punishment this harsh.  All I did, after all, was fall in love.  No
wonder, in the end, they locked me up.  Often I have wondered about
Marina and whether she'd have the guts to try tracking me down, when
all the while, unsuspected by me, this amateur sleuth had been
stealthily closing in.  My entire campaign appeared suddenly under
threat; I hadn't felt quite this crazed since I left the clinic.  My
heart was hammering in my chest; my forehead dripped with sweat; I
found myself starting to hyperventilate.  What I needed more than
anything was a drink a real drink, not this pathetic old-lady sherry.
But I knew that she kept no whisky in the house.  I longed to be able
to crawl into bed but my time, it now appeared, was running out.  I
emptied my glass then tottered upstairs to pack.  Whatever I did, I
must not risk arousing her suspicions.  She allowed me into the hall
and patted my arm.  Said she hoped I realised how welcome I was and
that she'd like to get to know me better.  I felt almost sad for her in
her solitary cocoon until I recalled the imminent danger and dragged
myself upstairs to think of a plan.  Talk about the biter bit, I could
hardly credit I could have been so blinkered.  For in all this time it
had never once occurred that I ought to be keeping watch over my own
shoulder.

After a sleepless night, I managed at last to get a grip and hastily
threw my few possessions together.  Whoever this man Huxley might be,
he had to be stopped immediately before his meddling attracted any more
attention.  Of one thing, though, I did remain smugly confident.  Smart
though he might be, he was not as smart as me.

I told my landlady that I'd had bad news and regretfully had to be
leaving right away.  She seemed to be genuinely sorry.  I rather think
she liked me quite a lot.  One good thing, she was well in pocket since
I had paid my rent a mouth in advance.  So we parted friends and I
promised to keep in touch as she stood on the doorstep, tearfully
waving me off.  I have to say, I found that incredibly touching.

"Where to?"  asked the driver.

I thought fast.  "The station.  As quick as you can."

For I had a pressing assignation in London that couldn't any longer be
delayed.  And was adding another name to the original hit list.

Part Three

TWENTY-ONE

Edwina held a deeply rooted conviction, relic of her own over-protected
childhood, that her daughter's life could well be endangered should she
fail to receive her regular jabs.  William didn't agree with such
faddish ness  His own haphazard childhood had been virtually
illness-free without the intervention of any induced antibodies.  A
good healthy diet of dirt and germs was guaranteed to inoculate you
naturally against the minor hazards of growing up.  He believed in
allowing nature to take its course, was wary of unnecessary meddling.
But anything for a quiet life.  Edwina, of late, had been acting like
the proverbial bear.  Or, perhaps more aptly, a cat on a hot tin roof.
He had held off fixing a date with the surgery until they'd got safely
clear of Christmas.  There was too much action on the party front right
now for him to want to risk Morwenna being out of sorts.  Which these
jabs, he knew from past experience, were more than likely to make her,
poor little mite.  So much for modern medicine and all the phoney
jargon they spouted now.  Once, however, the twelve days were past and
the tree and all the litter cleared away, he did give into Edwina's
viperous tongue and arranged the necessary appointment.  Reluctantly,
though it could have a silver lining.  There was, after all, always the
possibility that he might encounter the delectable Asian doctor again.
And thus have a chance to continue their conversation.  He was far too
bashful to seek her out directly.  The waiting room was packed he had
never known it this busy with miserable adults, most surely skiving,
though with runny noses and convincingly hacking coughs.  William's
immediate instinct was to turn right round and leave.  Morwenna stood a
far more likely chance of picking up infection here than from roaming
the streets with him, safe in her stroller, in the bracing freshness of
the outdoor air.  But, with the receptionist's gimlet eye already upon
him, it was now too late to run away.  He meekly gave her their names,
then found himself a vacant seat and picked up an ancient magazine.  He
was pissed off with Edwina and glad of some space in which to brood.
She had behaved throughout Christmas like the prima donna she was, and
the presence of her parents hadn't helped.  Whatever she did now was
glorious in their eyes.  The endless nagging criticism of her somewhat
oppressed childhood had changed to near beatification.  Her father,
especially, was thrilled with her recent achievements and crunched
numbers over lunch until William wanted to scream.  This was supposed
to be a joyous family occasion.  Primarily for the child.  It was the
height of bad manners to talk business at table.  If anyone should be
the focal point, it was Morwenna, not her mother.  Her doting
grandmother fawned upon her but Arnold, as always, ignored her.  No
wonder Edwina had grown up the way she had.  Invisible to her father,
too, until she had gained her post-pubescent looks.  And now he behaved
like an ardent suitor.  With her heightened beauty and sparkling eyes,
William could well see why, though he didn't approve.  Something in
Edwina had subtly altered, more than just the promise of huge success.
She flirted with her father as he praised her hit-and-miss cooking,
while acting as though William were barely there.  He was allowed to
serve and carve and clear away, but the accolades were exclusively for
her.  Doing it here had turned out to be a mistake.  At least in
Highgate they could gobble their food and run without being bored to
death by the pompous old fart.  "Next, please."  A tottering elderly
woman, bent double with age or arthritis, followed the doctor meekly
into her surgery.  William glanced around.  Three receptionists were at
it full tilt while a drably dressed minion lurked silently at the back,
mindlessly filing papers from a trolley.  The phones never ceased.  Was
it always this bad, or was the post-holiday pestilence really a fact?
He looked around for his daughter and saw her happily occupied on the
floor.  She sat alone amid a sea of discarded toys, triumphantly queen
of her own domain, unchallenged.  No Nathan nor Laura to bicker or
interfere.  She was having the time of her life.  William returned to
his morose train of thought, comfortable in the knowledge that she was
safe.  It was the four days in Birmingham that had done it, he was
positive.  Before that Edwina had been jumpy and over strung but
William had always understood because of the dot com launch.  They were
calling the company fast.bucks.com, which seemed to sum it all up:
gambling with other people's earnings.  Privately, William wasn't sure
he approved.  He had long suspected that things weren't quite as rosy
as she painted them but had learned, since their marriage, when not to
interfere.  When she needed him, she would let him know.  He was
prepared just to sit and wait.  She hated anything that smacked of
advice and was liable to accuse him of being patronising.  Which was
all well and good.  His own talents lay more in the artistic field; he
had never laid claim to much of a business brain.  But he was good at
logic and could usually see things clearly.  And certainly didn't share
her erratic temperament.  Birmingham appeared to have been some kind of
watershed.  His wife had returned an entirely different person spiky
and unravelled, inclined to shouting fits.  And William still hadn't
worked out why.  They had been there already close on fifty minutes and
Morwenna was growing bored.  She started to miss the company of her
peers and let out a loud and imperious wail.  William resignedly closed
his Country Life, of which he had read not a single word, and prepared
to go to her aid, the attentive father.  But when he looked up, he saw
someone had got there first.  The drably clothed woman from the filing
area was squatting on the floor beside the child.  "Sorry about that,"
said William apologetically, swinging Morwenna up into his arms, thus
detaching her from her chosen toy.  Tears of frustrated anger ran down
her flushed little face and she kicked him sharply with her sturdy
boots, causing him to wince and almost drop her.  The woman
instinctively held out her arms and Morwenna went into them
uncomplainingly.  "What is it, babe?"  asked William, stroking her
face. She was obviously on the brink of working herself up into a
tantrum. "It won't be long now."  He smiled and grimaced slightly at
the woman. She quickly returned Morwenna to him, then hurriedly backed
away to her laden trolley.  She was slight and dark, some kind of
foreigner he thought.  He couldn't even be sure that she understood. 
"Not long now, sir," said the receptionist, who had been watching. 
"You are high on the list to see the nurse.  I am sorry you've had to
wait so long."  "No problem."  William, with his customary good
manners, smiled and nodded and soothed Morwenna until her frustration
gradually ebbed.  "Good girl."  He kissed her on the forehead, then
joined her on the floor to play with the Lego.  Little hope now of
seeing the

Asian beauty.  There had been so many comings and goings but still not
a glimpse of her.  He was out of luck.  Edwina, poor darling, was
frantically busting a gut in a frenzy of anguish at what she had done.
Which was go far too far.  This was not what she'd intended, not at the
very start.  She was paralysed with terror now that William would find
out.  She loved him, yes she loved him still despite their drifting
apart.  It was just that their daily routine had become pretty jaded.
That's what starting a family does," Sue had explained to her sensibly
last night.  And even Meryl had nodded her head.  It was part of her
wildest dream.  "Sameness," Sue echoed.  "It's as well to get away from
it."  But how?  Edwina wanted to cry, when one of you's out of work? At
least Sue's Nick spent much of his time abroad.  William was constantly
there underfoot, waiting for her to return, with a meal cooked and
ready.  Saintly and uncomplaining, hard to take.  "You should be so
lucky' said Sue.  "Most women would kill for what you guys have got." 
"Enough of all this," said Meryl with hopeful relish.  "Cut to the
chase.  Tell us about Rome."  It had been beyond all her wildest
expectations and now she was horribly scared that she might be in love.
The Via Veneto two weeks before Christmas.  Where better for the start
of an affair?  The sky was cloudless and a deep vibrant blue, and the
air as soft and balmy as early spring.  Edwina, dressed for her
Birmingham subterfuge, discarded her boots and topcoat on the spot. She
had had the intelligence to pack a lightweight pantsuit and soon was
even strolling in her shirt-sleeves.  Gareth steered her in and out of
the smart boutiques and wanted to buy her something as a memento.
Edwina refused.  What they were doing was already quite sinful enough
without him compounding it with gifts.  And how in the world could she
ever explain them to William?  He wasn't particularly observant, not
about fripperies like clothes, but still she knew she'd be crazy to
take such a risk.  He had booked them into a chic hotel, more opulent
than Edwina would have chosen, where champagne on ice was awaiting them
in the suite.  They were, he reminded her, on the brink of mega riches.
If they didn't start sampling it now they were out of their minds. And
look what could happen when the sluice-gates finally burst.  They might
be too swamped with work to have time to spend.  "Here's to you, my
darling," he said, kissing her softly, then hung up the "Do Not
Disturb' sign on the door.  The meeting, of course, was a fake; he had
made it up.  It was simply a devious excuse for a spot of dalliance
away from the prying eyes of their business associates.  About the
husband he really didn't care.  He was far too wet to be likely to
cotton on.  And what the hell if he did?  It wasn't Gareth's marriage
that was at risk.  For three solid days they hardly left that room,
except for occasional forays into the street.  At the cocktail hour,
when the locals began their stately evening promenade, they would throw
on some clothes and go out to observe them, clutching each other with
poorly concealed lust, anxious only to knock down their drinks and
scuttle back up to their suite.  It was magic.  She had never known sex
as raunchy or as thrilling.  She surrendered herself to him completely.
"So you didn't get to see much of the sights?"  grinned Meryl.  Edwina
shook her head.  They had taken a coach tour on that first afternoon,
but from then on their pursuits had been more libidinous.  She was
sated, she was ecstatic, still high on an adrenalin rush.  Her mind was
entirely preoccupied with Gareth; she wasn't thinking straight any
more.  "So what happens next?"  asked Sue, the hardened pragmatist. 
She hated to see Edwina in such a state.  She had so much to be
grateful for with that really decent marriage.  Surely she wasn't going
to risk it all on a whim.  And from what they'd heard, Mr.  Prendergast
wasn't to be trusted.  It very much looked like a disaster in the
making.  "All I know," said Edwina defiantly, 'is that I love him.  He
is far more exciting than William ever was.  Has shown me things I
never even imagined."  Sue and Meryl exchanged a sly glance.  Meryl was
dying to hear the sordid details but spoilsport Edwina announced that
she had to go.  She needed to come down to earth for a while until she
could talk things through properly with her lover.  Christmas away from
him had been purgatory.  She just couldn't wait to reconnect.  They
walked home briskly through the biting cold, William singing rousing
choruses of "Incy, Wincy Spider' in order to sustain Morwenna's
flagging spirits. Her nose was running and he stopped to dab it dry. 
He knew he shouldn't have taken her into that polluted atmosphere.  If
she'd caught a cold he'd be very angry indeed and blame it all on the
hapless Edwina, who was currently well out of favour.  Right on the
corner of the turn-off up the hill was a tiny French patisserie and,
impulsively, he pushed the stroller through the door, into the
delicious warmth of the sugar-sweet atmosphere, and allowed Morwenna to
choose whatever she wanted to go with her juice.  Doctor's appointments
always included some extra pampering.  It was part of the unwritten law
of being a parent.  Morwenna brightened instantly and chose a cheery
meringue snowman with a cherry nose.  The girl was about to pop it in a
bag but Morwenna insisted on eating it there on the spot.  When she put
down her foot that was it; she was very much her mother's daughter. 
William smiled apologetically and ordered a cappuccino.  Come to think
of it, he could do with a treat himself and he liked the
vanilla-scented snugness of the place.  There were four small
wrought-iron tables ranged along one wall, so he unbuckled Morwenna
from the stroller and plonked her on one of the chairs, while he went
to examine the pastries.  When he returned, someone else had come in
and was seated at the table by the window.  A man in an overcoat,
absorbed in his newspaper, facing away from Morwenna towards the door. 
Morwenna, with icing sugar all over her chin, beamed her little angel's
smile and kicked her feet in delight.  She was very easily mollified,
this child. That was his own sunny nature shining through.  William
smiled down at her and ruffled the glossy dark hair.  "All right, pet? 
Would you like some juice?  I'm quite sure that, if you are very, very
good, they can rustle you up some orange."  The waitress obligingly
brought their drinks over and lingered awhile for a chat.  William, a
regular, was in no hurry.  They had half the morning still ahead as
well as the afternoon.  "Nasty weather."  "Freezing."  "Wouldn't be
surprised if it snows."  She had lumpy thighs and a too-short skirt but
her smile was positively seraphic.  She tickled Morwenna under the chin
then generously topped up her orange.  She admired this man who was
such a great dad, dreamed of knowing him better.  The man at the next
table coughed politely as he waited for his bill.  The waitress
scribbled it and he paid in loose change.  William, glancing up,
recognised him immediately from his bony wrists and chewed nails.  The
man from the playground, still evading his gaze.  Making a quick
retreat now he'd been spotted.  "Morning," said William but received no
response.  Either the man was pathologically shy or maybe something
worse.  He was certainly reluctant to engage in conversation.  He
muttered something bland and was out of the door while the waitress
watched his exit with a chuckle.  "Funny bloke that.  Comes in here
quite a bit.  Never seems to have anything much to do."

William watched the retreating back, narrow shoulders slightly hunched,
the threadbare overcoat flapping, his hair blowing wispily in the
breeze.

"Do you happen to know who he is?"  he asked, but she shrugged.

"Some poor blighter whose wife has chucked him out.  Lives somewhere
near here, I think."

Paddington, thought William silently, which was a fair step away in
this weather.  He wondered where he was headed now, but kept his
thoughts to himself.  None of his business and he'd do well to remember
that, though he still viewed the fellow with distaste.

Time we were moving on too," he said reluctantly.  Mrs.  P would be
almost through and he ought to be back there, sorting out the laundry.
He zipped Morwenna into her bulky snowsuit and buckled her into the
stroller.  Life for them both was one long extended jolly, or so Edwina
would imagine.  They waved their goodbyes and set off to brave the
elements, father and daughter with their ingenuous matching smiles.

From somewhere across the busy main road a powerful engine fired
suddenly into life and a motorbike wove its way swiftly into the
traffic, its rider's face obscured by the black smoked visor.

TWENTY-TWO

Get the fuck out of my way," snarled Edwina, rudely shoving William
aside.  William, still at the cooker making breakfast, merely raised an
eyebrow.  She had been like this for a week or so, almost as though she
couldn't bear him.  He hated the language she used in front of the
child but was reluctant to chide her now.  One of these evenings, when
she wasn't so het up, they needed to have a calm and considered talk.
Something was clearly badly wrong in her life.  He just wished she'd
tell him what it was.  Before it was too late and the cracks grew any
wider.  Before they ended up having a major fight.  He was making
French toast, and Morwenna was patiently waiting, crooning quietly to
herself as she spooned up her melon balls.  What a joy she was, his
little ray of sunshine, who made this domestic disharmony almost
bearable.  William had been studying Edwina's stock price in the paper
and knew things were more precarious than she let on.  So many of these
fly-by-night dot com companies had burned out immediately after
take-off.  Although Gareth and Edwina had found additional backing,
things were significantly rockier than they had been.  The financial
forecasts were glum in the extreme.  The new year had got off to a
wobbly start.  He would talk to Arnold Fairchild if he liked him a
little better but could not face up to the man's pontification and smug
superiority.  Besides, it would be disloyal to Edwina.  In her father's
eyes, at least, she could do no wrong.  He would not go telling tales
out of school.  Edwina returned wearing a new cherry red coat which did
wonderful things for her complexion.  She had taken to leaving her long
hair loose instead of severely scraped back.  She was even more
striking now than when they first got married, her skin a luminous
creamy peach, her figure as good as they get.  If it weren't for the
now habitual scowl, she would be sensational.  "Got your homework?" 
His attempt at levity failed.  She simply looked up from stuffing her
briefcase with a truly malevolent stare.  "Don't wait supper for me
tonight," she said.  "I'll be late."  So what else was new?  William
made no reply, just slid the perfect French toast on to Morwenna's
plate.  "Eat it now, darling, while it's still crisp."  He stooped and
kissed her head.  She smelled so wholesome, with the fresh innocence of
youth.  How long before she went downhill like her mother?  "Look .. ."
he started, aware that the timing was wrong.  "I know you're going
through a crisis period.  Couldn't we just sit down some time and
talk?"  She didn't even honour him with a reply.  Just snatched up her
things and stormed off up the steps.  He heard the taxi door slam.
Right, he thought as he swabbed down the stove, subversive action was
called for.  He glanced at the clock.  As soon as it was a remotely
decent hour, he would call up Polly Graham and postpone.  No more
sitting around in cosy kitchens.  He could feel himself softening as
the weeks went by, and all that girlie chatter was starting to
emasculate him.  Today, now the weather had brightened, called for a
radical change of plan.  They would go on another of their enchanted
excursions and put aside the misery of this morning.  "Come along,
Morwenna," he called.  "Chop, chop!  Get your shoes on.  We're going on
an adventure."  Right from his earliest childhood William had loved the
zoo.  To him it spelt excitement and a sense of mystery, all those
exotic animals seen up close.  Although it had been developed over the
years, the timeless essence remained the same, and once they were
through the turnstiles and facing the signposts, he felt the old magic
returning.  "Where to first?"  he wanted to know, and, when Morwenna
hesitated, struck out towards the elephants.  Start with the big
mammals and gradually work down.  She was still too young for the
insect house, and they had already been to an aquarium.  They settled
on a bench by the outdoor enclosure and watched a couple of African
giants doing their stuff for the visitors.  Squirting water and picking
up things with their deftly manipulative trunks.  They used to have one
that played the mouth organ but that must have been decades ago.
Probably dead by now.  Even though they lived extraordinarily long.
Morwenna loved it until one came a little too close and stuck out an
enquiring trunk to see what he could scrounge.  She screamed and shrank
into her father's arms and he patted her head and reassured her.  "He
won't hurt you, pet.  He is only being friendly."  He had been going to
suggest a ride but could see that the prospect appalled her.  With one
hand holding hers, the other pushing the stroller, he led her away to
the big apes' house, which he reckoned she'd find more fun.  Start her
off slowly and let her make her own decisions.  There was just no
telling what turned kids on, all part of the fun of these expeditions.
Ham sandwiches spiked with Colmans mustard.  The memories came rolling
back.  They would eat them under the trees by the polar bears or
sometimes on the bank of the canal and watch the barges glide by.  He
wished now he'd thought to bring a picnic, but the weather was still
dicey and probably too chilly.  They'd come back properly in the summer
as a family, provided the Huxley unit was still intact.  Not a thought
that he liked to dwell on, but something that clouded his mind.  Again
he wondered what could have happened to Edwina.  He couldn't bear the
way she seemed to have changed.  One moment she had still been his
lovely, spirited wife; the next she'd turned into a sour old crone with
scarcely a civil word for him or Morwenna.  The pressures of the
business launch were clearly weighing upon her, but there had been a
time when she'd have shared it all with him, not left him out in the
cold to worry and wonder.  He had a guilty feeling it was because he
wasn't working, that she'd begun to lose her respect for him the day he
had quit his job.  They really needed to talk about it, though the
thought of a showdown made him extremely uneasy.  If they really had
grown so far apart, his intrusion could bring down the whole edifice.
And then where would they be?  He dared not think.  The monkey house
was practically deserted, it being a weekday morning.  It was too early
in the season for the usual busloads of schoolkids, and even the
tourists were thin on the ground, despite the milder weather.  A
goofy-looking orangutan swung lazily back and forth in his motor tyre,
while a couple of chimpanzees did stylised acrobatics and brought the
smile instantly back to Morwenna's face.  This was more like it; she
broke away and went to stand close to the rail.  William watched her
enjoying herself and was suddenly hugely glad he had brought her here. 
Although intellectually he disapproved of zoos, it was marvellously
educational for the kids.  These days too much of their lives was
virtual reality. Computers were it, they controlled the world, now even
on a domestic level.  Nothing could compare to the hands-on experience
of seeing real animals up close.  The smell might be pungent but that
was all part of the experience.

Nostalgia came flooding back and William was a schoolboy once again.
Next they went to look at the polar bears and then on to the penguin
enclosure.  Morwenna loved these quaint-looking creatures, like
miniature waiters in their sleek black coats, diving and swimming and
having the time of their lives, jostling each other as they lined up
for the chute, enjoying a thoroughly good natter.  A couple of other
children were there, each with a single man.  Weekend fathers, William
supposed, though he wondered why they would be there on a Tuesday.  The
whole bleak prospect of single parenthood brought down his spirits once
again.  He must make his peace with Edwina, and soon.  The alternative
was too frightful to consider.  Seeing the penguins flopping into the
water reminded Morwenna of her favourites.  "Swans," she said brightly,
with rising hope on her face, and pulled him by the hand towards the
gate.  William laughed and allowed her to lead him.  They had been
there two hours already.  They would come back again on a regular basis
and work their way through the different sectors.  But if swans she
wanted, then swans she should certainly have.  He had done quite enough
today for her education.  Office morale had reached an all-time low.
What had started off with so much energy and enthusiasm was wobbling
now on the edge of catastrophe as the workers watched their golden
goose sicken and die.  The boom was over, reality raising its head.
They hadn't thought their strategy through sufficiently and the fast. 
bucks stock had plummeted overnight.  They were in big trouble, not
least with their city backers.  Edwina was seriously concerned. Gareth,
as usual, had not yet made an appearance.  Always a tardy riser, he had
been slacking off more and more.  She grabbed his diary and scrutinised
his day.  He had a table booked at Vertigo for one; apart from that,
nothing else.

"Where is he?"  she asked his snooty PA, who just shrugged and turned
back to her screen.  One of Gareth's more irritating affectations was
to hire them for looks rather than ability.  This one, with her coltish
legs and twenty-four-inch waist, resembled a polo players moll.  Her
clothes were all designer, her hair expensively mussed.  Her highly
glossed nails were far too long to cope efficiently with a keyboard.
Her attitude was of cool indifference, which made Edwina long to fire
her on the spot.  Though she hesitated from doing so because of what
Gareth might say.  Pathetic.  She hated herself for her weakness, not
at all her usual style.

"Well, tell him I need to talk to him," she snapped, horribly afraid
she was making a fool of herself.  She was jealous, it was as simple as
that, and no longer knew how to conceal it.  She sensed the sneer on
the younger woman's face and stomped back to her work station in a
rage.  She regretted ever getting into this mess but was powerless to
help herself now.  Gareth had become an almighty obsession.  She feared
where it might be leading.

Almost an hour later, without being aware of his presence, his
lascivious e-mail flashed up on her screen.

i'd like to ravish you on the spot and tear off that black satin
thong... Edwina looked guiltily over her shoulder and he raised one
hand in casual salute.  He was wearing his trademark designer suit over
a white silk polo.  He looked so gorgeous, she felt her knees weaken
and longed more than anything for his touch.  He had made her his sex
slave, she had now become insatiable.  Small wonder their business was
in such a mess.  She ignored his e-mail but he didn't desist, his
messages growing progressively more lewd.  Aware that others could hack
into the system, she wanted to warn him not to be so reckless.  But she
hesitated to talk to him with that icy bitch looking on.  She no longer
had total control of her turbulent feelings.  A few minutes later he
leaned across her desk, a look of mocking amusement on his face.

"Lunch?"  he said, with a question mark.  "You already have a date."
"Lord, checking up on my movements now, are you?  Just like a jealous
wife."  Edwina was furious and badly wanted to hit him, but restrained
herself because they were not alone.  "We need to talk," she said
through gritted teeth.  Their whole world was balanced on the edge of
an abyss and all he wanted to do was fool around.  "So, lunch?"  "You
already have a table booked."  For us."  His cool grey gaze put
strictures on her heart; she knew she was weak as a kitten in his
hands.  Though she still had claws, let him not forget that.  All her
resolve went flying out of the window as he traced her eyebrow lightly
with his finger.  What a wimp she was becoming, a lovesick fool.  Yet,
try as she might, she knew she could not resist him.  "I'll meet you by
the lift," she said.  "In twenty minutes."  That's my girl," said
Gareth smoothly.  He knew when he was winning and it showed.  They had
milkshakes and burgers in Regent's Park, then drove back to Kensington
for the swans.  That was how Morwenna preferred it.  In some things she
was quaintly settled in her ways.  The sun still shone, it was a
beautiful afternoon, a boon after so many months of inclement weather.
He helped her out of her little quilted jacket, revealing the black and
red tartan dress her granny had made her for Christmas.  His mother,
needless to say, the granny in Devon.  The other side had bought her an
expensive educational toy, which they'd made her play with for half an
hour before she was allowed to open any of the others.  Her glossy dark
hair was freshly washed.  She wore little red sandals to match the
dress, too good for a mucky outing to the zoo.  But the swans would
approve.  Her face was wreathed in smiles as they reached the Round
Pond and saw the whole flock of them there.  He hadn't brought any
bread, which was no bad thing.  He'd not expected to come there that
afternoon and was anyway cautious of letting them get too close.  A
swan aroused could kill a small child with one stroke of its powerful
wing.  Morwenna was in heaven and he laughed to see her delight.  Why
bother with thinking out new and exciting jaunts when a bunch of white
birds in a local park gave her so much joy?  They found an empty bench
full in the sunshine and settled there for a while.  The sun made him
drowsy and he dropped off for what seemed like only a matter of
seconds.  Until he heard voices loud and clear and was awake abruptly,
to see who she'd picked up now.  It was pointless, William had long ago
discovered, to try to teach this child to be wary of strangers.  She
was cute and appealing, with no real concept of fear.  It would be a
shame to make her over-cautious but he tried to keep his eye on her all
the time.  For these days you just couldn't tell.  Worse and worse
things were happening in the world.  The crime rate was rapidly rising.
An image of the ratty man flashed like a warning across his inner
screen, but when he shaded his eyes and focused properly, he saw
Morwenna in conversation with a woman.  A slight, dark stranger whom he
didn't think he knew was listening to her gabble most politely.  He
lurched to his feet.  "Daddy, Daddy!"  called Morwenna in excitement,
beaming broadly as she held the woman's hand.  They were standing by
the neighbouring bench where the woman had been sitting on her own. She
looked a bit abashed when William approached and tried to disentangle
her hand from Morwenna's.  "Hello!"  said William heartily, suddenly
knowing precisely who she was.  The air of slight self-effacement gave
her away.  The woman from the surgery they'd met on their recent visit.
Her thin, pale face was flustered now and she tried not to meet his
eye.  William was quick to apologise.  "I do hope she's not being a
pest.  We're here to see the swans."

The woman smiled faintly and shook her head, indicating sandwiches and
a Thermos on the bench.  "I'm having my lunch," she explained in
correct but accented English.  He'd been right.  She was a foreigner,
though appeared to understand, unless she was just terribly polite.

"Isn't it rather late for lunch?"  He glanced at his watch in
surprise.

"I have to fit in with the surgery's hours.  We work on a strict rota
basis."

"Well, we'll be off then and leave you in peace."  William attempted to
prise away Morwenna, still clinging like a limpet to the hand.  She was
eyeing the sandwiches hopefully, her mind fixed firmly on the swans.

"Would you like to feed them?"  asked the woman, getting the message.

"Daddy Daddy.  Let me!  Let me!"  And she drummed both tiny feet in
their smart little sandals.

"Please," added William automatically.  "I'm sorry," he said
apologetically.  "She's not normally quite this pushy."

"I know how it is with the young," said the woman, handing over a piece
of buttered bread.  She looked up at William with a tentative smile
which immediately softened her face.

Nice, he thought.  Gentle and possibly scared.  She brought out in him
a strongly protective feeling.  Which he had to admit felt good.

TWENTY-THREE

Tim Hardy rang out of the blue.  He had to pop up to town unexpectedly
and wondered if William would care to meet up.  William barely
hesitated.  He would welcome the chance of some adult male company, all
too lacking in his life these days.  Also there were things he wanted
to run past Tim.  The visit could hardly have been more timely. Polly's
nanny said she would be only too pleased, so William called Tim
straight back.  They arranged to meet in a pub in the Gray's Inn Road,
not a stone's throw from King's Cross Station.  They could fit in a few
quick beers and perhaps a spot of lunch before Tim went on to his
journalistic assignment, an interview at the House of Commons with a
rather uninspiring backbencher.  Hardly exciting, he explained with a
sigh, yet another weary step up his career ladder.  Wapping remained
still a distant dream unless something unexpected fell into his lap.
Which is why he secretly pinned his hopes on this meeting.  "Any more
news on the yoga teacher front?"  asked William as soon as they were
settled.  To suit the occasion, Tim was wearing dashing yellow aviator
specs, which gave him a slightly sinister air though did little to
disguise his obvious youth.  He looked about seventeen and somewhat
pimply, like a schoolboy out on an illicit razzle, despite the pale
designer stubble he was now self-consciously affecting.  With his
colourless hair centre-parted and plastered down like an Edwardian
dandy's.  William greeted him with unfeigned affection.  Tim might be
slightly odd, but he respected the younger man's pioneering spirit.  He
warmed to his enthusiasm and determination to forward his career.  Made
him feel lazy and insufficiently ambitious, not that he really cared
much any more.  "Somewhat surprisingly, no," said Tim, sliding the
shades into his pocket.  "It would appear they've come up against yet
another brick wall.  Not that they seem to be trying all that hard."
The truth was that, despite his terrier-like tenacity, the Cambridge
police were refusing to be drawn.  He might be the one who had stumbled
across the crime scene, but that was about as involved as they'd let
him be.  The press corps did, on occasion, have its uses, like when
they needed publicity to help flush out a suspect, but at this crucial
stage in almost any inquiry, they played their cards close to their
chests.  Which did make sense.  Hugely frustrating for Tim, but still.
Until they were ready to make an arrest, they were unlikely to spill
any beans.  Not to a tyro reporter who looked like a child.  William
sympathised but could offer little solace.  Certainly not the lead for
which Tim was hoping.  He ran through the list of victims again,
starting with Edwina's Aunt Jane the point at which he had first got
involved himself, though not necessarily the earliest of the murders.
For all he knew, there might have been others before that, though
somehow he didn't believe so.  It was hard to be retrospective at this
stage.  The second crime to have caught his attention was the truly
horrendous butchering of the Marshes.  Killing those little girls had
been gruesomely over the top, hugely more disgusting than the
impalement of Jane's little dog.  And now the yoga teacher's cat.  A
macabre pattern of sorts was emerging.  Tim grew quite excited as
William explained, pulled out a notebook and started to jot things
down.  "Who next?"  William thought a bit.  That schoolmaster with his
van load of kids.  More innocent lives lightly squandered, almost as if
just for the hell of it.  The man's throat had been savagely cut so he
was presumably the designated target.  The boys were simply unlucky,
would guess.  In the wrong place at the wrong time."  "You think?"
William nodded.  "Whoever is doing it must have some sort of game plan
from the little I know of the criminal mind.  Another thing they each
have in common is the violence, which ought to tell us something.  A
very angry man indeed with a personal grudge to settle.  Or else a
loony fanatic with some sort of message."  Tim was duly impressed.
There was clearly more to William than he'd first thought.  "What
exactly?"  William shrugged.  "Who knows?  That's for us to surmise and
then work out.  Think of the Unibomber and those chaps who walk into
McDonald's and open fire.  They all have enormous chips on their
shoulders, even if their thinking is screwed up."  "So what did they
all have in common?"  asked Tim.  "Apart from the sheer brutality of
their deaths."  That," said William slowly, 'is the crucial question. 
Answer it and, with luck, the rest will slot into place."  "Where, for
example, does the bank manager fit in?  According to your theory.  No
pets, no kiddies, no other vulnerable dependants.  And, when it
happened, all on his own some  In the supposed safety of a plush hotel
where he was pretty well known by the staff."  "With his main artery
punctured by a common or garden ice pick  Not a pretty way to die,
gagging to death on his own blood."  There it was again, the blood
theme, nagging away at the periphery of his mind.  Tim's sallow face
turned another shade of pale, sickened by the horribly graphic imagery.
He would need a stronger stomach for crime reportage.  He was going to
have to learn to toughen up.  "And now this yoga teacher.  And her cat.
Another unlikely scenario.  I thought her sort were supposed to be
clean-living. Vegetarian, that sort of thing."  "You never can tell. 
She had kicked around quite a bit.  A fairly recent newcomer to the
district, no longer in the first flush of youth."  Tim had certainly
done his homework.  It was William's turn to be impressed.  The lad had
promise and should go far, if only he could get that longed-for break.
"Including some years in an ashram in India," Tim continued.  "Which
isn't exactly my idea of decadent.  A bit of a flower child, from all
accounts.  Devoting her life to spiritual matters."  Like Aunt Jane,
arranging the flowers in church.  And Robert Marsh, another stalwart of
the community.  And Pilkington, with his strong Rotarian connections,
steeping himself in fund-raising and charitable works.  And then the
schoolmaster, revered by both pupils and staff.  William stared at Tim
as something clicked.  That's what it was.  The connection.  It was
obvious.  "Blameless reputations," he said slowly.  "Each and every one
of them."  "All condemned to particularly bloodthirsty deaths."  "As if
someone were targeting the saintly and the good."  "Precisely.  But
why?"  There," William said, 'you have me.  But it's a start.  The pets
and kids are all thrown in to make some sort of a point.  Someone is
methodically hunting them down and seems to want the world to be aware.
His MO is not exactly subtle with all that battery and violence."
"Revenge killings, do you suppose?  Planned executions?"  "Possibly.
Though it's hard to imagine what people like that might have done.  All
those godly folk, to deserve such a fate.  It fairly boggles the mind."
Tim said reluctantly that he'd have to be heading off.  Though he'd far
prefer to stay here with William than talk to some fusty old country
squire about the joys of hunting.  Criminals were much more enticing
than foxes.  He felt that at last they were getting somewhere.  "Any
chance of our getting together again?"  he asked.  William hesitated,
his enthusiasm suddenly dampened.  He had got so caught up in it all,
part of him wanted to continue, yet prudence, at the same time, warned
him off.  Since the fiasco of the television exposure, he knew he was
pretty much a marked man.  Who shouldn't be risking his family's
well-being, not with a frenzied killer still at large.  "I'm not sure,"
he said slowly, 'that I want to get any more involved."  Tim's face
fell.  "You can't quit now!"  "It's your own bloody fault.  I told you
I didn't want to be identified.  If you hadn't tipped off Anglia, I'd
be safe."  They came after me," said Tim, still pleased to have
attracted their attention.  "And I can't drop out of it now.  My
readers are waiting."  "Nothing to stop you going it alone.  You're the
news reporter, after all."  "But you're the one with professional
expertise." Also the intuition.  William sighed.  He hated giving up on
anything and also didn't want to let Tim down.  "All right," he said
finally as they parted on the pavement.  "Give me a ring in a couple of
days and we'll see.  But no more risks, mind.  Unlike you, I am no
longer fancy free."  Charity workers, do-gooders, genuine altruists. 
People who put something back into the community.  It nagged away in
William's brain as he hurried to the tube.  Aunt Jane might have been a
bit of a handful but she certainly hadn't deserved to end up dead.  Not
in such a particularly nasty way.  Whoever was out there committing all
these murders certainly had to be stopped.

This was far more engrossing than any crossword puzzle.  William felt
sneakily elated by it all.  The headline on the billboard stopped him
in his tracks and he fumbled in his pocket for some change.  Big Issue
Seller Hacked to Death, it said.  Read all about it in the Standard. 
It had happened close to where William was standing now, in a badly lit
side-street off the Caledonian Road.  In the early hours of the
morning, they thought, when only the winos and prostitutes were about.
His name was Jed Hunter; he was fifty-five years old.  And had been
inching himself back from recent bankruptcy.  The police tracked him
down to a shelter for the homeless where the warden spoke of him with
genuine warmth.  Once she'd recovered from the shock.  "What a terrible
thing!"  she said.  "He was always so mild-mannered.  A genuinely
decent man with gentle ways who'd just happened to fall on hard times.
Why would anyone want to do something like that?"  The policeman
neither knew nor particularly cared.  It bore all the signs of a
drink-related brawl, only too familiar in this area.  It was, at the
best of times, a pretty unsavoury neighbourhood.  And he a hopeless
down-and-outer who had once known better days.  Obvious, it was implied
by his lack of real comment.  Scum of the earth like that.  But the
woman refused to agree.  No, Jed was one of the brighter ones.  Had
never lost his dignity despite all he had been through.  Business
partners who cheated him, a wife who ran away and took the kids.  Yes,
he had hit the bottle for a while, but certainly with ample
provocation.  And lately he'd been on the wagon.  She could vouch for
that.  His body had been found with his throat slashed wide open and
one of his hands cut off.  But the odd thing was, they hadn't touched
his stash.  He had been working long shifts, selling the magazine, and
had on him fifty-five pounds in coins, which in itself was pretty
remarkable.

"He was a nice man," she said, 'with a great sense of humour.  Made
friends easily, was getting back on his feet."  "Where did he actually
hail from?"  asked the policeman with little interest.  "Originally the
West Country, I believe.  He had a bit of a burr to his voice, Bristol,
I'd guess, or somewhere like that."  The policeman shut his notebook.
He would not be exerting himself.  Not for a homeless vagabond living
rough.  It was mentioned briefly on the evening news, but after that
there wasn't another word.  The same sort of lethargy appeared to be
recurring.  Another wasted life and nobody cared.  "Do you really think
it's connected?"  asked Tim when he rang.  "Yes," said William
confidently.  "I do."  The infliction of the injuries, the callous
brutality.  It had all the marks of the same quite conscienceless
killer.  Still very much at large and apparently now in London.  A tiny
fris son of fear ran down William's spine.  A Jack the Ripper of modern
times, though his victims came from entirely the opposite pole.  "So
where exactly is the match?  This homeless person with the others?"
"Selling The Big Issue.  Pulling himself up from the gutter.  Yes, it
fits.  It has all the same hallmarks.  A man with no criminal past who
has known better times."  "But the locality," objected Tim.  "London."
"He was only recently arrived, they think.  Probably from the West
Country."  Both men fell silent, then made a date to meet.  There was
absolutely no question now of William pulling out.  Even the danger
element began to fire his excitement; he would just have to be extra
vigilant where Morwenna was concerned.  It was heady stuff, this
detective work.  He hadn't felt quite this empowered since losing his
job.  "Come along, cherub," he said, after hanging up.  Time to get a
move on.  Edwina would soon be home.  He felt a touch guilty at having
neglected Morwenna, who was placidly watching television on her own. He
gave her a quick cuddle and she snuggled up against him, thumb in
mouth, her eyelids starting to droop.  The world out there was a harsh
and dangerous place.  He would always do his utmost to protect her.
Tonight, for a special treat, they were having fish and chips.  He had
bought them from the pub at the top of the hill.  Edwina, with her
faddy ways, would simply have to lump it.  She could make herself a
salad if she was hungry.

Edwina, however, failed to come home at all.  She called at nearly nine
to say she was eating with Sue and, since there was so much still to
catch up on, would stay overnight at her house.  William was surprised.
This had never ever happened before.  Sue, who lived south of the
river, in Clapham, certainly had plenty of space, but Edwinas rightful
place was here, with her family.  Once more she was shirking her duties
and it just wouldn't do.  The ice in his tone was unmistakable and
Edwina lowered her voice.  Problems, she hinted, with her hand muffling
the mouthpiece.  Something to do with the state of the marriage.  Not
good.  William sighed resignedly and said that was all right then.  If
Edwina detected his irony, she didn't let on.  He was surprised if the
brisk and well-organised Sue was having emotional problems.  She was
one of the most capable women he knew.  He wondered if the husband had
been straying.  It was happening more and more these days, in even the
happiest of menages.  And Nick spent much of his time in Brussels where
fleshly temptations were supposedly rife.  He tucked in Morwenna and
switched off her light, leaving the door ajar.  He would hear her if
she woke in the night, though normally she slept straight through.  He
collected her scattered clothes from the floor and dropped them into
the basket for Mrs.  P

William, alone in his study, at last relaxed.  In a way, not having
Edwina around with her spiky, sullen presence, was a relief.  He had
carried upstairs a glass of Glenmorangie and sat there slowly sipping
it while he gazed again at his maps.  The window was open and the cool
night air filtered in, lavishly laced with the scent of the wisteria.
Perfect.  He idly ran through his mind again that day's conversation
with Tim.  Then put down his glass and ran downstairs for his
chequebook.

He studied the diagram he had made for Tim and his mind began to clear.
He listed the murder sites then laughed aloud.  He'd been studying
entirely the wrong map.  For what these places had in common was
suddenly stunningly obvious.  So obvious, in fact, he'd have got to it
sooner, if only he hadn't been chasing so many hares.

Alton Coombe, Northampton.  Dorset, Bournemouth and Bristol.  Even
Cambridgeshire fitted, for they all had one major thing in common.
William Smith, the 'father of British geology'.  One of his old framed
maps was hanging here on the wall.  William crossed to look at it now
and could scarcely prevent himself laughing aloud.  Sedimentary rocks,
all fossil-bearing, Jurassic or else Cretaceous.  Ha!  He took a step
backwards to get better focus.  There they all were, the murder sites,
in one bold geological circle.

TWENTY-FOUR

They were in the farmer's market when they encountered her again, a
slight, sallow-skinned figure in a serviceable navy coat, a silk scarf
knotted elegantly at her throat.  She was carefully selecting apples
and dropping them into a bag, frowning with concentration as she chose
them.  It was Saturday morning and the place was packed.  Morwenna
spotted her first so William hailed her.  "Hello again," he said, and
touched her arm.  He was startled by quite how nervously she reacted.
This was one jumpy lady, he would need to tread with care.  But
Morwenna was starting to clamour and he knew he would now get no peace.
"Oh," said the woman, instinctively backing away.  "It's you."  She
looked at Morwenna, riding high on William's shoulders, and gave them
both a fleeting, tentative smile.  William lowered the child to the
ground, glad of the chance for a breather.  She was a sturdy little
madam these days and growing fast.  Soon she would have to learn to
walk without the constant complaints.  They were, after all, no more
than a block from home.

"Lovely morning," said William breezily.  "Nice to see some sunshine
for a change."  The weather had been horrendous but the rain had
finally stopped.  And the mornings were visibly brightening by the day.
Edwina was off on some jaunt of her own while taking the car to be
serviced.  William was buying the Sunday lunch, a nice leg of lamb to
be seasonal.  With peas and broccoli and Jersey new potatoes, which
were all piled up in the stroller.  So now the infant had no choice but
to walk since he seemed to have run out of hands.  "Do you live around
here?"  he asked chattily.  "Not far away.  It's convenient for the
surgery."  Property in this part of the world was all high rent.  He
wondered how she could possibly afford it.  But perhaps there was a
husband in the background.  He glanced around the crowded car park but
no one stepped forward to claim her.  "We're just up the hill," he
said, nodding in that direction.  Something about her he found
inexplicably appealing.  She had soulful dark eyes and a low, husky
voice.  He couldn't quite identify her accent.  "Well, better be
getting on," he said when she seemed to have run out of words.  Not one
of life's natural chatterers, that was clear, but it gave her an air of
contained tranquillity.  Apart from the obvious shyness when confronted
by a stranger.  Well, that was no bad thing at all, only made him
respect her the more.  Wherever it was she hailed from originally
possibly had different manners.  He'd do well to bear that in mind if
he ever ran into her again.  He found himself thinking that he rather
hoped he would, though wasn't entirely sure why.  Loneliness, probably,
he told himself sternly; moving in too restricted a circle.  Morwenna
set up a bit of a squawk but they said their goodbyes and moved on. 
They still had more shopping to worry about and only an hour until
lunch.  There were times when William marvelled at this endless round
of meals, the planning, the shopping, the cooking, the clearing away. 
Not to mention the actual brief moment of eating.  No wonder so many
married women cut and ran.  Edwina, in her weekend tracksuit, was
driving fast towards Clerkenwell, frantic for even a glimpse of Gareth,
appalled by her loss of control.  Never before in her life had she sunk
this low.  Marriage to William had proved to be a stabiliser; she
hadn't acted so erratically since her youth.  They had parted the night
before last as the dawn was beginning to break, and she'd gone on
direct to the office after a shower.  William had to be rung and
appeased, the fib about Sue fleshed out.  The baby chortled at and
reassured, the usual false promises made.  Gareth, of course, had
remained in bed, unwilling to alter his habits just for her.  And they
dared not be seen together, not first thing in the morning.  A single
whiff of scandal would totally blow it.  He had followed her in,
infuriatingly late, but this time hadn't mentioned lunch.  She had a
nasty gut feeling he was seeing someone else.  Had noted the snooty
assistant was missing too.  It filled her with such agony, she was no
longer thinking straight.  She had muttered an excuse to William about
the car and driven off furtively across town.  She had to see him, had
to make absolutely sure.  Was almost on the edge of phoning just to
hear his voice.  "Get a grip!"  she hissed at herself as she wove
through the Saturday traffic. Luckily William was so obtuse he would
scarcely be aware of her absence.  She would drive past the converted
warehouse and check if his blinds were still down.  Failing that, she'd
try him on the mobile and hope he'd not be able to trace the call.  Not
that he'd care either way, she was sure.  He was laid back to the point
of indifference.  The reason she was in such a sorry state.  For
despite the intensity of their now regular sex sessions, he'd still
spoken very little to her of love.  Yes, he paid her the occasional
compliment, fired by momentary passion, but rarely got into serious
mode while continuing to mock her with his eyes.  Which served only to
intensify this craziness and fuel her insatiable desire.  She had never
felt this way before for any other man.  Was scared to death of where
it might be heading.  She was also terrified about the current state of
their business, afraid that the bubble might soon be about to burst. 
She could never get Gareth to talk about it seriously, he appeared to
have his head firmly in the sand.  And yet the share price continued to
wobble while all around them companies were going bust.  Pride had
prevented her from consulting her father.  She couldn't bear the
indignity of losing face in his eyes.  Which left her with only
William, and that was a joke.  He knew nothing at all about city
trading or the intricacies of the internet.  Had no particular interest
in money; was content to allow her to support the family without ever
asking real questions.  Part of her despised him for being so
compliant, though she did appreciate all he had done to keep the
marriage intact.  She knew she couldn't be easy to live with, was aware
she was turning into a shrew.  She suspected she might respect him more
if only occasionally he would tell her to shut up.  Or even, in
extremes, belt her one.  She had a nasty suspicion she might even find
that sexy.  Much-needed evidence, at least, that he still cared. 
Edwina was grumpy at lunch and monosyllabic.  She had turned up late
and in a bit of a state, her long hair tangled, an unhealthy flush on
her cheeks.  Perhaps she was sickening for something.  He touched her
forehead, but she brushed him away with her usual sneering contempt. 
William toughened inside.  If that was the way she preferred it, two
could play at that game. Morwenna had nodded asleep at the table so he
carried her up to her cot for a nap then continued on to his study
without a word.  Edwina, for once, could deal with the dishes and not
before it was due.  Lately she'd been treating this house like a hotel.
He heard himself echoing his mother in one of her self-righteous moods
as he shut himself away for the rest of the afternoon.

As he sat at his desk, absorbed once again in his maps, William felt
his blood pressure gradually readjusting.  He was totally convinced now
that his geological theory held water and that somewhere within the
circle he had drawn lay the elusive solution to the puzzle.  He knew he
ought not to be endangering Edwina but she was hardly doing her utmost
to make amends.  He picked up one of his boyhood fossils and traced the
intricate pattern with his finger.  He needed to put in a great deal
more hard work.  It was not in the Huxley genes to face defeat.
Downstairs Edwina banged the dishes into the washer, rolled up the
tablecloth, ignoring the stains, and thrust it back into the drawer,
along with the mats.  It would last for at least another meal and
William could take care of it then.  She ran frantic fingers through
her tangle of hair and glared at herself in the mirror.  The light in
her eyes verged on the manic and she felt herself starting to shake.
She had got to find a way of calming down.  If William realised the
state she was in, the balloon would go up well and truly.  With his
customary tact, he had removed himself from the scene, apparently
anxious as always to avoid a spat.  Though how much longer his patience
would hold out, she had no idea.  She was beginning to think she hardly
knew him at all, that they were starting to go their separate ways. 
She stared at the telephone, willing it to ring, while all the time
knowing it was unlikely to.  Gareth had a life of his own and appeared
quite unmoved by the obstacles in their way.  All she wanted to do
these days was be with him, touch him, make love to him.  His words ran
endlessly through her head as she looked in vain for hidden meanings. 
He might not actually have spoken to her of love but surely his actions
belied that.  He was, at times she was certain, a man who was equally
smitten. For what other reason would he be taking such risks?  And then
her confidence failed her again and she saw what a miserable fool she
was becoming.  Gareth Prendergast was an accomplished seducer.  She had
known that all the years since they'd first met.  She remembered how
she had sneered at those foolish needy women, plaguing him with phone
calls provoking his biting scorn.  She, Edwina Huxley, had maintained
the moral ground.  Yet now was starting to act no better than them.  It
was half past three, with the afternoon stretching ahead and nothing
she wanted to do in this state of mind.  She paced the spacious kitchen
and picked up a couple of toys, then went to the door and listened hard
in case there was movement above.  Nothing stirred. Morwenna was
clearly more exhausted than she'd looked, while William had simply
blanked Edwina out.  He would stay up there till he sensed the storm
was past, and then come down with a smile and even a hug to rustle up
something for their supper.  He truly was a saint her friends were
right and she knew in her heart that she really didn't deserve him.  If
only he didn't irritate her quite so much.  Her thoughts flew back to
Gareth and she wondered what he was up to.  There had been no sign of
him when she circled his block and the telltale blinds were still down.
Now she wished she had dared ring the bell with some off-the-cuff
excuse.  Surely, with all they now meant to each other, she had every
right to intrude.  They were lovers as well as partners and mad for
each other.  Every single moment apart was a strain.  She considered
phoning him now but feared William might pick up the extension in the
study.  So she dug out her mobile and went out on to the patio to have
another shot at self-degradation.  The improvement in the weather meant
they could return to the playground and that's where William chanced to
see her again.  He was pushing Morwenna on the swings when a soft voice
beside him said hello and there was his bashful lady from the surgery. 
Not the glamorous Asian doctor, the shy one.  Smiling a shade more
warmly than before but looking slightly uneasy all the same.  William
was delighted and slowed Morwenna down despite her indignant protests
and kicking feet.  "More, Daddy, more," screamed his imperious little
princess, but William, for once, paid no attention.  He was far more
concerned with not letting the woman get away.  She was wearing the
same navy coat and silk scarf, with neat low-heeled shoes and leather
gloves.  Her straight dark hair was sleek and immaculate; large
sunglasses hid her eyes.  She was, she explained, on her way to work
but still had a little time in hand.  He led her to a nearby bench,
leaving Morwenna to her own devices.  Something about this stranger
charmed and intrigued him.  He suddenly wanted to get to know her
better.  "Do you come here often?"  he asked, unwittingly using the
tired old pick-up line.  She nodded and smiled and admitted that she
did.  '1 like to watch the children," she shyly explained.  William
warmed to her instantly.  There was something exquisitely poignant
about her, he felt.  He longed to ask more questions but was reluctant
to scare her off.  A single misplaced word and he sensed she might run.
He could tell from the tense way she sat that she wasn't entirely easy
in his presence.  He wished she would take the glasses off so he could
gauge more precisely her thoughts.  Morwenna came toddling up which
instantly broke the ice.  She placed her small hands on the woman's
knees and bounced up and down with delight.  Both adults laughed.  She
was just so cute.  "Come here!"  said the woman, overwhelmed with
affection, and snatched the child on to her lap.  Her name, she told
him, was Luisa Salvoni and she came originally from Sicily.  It was a
long, not particularly interesting, story but she'd been here now for
quite a while.  No, she had no children of her own.  That was one of
her many regrets.  She had taken off the dark glasses while she talked
and he saw that her warm, dark eyes were verging on moist.  He placed
one hand daringly over hers then rapidly changed the subject.  He
thought of Edwina, with her callous disregard, as his heart went out to
this stranger.  There was a strong streak of heroism in William Huxley.
He wanted to be her protector.  But time was passing and she had to get
going.  She would be a little late as it was.  She handed Morwenna back
to him, then solemnly offered her hand.  Thank you," she said simply,
replacing the sun specs  "It has been a real pleasure to meet you
both."  "Hang on," said William, in alarm, before she could turn away.
"Will we be seeing you here again?  I really would like to go on
chatting."  The same faint smile and the slightest of shrugs.  She
didn't apparently believe he could be serious.  "Who knows," she said
vaguely.  "I often come this way.  It helps break the monotony of the
day."  He watched her as she walked away, a small determined figure
with a purpose.  Morwenna pulled a tragic face as though about to cry
so William swiftly diverted her by taking her back to the swings.  For
the first time he could remember in years, he understood precisely how
she felt.  Like a child deprived of a shiny new toy before she had even
got the wrappings off.  Yet that was absurd.  There was nothing
particularly special about the woman.  She was certainly no beauty and
older than him, he would guess.  Yet something about her, her
loneliness perhaps, had touched him in a very sensitive spot.  He
wished he'd been bold enough to ask to see her again, yet knew that, as
a married man, he really hadn't the right.  Though at least he knew
where she worked.  Which was a start.  William was still brooding and
languidly pushing the swing when his attention was caught by a minor
commotion on the opposite side of the playground.  A lone man had
entered and was talking to two small boys while a woman was
hysterically complaining.  William sensed the urgency of it
immediately.  "Stay here, sweetie.  I'll be back in a jiffy."  He was
over there like a shot.  For the man was all too recognisable in his
flapping, threadbare coat.  And clearly, from the state of the woman,
up to nothing good.  The man backed away as William approached but the
woman continued shouting, out of control.  "You dirty devil!  Clear
off!"  she shouted, ineffectually waving her fist.  The small boys
cowered and she shielded them both with her arms as William, slightly
breathless, came pounding up.  "Everything all right?"  he asked,
though that clearly wasn't the case, and the man, defeated, turned
away, and beat a hasty retreat, The boys stood mutely staring at
William, unexpected figure of authority, while the woman continued to
flutter around like a chicken.  Her face was beet red; she was snorting
hard. For one alarmed moment William feared she might be on the brink
of some sort of attack.  Eventually, once she'd calmed down, she tried
to explain.  "I'm the next-door neighbour," she said.  Their mother
works long hours.  So I pick them up occasionally from school. 
Sometimes, because of my own erratic timetable, I can't always get
there on time. So I meet them here in the playground instead where I
know that they'll be safe."  She sniffed.  "At least, that's how it's
always been up till now.  Till he started sniffing around."  William
soothed and calmed all three and checked that the boys weren't too
shaken.  They looked at him politely out of innocent glass-clear eyes
and nodded in affirmation of everything he asked.  Yes, they knew him,
they said politely, and no, there wasn't a problem.  Having ascertained
that the woman was who she said she was, William left them and returned
to Morwenna, still seated happily on her swing.  The man was most
likely deranged, he thought, but at least no lasting damage had been
done.  Though you couldn't be too careful and he was glad he'd
intervened.  And it was certainly time that Morwenna had her tea.  He
sang to her briskly the entire way home and renewed his resolution
that, no matter what, he would always be around to keep her from
harm.

TWENTY-FIVE

Mrs.  P rang in to say that she was poorly so William told her not to
come back until she was feeling better.  The poor woman worked hard
enough as it was and he didn't want to risk germs around Morwenna.
Deprived of his partner in crime for once, he found himself at a bit of
a loose end.  He enjoyed their regular morning sessions; the house
seemed so empty without her cheerful chatter and the pervasive aroma of
cigarette smoke.  He emptied the dishwasher and restacked it with last
night's dishes, then wiped down the surfaces in a desultory way before
turning his attention to the rest.  Four floors and a basement was a
lot for one person to tackle.  If he let things go, they would rapidly
get out of hand and he didn't want Edwina any grumpier.  He decided to
start at the top and work down, doing just the essentials for today. If
she stayed off any longer he would have to rethink but a basic lick and
a promise would do for now.  Morwenna's favourite Cobbleywobs was on so
she was glued to the set.  He left the door to the playroom ajar so he
could hear her if she needed him, then trudged on up to the attic floor
with the hoover tucked under his arm.  He would kick off there then
move methodically down.  The bedrooms always took up most of the time. 
He calculated rapidly and decided to change the sheets.  Nothing nicer
than the scent of fresh linen; he was becoming rather expert at
hospital corners.  He was in the airing cupboard selecting sheets when
the doorbell unexpectedly rang.  He was surprised.  It was still not
quite nine and he wasn't expecting anyone.  Unless Mrs.  P had changed
her mind, which did seem unlikely so soon.  Besides, she had her own
key.  He answered the bell from the bedroom floor and a male voice
shouted out, "Gas board!"  So he pressed the upstairs buzzer to admit
the man and said he would meet him in the hall.  It was ages since
they'd had the meter read.  He'd been paying recent bills just on their
estimates.  With a bit of luck, he might be in for a refund, though
when he remembered the awful weather and amount of heating they'd been
using, he changed his mind.  This rain had lasted for almost a year;
even now, at the beginning of spring, he'd be paying through the nose.
Luckily Edwina earned a fair whack and her prospects had never been
rosier.  Once her ship came in, he would start by clearing the
overdraft and hope, at the same time, perhaps to pay off the mortgage.
Edwina might be the earner but William, along with all his other
chores, always took care of the bills.  The hall, when he got there,
was deserted.  No sign of the man from the gas board anywhere.  William
glanced around but all was still except for distant voices from the
playroom.  He headed that way then stopped in his tracks at the sight
of a stranger wandering around the living room.  "Nice place you've got
here," said the man with an amiable smile, his eyes on the valuable
eighteenth-century clock.  William looked at him with sudden suspicion.
He didn't look much like a meter man at all; he was middle-aged and
dressed in country casuals with expensive shoes, one detail that
William always noticed.  He had rimless spectacles that gave him a
studious air, and the only indication of any official capacity was the
plastic-coated label hung round his neck.  Surely they normally wore
uniforms and carried torches.  This one looked more like a college
lecturer with a highly defined interest in snooping.  William stood
disapprovingly in the doorway while the man continued to scrutinise the
room.  He even had the affrontery to cross to the fireplace and study
some etchings inherited from Aunt Jane, which Edwina particularly
liked.  Jane Fairchild might have been a disagreeable old bat but
couldn't be faulted in her taste.  Turner," said the man, with an
approving nod, smiling at William good-humouredly.  "Have you seen the
water-colours at the Royal Academy?  Very collectable they are.
Especially the ones of Swiss scenes."  The meter's downstairs," said
William stiffly, leading the way to the basement.  He hated himself for
being so uptight but didn't trust this stranger one bit.  For all he
knew, the badge might well be fake.  He had made no particular effort
to draw attention to it.  And William didn't like interlopers snooping
around his house without so much as a word to ask permission.  He
opened the door of the cupboard under the stairs and the man at last
did produce a flashlight from one of his voluminous jacket pockets.  He
scrawled down the figures on his clipboard, then stepped uninvited into
the kitchen.  The dishwasher was chugging away and the table had
luckily been cleared.  Not that it mattered what this gas man thought.
He was already way out of line.  Just then Morwenna called out from the
playroom and William, torn, had to go to her.  "You can use the kitchen
door," he said, meaning the tradesmen's entrance.  This meter reader
had one colossal nerve.  Soon, if not stopped, he'd be also invading
the playroom, and William was determined that he should not set eyes on
Morwenna.  "Mind if I use your toilet?"  asked the man super-casually,
to which William reluctantly had to agree.  He directed him to the one
by the basement door, didn't want him intruding any further.  Morwenna
was all right, just curious to know who was there, but William didn't
encourage her to join them.  Something about this man's overt curiosity
made him feel positively prickly with distrust.  He wanted to get rid
of him as fast as he possibly could and hoped he wouldn't be troubling
them again.  Though he couldn't have explained why he felt this way.
Just some instinct that wouldn't be shaken off.  Must be getting jumpy
in his old age; certainly all this murder stuff didn't make him breathe
any easier.  "Stay here, sweetie," he instructed Morwenna, 'and I'll
bring you a glass of milk and a biscuit."  It was early for that but he
didn't want her emerging.  Not till this dubious stranger was out of
the way.  The man was back in the kitchen by now, taking a snoop at the
patio.  This place must be worth a bomb," he said.  "Lived here long?"
"Four years," said William, slightly mollified.  He liked it when
people admired his house.  He and Edwina had worked their butts off to
get it into this shape and the value had virtually quadrupled in as
many years.  But the man was behaving like a friendly neighbour instead
of a gas official, which didn't quite fit.  "Well," he said reluctantly
at last.  "Guess I had better be moving."  "Have you got the rest of
the street to do?"  asked William, remembering the television clip and
therefore back on his guard.  He would watch him and see if he went
next door; somehow he guessed that he wouldn't.  "Just the few we
missed last time.  When people either aren't home or don't answer their
doors. You'd be surprised how many people just can't be bothered." 
William watched him saunter up the steps as casually as if he had all
day.  For a second, he thought of checking him out with the gas board,
then decided he was over-reacting.  In all probability, just another
poor sucker, temporarily down on his luck.  William, himself unemployed
all this time, was scarcely in any position to be so distrustful.  But
the man continued to linger in his mind for much of the rest of the
morning.  You couldn't be too careful when you let strangers into your
home.  He might be back with a removal van to collect all the things he
had admired.  You heard it all the time these days, homeowners being
ripped off.  And the man had possessed that sort of easy charm which
often denoted a fraudster.  Not enough to occupy his mind, thought
William impatiently as he started stripping off the sheets.  He was
turning into a regular old woman, looking for bogeymen under the bed.
Time he was thinking about getting himself a job.  He spent far too
much of his time on his own, and it couldn't be healthy.  Edwina came
home in another of her foul moods, with barely a civil word for either
of them.  She even made Morwenna cry by scrubbing her face too hard, so
that William protectively took her up to bed and read her an extra
chapter for a treat.  "Mummy didn't mean to hurt you," he said.  "She's
just got a lot on her mind."  And not enough time for her own precious
child, who occasionally she treated like a nuisance.  Don't take it out
on Morwenna, he wanted to yell.  Whatever it is that is turning you
into a shrew.  But the last thing he needed was another ugly row so he
made a big effort to button his lip.  They would have to have it out
some time soon before the structure of the marriage fell apart.  He
could tell that Edwina was deeply unhappy but still hadn't figured out
why.  The way things were going according to her, she ought to be over
the moon.  Instead of which she grew more listless by the day and even
appeared to be quietly losing weight, something she would usually be
proud of.  Despite his best intentions, his thoughts kept straying back
to the slight Sicilian stranger with the hauntingly beautiful eyes.
There was a contrast, if ever he saw one: the strident, abrasive Edwina
and this woman with genuine class.  He regretted he hadn't arranged
another meeting.  There couldn't be anything very much wrong with an
innocent stroll in the park.  He found himself watching out for her,
pushing the stroller to places he'd seen her before.  The farmers'
market on Saturday morning, the Princess Diana playground.  Most of
all, back to the Round Pond and the swans, praying she might
materialise there.  Since he'd first met Edwina, William had been
ensnared, but lately it was obvious that the magic was wearing thin.
She still looked great, when she bothered to make the effort, yet was
growing increasingly slatternly at home.  She went whole weekends
without putting on make-up and usually only dolled herself up for the
office.  Which was, William felt, the clearest of indications that she
didn't really care for him any more.  She rarely listened to what he
was saying, had developed a nasty habit of cutting across him.  And she
snapped at Morwenna, making her miserable too.  Their home was no
longer the haven it always had been.  This particular Saturday morning
he chanced the Portobello Road.  Though packed all year round and
thronging with tourists, it usually gave him a buzz.  And he thought
Morwenna might find it fun.  They could come away quickly if she
didn't.  "Hold very tightly to Daddy's hand," he warned her.  "We don't
want to risk you getting lost."  He carried her through the densest
part, having deliberately left the stroller at home.  The crowds were
streaming past The Sun in Splendour and he battled to get through to
where it eased off.  And then he put her down and took her hand.  She
was growing fast into a real little girl whose bright inquisitive eyes
missed very little.  They stopped and browsed at the bric-a-brac stalls
and laughed at the long-haired man with the didgeridoo.  Morwenna
pleaded to be allowed to have a go but hadn't the breath to coax out
any sound.

"Never mind, pet," said the friendly Australian.  "Come back when you
have bigger lungs."  There were Rastafarians dancing in the street and
plenty of ethnic food they were tempted to sample.  The sun came out
and it almost felt like spring.  Morwenna was really having the time of
her life.  And then he spotted her, just one stall ahead, and his heart
did a sudden back flip in his chest.  Elegant as always, in jeans and a
cashmere sweater, her large dark glasses pushed up into her hair as she
studied the intricate workmanship of a brooch.  It was clear she hadn't
seen them yet, and she gave a perceptible jump when William stopped
beside her and spoke her name.  "Luisa, great to see you," he said
while Morwenna clapped her hands in real delight.  For one second Luisa
appeared confused, then a smile slowly softened her face and she swung
up Morwenna in an impulsive embrace before placing her back on her
feet.  "How are you?"  she said.  "We were just thinking of getting a
spot of lunch."  Which wasn't quite true.  "How would you like to join
us?"  he asked impulsively Luisa looked uncertain and he was sure she
was going to decline, but the look of joy on Morwenna's face would have
melted the heart of a gorgon.  She glanced at her watch.  "I can't stay
out long.  I have things to do at home.  But, yes," she said simply, "I
would like that."  "Pizza Express all right with you?"  There was no
point in staying in these crowds.  "Perfect," said Luisa politely,
grabbing hold of Morwenna's other hand, and the three of them pushed
their way back to Netting Hill like any Saturday family on an outing.
Morwenna started gabbling and telling her about the Cobbleywobs and
Luisa laughed then listened very solemnly to every word she said.  Nice
person, reflected William again, very much liking the way she was with
his child.  Politely attentive yet without condescension, treating her
exactly like an equal.  The Pizza Express was packed with kids, as it
usually was on a Saturday.  Morwenna, out with two of her favourite
people, was entirely in her element.  She sat and chattered with a
radiant smile as William chopped her pizza into manageable slices.
Luisa, who ordered only a salad, focused on her completely.  They are
so lovely at this age," she said dreamily, smoothing Morwennas shiny
hair and helping to tuck in her bib.  Edwina, conveniently, had taken
herself off to Highgate for a rare visit to her mother, who wasn't
well. Something inconsequential and gynae, she'd mentioned over the
phone, but Edwina, interpreting the sub-text correctly, responded with
alacrity to the summons.  It wasn't like her mother to make any sort of
fuss.  She had better check her out, just to be on the safe side. 
"I'll be back in time for supper," she'd said vaguely, meaning she
assumed that William would cope.  Right now, though, he'd forgotten all
about Edwina, enthralled as he was by his unexpected guest.  This was
turning out to be more of a treat than he'd expected.  With the result
that he felt quite giddy and skittish.  "Where exactly is it you live?"
he asked, seeking for something inoffensive to say.  He sensed she was
wary of telling him too much and reminded himself she hardly knew him.
It was a very long time since he'd chatted anyone up.  He was anxious
not to make a fool of himself.  Besides, he was married, but he shoved
that thought from his mind.  He hadn't made a secret of it; Morwenna
was there as the proof.  "Close to the Portobello Road," she said,
'which is where I usually do my weekend shopping."  There and in the
farmers' market; she obviously cared about quality and if this was all
she ate for lunch, small wonder she stayed so slim.  William had a
crazy impulse to stretch out and touch her hand.  He managed to
restrain himself; he was afraid of driving her away.  Her soulful dark
eyes were still fixed on the child as she listlessly picked at her
salad.  Morwenna, by contrast, was tucking in heartily, her face now
heavily streaked with tomato sauce.  William damped a tissue and
carefully cleaned her up.  Table manners were not yet one of her
strengths.

Tell me more about yourself," he risked and Luisa gave it careful
thought.

There isn't a lot to say' she said, 'apart from what you already know.
1 came to this country, things didn't work out and now I seem to be
stuck here."  She looked him suddenly straight in the eye and he felt
again that sharp spasm of excitement.  She wasn't quite a beauty, but
haunting, nonetheless, with a tantalising hint of passion beneath the
calm exterior.  He wondered idly how old she was but knew he couldn't
possibly ask.  Not that it made any difference, not at this stage.

"And do you like your work?"  he asked, embarrassed at his banality.

"It's a job," she said simply, 'and helps pay the rent.  And now I'm
sorry but I really have to go."

William silently cursed himself for so clumsily driving her away.  He
rose to his feet and helped her from her chair.  "Look," he said
awkwardly, "I know it's a bit of a nerve, but I'd awfully like to meet
up with you again."

She looked at him long and thoughtfully then flashed him a radiant
smile.

"All right," she said, surprising him, "I think I'd like that too.
Perhaps one morning for a quick cup of coffee before I begin my
shift."

He whistled cheerfully all the way home and treated Morwenna to a
piggyback.  He didn't have a number for her but at least they'd
arranged to meet, which was a start.

TWENTY-SIX

Have I got a treat for you," said Gareth, eyes gleaming wickedly as he
tossed an opened envelope on to her desk.  Edwina looked up at him
sharply.  He hadn't appeared at all the previous day.  She was still
awaiting some sort of an explanation.  But could hardly ask him now,
with the rest of the team looking on, including Portia, the snooty PA
with the cold and insolent stare.  "What?"  she asked ungraciously,
with a poor pretence at cool.  "Suck it and see," he said and walked
away. She carefully completed her network search before succumbing to
the bait.  Mustn't be seen as too eager, but what had got into him now?
Two tickets fell out of the envelope, for a trade fair next month in
Vancouver.  What did he think he was playing at?  Had he finally lost
his mind?  "What's this?"  she demanded sharply, flinging the envelope
back at him.  Gareth looked up with innocent eyes.  "I thought we
should go to it," he said.  Together."  Yeah, and leave the child and
the house and now her ailing mother, not to mention the potential
crisis the company was breasting right now.  She knew that William was
bound to put his foot down, would finally throw her out and who would
blame him?

"You're mad," she said but she liked the thought.  Three days alone
with him, six thousand miles from home.  Away from people with snoopy,
gossipy eyes where they might find a little privacy for a change.

"Think about it.  It's a very big deal and I feel we should have a
corporate presence there.  To show the world that we're finally up and
running, a company to be reckoned with.  Call it PR, if you like, and
cheap at the price."

"Have you ever been to the West Coast?"  he asked later, over lunch.
Edwina shook her head.

"Vancouver is glorious, one of the world's greatest cities.  I'd love
to be able to show it to you first-hand."

When he was not being caustic or suave, Gareth had incredible charm.
His clear grey eyes simply swam with sincerity; he could tell how much
she was longing to give in.

Take someone else," she said, immediately regretting it.  Gareth shook
his head.

"Has to be us together," he said.  "Giving it all we've got."  The two
fast.bucks.com musketeers confronting a possibly resistant world.  He
could see her resolution rapidly wavering.

It was a temptation, she granted him that and took time to study the
brochure.  They'd expended so much effort just raising the cash, she
knew a little more would not be wasted.  Her father would approve, with
his grasp of global finance.  It was pointless to risk a fall at the
final fence.  A thing's only worth doing if you do it properly.  And
all that stuff she'd been raised on since a child.

"All right," she said finally, after a long, considered pause.  But how
was she ever going to explain it to William?

William, unknown to her, had other things on his mind.  Eyes the colour
of liquid coal had etched themselves into his soul.  No matter how hard
he might try which wasn't very much -he could not shake Luisa from his
innermost thoughts; she haunted him night and day.  And all based on
what?  A few casual meetings and a feeling they might be soulmates
under the skin.  William, after years of single-mindedness, found
himself, out of the blue, suddenly smitten.  Which was disconcerting,
to say the least, yet hugely uplifting to his spirits.  He had become
accustomed, since losing his job, to being considered a bit of a
useless berk, certainly by Edwina and her friends.  Now all of a sudden
he had found this attractive stranger who not only listened intently to
what he said, but also appeared fairly besotted with his child.  He
could scarcely believe it was happening to him, kept on expecting to
wake up.  Could barely wait to see her again, maybe even take things
further.  Edwina regarded him suspiciously when he greeted her with
unusual bonhomie.  He even tried kissing her though she pushed him away
and went to check her messages on the machine.  William shrugged; he no
longer particularly cared.  His heart was quietly singing as if it were
spring.  Which indeed it was; the clocks had just gone forward and the
mornings were getting lighter every day.  Best of all, tomorrow was
magical Thursday.  The day of his next planned meeting with Luisa.  He
left Morwenna with Polly, explaining he had a check-up with the
dentist.  He hated to lie, but a small one wouldn't hurt and he didn't
want Morwenna blowing his gaff.  Not to her mother nor even to Polly;
he wanted to keep this thing private as long as he could.  Also, no
matter how adorable she might be, she always wanted to hog centre
stage.  "Won't be long, ought to be back by noon."  He waved to them
cheerily as they watched him from the porch, then headed to Netting
Hill and his assignation.  He had spent an unusual amount of time
deciding on what he should wear.  Nothing too smart no need to overdo
it but he wanted to look his best for her nonetheless.  He chose a
denim shirt that was almost clean and teamed it with his dark blue
Guernsey that went so well with his jeans.  He could do with a haircut
but had left it too late so used Edwina's expensive shampoo instead. He
also polished his shoes, a rare event.  He surveyed himself in the
bedroom mirror and was more or less pleased with what he saw.  He had
added some pounds since he'd given up his freedom but was still in
fairly good nick for a man of his age.  She was there already, seated
quietly in the corner, reading a paperback novel by Isabel Allende. She
raised her head gracefully as he blundered through the door, full of
apologies for being minutely late.  "Don't worry."  She smiled.  "I was
happy with my book."  She inserted a leather bookmark and returned it
to her bag.  They both ordered coffee, his a cappuccino, hers a filter,
then found themselves faced with sudden silence.  They had come this
far, acknowledged some sort of attraction, yet what in the world was
there left for them to say?  He had asked her various basic things yet
still knew little about her.  Not even if she lived alone or had some
sort of partner in the background.  She wore no rings, but these days
that meant very little and he'd learned already not to ask too many
direct questions.  William ponderously scratched his head then was
struck by inspiration.  For the next half-hour he proceeded to regale
her with the aesthetic delights of cartography.  After the lunch,
despite her protests, he rushed her back to his loft for a rapid screw.
This was the aspect of Gareth that really thrilled her, the ruthless,
powerful maleness of the man.  He started ripping her clothes off as
they climbed the concrete stairs and fell upon her hungrily the moment
he opened the door.  His bed was still in darkness and unmade.  The
sheets smelled fusty and the room needed airing but that was all part
of the feral allure of the man.  After they'd finished and she'd
started to dress he brought in a bottle of ice-cold Krug, which had
become a key part of the ritual.

"Gareth, no!"  said Edwina, laughing.  At the rate he was corrupting
her, her liver was in as much peril as her conscience.

"Be a good girl and drink it up.  It'll do you good."

"It's such a waste to have to glug it down."

Then we'll stay here until it is finished."  He was wearing only a
not-too-large towel which he tossed across the room.  Edwina laughed
again, this time unsteadily, drawn by the sight of his obvious
re-arousal.  There seemed to be no stopping the man; she sighed and
graciously gave in.  She knew it was wrong but shut her mind to the
terrible sin she was committing.  She was relieved he appeared to want
her still, that his ardour was undiminished.  Of course there were
moments when her confidence failed, but what woman has not sometimes
felt like that?  She needed to believe that he genuinely loved her and
closed her mind to all doubts, at least for the moment.

She felt guilty when he phoned in and lied, told the office one more
time that they'd both been caught up in traffic.  She stretched across
the crumpled sheets and studied his long, lean back.  Compared with
William, who was getting a little pudgy, Gareth had kept the fit
silhouette of his youth.  She ran her hands over his shoulder-blades
then down to his small, taut bum.  He had long athletic legs that would
do credit to a girl and a hard, flat stomach that made her green with
envy.  She must step up the aerobics classes if she wanted to keep up
to speed.  Although lately she was barely eating, she could still only
just fit into a size twelve, which wasn't nearly thin enough, certainly
not without her clothes.  Not for a man like this, a true
connoisseur.

She finally dragged him away at a quarter past four and into a cab for
a breakneck drive back to the office.  There was an eerie silence as
they slid through the door, though the computer screens were all
functioning.  A small knot of their colleagues were gathered together
round one work station and they hardly raised their eyes to the guilty
pair.

"Everything all right?"  asked Gareth smoothly, the consummate master
of bluff.

"No," said Barry, the resident bean counter.  "It's not."

They were into the Dow Jones and watching with horror the rapid descent
of the stock market.  Before their eyes, the figures were plummeting.
There wasn't a lot further they could go.

"It rather looks," said Barry grimly, 'as if we're well and truly
fucked."

They had dropped ten points in a matter of hours and the spiral had
hardly begun.  Gareth embarked on a light-hearted quip but Edwina told
him fiercely to shut up.  This was worse even than anything she had
imagined.  She should never, not for a second, have taken her eye off
the ball.

"I'm going out," she said, without explanation, grabbed her bag and
stalked straight out of the door.  When the chips were down and she
needed advice there was only one man in the world she could really turn
to.  The one she trusted, whose strength she could always rely on, who
would never let her down, no matter what.

"Highgate," she told the driver curtly, and hurried on home to her
daddy.

Rather to William's surprise, Luisa appeared quite absorbed by what he
was saying.  She focused her beautiful lambent eyes on his and never,
for even a second, glanced away.  William, into his favourite topic,
rattled on without ever drawing breath.  When it came to maps, he could
bore for Britain.  The wonder was, she didn't appear to mind.

"I'm sorry, am I talking too much?"  He stopped himself abruptly in
mid-flow.

Luisa smiled and shook her head.  "It's fascinating," she said.  "And I
really mean that.  Please go on."  She seemed sincere so he took her at
her word, then realised that his coffee had grown cold.  "I feel such a
fool," he said in sudden embarrassment.  "I wanted so badly to get to
know you better and here I am hogging the conversation."  "It really
doesn't matter."  She gently touched his hand.  "I hadn't realised that
maps could be so addictive."  He wondered if she was laughing at him
then decided she was not.  She wasn't like Edwina, with her
treacherous, spiteful tongue.  This woman was gentle and intellectually
alert; she obviously cared for the finer things in life.
"Unfortunately' she said, "I now have to go.  But I'd love to hear more
perhaps another time."  She meant it; she was smiling now as she picked
up her bag and sweater.  "When?"  asked William, eagerly, entirely
forgetting, in the rush of blood to his head, to try to seem nonchalant
and calm.  She liked him, had virtually said so, and wanted to see him
again.  This fragile creature with the searching dark eyes apparently
didn't regard him as a joke.  "How about here next Thursday?"  she said
and allowed him to pay for the coffee.  Had he been as young as he
suddenly felt, he'd have tossed his cap in the air.  William whooped
like an exuberant child and ran nearly all of the way home.  Her father
had been quite adamant on the subject.  Now all she had to do was try
to convince William.  There were moments, he'd said, when it paid to
take risks like throwing more good money after the bad.  The trip to
Vancouver was worth the expenditure, provided they made it work to
their maximum advantage.  "Remember it's not just a junket," he warned.
"But an occasion for really solid graft."

Do their homework, establish the right connections.  Put themselves
about by working the fair.  A few expensive new clothes would not come
amiss and he also suggested that they travel business class.  Let the
world see that they were confident and unruffled; never, for even a
second, reveal their fear.  These people who are investing in you need
constant reassurance that their money will be safe.  The current state
of the markets, with luck, will be merely a temporary glitch.  You'll
not achieve anything by chickening out now.  For real success in
business, it pays to be bold."  She was truly his daughter, he was
mightily proud of her.  She had developed into such a fine young woman.
He hugged her benignly as she climbed back into the cab and waved until
she was finally out of sight.  William appeared to be in unusually high
spirits.  Edwina couldn't remember when she'd last seen him like that. 
She felt a guilty stirring when she thought what a bitch she had been. 
He worked so hard and for such little praise.  The least she could do
was make some attempt to be nice.  Also, of course, she had a guilty
conscience.  "Why don't I treat you to supper out?"  she wheedled.  For
once in her life she had come home early, before he had even thought of
preparing supper.  He looked at her in vague surprise, as though it
wasn't really sinking in.  "Our daughter," he said finally. "Or had you
forgotten we've got one?  Were you thinking of leaving her all alone at
home?"  Edwina bit back her sharp retort; confessed she hadn't properly
thought it through.  They could ask the neighbours but he wouldn't even
hear of it.  And they couldn't take her with them, not at this age. 
Takeaway, then!"  said Edwina, rallying.  Thai?  Or Chinese?  Even
Indian?  My shout."  She had some uphill work before her and would
bribe him with as much as it took.  William paused and considered very
carefully.  It would certainly make a change from him having to cook. 
He was slightly suspicious of her subtly softened mood but couldn't
really be bothered to think about it now.  He was still engulfed in a
shiver of silent ecstasy at the memory of his Luisa and their talk. 
Like a passionate adolescent or a child of Morwenna's age, he was
fervently counting the minutes until their next meeting.

"Whatever," he said finally to a thunderstruck Edwina.  Then left her
alone in the kitchen and went upstairs.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The powerful roar of a motorbike engine woke Minna.  She'd had a
constantly interrupted night.  She opened her eyes reluctantly to
another uninspiring morning.  Sleeting rain behind grimy curtains and a
sharp nagging pain inside her head.  She reached across to the alarm
clock five to eight.  She groaned and wanted to roll straight back into
soothing sleep but the violent revving had shattered her concentration.
Besides, there was work to be done.  The room was about as depressing
as it could be but the best she could afford on the money she earned.
She crawled out of bed and into her battered slippers, then shuffled
across to the poky kitchenette to put on the kettle for her tea.  The
radio did nothing to raise her lagging spirits; the foot and mouth
plague, currently dominating the news, seemed to grow more threatening
by the day.  They were even talking now of postponing the general
election, which Minna had to agree was probably right.  She was
starting to suspect this prime minister couldn't hack it, though she'd
been a Labour supporter all her life.

She looked at herself in the mirror after she'd dressed, the round pale
face corroded by worry lines.  Her listless hair grew thick and unkempt
but she hadn't the heart, nor the money, to put it right.  There had
been a time when she'd cared about her appearance but all traces of
vanity had left her long ago.  Along with Roger .. . but she firmly
stamped on that thought.  Life was depressing enough as it was without
dredging up bleak memories from the past.  And, anyhow, she really had
to go.  The street was noisy and littered with rubbish, with a bunch of
black kids on the corner engaged in a fight.  Minna, always a timid
person, crossed quickly in an effort to avoid them.  If she didn't make
eye contact, she would probably be all right.  She hated this area as
well as the job but it was handy to be close to her casework.  She had
two school-age mothers to look in on today and make sure they were
keeping up with their basic studies.  Teaching had been bad enough; she
had quit because she found she couldn't cope.  But the hopelessness and
squalor she encountered every day had driven her to the edge of another
breakdown.  If only this dire weather would brighten up a bit she might
stand a chance of ridding herself of her chilblains.  Minna's childhood
dream had been to be a dancer and she'd made it into the ballet school
at eight.  Her parents had always been inordinately proud and
fantasised about her becoming a second Fonteyn.  As an only child, they
lavished everything upon her, but could do nothing about the way she
had failed to grow.  Short and stocky without the requisite long legs,
she had also lacked the distinction of being pretty.  At fifteen she'd
been faced with the crushing truth.  Her face was just too round for
the corps de ballet.  She'd had to transfer to the local comprehensive
and after that her life had been all downhill.  Or so it appeared to
her now, battling with rush-hour traffic, miserably wet and already
shivering with cold.  She hadn't the heart or the talent for teaching
ballet so had opted instead for an undistinguished Dip.Ed."  which had
landed her with a bunch of unruly kids in an area of London she feared
to go.  The wilder reaches of Hackney in those days were like a jungle,
and violent assaults upon teachers increasingly common.  It had brought
on eczema and anxiety attacks till the school, and the doctor, had
suggested a radical change.  She wasn't cut out for teaching, they
said, it was taking too much of a toll upon her health.  And when she
started to vomit, they let her go.  She had had a shot at a number of
different jobs: working in a shoe shop helping in a home.  The
customers in the first she had found unacceptably famous; the residents
of the second merely depressing.  She longed to do something worthwhile
with her life yet lacked the basic stamina for the caring professions. 
Nursing was out, she hadn't the requisite O Levels, and in any case
doubted her health would stand up to the strain.  She had muddled
around for a while, with not much help from her parents, who seemed to
have given up on her when she shattered their cherished dream.  She
also showed no sign at all of finding herself a boyfriend, thus
depriving them also of grand-parenthood.  A washout.  The course in
Swindon had beckoned her out of the blue.  She read about it in the TES
and grasped it with both hands.  Social Studies sounded challenging and
respectable as well as fulfilling her long-held desire to do good.  If
she couldn't handle a whole class of brawling kids, at least she could
help sort out their troubled lives.  She was just in time to enrol for
the following autumn so turned her back on the family home in Enfield
and went eagerly to Swindon to embark on a whole new life.  That had
been thirteen years ago and now she was pushing forty.  It hadn't
exactly fulfilled a dream but it helped.  Swindon was hardly the mecca
of the universe but to Minna, after all she'd been through, it glowed.
She liked the course and the other students and even succeeded in
making a couple of friends.  They shared a house in a dowdy suburb and
got involved in Greenpeace and nuclear disarmament.  Occasionally, at
weekends, they went up to London for concerts at the Festival Hall or
to queue at the National Theatre just in case.  Men didn't feature much
in their lives but they, modern thinkers as they were, weren't too
bothered.  They had their cosy domestic life, cooked for each other,
shared all the bills, and turned their dingy surroundings into a home.
Looking back now, after all this time, Minna reflected wistfully that
those had been the happiest years of her life.  Until she met Roger,
who had swept her off her feet, and she abandoned her trusted friends
to move in with him.  Roger was also a social worker, a couple of years
older than Minna.  He was tall and intense with a ferocious beaky nose
and firmly held opinions on most things.  They met one weekend on an
anti-nuclear rally and for some odd reason, which she never quite
understood, he had focused on her throughout and then closed in.  They
fell into an unequal friendship which slowly developed into love. Love,
at least, on Minna's side.  She was never quite certain about him.  But
he must have had some real feelings, surely, to allow her to share his
bed.  Minna brightened up considerably and, for a while, became almost
pretty.  She cut her springy hair really short, which softened her
puddingy face, and made new clothes, with the help of her friends, that
gave her a more vulnerable look.  Roger approved so she started using
make-up, a daring touch of blusher, a timid hint of mascara, which
enhanced the new natural sparkle in her eyes.  Her parents, when they
met him, approved; another huge burden was lifted. They didn't like the
fact, of course, that their daughter was living in sin, but at least it
was a step in the right direction.  "Bring him home for Christmas,
dear," said her mother with meaningful emphasis.  Minna was almost
twenty-seven and had finally found herself a man.  The sooner it could
be consolidated, the better.  Her mother was nobody's fool.  He
couldn't come for Christmas that year.  His parents in Shropshire were
expecting him.  Nor, a year later, could he manage it again, off on a
long-fixed trip with old college friends.  The parents glowered but
Minna continued to trust him.  What they had together was sacrosanct. 
He couldn't behave as he did if he didn't love her.  And repeatedly
told her that what they shared was better by far than any marriage.  He
was with her because he cared, it was that simple.  With which, as a
modern, free-thinking woman, she concurred.  Equality was what counted
and not the shackles of marriage.  She was proud to be seen as the
woman in his life.  Beyond that, nothing else mattered.  At least, not
then.  The months slid by; it was Christmas again.  This time he was
off to Brazil.  A project to do with street children, he said. He would
take her too if only the funding would allow it.  She spent a miserable
time with her disillusioned parents and tried to convince them it was
still just a question of time.  Roger was on the up, she said, with
important social issues to decide.  The best she could do was stick
around to support him, a comfort in his life as well as a rock.  By
Easter even Minna was beginning to lose faith, especially when he was
seen out with his new assistant.  Angie, she was called, and was all of
nineteen.  They were working together on an undercover project he
wasn't allowed yet to discuss.  Four gruelling days with her
over-anxious mother caused her to force his hand in a reckless way. Two
and a half years in an uncertain relationship; she needed to know
precisely where she stood.  Roger was contrite and took her in his
arms, blowing soft kisses into her receptive ear, asking her, please,
to indulge him a little while longer.  "I care for you, doll, too much
to short-change you.  When we do it, I promise you, we'll do it in
style.  Let's not risk wrecking it now."  Another Christmas, another
disappointment, and Minna was willing to walk.  Nothing he promised
ever came to fruition and he seemed to be spending less and less time
at home.  On her thirtieth birthday she finally took the plunge and
asked him outright what his intentions towards her were.  The
biological clock was ticking.  She wanted security and a family of her
own.  He hummed and stuttered and generally prevaricated then told her
there was something that she probably needed to know.  Angie, he said,
was carrying his child.  And came from a family of Roman Catholics.
Remembering all this now on the tube on a miserable ride home, Minna
found herself fighting back the tears.  She had loved him so much, had
believed they were going to make it.  But once he had mentioned the
baby, he was gone.  Her friends said she was well out of it and her
parents refused to discuss it.  She had made her bed was the implicit
message, and now would have to lie on it.  Alone.  She had moved back
to London and found this ghastly job and a nasty little flat on the
outskirts of Acton.  Which was more or less all for the past uneventful
ten years.  She wished she could turn off the faucet and simply forget
him.  The sole faint glimmer in her life right now was her new plan of
enrolling with VSO.  She had recently seen an ad on a cinema screen
which had got her instantly hooked.  The thought of escaping another
dreadful winter was a temptation she couldn't resist.  It would only
pay peanuts but that's all she earned already and her lodgings and
minor overheads would be met.  And it might extend her social life; she
couldn't sink lower than rock bottom.  So she filled in the forms and
bravely sent them off, dreaming of starting a brand new life in some
emerging tropical country.  She started browsing through travel books
and even thought of brushing up her languages.  The library carried
cards for all kinds of new things she could learn.  Just having a dream
kept her going at night and sustained her through the miserable working
day.

It was raining again by the time she reached her station and swirls of
filthy water splashed over her feet.  She stood and waited for the
traffic lights to change and felt the icy damp seeping into her coat.
Her throat was feeling prickly and she still had that pain in her head.
She hoped she wasn't getting another cold.  She would make herself a
hot toddy but couldn't afford the whisky and all she had in the fridge
at home was bread.  She started to cross and was very nearly knocked
down by a motorcycle coming at her at full belt.  Its heavily helmeted
rider was clad entirely in black leather and crouched like a
steeplechase jockey over the handlebars.  These deadly machines were a
law unto themselves and thought nothing of cutting through traffic and
jumping red lights.  At least in her island paradise, she'd be safe
from such city scourges.  She imagined walking barefoot through
rippling surf and never again needing to carry a mac or umbrella.

The flat smelled fetid and there was a widening stain on the ceiling.
She had asked the landlord repeatedly to fix it, but he never even
bothered to reply.  It would have to be toast and Marmite again, but
first she must warm herself up.  Her chilblains were aching as she
pulled off her sodden shoes and all of a sudden she started to shiver
uncontrollably.  She sneezed and sneezed and searched for a packet of
tissues, but had to make do in the end with just a loo roll.  She lived
as impecuniously as even her hardest-up cases.  Something would have to
change or she wouldn't survive.

The water ran sluggishly into the rusty tub but when she cautiously
tested it, it wasn't hot.  Tepid as usual, so she couldn't have a bath
but would boil the kettle and at least bring relief to her feet.

She was sitting huddled in her candlewick bedspread, waiting for the
toast to pop, when the doorbell rang with shocking insistence, causing
her to spill her mug of tea.  It rang so rarely, it always gave her a
start, and there was no one at all she could think it might be.  Around
this area there were very few random callers.  It didn't pay to open
your door on a whim.  She sat in petrified stillness, hoping whoever it
was would go away, wishing she had a peephole through which she could
check.  It rang a third time, more stridently.  They clearly weren't
about to take no for an answer.

"Who is it?"  called Minna, in an unnaturally quavery voice, slipping
on the doorchain just to be safe.

"Pizza," called a muffled voice, and she instantly relaxed.  The fact
she hadn't ordered one didn't matter.  She was so relieved, she thought
she might even accept it, and glanced around for her purse before
opening up.  Then she remembered that she hadn't any cash.  Only enough
for her tube fare tomorrow morning.

"Not for me," she said, her face now close to the door.  "I'm afraid
you must have been sent to the wrong address."

"Pizza," repeated the voice impatiently and somebody thumped on the
door.  Perhaps he couldn't quite hear what she was saying.  She
couldn't bear to leave the poor fellow standing, and somebody's order
was rapidly getting cold.  It wouldn't hurt to open the door just a
chink and repeat what she was saying to his face.

He appeared to be only a lad, dressed in leather from head to foot, the
smoked visor of his helmet still down, which was odd.

"I'm sorry," repeated Minna clearly, but a boot was jammed in the door
and the knife went into her chest before she could scream.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Talk about losers!"  said Mrs.  P with relish, slamming down the paper
on the table.  William, looking suspiciously cleaner than usual, stared
at her abstractedly as if uncertain who she might be.  He had also
shaved by this early hour and his hair had been properly cut.  And his
shirt looked suspiciously crisp for him on just another routine weekday
morning.  She clicked her fingers to bring him back to earth.  It was
hard to imagine how he'd cope without her chivvying.  "Hello!  Anyone
at home?"  She had only been off for a few days yet light years might
easily have passed.  He seemed spaced out.  The social worker?"  she
ventured at last, lighting another of her endless cigarettes.  Still
the blank expression, combined with a questioning look.  A portrait of
a wool gatherer caught on the hop.  "Lord," said Mrs.  P with a knowing
twinkle.  "If I didn't know you better I'd almost think .. ."  It was
true, he was backsliding.  He pulled himself together.  Mustn't allow
this dream of his to get in the way of real life.  But he still didn't
know what on earth she was blathering about.  She placed one
jewel-bright nail on the relevant item.  "Social worker," she repeated.
"Stabbed in the heart through a barricaded front door.  No sign of
breaking or entering either.  Or even unnecessary force being used.
Another apparently motiveless murder, or so the local police are quoted
as saying.  Dangerous profession that, the social services.  Mind you,
though, it's a pretty unsavoury neighbourhood.  Wouldn't catch me
setting foot there after dark."  Then she sat back, puffing
contentedly, and watched him grab the report and finally read it. 
Minna Bassett, social worker, forty years old, unmarried and alone. 
That was the sub-text in the morning's Mail.  The few sparse details of
her dreary-sounding life certainly made depressing reading.  Alarm
bells clanged instantly in William's befogged brain and suddenly Mrs. 
P had his full attention.  If this was yet another in the series of
savage murders, they seemed to be unnervingly closing in.  He thought,
with renewed embarrassment, of that ill-advised Argus piece and the
television fiasco that had ensued.  He should never have given in to
Tim's skilful underhand wheedling.  Had risked his own family's safety
and all on a whim.  "So what's your opinion?"  asked Mrs.  P, straining
the last few lukewarm drops from the pot.  William sighed and
thoughtfully scratched his head.  "I really don't know," he admitted.
Tim, when William spoke to him, had spotted it too.  "I was just about
to call you," he said, with all the familiar ebullience.  He was like a
terrier or eager boy scout, straining at the leash, just raring to go.
This has got to be part of the series," he said.  The killer's MO seems
to fit it to a tee."  The one thing that's different," William pointed
out, 'in this particular instance, is location."  It didn't match his
geological theory, a shame because he was now hooked on William Smith.
Not part of his mythical magic circle, meticulously copied on to proper
paper and carefully shaded in on his study wall.  Amazing they'd sussed
all this out in the eighteenth century pale blue for limestone Jurassic
rocks.  The discovery had electrified him.  An integral part of the
endless fascination of maps, detective work made visual.  "What exactly
do you mean?"  "No limestone."  Then the same must apply to the
homeless man."  Butchered in cold blood outside King's Cross Station. 
"Ah, but newly arrived from the West Country."  Perhaps the killer had
stalked him on to the train.  William recoiled at that particularly
chilling thought and realised he was mad to have got so involved.  Tim
was a bad influence, he really ought to avoid him.  Couldn't imagine
what Edwina would say if she knew.  '1 have to be going," he said
hurriedly.  "Will try to catch up with you later."  Right now he had
something more urgent on his mind.  "Got a date?"  asked Mrs.  P
saucily when he reappeared in his jacket, hair neatly combed.  Little
escaped those needle-sharp eyes.  It was as well she rarely encountered
Edwina these days, though her loyalty was solidly with him.  There
could be no debate about that.  "Just dropping Morwenna off at
Polly's," he said casually.  "She's going to play with Miranda for the
morning.  And then I'll probably do a bit of shopping.  It's a glorious
day.  I might take a walk in the park.  You'll be all right on your own
for a while?"  She laughed.  "I would certainly think so after all
these years.  Go on then, lo vie and enjoy yourself.  You deserve a bit
of fun."  She had never known him spruce up before, certainly not for
just shopping.

"I shan't be long," he said, ignoring her leer.  "You'll doubtless
still be here when I get back."  She was dressed a little more casually
this time because of the milder weather.  The whole of the Holland Park
area was a mass of pink and white blossom, the royal borough at its
resplendent best.  "It's a shame you have to work," he said, 'or we
might have taken a stroll in the park."  He imagined them wandering
together under the trees, talking about all sorts of things, matters of
the soul.  He had certainly bent her ear enough with his own rather
drivelling thoughts.  He was surprised she'd agreed to meet him again.
Still hadn't worked that one out.  The smile she gave him held genuine
warmth and her lucid eyes glowed with sudden happiness.  "I'm fine just
sitting here," she said, clearly meaning it.  He fetched them each a
coffee, with a sticky bun for himself.  Edwina was always banging on
about his weight but this morning he felt quite ravenously hungry. 
"You are sure you won't?"  She shook her head.  "No thanks."  No wonder
she managed to stay so ethereally slim.  She looked as though she
existed just on air and her skin was as clear and luminous as
alabaster.  The shirt she was wearing was pure white silk and she had
tiny seed pearls in her ears.  He admired her casual continental chic
and the way she put herself together, with none of the opulent
flashiness of Edwina. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt this
light-headed.  Had an overwhelming urge to touch her hand.  "How've you
been?"  she asked softly, her chin on her laced fingers, so he sketched
out a few domestic nothings to amuse her.  "Why aren't you working at
the moment?" she asked and he gave an expressive shrug.  "I guess you
could say it was simply bad luck.  I was made redundant.  There's not a
lot of scope these days for those of my chosen profession.  Trust me to
have picked one just on the verge of extinction.  It seems to be the
story of my life.  Now they do most of the work by computer.  Effective
but hardly aesthetically challenging."  He would love to show her all
his fine old maps.  Perhaps at some later stage when he knew her
better.

"But it means you get to spend precious time with your daughter.  I
must say, I envy you that."

"And I wouldn't exchange it for the world, I can tell you."

When it was time to go he paid, then walked with her to the surgery.
"Speaking of which," he said, 'how about yourself?  I wouldn't imagine
your job was particularly enlivening."  Not for a person with her fine
intelligence, just shuffling papers and updating tedious files.  Not
even dealing with patients or anything rewarding like that.

It was her turn now to smile and shrug.  "I took what was available at
the time.  Recently my circumstances have altered fairly radically.  I
was lucky to find a job at all, especially one round here."

And that was all she would tell him.  William, hugely daring, pecked
her awkwardly on the cheek, then asked if they might do it again. Luisa
beamed.

"A week today?  Same time, same place," she said.  And left him turning
mental cartwheels of joy as he raced back to pick up Morwenna.

"How come the police aren't more concerned?"  moaned William to Mrs. P.
He had risked a call to the one in Alton Coombe, who still refused to
talk to him, let alone listen to his theory.  And, from the little
there'd been on the news, it appeared that those in Acton were
similarly sluggish.  William, suddenly defeatist, hadn't even bothered
to approach them since his theory about terrain didn't seem to fit.  In
any case, what would be the use?  She had been a mere social worker
with no one in her corner to fight her cause.  Small wonder the country
was going to the dogs.  "I blame the government," said Mrs.  P darkly.
These champagne socialists are all fat cats, concerned only with
private education and foreign holidays.  Always strutting around with
royalty, holding hands."  A dyed-in-the-wool Conservative herself, she
could go on like this for hours if he let her, with her theories of how
the country should be run.  Not that she was wrong; she was very canny.
Salt of the earth, as his grandmother used to say.  But there wasn't
time now for idle chitchat; William was still searching for a link.  He
remained convinced that the crimes were connected.  If topography
wasn't the answer, then what was?  He bounced it cautiously off Edwina,
who still hadn't forgiven him for the television gaffe.  Luckily she
hadn't really tuned in to what he was saying, or else she'd have acted
like a scalded cat and whisked Morwenna away.  She seemed permanently
distracted these days, though with an inner sparkle that she tried in
vain to hide.  Things at work must be going better than he'd thought,
though, as usual, she appeared not to want to discuss it.  Well, that
was all right with William; he was long accustomed to doing things on
his own.  All he felt the need of was a clued-up co-conspirator now
that he'd made the decision to steer clear of Tim.  For the remainder
of the week he walked on clouds, brimming with dizzy excitement about
Luisa.  Each nuance of their conversation ran through his brain in an
endless loop and he heard new subtleties every time and tried to figure
out how much she liked him.  Which had to be a little, at least, or
else she wouldn't have agreed to see him again.  He had never been much
of a ladies' man and solidly faithful to Edwina.  Now he was acting
like a schoolboy with a crush and could scarcely sit still for
anticipation.  The days seemed to drag as he went about his chores,
cramming each second with activity.  Whenever he could, he returned to
his maps, sticking red pins into relevant sites,

trying, with a protractor, to figure out a possible epic entre  Which
got him nowhere, he was forced at last to admit, since it landed him
bang in the middle of Salisbury Plain.  Unless he were to concoct a
fanciful theory about Stonehenge, which might act as a useful red
herring to ward off the indefatigable Tim.  At last it was Thursday
again and William sat opposite Luisa, this time with Morwenna along
since he didn't want to dump her all the time.  Morwenna was thrilled
and self-important as she sat between them, spooning up ice cream,
chattering nonstop to an enchanted audience.  Everyone in the cafe
seemed to be listening in.  Luisa gazed down at her fondly and wiped a
splodge of vanilla off her chin.  They are really lovely at this age,"
she said.  "It's a pity they grow so fast."  With her attention fixed
on Morwenna, William was able to study Luisa sneakily.  She was looking
slightly pea ky he thought, as though she had not been sleeping.  But
her hair was as sleek and well-groomed as ever and the simple linen
suit immaculately cut.  She caught his gaze and her cheeks flushed
slightly, causing him to shuffle around and nearly spill his coffee. He
was such an idiot to be in this state but simply couldn't control it. 
If he wasn't careful he would blurt out something silly and then she'd
be off in a flash.  He was certain of that.  Luckily there was Morwenna
to distract them, still babbling on about The Cobbleywobs. "Where had
we got to?"  asked Luisa at last, settling back and finally focusing on
him.  William, at a loss for words, found that his mind had gone blank.
Just one straight look from those glorious eyes and he was putty. 
"Your maps," she reminded him with amusement.  "You can't have
forgotten already' "Oh Lord, that time I bored you to death."  "Not at
all," she said sincerely.  "It was fascinating."

Which was when it occurred to him that he couldn't do much better than
involve this intelligent woman in his quest.  The worst that could
happen was she'd find it far-fetched, but she wouldn't be rude and
dismissive like Edwina.  She was gentle and sweet and her manners were
far too good.  And it could be that she'd throw new light on it all. It
was certainly worth a try.  Two heads are better than one, and now he'd
decided to jettison Tim, he'd be glad of a fresh point of view. So,
picking up where he'd last left off, he embarked on an exposition of
William Smith.  And soon had her totally absorbed again, which gave him
an inward thrill of satisfaction.

One thing led to another, of course, and soon he was telling her about
the murders.  Keeping off all but the sketchiest of details, because of
the listening presence of Morwenna, but outlining the salient events
and his unshakeable conviction that somehow they might all be linked.

Luisa listened with rapt attention.  "Where do the police come in?" she
asked.

"I can't seem to get them interested.  They refuse to take me
seriously."  Not that he'd really tried very hard.

Luisa stirred her second cup and thoughtfully ran it all through.

That's a lot of murders," she said at last.  "Have you any idea who
might be doing them?"

None, he told her, which was so frustrating, though he could see a
rough connection via his maps.  At which she laughed and patted his
hand.  She loved his boyish enthusiasm and let it show.

"Well, just be careful," she told him sternly.  "You don't want a
ruthless killer on your trail."

At which he felt bound to confess to her the awful faux pas he'd
already made.

"I trusted Tim," he said with shame, 'and he very nearly landed us all
in the soup."

So now she was curious to hear about Tim.  William filled her in.  The
thing about him, apart from his ingenuity, was his useful entree into
newspaper libraries.  Because of his press card and persuasive charm,
he could usually wheedle access and was reading his way through old
files when he had the time.

"He's got bags of energy and a tireless questing nose.  Dogged
persistence, I suppose you'd call it.  Can't do enough to help me,
bless his heart, though he does go that bit too far a lot of the time.
Is keen to crack it to embellish his own reputation, dreams of being on
a national daily with a crime byline of his own."

She asked what he thought the outcome might be and William told her
proudly, "All we really need is that single breakthrough.  And then I
truly believe we might well crack it."

Luisa, spontaneously, leaned across and kissed him and then did the
same to Morwenna.  "Well, just take care," she repeated with mock
severity.  Think of your lovely daughter and please don't go taking
unnecessary risks."

TWENTY-NINE

When it came to the crunch, Edwina knew there was no V V way she could
tell him that Gareth was accompanying her to Vancouver.  Her father had
strengthened her resolution and given her the necessary courage to
fight on.  Yet telling William would be going just one step too far.
She felt so incorrigibly guilty as it was.  Lately he had seemed a bit
abstracted; the chances were he wouldn't suspect a thing.  But she
didn't want to risk stirring things up, was not yet prepared for a
showdown.  "Vancouver?"  was all he said mildly, surprising her.  "I
hear it's a beautiful city."  "You don't mind?"  she found herself
asking quite anxiously.  "I hate to lumber you at such a late stage but
it really is important.  And I'll only be gone for about four days.  At
the most."  Gareth was taking care of the travel arrangements, him and
that snooty PA.  William astounded her by appearing not to care.  He
hummed as he set about laying out the breakfast and told her to stay
away for as long as she liked.  He was perfectly able to cope alone.
Had done it often enough before.  "It's a pity to go all that way for
such a short time.  Why not give yourself a break and drive on down to
Seattle?  You've always been such a Frasier fan.  Might be fun to
actually visit all those locations.  Or even San Francisco, while
you're over there."  Edwina blinked but said nothing.  She hadn't
expected him to be quite so co-operative and not even ask her any
questions.  "So it's okay then?"  she repeated.  "I've just said so. 
Now come along, blossom," (to the child) 'and finish your juice.  We've
a lot of exciting things to fit in today."  Maybe he was sickening for
something, but she'd actually never seen him look healthier.  He had
bothered at last to get himself a proper haircut and was wearing his
new, really well-fitting jeans, which made him look positively sexy.
She watched him for a while as he went about his work then, recalling
the time, pulled herself together and rocketed out of the door.  Just
as long as he didn't appear to mind, there was no point in upsetting
this precarious apple-cart.  Her friends were right when they called
him a saint.  Her guilt was weighing down on her more with every
duplicitous minute.  Not even her father had yet cottoned on; for him
the sun still shone from her eyes.  If he ever got a whiff of it, of
how she was carrying on outside her marriage, the fall-out would be
worse than World War Three.  But what mattered most to her at this
precise moment was Gareth and saving fast.bucks.com.  The two things
went together, hand in hand.  If one went wrong, she felt the other
would too.  She had made no advance on ascertaining his true feelings,
but had hopes the Canadian trip might clarify things.  If he hadn't
wanted to be with her, he would surely not have suggested it at all. It
felt like a last ditch action on both fronts.  Meryl was envious and
Sue disapproving when she joined them for their usual Thursday
drinks.

"What are you going to do when he finds out?"  Sue, of course, on one
of her moral crusades, tolerant and affectionate yet stern.  "He won't
unless something should go drastically wrong.  In which case, I'll
simply have to bluff."  "Is it really worth risking your whole marriage
for a fling?"  Philanderers like Gareth were dyed-in-the-wool bad guys
while William was, by consensus, a genuine sweetie-pie.  It privately
occurred to Meryl that it might be worth sticking around to pick up the
pieces.  But Sue, a mother herself, was more far-seeing and shuddered
at what the outcome could be for the child.  But there was no
convincing Edwina, who had clearly made up her mind, so all they could
do was support her and drink to her trip.  "Lucky devil, I wish I was
coming too."  The winter had been interminable and now, unbelievably,
it was raining again with further storms on the way.  "It won't be all
fun," said Edwina defensively.  "Most of the time, remember, we'll be
working."  And those long-haul flights could play havoc with the
system: loss of sleep, monumental jet-lag, dehydration.  Not to mention
the fashionable scare about thrombosis.  She remembered all too well
the Australian trip.  What it did to her skin and her sinuses.  And her
ankles.  "Yeah, yeah," scoffed Meryl.  Try pulling the other one." 
Then they settled down for a serious discussion of what clothes she was
planning to take.  William continued in a state of euphoria, unable to
think of anything but Luisa.  He loved the way she looked and dressed
and talked.  That soft lilting accent ran constantly through his
dreams.  There had been a time, which he now only dimly recalled, when
he must have felt much the same about Edwina.  But her recent harshness
and changed attitude towards him had finally worked their trick and he
no longer cared.  If she was prepared to throw away all they had worked
for in their marriage then he would take his loving elsewhere, to
someone he felt might return it.  He found himself acting like a total
sap, haunting the places where he might see her.  All the corny love
songs of his youth came crashing back into his consciousness.  He even
found himself listening to Sinatra.  He had managed to keep away from
Tim, had lately lost his zest for detective work.  The social worker,
it seemed to him now, might well have been a genuinely random killing.
People in those professions took great risks, as Mrs.  P had already
pointed out.  The area where it happened was sleazy and oppressed.  If
it hadn't been for Mrs.  P he'd have missed the item altogether.  He
embarked on sneaky press-ups in the bedroom, but only when Edwina was
out of the way.  How she would scoff if she ever caught him at it.  She
had lately given up nagging about his paunch.  He even cut down on his
beer consumption and started eating his burgers without the bun.  Was
now able to tighten his belt a couple of notches as he felt his chubby
love handles melting away.  He ventured into the Portobello Road with
the prepared excuse that he was hunting for antiques.  There wasn't
really anything new they needed for the house, but inspiration would
doubtless strike should he chance to bump into his quarry.  He felt his
heart give an involuntary lurch at the sight of any slim woman with
glossy dark hair.  He followed one foolishly for a couple of blocks,
only to discover, when she finally turned her head, that she was Asian.
His appetite was waning, he could no longer sleep at night.  Simply
put, poor William was a mess.  In the office the team was on
tenterhooks, watching the crazy fluctuation of the share price.  At the
start, they had enjoyed a dream flotation and even Arnold Fairchild had
been impressed.  On the first day of trading it had leapt by more than
three thousand per cent, sending them spinning euphorically into the
stratosphere.  They hugged each other in disbelief and danced around
the room, their eyes all glued to what was happening on Dow Jones.

"We've done it, girl!"  said Gareth, giving Edwina a whopping kiss. "My
looks, your brains and we're millionaires overnight."  And most of them
still in their middle twenties.  On paper they were, in an instant,
phenomenally rich, with these two founding partners controlling the
lion's share.  The younger ones started planning a vast party, made
lists of the undreamed-of luxuries they could soon afford. It had been
an initial gamble but was paying them back in spades.  Only the bean
counter, Barry, retained his cool.  He had seen it all happen so many
times before and remained a cold-blooded cynic.  A bubble that grew
this fast could just as quickly burst.  Indeed, the market began to
correct itself and soon they all crashed back down to earth.  It was
almost too painful to perceive.

"What can we do to halt it?"  whispered Edwina, watching their newly
found fortune haemorrhaging away.

Barry turned his gaunt face to hers and gave an eloquent shrug.  Easy
come, easy go.  Over the years he had developed nerves of steel.

"All you can do now," he told her grimly, 'is say your prayers and
wait.  And go to that goddam convention and make like stars."

"I'll run you to the airport," said William, unaware she wasn't
travelling alone.

That's okay' said Edwina off-handedly deciding which luggage to take.
"It's just as easy on the Paddington Express and then you won't have
all that snarled-up traffic to manoeuvre."

He glanced up, surprised, but could see she really meant it.  It was
not like her at all to be so unselfish.

"No problem," he said.  "We'll set out in good time.  Morwenna can come
along too for the ride."  Another new experience to share with her; he
would afterwards take her for a closer look at the planes.  And then
they'd come back by a circuitous route and he'd think of something else
with which to beguile her.  Not that, these days, he could think
coherently at all since he'd fallen beneath the spell of the Sicilian
temptress.  Edwina thought swiftly, trying hard not to panic.  If she
protested any more vehemently, he'd grow suspicious.  And although, on
the surface, she was up to nothing wrong, she doubted her husband would
view things quite that way.  He had been so generous in letting her go
at all.  If he found out Gareth was going too it was unlikely he'd
remain so benign.  And she certainly wasn't about to push her luck.
"All right, sweetie," she said in a muted tone.  Thanks."  It would
save her a lot of hassle to part as friends.  She would allow him to
deliver her safely to the airport.  And make sure that Gareth stayed
discreetly out of sight until they were in the air.  He was dying to
see her again though not at all sure how to accomplish that.  He didn't
want to come on too strongly, was in no position to woo her.  Yet just
the thought of her was driving him demented and he walked around all
day with a foolish grin.  He was heartily relieved that Edwina was
going away.  The timing could not have been more perfect.  What he
needed more than anything now was quality time with Luisa.  Time to get
to know her better and figure out how he really felt.  He still knew
virtually nothing about her and that was particularly tantalising.  He
imagined all sorts of scenarios for her and couldn't believe she was
single.  A woman like that, with her understated beauty, could not
possibly have got this far alone.  On first impression, she was a mousy
little thing.  It was only on closer acquaintance that the light shone
through.  Something leapt in the pit of his stomach and he longed to
pick up the phone and ask her out.  But if he rang her at the surgery
he knew she might be annoyed and he didn't want to risk losing the
ground he had gained.

Yet he knew so little about her, that was their only contact point.  If
he haunted the surgery, he might well bump into her, but then surely
she'd guess his reasons and fend him off.  Courting Edwina had not been
at all like this.  She was bold and up front and always slightly pushy.
She was totally confident of her sexual power and treated most men with
disdain.  It had taken months before she started to take him seriously
and even then only because she was bored.  Edwina had been a real
feather in his cap.  He sensed that most of the world still saw it that
way.  But Luisa was quite different.  Diffident, cautious, eternally on
her guard.  He longed to be able to share his true feelings, yet was
reluctant to scare her away.  He had, he reminded himself, nothing at
all to offer, for his loyalty to his marriage still remained.  Of all
places, it was in Blockbusters on the High Street that he finally saw
her again.  The door creaked open and in she came, just as bold and
friendly as could be.  "I just happened to see you," she told him
gaily, 'and thought I'd pop in to say hello."  William, overwhelmed
with surprise, felt his blood pressure sharply rise.  He hoped he
wasn't giving too much away as he stooped to give her an amateurish
kiss. Morwenna, as always, simply crowed with delight and insisted that
Luisa should join them for tea.  And when Morwenna wanted anything, she
invariably got it.  Luisa laughed and cuddled her and said that she
hoped he didn't mind.  "We're going to the Muffin Man, a favourite of
ours.  Nothing spectacular but cosy and nice."  A place for them to
relax at last and try to get better acquainted.  His luck was in.  He
paid for his videos and ushered them both outside, dizzy with the
thrill of being with her.  He hesitated to mention that Edwina was
going away.  Somehow it sounded too bald and opportunistic.  He knew he
had to tread carefully and not come on too strong, yet chances like
this of really talking to her were few and far between.  He had to
learn to seize opportunities and not just rely on chance encounters. 
Or else she'd lose interest and vanish from his life and he simply
couldn't bear the thought of that.  A more worldly man would try
flirting outright but that had never been part of William's style.  So
instead he resorted to murder, a safer subject.  She'd been thinking
about it a lot, she said, even making notes.  "You are absolutely
convinced it's the same person doing them all?"  "Pretty much so.  From
the modus operandi."  "And what do you consider might be the
motivation?"  She pulled out a leather-bound diary and prepared to take
notes.  It was almost like being with Tim again, only this audience was
a hundred per cent more delectable.  Flattered, William expanded upon
his theory and as he grew enthused, he also relaxed.  That, he was
forced to acknowledge, was the stumbling block.  He really hadn't a
clue what they all had in common.  Apart, of course, from the
worthiness of their lives.  A teacher, a social worker, even Aunt Jane
with her dedication to doing good works.  "But why bump them off?  It
doesn't make sense," she said.  The scary thing is," he confided, 'the
murders appear to be creeping closer.  First that guy at King's Cross
station and now this woman in Acton.  Most of the others were dotted
around the West Country.  The reason I suspected a possible link." 
That and the sheer brutality of the crimes.  "Hmm," she said and
scribbled a couple of notes.  Then tore out a page and doodled a cat
for Morwenna.  "You and your maps," she said, eyes now delightedly
sparkling.  "You certainly have a most unusual brain."  Which, he could
see, she meant genuinely. He felt quite puffed up with pride.  "Just a
way of looking at things. Derived from a childhood spent constantly
doing puzzles."  His father had often scolded him for not getting on
with his studies.  Had hoped he might have made more of himself instead
of ending up drawing maps. Think laterally," William explained to her,
'and always ignore the obvious.  Assume the murderer's as smart as you
are and try to wrong foot him with your brain."

Though not the police?"  said Luisa with a smile.

"No way!  They are all a bunch of morons.  Who couldn't detect their
way out of a paper bag.  Not the wretched fellows I've encountered."

It was time to go home, Morwenna was growing restless and Luisa still
had shopping left to do.  They parted on the corner and promised to
meet again, then Luisa shyly rose on tiptoes and gave him a fleeting
kiss.

"You're a very decent man," she said.  "And I'm really proud to know
you."

William could barely contain himself as he pushed Morwenna's stroller
up the hill.

THIRTY

Don't bother coming in with me," said Edwina as William pulled up
outside Terminal 3. It was fairly early in the morning and, for once,
surprisingly uncrowded.  There were even parking spaces to be had,
which was unusual.  "I'll just stick it over there," said William
placidly, 'and then help you with your bags."  He was ever the epitome
of male chivalry, even when dealing with his lately truculent wife. 
"No need," said Edwina hastily, leaping from the car and grabbing a
vacant trolley.  She was travelling comparatively light, for her a
first. Morwenna, in her car seat, began to drum her heels.  Her mother
gave her a lingering kiss then started assembling her things.  "Why not
get off?"  she suggested anxiously.  "Before she gets too restless."  A
trip to the visitors' gallery had been promised and then, perhaps, a
stroll along the river.  "Are you absolutely sure?"  William hesitated,
but she seemed to have her mind made up.  Edwina always loathed
goodbyes, especially now when she already felt so guilty.  She was also
nervous that Gareth might appear.  Although she'd warned him off, he
was never predictable.  "Okay, then," said William, pecking her cheek.
"Bon voyage and have a good time.  Don't work too hard and allow
yourself some fun.  And let me know when you're coming back and I'll
meet you."  She had deliberately left her ticket open-ended.  Edwina
waved to them both as they drove away, then pushed her trolley through
the automatic doors.  Business Class was virtually deserted and she was
through, all checked in, in no more than a matter of minutes.  She
headed towards the departures gate.  She'd arranged to meet Gareth in
the V.I.P lounge and looked forward to a leisurely and intimate
breakfast, away at last from the world's prying eyes, which was long
overdue.  Alas, it was not to be.  She found him waiting by Passport
Control, accompanied, she was dismayed to see, by the supercilious
Portia.  Who was dangling his laptop from one limp-wristed hand while
helping him adjust the strap of his travel bag.  "Ah, there you are,"
said Gareth lightly.  The lovely Portia's consented to join us for
breakfast."  Why?  Edwina wanted to scream but couldn't.  Instead she
followed them to a restaurant nearby and ordered herself just orange
juice and coffee while they both went for the full works.  Even this
early, Portias make-up was flawless, her skin as soft and dewy as a
teenager's, her tangled hair a marvel of artifice.  Her skirt was brief
and her legs a perfect bronze, her toenails painted a brilliant
lustrous pink.  She said very little, just tucked in manfully while
Edwina glared at Gareth with barely suppressed fury.  A fine way to
start their illicit expedition.  And how come, this early in the
morning, Portia was already at his beck and call?  Gareth could see the
questions in her eyes but simply smiled relaxedly and made small talk.
"Portia was good enough to drive me to the airport.  I didn't want to
risk leaving the car here for the interim."  So what's wrong with a
taxi like everyone else?  Or even the tube or the airport bus?  Or the
super-efficient Paddington Express?  But she didn't say it, just
silently clenched her teeth and hoped this darkening mood would pass by
the time they finally took off.  Nine hours trapped in the air with him
had seemed like a dream come true.  But now this cow with the haughty
stare was risking ruining it all.  She glanced at the clock.  They
ought really to be going.  The flight was on time and they still had to
get through security.  "Better be off," she said briskly, as pleasantly
as she could muster.  Then winced as Gareth kissed Portia warmly and
gave her bottom a squeeze.  What a bastard he was, always trying it on.
She had known him all these years yet still hadn't learned.  She
couldn't determine if Portia was in accordance or simply just being
polite.  Certainly not so much as a flicker of response disturbed her
exquisite maquillage.  I'll call you when we get there," he promised,
giving her one of his extra special smiles.  Then they both watched her
walk away with her confident stride, tossing the messed-up mane with an
air of supremacy.  The actual plan was to meet up with Luisa, then
drive the three of them back to Hammersmith for lunch.  The weather, at
long last, was making a slow improvement.  A stroll along the towpath
should do them all good.  He hadn't spelled out the details to Edwina,
was pretty certain that, in any case, it would hardly be of interest to
her now.  Her concentration these days always seemed elsewhere. 
Whatever it was, to be cutting them out altogether.  Morwenna sat
happily at the back in her car seat, repeatedly chanting one of her
daft little songs. She was a perfect child to travel with,
sweet-tempered and benign. Content just to be with her daddy, no matter
where.  William's emotions were still very much in turmoil.  He could
barely sit still with the prospect of seeing Luisa.  That swift little
kiss had given him sudden wild hope that this lunch today might lead on
to more promising things. Preferably soon, while Edwina was still away,
for William was quite unaccustomed to subterfuge.  They would go to The
Dove and eat lunch out on the terrace and watch the barges and rowing
eights glide by. Provided it wasn't too chilly outside.  Luisa appeared
such a frail little thing, he would hate to be responsible for allowing
her to catch cold.  It was twenty to ten, Edwina would soon be off. 
They would not have been apart this long since they married.  Despite
all her best resolutions, she just couldn't manage to button it.  "Are
you sleeping with her?"  she demanded, then bit her tongue.  Gareth
turned pale and inscrutable eyes on Edwina then, without responding,
wandered over to the free bar and helped himself to a gigantic Bloody
Mary.  At this hour in the morning, too.  She shuddered.  "Want
anything?"  he called but she peevishly shook her head.  He needn't
think he could get round her quite that easily.  He picked up a
plateful of small and delicate sandwiches and brought them back to the
table for them to nibble.  "I really don't know where you put it all,"
she said.  Despite his endless appetite, he seemed never to gain an
ounce.  Whereas she worked harder and harder in the gym yet it still
felt like wading through mud.  "I work it off," he said calmly, without
a flicker.  Then settled down with the paper to wait for their call. 
Edwina silently cursed herself for being so un sophisticatedly uncool. 
She hated the way that he held her in sexual thrall.  Despite these
flashes of insecure rage, she still couldn't get quite enough of him. 
Had anticipated this brief Canadian break with all of her hormones
raging.  But the Portia incident had tarnished it already and brought
back her rampant insecurity.  Portia was rich as well as at least ten
years younger. There simply wasn't a contest.  Enough said.  The
traffic congealed as they approached the Hammersmith fly over and
William resigned himself to probably being late.  He drummed his
fingers impatiently on the steering-wheel and glanced in the mirror to
check on his back seat passenger.  "All right, sweetie?  Soon be there.
Is there anything you need?"  She didn't even bother to reply, just
continued crooning to herself.  He loved the way she was so
self-sufficient, exactly like himself as a child, content in her own
interior world.  William smiled and allowed himself to relax.  Soon,
despite the traffic, he'd be with Luisa again and his mind drifted off
into all sorts of improbable scenarios.  If only, if only .. . They
were infinite.  He checked the time to see if Edwina was yet in the
air.  Twenty minutes to go and then at last he'd feel free, even if
only temporarily.  Without her on his conscience for a while, able to
follow his instincts wherever they led.  As they reached the fly over
the speed of the traffic picked up and William, with relief, put his
foot down.  Not long now, he raked his fingers through his hair and
glanced at himself in the mirror to see how he looked.  He crested the
fly over and that's when he saw it, a mammoth new billboard staring him
in the face.  A grainy black and white photograph of a man several
times fullsize, with a shout line that knocked the wind right out of
his sails.  This man is going to save a life today.  Yesterday he gave
Hood.  William was stunned.  For a moment he wrestled not to lose his
place in the queue.  With a resounding clang, the penny finally
dropped.  As simple as that and yet it had never occurred.  He ran
through the list of the victims in his mind.  A schoolmaster, a yoga
teacher, a prominent Rotarian.  A welfare officer ... it slowly began
to add up.  The conscientious sort with an active social awareness who
certainly, now he thought of it, would be donors.  Aunt Jane with that
gold disc she always wore round her neck. He glanced again at his
watch; seven minutes to go.  Then rapidly dialled Edwina on her mobile.
If only she hadn't yet switched it off, was still in the lounge
awaiting take-off.  Edwina just couldn't leave it alone.  It was one of
her fatal flaws.  She fretted away in belligerent silence while Gareth
remained beside her, impassively reading.  They would soon be boarding
and she needed to have it out before they were in the confines of the
plane.  She didn't intend to wreck their whole journey by having a
public scene on a nine-hour flight.  "Well, are you?"  she repeated. 
"I really need to know.  She certainly looked like the cat that
swallowed the cream."  "So to speak." Gareth smiled slowly as he folded
the paper.  "It's always a cat when it's somebody else," he remarked. 
Edwina, stung, flushed angrily.  He would never take her seriously and
yet he had been the one to set this all up.  "I can't understand what
you see in her," she snapped.  "Lazy, incompetent, with a definite
attitude problem.  Barely even acknowledges me even though I am
nominally her boss."  "She's shy," he said with a wolfish smile.  "Is
it my fault if she finds me irresistible?"  She wanted to throw her
coffee cup at him but managed to hold herself in check.  One of her
lenses was starting to give her trouble.  She was terrified he might
think she was actually crying. She groped for her compact and poked the
lens around until the speck of mascara had floated away.  Then blew her
nose fiercely and powdered it before squaring up again to his
questioning grin.  "You're a bastard," she told him.  "And I hate you. 
You've never really cared for me at all."  And now she was suddenly on
the brink of genuine tears as a crashing wave of self-pity completely
engulfed her.  "Now, now," he said, leaning forward to grip her knee. 
"Steady on, Edwina.  Let's not have a scene."  He glanced around at the
other bored passengers and flashed the listening few a compli-cito us
smile.  Women, was the implication.  They all knew what they were like.
He's treating me like a child, she thought, and once again longed to
thump him.  Yet knew that the moment she touched him, all would be
lost.  For this was the aspect of Gareth that physically turned her on,
the cavalier bachelor who gave not a shit, who would always be likely
to fight to preserve his freedom.  Tell me the truth," she said, before
she could change her mind.  The ground staff were beginning to make
meaningful moves.  The authoritative one at the desk had the mike in
her hand.  Any second now they'd be asked to proceed aboard.  But this
was a necessary showdown that couldn't wait.  "Have you ever really
loved me or am I just another bit on the side?"  The question caught
him unprepared, quite stopped him in his tracks.  It wiped the
insouciant smile right off his face.  The other passengers were
starting to move, in anticipation of the announcement.  "Well, have
you?"  She was imperious now as her dignity returned.  "Edwina .. ." 
he began, for once at a loss for words.  But right at that moment her
mobile started to ring.  Thank God I caught you," said William
breathlessly, still weaving his way through dense traffic.  "I was
afraid you might have already boarded."  "We're just about to." 
There's something I need to know about Aunt Jane." Edwina mentally
groaned.  Not now, she wanted to yell at him.  It was the last thing
she needed to hear.  "I've got to go."  And was about to switch off
when she took in the urgency in his voice.  And waited.

"Hang on a sec!  This could be really important."

"Go on."

"What was on that gold dog tag she always wore?  It could be a crucial
piece of evidence."

Edwina was completely taken aback.  What in the world was he on about
now?  She was heartily sick of this morbid preoccupation, wished he
would give it a rest and get a real job.  She had far more important
things on her mind right now, questions of life and love.  And
destiny.

"Why, her blood group, of course.  I'm surprised you didn't know that.
She always made a thing of it because it was apparently so rare."  As
if she were royalty, Edwina's father always laughed.  Just another of
her petty affectations.

Of course.  It fitted.  He should have thought of it himself. William's
breathing slowly relaxed as comprehension dawned.

"What was her blood group?  Have you any idea?  This could be the major
breakthrough we've been looking for."

Now, at last, they really were calling the flight and everyone was
surging towards the gate.

"I really haven't a clue," said Edwina impatiently, watching Gareth
starting to gather up their things.  But then, as a sudden
afterthought, she added, "You can easily check that out for yourself.
She left me all her jewellery, remember?  It's in the box on the
dressing-table."  Where it had been, unlocked at, all these years.

Something, he realised now with a twinge of guilt, that he really ought
to have known and remembered before.

Part Four

THIRTY-ONE

At first Luisa was reluctant to come inside.  Felt uncomfortable
entering another woman's home in her absence.  But William explained it
would be only for a minute.  Besides, it was his house too.  He had
intended at first to leave them both in the car till Morwenna piped up
that she needed to go to the lavatory.  It was then that he realised it
could surely do no harm.  And he rather wanted to show it off to her.
He left them in the kitchen, admiring his latest chalk masterpiece,
while he shot upstairs to the bedroom to look in the box.  There was a
lot of clutter here that he didn't believe he'd seen but he quickly
located the fine gold chain with the dog tag at one end.  "Got it!"  he
said triumphantly, swinging it from his hand.  Luisa showed only the
mildest curiosity.  She still hadn't quite understood what it was he
was after, only that he had said it couldn't wait.  He dropped it into
his jacket pocket to look at later at leisure.  It was early for lunch
but they had to get there and park.  And the weather was brightening
nicely.  "Your house is lovely' said Luisa.

William beamed.  "You should have seen it when we first took it over."
A shambles just wasn't the word.  It had been lived in before by an
elderly lady who had done nothing at all to improve it in years.  A
virtual wreck but at a price they could just afford and they'd enjoyed
the toil and sweat they had both put into it.  Therapeutic, it had
been, and had helped to cement the bond of their brand new marriage.
None of this did William say but it gave him a twinge of conscience all
the same.  Only four years and look where they'd got to now.  He took
Morwenna very firmly by the hand and led them both back to the car.

It was just about warm enough, though Luisa kept her coat on as they
sat with their lagers and salads outside on the terrace.  The Thames
was grey and lightly scuffed with ripples as they watched the rowing
eights practising for the regatta.  The sky was mackerel, with the
promise of more rain to come.  Still, it was the most spring-like
they'd seen in ages.  Morwenna sat poised triumphantly between them
like a little princess, chortling and waving her fork.

"Eat up, lambkin," said William tenderly, unable to resist dropping a
kiss on her glossy head.  His eyes met Luisa's and a glance passed
between them.  For one second he thought he might choke with sheer
happiness.  Now that they were sitting here, content and no longer in a
hurry, all the things that had been worrying him faded away.  He fished
in his pocket and brought out Aunt Jane's gold chain.  Laid it
carefully on the table between them to study.  Luisa remained politely
mystified, uncertain what it was that was so much exciting him.

"It's her blood group," he said, rubbing the tarnished gold with his
finger.  "And, with luck, the vital link I've been searching for."

Luisa quizzically cocked her head.  "How so?"  She really was
irresistible when she was solemn.  He had an urge to take her in his
arms but that would never do in front of the child.

The connection between all these random murders.  I remain convinced
that there is one.  And now this could be a real clue."  Luisa,
baffled, shook her head.  "I'm afraid I still don't understand."
"You'll see," he said mysteriously, slipping the chain back into his
pocket.  He had said enough on this grisly subject.  The day was far
too magical to continue it now.  The person he needed to talk to was
really Aisha, the Asian doctor.  He asked Luisa what she knew about
blood but she told him very little.  Hers was simply a clerical post;
all she really did was collate and file.  And occasionally stand in as
receptionist.  He should ring the surgery and make a proper
appointment.  Aisha was, indeed, a lovely person and if she had said
she would help, then she certainly would.  William glowed; two birds
with one stone.  He could use it as a transparent excuse for getting to
see Luisa again.  For he was smitten.  He couldn't believe he could
feel this way so quickly.  Morwenna started babbling about Mummy but he
headed her off.  He didn't want Edwina's intrusive presence spoiling
this perfect day.  A wary sun crept out from behind the clouds and
Luisa unbuttoned her coat and slid the trademark dark glasses over her
eyes.  She looked a little like Jackie Onassis with her sleek dark hair
and finely sculpted features.  Of course, not quite as spectacular but
pretty damn good, nonetheless.  Today she seemed softer and younger
than he'd thought, with many of the care lines wiped away.  He longed
to know more about her but didn't dare ask.  Not without some opening
from her.  Watching her smile at Morwenna's antics emboldened him to
try a little fishing.  All she could do was rebuff him, though he
couldn't see why she would want to.  Since those initial tentative
conversations, he felt they were developing into genuine friends.
Otherwise she'd hardly be sitting here with him now, being so openly
affectionate to Morwenna.  "You say you have no children yourself," he
said.

She shook her head.  Then, after a quite significant pause: "I did have
one once.  A little girl.  She died."  William, shocked and
embarrassed, was contrite.  "I am so sorry.  How clumsy of me.  I
really had no idea."  Luisa smiled sadly.  "How could you?  I try not
to talk about her much.  It was all so painful."  "What was her name?" 
"Adriana."  "How long ago?"  "Nine years."  "How old was she?  That's
if you don't mind my asking?"  Luisa mutely shook her head and looked
at him over the glasses.  Her fine eyes were swimming and she dabbed at
them.  William could have cut out his tongue with remorse.  Two," she
said simply with a huskiness in her throat.  The exact age Morwenna is
now."  "What happened?"  But she simply shook her head, too overcome
with emotion to continue.  William grabbed her hand and squeezed it
tight, wishing he could do considerably more.  He couldn't bear to see
her in so much pain.  Began to comprehend her air of withdrawal.  This
was a person still deeply suffering and all he'd succeeded in doing was
making things worse.  But Luisa, sensing his deep discomfort, returned
the hand squeeze and kissed him on the cheek.  "I'll tell you all about
her some day, I promise.  It's dear of you to ask."  And so he had to
leave it for a while.  But was cheered at the prospect of a continuing
relationship.  If he played his cards carefully and did not move too
fast, there was simply no telling where all of this might lead.  Edwina
rang in to confirm her safe arrival.  The flight had been fine, she
said, yet sounded oddly subdued.  Vancouver was indeed a wonderful city
though, so far, she had hardly been out of the hotel, which was
conveniently part of the conference centre.  They were right down on
the water's edge and she planned to take a walk to look at the cruise
ships.  She asked to speak to Morwenna, who had long been asleep. 
"What time is it there?"  she asked and William told her nine.  She was
getting confused about the different time zones.  "Did you find the
tag?"  He told her that he had, though noticed she didn't seem
interested or particularly want to know more.  He realised how
preoccupied she had become and surprised himself by finding it less
hurtful than usual.  Their marriage appeared to be quietly
disintegrating.  He was shocked to discover how little he really cared.
Then someone at Edwina's end spoke to her fairly abruptly and, after a
muffled conversation, she told William she really had to go.  "Don't
work too hard," he said cheerfully, hanging up without an iota of
regret.  He hugged himself as he wandered about the house, too restless
and fired up to want to relax.  He had thought about ringing Tim .. .
and then given in.  To hell with it!  Whatever the danger, he couldn't
not share this latest breakthrough with his buddy.  It wouldn't be fair
and he needed Tim's expert backup.  It hadn't felt right not to have
him along.  Frustratingly for once Tim wasn't there so he would just
have to leave it till morning.  Meanwhile, his head was still full of
Luisa and the giddy effect she was having upon his life.  Telling him
about her child had seemed like a big leap forward.  He longed to know
the exact circumstances, including where the father was now.  But he
needed still to step very carefully or else she might cease to trust
him and back away.  Aisha said she could fit him in before evening
surgery, so he pushed Morwenna over to her just before five.  The
waiting room was less crowded than usual and he looked around hopefully
for Luisa.  Alas, today there was no sign of her.  Obviously not her
shift.  Aisha came down to fetch him and ushered him up to her bright,
airy room overlooking the blossom-filled garden.  These wedding-cake
houses in Holland Park were marvellously spacious and light.  How the
practice could still afford the rent was something he had long
wondered.  Perhaps they had a peppercorn rent or else a silent
benefactor.  William reminded her of their previous conversation and,
without going into details, produced the chain with its tiny gold
lozenge.  He explained what he wanted to know about the blood group and
Aisha took it across to the window and squinted at the minuscule
inscription.  "AB negative," she told him after a while.  "Perhaps the
rarest blood group of them all."  So no wonder Aunt Jane was so proud
of it, in her pathetically superior way.  And perhaps that accounted
for her charity work, raising funds for the Haemophilia Society.  He
knew he ought not to make fun of her; she had been, at heart, a good
woman. But her continuous posturing had not been easy to take, one of
the reasons they had visited her so rarely.  Which, in retrospect,
still made him feel guilty, especially since she had left Edwina the
lot. "What precisely does that mean, in layman's terms?"  he asked. 
Aisha flashed him her radiant smile and explained.  "Everybody has a
blood group in the ABO system.  Forty-seven per cent of people are O.
Forty-three per cent are A. Whereas only seven per cent are B and just
three per cent AB."  William whistled softly, impressed.  "So pretty
rare then?"  "Rarer even than that since she's AB negative whereas
eighty per cent of people are Rhesus positive."  Aisha was clearly
intrigued to know what William's interest could be.  "Is this person a
relative of yours?  And have you a special reason for wanting to know?
Blood types aren't hereditary, you know."  She glanced at Morwenna.
"Not always."  "My wife's aunt," said William, 'and it's academic.  The
poor woman has been dead these past five years."  Without explaining
further, he thanked her and left, promising to tell her all when he
felt he could.  He didn't want to waste more of her time and feared she
might think him foolish if he explained.  It was still very much a
longshot, but he did feel he might be getting a little closer.  Now he
really needed to get hold of Tim and set the boy detective back on the
case.  Tim was thrilled when William finally tracked him down and told
him of this latest potential development.  He appeared not to have
taken in that William had been avoiding him.  Was far too hot on the
trail to imagine such things.  "What do we do now?"  he asked, bursting
with enthusiasm.  "Find out if there's a blood group match," said
William.  Otherwise, they were off on another false trail which, after
all this time, he couldn't bear.  "How do we do that?"  "I'm not
entirely sure."  The police, so obstructive up till now, would hardly
be likely to dish out such information.  Not to a couple of amateurs. 
William ran through the murders in his head; according to his own
chronological reckoning, next on the agenda would be the tragic
Marshes.  But Robert Marsh appeared to have gone to ground.  A few
selective calls from Tim established that.  Then William had another
inspired thought.  The school," he said.  They were bound to keep a
record.  And might be more compassionate to a discreet, un authorised
enquiry.  Tim got back on the case and pulled a few favours with the
Northampton Chronicle 6Echo.  It cost him a lunch but turned out to be
well worth the effort.  A sympathetic female reporter actually went
round to the school and conned the head into letting her have the
relevant information.  The woman could see no harm in it; it might even
do some good.  Anything that might help convict the still uncaught
murderer.  Those poor little girls," she said.  "Who could have done
such a vile thing as that?" Privately, she had long suspected the
father, though he seemed such a decent fellow.  At least, on the
surface.  Tim, triumphant, called William back.  "Got it!"  he said. 
They were both the same."  Melanie and Sadie Marsh had both been blood
group A. The medical records the school still held confirmed it.  "And
the mother?"  "I'm afraid we don't know that," said Tim, though a visit
to the local doctor might be worth a shot.  William was somewhat
deflated, his theory already disproved. But Tim was prepared to
squander more time, so he let him.  A few more phone calls and he found
the family doctor.  Who was cautiously willing to talk to him in
confidence.  "Shocking tragedy," he said, tut-tut ting and was
persuaded to check through his records at Tim's request.  It could
hardly make any difference now and the police hadn't even thought to
ask.  While Robert Marsh had removed himself from the scene.  Tim rang
William back, now also subdued.  "Group O," he said.  The most common
of them all."  Which left them apparently back at square one. William
began to despair.  "I thought we were there," he told Luisa the
following day as they sat together at the playground watching Morwenna.
The seedy stranger was loitering under the trees; William realised how
long it had been since he'd seen him.  "What are you looking at?" 
asked Luisa, glancing round.  That guy over there in the raggedy
overcoat." She raised her eyebrows enquiringly and William started to
laugh.

"It's nothing really.  I suppose I just don't much like the cut of his
jib.  There's something definitely sinister about him.  He always seems
to be hanging around the kids."

William looked for the two little boys and there they were, playing on
the slide.  There seemed to be no one parental around, no adult to whom
it looked as if they belonged.  And yet they seemed perfectly at ease.
William made a sudden decision; too many bad things had been
happening.

"Stay here," he said to Luisa.  "I won't be long."  And strode across
the grass to confront the man.

Just as he was approaching him, the man saw William coming.  He checked
his watch as if he were suddenly late and hurriedly walked away.
William gave up.  There was nothing he could say.  He was simply being
an interfering busybody.  But he didn't like it and intended to stay on
his case.  And next time he had the chance, he would confront him.

"No good," he said to Luisa, 'the bastard's scarpered."

She wanted an explanation so he gave one.  Luisa's eyes softened; what
a gem of a man he was.  She reached for his hand and squeezed it in
empathy.

"You know something," she told him, gazing deep into his eyes.  "You
are quite the most decent man I have ever met."

THIRTY-TWO

That night, when he couldn't sleep, William had a sudden flash of
intuition.  Just because the Marshes appeared not to fit, did not
automatically mean that his theory was dud.  He went upstairs and
sought inspiration from his geological map.  The pale blue circle was
irrefutably there, witness to some sort of pattern.  He grabbed a scrap
of rough paper and jotted down notes.  The Marshes, the schoolboys and
then the bank manager.  It shouldn't be too difficult to track each one
of them down and accurately test his theory about blood.  He knew in
his bones that he had a point, refused to be deflected.  Luckily he had
made his peace with Tim, whom he called as early as he dared, dimly
remembering that the lad lived in rented accommodation.  "Sorry to
disturb you .. ."  But Tim was already up and running.  His mind, it
turned out, had been following similar lines.  They conferred, agreed
and Tim offered to do the legwork He had, after all, the credentials to
pull it off.  "I am the press, remember," he said self-importantly.  In
a position to flash his card to open all doors.  William, visualising
the intensity on the young face, agreed to defer to the pro and let him
rip.  Tim's very youth and enthusiasm often made him feel tired.  He
chuckled as he returned upstairs to check if Morwenna was awake.  All
his former enthusiasm was creeping back.  He would crack this case if
it was the last thing that he did.  And after that, maybe, go out and
look for a job.  The week had gone by in a flash; there wasn't a lot of
time left.  William, content to leave Tim on the case, fretted about
how to get to see Luisa again.  He couldn't just hang around like a
lovelorn schoolboy.  Faint heart, as the old saw went, never won fair
lady.  And yet he was a married man and she a virtuous woman.  How did
they handle such tricky matters these days?  He hadn't a clue.  He
thought of consulting Polly Graham but wasn't entirely sure how much he
could trust her.  Had heard too much of her cackling repartee to risk
becoming the butt of her mordant wit.  And then, coincidentally, she
called.  "I am having a fund-raising bash for the local Conservatives,"
she said.  "My place, tomorrow night.  I am sorry it's so last minute
but..  ."  William laughed; he really didn't mind.  Had never been too
proud to act as a stopgap.  Was used to standing in as a substitute
male.  Besides, in his dull little social life, it might make a
pleasant diversion.  Even though he was a staunch Lib Dem, and always
had been.  As Polly, had she been more on the ball, might have known.
He booked a babysitter and checked that he had a clean shirt.  Mrs.  P,
purely out of the goodness of her heart, efficiently shone his shoes.
"Going out, then?"  she asked, with approval.  To her mind, he had
drawn the short straw.  "Just to a charity do round the corner, with
friends."  Amazing how guilty he felt.  "Do you good," she said
approvingly.  Time he got up off his bum and had some fun.  She
wouldn't even blame him if he got off with somebody else.  That snotty
madam certainly had it coming.  Forever swarming around and neglecting
him.  To Mrs.  P's conservative mind, it simply wasn't on.  Guest of
honour was the local MP, Harvey Greenslade.  William, who had
encountered him before, disliked the man on sight.  All the things that
were wrong with the Tories in one supercilious package, with a loud,
commanding voice like a brigadier's.  He had just arrived with his
entourage when William sauntered in, and was working the room
methodically, shaking hands.  "William!"  said Polly, clasping him
round the neck and dragging him over reluctantly to be presented. 
Greenslade had soft, carefully manicured hands and a cold stare aimed
just to the left of William's ear.  Constantly on the lookout for
someone who might be of use.  The sort of obsequious charm that was
quite insincere. William uttered a platitude before disengaging his
hand.  His inclination was to wipe his palm, but he succeeded in
restraining himself.  Instead, suddenly realising just how peckish he
was, he headed downstairs to the buffet in the kitchen.  This was where
he felt most at his ease, scene of Polly's numerous coffee mornings. 
The spacious room was filling up with local residents, many of whom he
knew.  He nodded and smiled as he loaded his plate, then headed into a
corner to join some old chums.  "Didn't expect to run into you here,"
said Oliver, an affable Kensington solicitor whose friendly,
bespectacled wife had just been made a QC.  William grinned.  "You're
right, it's not really my scene.  But Polly's a mate and I owe her a
favour or two."  Which must sound a tad ungracious considering the
spread she'd laid on.  Polly, who loved to show off her home, was ever
the consummate hostess, though her dreary husband, the insurance
broker, as usual was nowhere to be seen.  "No Edwina?"  asked the QC
wife.

William shook his head.  "Off on one of her foreign jaunts," he
explained.  The woman looked sympathetic, had always had a bit of a
soft spot for William.  And was mildly suspicious of any woman who
insisted on putting her own career first.  She had managed to juggle
her recent elevation by waiting until the children were grown and fled.
She asked if he were working again and William laughed and confessed
with his customary candour.  "Nobody wants me," he said, which was not
quite the truth.  They chatted on for a while, acknowledging other
neighbours.  And then, as he glanced around the room, William was
suddenly struck dumb.  He glimpsed a recent arrival and froze.  At the
foot of the stairs, which he'd just descended, was a thin-faced man
with wispy hair and a jacket that had seen better days.  With a sharp
intake of breath and muttered apology, William shuffled around for a
clearer view.  It was him, the bloke from the park, and he still looked
shifty.  He was standing alone and isolated, nervously clutching a
drink.  William made a swift decision and started to elbow his way
through the crowd.  Now was the ideal time for some sort of a showdown,
if only to clear the air.  But the surge round the buffet impeded his
progress.  By the time he had managed to work his way through, his
quarry was gone.  Dumping his half-empty plate on a table, William shot
rapidly up the stairs.  The hallway was packed and the front door wide
open.  Harvey Greenslade was starting his speech.  "Order, now, order,"
shouted one of his pimply retinue, and slowly the voluble babble began
to abate.  Greenslade, affectedly donning a pair of gold pince-nez,
began to declaim ponderously and at considerable length.  William,
helplessly pinned at the rear of the room, frantically looked around
for the seedy man.  Who seemed no longer to be even in the room; in
fact, to have vanished without trace.  At last, after what seemed
interminable hours, Greenslade got to the crux of things and exhorted
his loyal followers to give generously.  After heavy applause, the
crush eventually eased and William was able to grab Polly and yank her
aside.  "Who was that man?"  he asked urgently, pointing into thin air.
The balding one with the rundown look.  If you'll pardon the
description."  Polly looked puzzled.  "Not anyone I know.  Perhaps he
tagged along with the Greenslade party."  Perhaps, or then, perhaps
not. He didn't look much like a Tory.  But whatever the truth, he was
clearly no longer there.  William combed each floor of the house to
make sure.  He must have been some sort of gatecrasher, though it did
seem unlikely.  William, suddenly bored and dispirited, made his
excuses and slunk off home.  The message light was flashing.  Tim,
sounding very hyped up.  He had checked with Mrs.  Hargreaves and,
bless her, she'd come up trumps.  Her husbands blood group had been AB
negative.  It looked as if William's latest theory might not be quite
so hare-brained after all.  "Luisa," said William breathlessly, as they
sat together on a bench beneath the trees.  Edwina was due home at the
end of the week and he still hadn't found the right words.  She turned
on him misty, dark, soulful eyes and he took her impulsively into his
arms, breathing the lemony essence of her hair.  "Oh, my darling," he
murmured, quite carried away, then kissed her very hard and with
genuine feeling.  "William," said Luisa, responding in like manner.
Then they both recoiled and stared at each other in shock.  In all the
years he had been with Edwina, William had not so much as glanced at
anyone else.  Not with more than just gallant approval.  Most
certainly, never with lust.  And now this sloe-eyed stranger had crept
up and stolen his heart in what seemed like a matter of mere seconds.
He still didn't really understand it.  Except that she did wonders for
his dented self-esteem.  He was sick of being kicked around by the
harpy he had married.  Luisa appeared to look up to him, to treat him
with appropriate respect.  They sat in silence, lost in each other's
eyes, and Luisa fiddled nervously with her hair.  It was clear, from
her sudden loss of composure, that she was every bit as shaken up as he
was.  From what he'd gathered from their various furtive meetings, he
knew her to be a woman of iron principle.  Despite the aura of
desolation that seemed to engulf her life, it wasn't her style, he was
sure of it, to steal another woman's husband.  She was far too proud.
He reached for both her hands and gently kissed the palms, then kissed
her again, more fervently, on the mouth.  I've wanted to do that from
the moment I first saw you."  "I know.  I have felt the same." 
William's heart was thumping out of control and his blood was rushing
in his ears with ecstasy.  She loves me!  He could hardly get his head
around the notion, a woman this chic and composed.  She took him
seriously, admired the man he was.  Was looking at him now with
yearning and love. But where did they go from here?  He had to decide;
time was fast running out and he still didn't know.  He couldn't just
turn his back and walk away from all he had worked so hard to achieve
with Edwina. The marriage might be heading towards the rocks but he
still wasn't totally sure if he wanted to jump ship.  A small, chubby
hand was plonked on his knee and there was a breathless Morwenna. 
She'd been out there in the meadow, looking for buttercups, and her
face was streaked with mud and bright golden pollen.  Saved by the
bell, he released his pent-up breath and began to see the humour of the
situation.  "Come here, poppet."  He fished out his handkerchief and
lovingly wiped her face.  He could not imagine a more effective passion
killer than a lively two-year-old perpetually in attendance.  Luisa,
luckily, found it amusing too.  As usual, their minds were working in
full accord.  She scooped up the child in a massive bear hug and buried
her face in the silky hair, breathing in the fragrance of her skin.
"Babies always smell like vanilla," she said.  "I wonder why that is."
"Purity," said William.  They are not yet polluted.  We might all learn
a lesson or two from them."  They walked, hands linked all three of
them, back to where reality set in, and William wished the moment might
be frozen in time.  To stroll on through eternity with these two female
creatures he loved, not to have to make a decision or come crashing
down from cloud nine.  But that, alas, was impossible.  Edwina would
shortly be home.  They stood in the entrance to Holland Park and he
dared once more to take her in his arms.  "We are going to have to
talk," he said, 'as soon as it can be arranged."  Without the watching
presence of Morwenna.  He was still no closer to knowing what he should
do.  Predominant in his mind right now was that he couldn't bear the
thought of letting her go.  "What can we do?"  Her eyes were tragic.
There can't be any future.  You're not free."  And then, quite simply,
she turned and walked away.  And William watched her go with a breaking
heart.  The news from Tim was encouraging.  Pilkington's blood group,
too, was a perfect match.  It was starting to look as if William might
be right and someone specifically targeting that particular blood
group.  But why?  Until they had that figured, it was still
inconclusive.  "Blood transfusions.  Think along those lines.  Assuming
they all were donors, which we'll check, that might be the catalyst
that unites them."  Tim wasn't with him.  William explained.  "Seems
the murderer must have an axe to grind."

"So we're looking for someone with blood type AB negative?"

"Slightly better odds than a needle in a haystack.  Remember the little
we already know.  That only three per cent of people share that group."
Still, it was hard to see how they ought to proceed.  First William put
in a call to Aisha for help.

He found himself reluctant to visit the surgery.  All of a sudden he
was bashful of facing Luisa.  Until he knew in his heart for certain
exactly what he wanted, it wasn't fair to batter her emotions any more.
Away from her, with his sanity partially restored, he saw in stark
detail the truth of their situation.  There was nothing he could offer
her, not while he was a kept man.  And he would not risk destroying the
marriage and forfeiting the child.  He had acted too impetuously.  The
day of reckoning had arrived.  His wife was on her way back; he would
have to come clean.

Aisha was her usual friendly self, intrigued to know the background to
his inquiries.

"I'll explain some time, I promise," he said.  But felt that, right
now, it was somehow bad luck if too many knew what he was up to.  Tim
and Luisa, those were the people he trusted.  Not even Mrs.  P would be
part of this little cabal.

"What happens," he asked, 'to the blood that is donated?  Where does it
actually go once it's been taken?"

To various blood banks around the country.  To be stored for use
whenever needed."

"And do they keep any documentation of the names and identities of the
donors?"

"Indeed.  It's all on computer at the transfusion centre.  Can be
accessed at any time by an authorised person."

Slowly, slowly it was starting to come together.  And where would the
probable centre be, he wanted to know.

"Bristol, almost certainly' said Aisha promptly.  They have closed down
many of the others.  That's the main one."

"What we really need now," said Tim brightly, 'is another murder on
which to test our facts."  Everything seemed to be falling into place.
They could scarcely believe how well they'd done.

"Since he appears to be closing in," said William grimly, 'my guess is
that the next one will be here in London."

THIRTY-THREE

Josephine was in the front garden, pruning the roses, when Harvey
eventually appeared.  He had sleeked back his thick greying hair with
his silver-backed brushes and fixed his heavy silk tie into a perfect
old-fashioned knot.  His suit was classic, his grooming immaculate; his
cologne had the sharp tang of lime.  He had even clipped his nostril
hairs and flossed his teeth till the gums bled.  Turning his head from
side to side in front of the triptych mirror, he sucked in his stomach
and checked his breath, then popped a strong mint in his mouth to be
doubly sure.  Now that he was so much in the public eye, it paid to
take no chances.  "Off to the House?"  she asked innocently, strolling
over to the car.  Harvey let down the electronic window; he hated it
when she enquired but she was his wife.  He had been with Jo Jo now for
twenty-two years.  The world saw them as the ideal couple.  There's a
three-line whip at eleven," he said, 'so I'll probably stay up there
overnight."  Jo Jo smiled without any sign of rancour.  As patient,
long-suffering helpmeets went, she was, beyond question, the tops.

"Poor you," she said, without a trace of irony.  "It's shocking just
how hard they make you work."  No longer the pale beauty she had been
when they first met, she had nevertheless handled the interim years
with grace.  Still slim as a girl with skin like a wild rose, she had
surreptitiously desiccated from within.  From across a room, with her
colourless curly hair, she still possessed the appeal of her debutante
days.  Only when approached more closely, and the slightly fixed stare
of her eyes became apparent, was it noticeable that she might not be
quite as stable as she seemed.  Twenty-two years of marriage to Harvey
had certainly taken their toll.  Deprived of the children she had
always longed for, she had sunk herself into her public role.  Wife to
an increasingly eminent politician with leadership possibilities
looming large.  Life for the gentle and charming Josephine Greenslade
ought to have been a dream but was not.  "What time tomorrow will you
be back, dear?"  She was more than resigned to his absences.  "Not
certain. I'll have to let you know."  Since they'd moved back to London
from the peace of the Cotswolds, life had assumed a frenetic patina she
still hadn't quite got to grips with.  But it wasn't in Jo Jo's nature
to make a fuss.  She was still quite in awe of the brilliant man who
had picked her, and content, more or less, to remain in his shadow.  No
matter how lonely it often was.  "Don't go exhausting yourself, then,"
she said, pecking him .  on the cheek.  "Remember we have the
constituency dinner on Thursday as well as the Strasbourg trip at the
weekend."  She did make a marvelous social secretary, not that he
actually needed one.  He had four staff members to back him up here and
a couple more besides in Westminster.  But he humoured his wife by
allowing her to meddle, provided it didn't intrude.  It was, after all,
her family home they now lived in, her inheritance on which his whole
career was based.  When the lure of politics had decreed that he should
marry, shrewd Harvey

Greenslade had chosen both wisely and well.  Josephine Hamilton was
pure cut glass.  It suited all his purposes to cherish her.  Her
father, Sir Douglas Hamilton, had been the sitting member until his
untimely death in the street from a stroke.  Strings had been pulled
and Harvey shoe-horned in, released from the sleepy backwater that had
so much bored him.  This was certainly more like it, the safest Tory
seat in the whole country.  They had been out of office quite long
enough; he had strong expectations of the June election.  A couple of
committees and his morning's work was done.  Harvey took a leisurely
lunch at the Tate, then indulged himself by wandering through the
Turners, which always made him feel a better man.  By three he was
done, still with time on his hands, so he grabbed a taxi to William IV
Street and the private drinking club he had long frequented.  If his
luck was in, who knew what might transpire?  His libido lately had been
feeling pretty frisky.  He kept this side of his life from Jo Jo,
though occasionally wondered how much she actually guessed.  What was
never referred to could do no harm.  They remained punctiliously
courteous towards each other.  There was always the risk that the press
might cotton on, but that only added to the thrill of these adventures.
Provided he maintained an uxorious public persona, Harvey reckoned
smugly that he was smarter than any of them.  They would have to run
very fast indeed if they wanted to trip him up.  He returned to the
Westminster flat at five for a nap and a shower before dinner.  He was
taking his constituency chairman to the Garrick for a contingency
powwow on the election.  If they got it right and he thought they
probably would by June he might well be in the Cabinet.  And after
that, the sky was surely the limit.  Harvey relished the thought of so
much power.  He had come a considerable way in the last two decades,
since his days as a very flash advertising man, and was steadily
re-inventing himself. The move to Campden Hill Square was opportune
-when his mother-in-law, poor old dear, went into a home and
represented the acme of all his social cravings.  Next stop Downing
Street if the election went their way.  Harvey Greenslade was riding
high, a very self-confident man.

He had chosen this block for its high-tech security as much as the
division bell proximity.  He could cross the road in a matter of
minutes without ever having to inconvenience himself.  Not for him all
those tedious wasted hours, hanging around in the House, simply waiting
to vote.  That was a mug's game, and Harvey was by no means a mug but a
vertically aimed projectile, accelerating fast.

"Evening, Jones," he said to the security man, surrounded in his
cubicle by his flickering bank of screens.

"Evening, sir," said the black man deferentially.  He'd been trained as
a prison guard before pulling out this plum.  He slid off his stool to
press the lift button and stood there, respect incarnate, until it
arrived.  He secretly didn't much care for the man, found him
overbearing and a bully, but had learned early on the way to keep him
sweet.  Grovel, grovel, grovel, like an old-fashioned Uncle Tom, and
always be on hand with a smile and a cheery word.

"Weather's a little brighter," he said as the lift doors started to
close.  "Seems like we may yet be getting a glimpse of spring."

He was still on the late shift when Harvey returned after midnight,
having done his electoral duty by the whips.  The Garrick dinner had
been entirely satisfactory and they'd toasted their certain success
with a series of brandies.  Then he'd said goodnight to the stuffy
constituency chairman and walked on into Soho for dessert.  The bad
thing about politics was the unremitting dullness.  He felt he was more
than due some recreation.

"Oh, by the way," he said casually now to Jones, "I'm expecting a bit
of company later.  Send them up."  "Right, sir," said Jones, his ebony
face impassive.  He was used to Harvey Greenslade's erratic life.  Once
the lift doors had clanged shut, he returned to reading his paper, with
one eye cocked on the bank of security screens.  Very little amiss ever
went on here; the nights were usually long and uneventful.  The
building was as fortified as MI5.  Not the most exciting of jobs but
certainly very well paid.  Cushy, too, in this airless, well-heated
building.  Certainly compared to the prison service.  Jones was careful
never to step out of line.  He'd not find a gravy train like this
again.  When the doorbell rang and he buzzed in the caller, he was
startled to see a motorcycle courier.  He glanced at the clock, almost
ten to one.  Surely they didn't normally work this late?  The courier
still had his visor down and was clutching an official-looking box.
Jones leaned forward to take it from his hands but the man firmly shook
his head.  It had to be handed direct to Mr.  Greenslade. Parliamentary
top security and all that.  "You want me to call him now?" asked Jones,
amazed.  The courier simply nodded silently.  Well, on your head be it
... He clicked on the connection and was further surprised when
Greenslade told him to send the fellow up.  After that, with the couple
of beers he'd had, Jones found it hard to keep his eyes from closing. 
Curtis would shortly be relieving him.  Tonight it had seemed a very
long shift.  He nodded off in the comfort of his den and actually never
saw the visitor leave.  Though, of course, that would not go down on
his records.  Whatever the cameras might say.  Curtis, the other
security guard, was on duty when the PPS arrived.  Robin was a pleasant
young man, fresh-faced and engagingly enthusiastic.  Always treated the
staff as equals, in politics an invaluable plus.

"How is he this morning?"  he asked breezily as he walked by, arms as
usual laden with government papers.  Greenslade was famed for his very
uncertain temper.  Among the denizens of Westminster, he was not a
popular man.  "Haven't actually seen him today.  He hasn't yet been
down."  Unusual, now he thought of it, for Greenslade was a regular
early riser.  "Must be sleeping it off," said Robin with a knowing
grin. When he failed to gain admittance, Robin used his own key and was
startled to see that the bedroom door was still closed.  Ten to ten and
a mountain of work to be got through.  He hesitated disturbing him;
wasn't quite sure what he should do.  In the end he returned, rather
lamely, to the lobby to consult the security guard.  "It seems he isn't
even up yet," he said.  "And I really don't want to be the one to
disturb him.  Would you mind ringing him, to warn him that I'm here,
and I'll go across the street for a quick cup of coffee."  Curtis
dutifully dialled the number, which simply rang and rang.  "Are you
sure he's actually in there?"  he asked and the PPS shook his head. 
"He said he was staying up last night because of the three-line whip.
Maybe he changed his mind and went home to Kensington."  Why he needed
these two fancy London addresses was something the young man could
never comprehend.  But if Greenslade had gone home to Campden Hill
Square, he would surely have let him know by now.  And be back here in
time for this morning's regular briefing.  The bedroom door's closed. 
I didn't like to wake him."  They looked at each other for a moment's
mute understanding.  Then: "Better get back up there, I suppose, and
take a proper look."  The blinds were down and the room in absolute
darkness, but Robin could just make out someone on the bed.  He coughed
rather loudly and rattled around, but still the figure didn't move.

"Sir?"  he whispered enquiringly, before daring to switch on the light.
"Christ!"  he said then at his normal volume.  And belted back
downstairs to fetch the guard.  Harvey Greenslade was handcuffed to the
bed, wearing nothing but a laced-up leather mask.  The quilt was rolled
back and the sheets drenched with blood.  The smell in the over-heated
room was appalling.  Curtis efficiently felt for a pulse but the body
was already stone cold.  He must have been in this state for a matter
of hours.  The question was: how had the murderer gained access?  And
where had he vanished to after the deed had been done?  Robin went to
unlace the mask but Curtis was professional enough to stop him.  "Wait,
don't touch him.  You could destroy valuable evidence.  We must call
the cops and do it the proper way."  "But the press .. ."  wailed
Robin, imagining the headlines and his boss splashed in lurid detail
across the front pages.  The man was a jerk and he'd never been able to
like him but, still, there was a limit to what he deserved.  And the
wife was nice.  At the thought of her, Robin felt himself on the brink
of tears.  Someone would have to break the news.  He had a nasty
feeling he knew who that would be.  Curtis stuck to his guns.  He was a
pro.  "I don't give a shit about the press," he said.  Tt has to be
done by the book."  Which first meant covering his own delicate hide. 
He couldn't be seen to have been on duty when it happened.  As long as
it could be pinned down to Jones's shift, then he might still be in the
clear.  And at least they would have the surveillance tapes of anyone
coming or going.  This time the police came out in full force, sirens
screaming, the works.  No more shoving it under the carpet; this was
the metropolis, the victim a public figure.  Within minutes of Curtis's
call they arrived, five big men all squashed into the lobby with
mobiles, forensic kit, even a sniffer dog.  They followed Curtis grimly
up to the flat, with Robin trailing ineffectually in their wake.  They
all grouped round the grisly scene on the bed and the pathologist took
his time examining the corpse.  Dead at least six hours, was the
pronouncement.  And then the officer in charge proceeded to unlace the
hood.

Greenslade's face was contorted in a grimace which might have started
as pleasure but rapidly changed to pain.  The leather had constricted
him so his cheeks were purple and puffy.  His eyes had turned bright
scarlet by whatever it was that had been done.  As the lacing was
loosened and the hood fell away, the group round the bed watched in
horror.  Robin, by now, was feeling distinctly queasy.  He wasn't at
all sure that he was up to it.  This was far worse than anything he'd
imagined but, then, he'd led a relatively sheltered life.

The lacing finally parted, the leather fell away, and Greenslade's
head, propped up on a pile of pillows, lolled forward and practically
came off.  The knife had gone into his throat so deeply that only the
tendons and spinal cord were holding it all together.  In addition to
which, he'd been slashed from throat to groin, as effectively gutted as
a fish.  Robin's head began to swim and he made it to the bathroom just
in time.  As he knelt with his head over the lavatory bowl, his
thoughts were full of the delicate Josephine Greenslade.  And how she
would ever survive a trauma like this.

THIRTY-FOUR

Edwina was home from Canada, seemingly still subdued, though William,
for the first time, scarcely noticed.  Too much else right now was
going on in his life for him to care about her selfish mood
fluctuations.  She had had her chance and blown it royally.  One of
these days he intended to have it all out.  Meanwhile his principal
preoccupation was worrying about the Greenslade murder.  The publicity
was splattered across all the front pages.  At last they'd got the
message and were taking action.  He cursed himself, as he had so many
times, for having been such a reckless fool as to get himself noticed
in the first place.  If it hadn't been for that Argus article, he would
not have been glimpsed on television.  With the name of the street, as
well as the house number, prominently displayed.  And even though
Greenslade had actually been killed in Westminster, the world now knew
exactly where he had lived.  Just around the corner, in Campden Hill
Square, far too close to Hillgate Place for comfort.  If only William
had kept his sleuthing to himself, he would be that much better able to
sleep at night.  He had allowed conceit to stand in the way of cool
reason, thus setting himself and his family up as prime targets.  The
more they found out about this ruthless killer, that much more
horrendous it became.

The obvious thing now would be to take it all to the police and throw
himself and his family under their protection.  Yet William still
hesitated, uncertain if this were wise.  What if they simply screwed up
as they had before?  He kept closely in touch with the valiant Tim,
still doing sterling research, tracking down the families of the
victims.  He'd established already that several were regular donors.
They were also turning out AB negative as well.  The problem now was to
link them in some way, for which he needed access to the records.
Again, of course, the police might be able to assist them, though
they'd more likely take it all away and shut out William and Tim. Which
William wasn't prepared to allow, not at this late stage.  They had
come so far, done so much research, he was still determined to crack it
himself.

The Scotland Yard crime squad were giving the two security men a
thorough going over.  They worked in alternating eight-hour shifts,
during which each was solely responsible for the building's safety.
Jones, suppressing the fact that he might have nodded off, assured them
categorically he'd seen nothing out of the ordinary.  Only a couple of
tenants, both of them Labour MPs, returning late after voting in the
House.  Plus a motorcycle courier delivering an urgent package, whom
he'd sent straight up to Mr.  Greenslade, as directed.  They replayed
the surveillance tapes and studied them, frame by frame, and there
indeed was the messenger entering the lobby.  Dressed entirely in black
leather and still wearing his helmet with the opaque visor down.

"Aren't you supposed to insist they remove their headgear?"  asked one
of the crime squad.  "So you can check them out?  Like in the banks."

Jones thought rapidly and warily scratched his head, uncertain of the
appropriate reply.  It was something he hadn't encountered before
though, now he came to think of it, they were right.  Best tread
carefully or he'd find himself out on his ear.  And he with young
children still at school.  "Don't really know," he said, after a
cautious pause.  This one certainly seemed in a bit of a hurry.  And
Mr.  Greenslade was expecting him.  Had said to send him straight up."
Assuming, of course, it was the courier he had meant.  But no one else
had visited him that night.  The two men studying the tapes exclaimed
and the rest of them crowded round.  "What happened to the courier?  He
seems never to have reappeared."  "Is there a back entrance?"  Jones
shook his head.  Not one out of range of the bank of cameras.  Perhaps
there was a missing tape.  Again Jones shook his head; they were all in
careful sequence, numbered with date and time.  The system was pretty
effective.  "So where the hell did he get to?  You must know.  You
surely had to let him out at some point."  Jones began to panic. 
Didn't know what to say.  Could hardly admit that he might just have
nodded off.  He pointed out that it was right at the end of his shift.
Probably Curtis had been the one to see the man leave.  "All right,"
said the head honcho wearily.  "We'll come back to you again later."
Give you a second chance, was what he meant.  They still had Curtis to
interview.  Perhaps he would prove a slightly more lucid witness.  But
they drew a blank with him, too, though he couldn't have been more
obliging.  He'd started his vigil a little after one and seen no one at
all until dawn.  The graveyard shift was usually pretty dead with only
the arrival of the cleaners making any diversion.  "About what time
would that be?"  asked a policeman.  They were contracted in from an
outside cleaning firm.

"Four-ish," said Curtis, efficiently checking his clipboard.  They work
at night so as not to disturb the residents."  He fast-forwarded the
tape and suddenly there they were, a group of chattering overalled
women being let into the lobby.  "Stop right there," commanded a senior
officer and they all peered more closely at the group.  Five of them,
looking pretty much the same, small and olive-skinned, quite obviously
foreign.  Cypriots or something like that, all of them interchangeable.
"Don't know what this country would do without its illegal immigrants,"
remarked one of the crime squad cynically.  "Paid, no doubt, in
backhanders without needing to bother about tax or insurance like the
rest of us."  They rewound the tape and watched it through again, the
women dispersing to their designated areas.  "How long are they usually
here?"  "About a couple of hours.  See," he said, fast-forwarding
again. Ten past six and they're leaving."  Each of the women was now
carrying a large bin bag, tied at the top in a knot.  They surged
through the doorway and into a waiting van, faintly discernible through
the smoked glass.  "And that was all that happened last night?"  He
nodded.  Till Robin arrived.  Yet somehow upstairs a man had been
violently butchered.  And they hadn't the least idea how it could have
been done. "Perhaps it was a neighbour," suggested one of the crime
squad flippantly The place, after all, was swarming with Labour MPs.
"Unlikely," said his boss, ignoring the levity.  Though word throughout
the building had it that Greenslade hadn't exactly been flavour of the
month.  He knew he shouldn't do it, it would only be unfair, but his
need to see Luisa became insupportable.  Despite his firm resolution to
leave her alone while he thought, he fretted for her unbelievably,
worse than he ever could have guessed.  Not only on a sexual level, she
had also turned into a friend.  He missed her calm and pragmatic
approach, would have liked to have had her take on what he should do.
He knew that if he contacted her, he'd be potentially endangering her
life, but needed her logical and intelligent understanding to help him
work things out.  Going to the police was not enough.  He couldn't
guarantee they'd understand.  And it was far too late to involve Edwina
who, anyway, had problems of her own.  Also, he ached to make love to
Luisa.  Was sick like a schoolboy in the throes of first love.  Mrs.  P
picked up on it fast, as she would.  "You all right?"  she asked him
more than once, cocking a shrewd eye on his obvious suffering. Whatever
had been going on was clearly beginning to take its toll.  And just as
the missus had come home.  She hoped he might confide in her but
William wasn't playing.  Murder was one thing, in the public domain,
but this entirely private.  "Just thinking about the murder," he lied. 
"It being on our doorstep this time round."  "Oo yes," said Mrs. P with
immediate relish, back on her favourite topic.  "You knew him, didn't
you?"  Sorting through her pail.  She lapped up any titbit concerning
celebrity.  "Met him a couple of times.  Didn't like him. Far too
smooth and phoney for my taste.  I'm not surprised that they bumped him
off.  The best sort of Tory is a dead one."  But for once he couldn't
get her to rise.  She was far more fly than she appeared. Whatever was
bothering him was even closer to home.  He'd never succeed in pulling
the wool over her eyes.  He was wondering whether he dared call the
surgery when he had the most amazing piece of luck.  He was standing in
the Tesco checkout queue, his mind a million miles away, when she
tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  "Luisa!  How marvelous!" He kissed
her cheek, longing to crush her to his chest and ravish her on the
spot.  "I was thinking of you.  Where can we go to talk?"  He was
hoping she might invite him to her home.  Luisa, looking as unworldly
as a convent girl, appeared to give the matter serious thought.  Either
she was leading him on or else she was too high-principled to read his
mind correctly.  Whatever, he found her innocence irresistible and felt
he might spontaneously combust.  They landed up in a seedy cafe halfway
up the Earls Court Road.  The surroundings were abysmal but neither of
them cared; all they wanted was the chance to be together.  He'd left
Morwenna with the doting Mrs. E The weather was turning bad again and
she had the beginnings of a cough.  It felt good, just occasionally, to
have her off his hands.  He found all that full-time vigilance
exhausting.  Luisa, he thought when he came to study her, looked
slightly drawn, perhaps even thinner.  Her usually glossy hair was flat
and dull, the area round her mouth a little pinched.  Wordlessly, he
took her hand and raised it to his lips.  She asked politely if Edwina
were safely home and he curtly told her that she was.  All he could
think of, as he gazed into her eyes, was the ache of deprivation he
felt in both heart and groin.  "How've you been?"  he asked gently, and
she shook her head with emotion, fumbling in her handbag for a tissue. 
As bad as that?  Hope rose wildly in his chest and he stumbled on with
what he was trying to say. "I've missed you too.  Unimaginably.  Hadn't
really understood till now exactly how much I care."  Edwina might be
back in body but her mind was clearly still preoccupied elsewhere. 
They'd hardly even had a proper conversation.  The difference was he
was now immune.  The pain had gone, it no longer hurt.  The focus of
his life was sitting right here.  He picked up her hand and tenderly
kissed the palm and she made no attempt to resist him but left it
there.  "Is there somewhere we could go and really be together?"  Her
home, a rented room, even a hotel.  Luisa mutely shook her head, her
eyes two pools of misty sorrow.  Whatever it was restraining her, he
knew that he mustn't try to force her.  Had already been far more
uncontrolled than he ought. Something in her real life was obviously
holding her back and only time would allow her to work it through.  He
tried to swing the conversation back by telling her more about the
Greenslade case.  As if she would care, but at least it made a
diversion.  They both needed space and time in which to think.  "It
seems," he said, 'that our killer is closing in.  I'll be fascinated to
see where he strikes next."  Colour returned slowly to Luisa's wan
cheeks and she started to breathe more normally.  William released her
hand and stirred his tea.  He needed to get a grip on his overwrought
emotions.  Tell me one thing," he asked her boldly.  "Do I stand a
chance in the end of ever seducing you?" There, it was out, and she
didn't pull away but smiled with amusement and laid her hand on his
cheek.  "Everything comes to be who waits," she said.  And that was as
good as he was going to get, at least for the time being.  One thing he
could be thankful for, she hadn't entirely rejected him out of hand. 
She had obviously paid close attention to the case, seemed to know
almost as much about it as he did.  "Have you come up with any new
theories?"  she asked and he told her that was part of the basic
problem.  He outlined briefly Tim's progress with research and said
they were making strides with the blood group theory.  Luisa seemed
fascinated and asked a lot of questions. She hadn't known AB negative
was so rare.  "Only three per cent of the population."  "Wow!  I'm just
an ordinary Blood Group O myself." There's nothing at all ordinary
about you, my dear."  And this time he did dare to kiss her on the
mouth.  "Behave," she admonished, pushing him away.  There were people
in the cafe who were staring.  "Why do you suppose he is coming after
you?"

"I would have thought that obvious," said William in darkened mood.
"After that bloody interview I gave."  "Do take care," she said with
growing concern.  "I simply couldn't bear it if anything happened to
you."  "Bless you."  He kissed her again with fervour and this time she
didn't resist.  "But you don't need to worry.  I'm thinking of doing
the right thing and taking what I know to Scotland Yard.  Tim and I are
a little out of our depth.  It's time, I think, that we 'fessed up to
the authorities."  She seemed relieved, then said she had to go.  But
agreed to meet him again whenever he wanted.  At least, on the romantic
front, he seemed to be making strides.  As he walked her back through
Holland Park, his heart was really singing.  But he still wasn't sure
about going to the police.  On an impulse, he stopped off at Polly's
house in case she could throw some light on the Greenslade case.  He
found her pottering in the conservatory, delighted at an excuse for an
early drink.  "Shocking, isn't it?"  she said with salacious glee as
she poured a couple of massive dry martinis.  "Poor Jo Jo doesn't know
what has hit her.  I can't imagine what on earth she's going to do." 
"Do the police have any idea who might have done it?"  Polly shook her
head. "Not that they're divulging, at least.  I assume it was one of
his casual pick-ups.  Off the record, the bastard had it coming." 
William was intrigued.  "Do tell."  "Well," said Polly, with
ill-concealed enjoyment.  "It wasn't exactly Clapham Common but I never
really thought him entirely straight."  "Didn't know him that well. 
Only encountered him twice.  Though he did seem a bit of a slimy toad."
He remembered the handshake and the cold, hard eyes, the habit of
looking past you as he talked.

"He hated women in that typically British way.  Despised them all and
constantly slighted his wife."

"So why on earth did she marry him?"  asked William ingenuously.  It
couldn't have been for the money, since that was hers.

"Loved him, I guess.  Women do silly things.  And he certainly was dead
handsome in his youth."

He asked if she knew whether Greenslade had been a blood donor.

"I would think so," she said, 'he was always a public do-gooder.  It's
just the sort of thing he would make a big show of.  Man of the people,
future leader, setting a good example wherever he could.  Even though
his private life was dreck."  She pulled a face.

They gossiped on and she poured him the other half.  Until,
reluctantly, he told her he had to go.  Edwina would be home in a
couple of hours and he still had the supper to prepare.  Plus bathing
the child and getting her up to bed.  As he walked the few yards to his
own front door, he thought about Harvey Greenslade.  Not a nice man but
no one deserved to be murdered.  Definitely not as horrendously as
that.

THIRTY-FIVE

The trip hadn't exactly been an unqualified success, though Edwina had
no intention of letting William know that.  He seemed strangely
altered, which alarmed her slightly, polite yet at the same time
unnervingly remote.  She was so accustomed to his staid old ways,
hadn't properly focused on him in months.  After the four hectic days
of the trade fair, they had taken a helicopter ride to Victoria, where
Gareth, pulling out all the stops, had booked them a suite in a vast
old-fashioned hotel looking straight out across the harbour where
whales could occasionally be sighted.  They had so much space it was
laughable, balconies on each of the bedrooms and a dining room with a
full set of high-backed chairs.  Even a kitchen and separate laundry
room.  She dared not ask how much it all was costing.  "We could live
here," she said, and for a moment the idea took hold.  No one would
ever be likely to track them down.  They could start another life
together, free of this terrible mess.  But the lack of response in
Gareth struck a chill.  And, in any case, sooner or later they would
have to go home and face the music.

Only not quite yet.  Three more days of this fantasy life with the hope
that he'd finally let her into his heart.  At least give some
indication of how he felt.  At the fair they'd both projected their
customary laughing confidence and Gareth had been very evidently proud
of how she looked.  They had networked and partied as energetically as
they could and stayed up each night far too late.  The radiation
between them had never been more intense, but now they'd decamped to
damp and breezy Victoria, she felt that heat ebbing away.  She wasn't
quite sure what he wanted from her.  Perhaps just a murky office fling.
Which was why she was feeling so despondent now.  Edwina was not
accustomed to being slighted.  The share price was still wavering; they
weren't yet out of the rough.  And dot com companies were crashing all
about them.  Bean counter Barry was still tight-lipped; the
extravagance of the West Coast trip had not improved his mood.  Still,
they were the main shareholders, Gareth and herself, so ultimately the
buck stopped entirely with them.  They seemed to have stirred up a lot
of potential business.  Barry just hoped that, when the dust did
finally settle, firm orders would prove it all to have been worthwhile.
Otherwise they still risked losing the lot which, to Edwina at least,
meant everything she'd got.  She had asked him if he loved her and he'd
fed her the usual pap, but only when in the throes of passionate sex.
At mealtimes or out in public he rarely even touched her, and the bite
of his caustic wit had a new feral edge.  On more than one occasion he
had reduced her almost to tears.  He appeared to enjoy humiliating her
and simply shrugged it off.  Occasionally she caught him talking
furtively on his mobile but he always ended the call when he knew she
was there.  So altogether, not a happy time.  She even found herself
feeling slightly homesick.  William, on the other hand, was on an
incredible high, for everything suddenly seemed to be coming together.
He had real hopes now of a future of sorts with Luisa, reckoned it
could be just a matter of time.  The thought of destroying his marriage
was still far too painful to consider, but the love he now felt for the
diffident Sicilian was something that could not be denied.  She was
well worth the wait, of that he was convinced and, in any case, he
seemed to be losing Edwina.  Whatever was going on in her complicated
mind, she appeared no longer to want to share with him.  Which was all
right with William, since now he couldn't care less.  Provided, of
course, he could hold on to Morwenna.  And then Tim rang with some
really excellent news.  He had finally succeeded in tracking down
Robert Marsh.  "He's been away.  On an expedition to Peru.  Wanted to
turn his back on his terrible sorrow."  But now he was safely returned
to Northampton, attempting to pick up the shards of his shattered life.
And, to Tim's amazement, had even agreed to talk.  He suddenly wanted
to get things off his chest.  And do whatever he could to help catch
the murderer.  "Where does he stand now with the police?"  asked
William.  Presumably he was no longer on bail if they'd allowed him out
of the country.  "He's a free man," said Tim, 'because of his DNA.
Though very embittered by the way it's all been mishandled.  The fact
they appear to have totally botched up."  "But he'll talk to you?"
"Actually welcomes it.  In fact, has a burning desire to back us up;
Which was truly satisfying after all the disheartening months.  William
thought once again how glad he was that he'd renewed his trust in the
estimable Tim.  Meanwhile, in the metropolis, much was still being made
of the Greenslade murder.  Dirt was being dredged up about his private
life and the implications were that it had been an accident waiting to
happen.  Ancient rivals with scores to settle kept popping up out of
the woodwork.  And wretched Mrs.  Greenslade, so Polly reported, had
gone into the Priory to recover.  William, however, still privately
stuck to his guns.  The facts all fitted his blood group theory; even
the vicinity was right.  They were looking at a time several years ago,
if they followed the trail from the murder of Aunt Jane.  At which
point the Greenslades were living just outside Kemble, bang in the
centre of William's target zone.  If he had given blood, which was
still being ascertained, he fitted the victims' profile absolutely.
Which was more than just coincidence, of that William was convinced.
This was just the biggest fish so far to surface.  "Probably I should
have gone to the police," he told Luisa, 'but I just couldn't bear it
if they fucked things up again."  And once they'd got their hands on
all his data, he knew they were more than likely to have slammed the
door in his face.  That was petty bureaucracy; he wasn't prepared to
risk it.  Not when he might just be reeling the murderer in.  She was
sympathetic, had total belief in his logic.  Admired him for being such
an honest and upright man: They were endeavouring to meet now on an
almost daily basis and Morwenna was quite ecstatic at so many treats.
They had done the Natural History Museum and also Kensington Palace and
now he was wondering if they dared go further afield.  Edwina seemed
sunk in a gloom of such despondency, he no longer really cared if the
child spilled the beans.  Edwina was used to him hanging around with
Polly, turned up her nose at what she termed her 'feather-brained bimbo
set'.  Which wasn't entirely fair, but he didn't bother to argue.  At
least, if she despised them, she was unlikely to get possessive and
Luisa could very easily be one of them.  Tim, it transpired, had
certainly struck gold when he doggedly continued to follow up Robert
Marsh.  The man still looked ragged, with cheekbones like chiselled
flint, and his hair was far 30i more ashen than in the photographs.  He
had aged a good ten years in as many months but had finally turned the
stopcock on his emotions.  What had happened was now history; he'd the
rest of his life for regret.  Right now the only thing he wanted was
action.  The house, Tim noted, was more or less shut up, with the
blinds on some of the rooms still firmly closed.  The garden was a
wilderness and the swing beginning to rust.  The light had surely gone
out of his life the day his family died.  He showed Tim into the
spacious kitchen where dishes were piled in the sink.  The table was
littered with surveys and reports; he had moved his centre of
operations to this room.  "I can't face the rest of the house," he
confessed.  "Would you like me to make us some coffee?"  Tim,
obligingly, helped him tidy up, sensing the male camaraderie was
breaking the ice.  He had to tread as delicately as possible, knowing
this territory to be a potential minefield.  So he cheerfully sluiced
plates and stacked them in the rack, then took a cloth and efficiently
wiped down the work tops  An appealing room, he noticed with
appreciation.  How much nicer it would have been with a woman's touch. 
Bit by bit he gained Robert Marsh's trust and then they settled down
for a proper talk.  Edwina, meantime, was anxiously studying the Dow
Jones, occasionally ringing her father for moral support.  If things
failed to work out, there was not a lot more she could do.  Except,
perhaps, to pray or bet on the horses.  She had done all she could and
given it her best.  That single fact she knew was indisputable.  "What
does William say?"  asked Arnold Fairchild, hardly bothering to
disguise the fact that he considered his son-in-law a wimp.  "He is
very supportive," said Edwina hurriedly, unwilling to admit they were
barely speaking these days.  She still wasn't sure how she'd managed to
achieve it, but everything in her life was an unholy mess.  She came
home early and started preparing supper, a sort of expiation of her
sins.  What she needed now more than anything was William's arms around
her and the old unconditional love she had always relied on.  What she
got was an empty house and echoing silence. Whatever it was they got up
to, they weren't home yet.  Edwina peeled potatoes and put on an oxtail
stew, then ran upstairs on a whim to wash her hair.  Something was
badly wrong and she suddenly knew it.  She found herself shaking with
cold apprehension until she heard the sound of his key in the lock. 
"Hi there!"  she called, with as much levity as she could muster,
flitting down the stairs in her velour housecoat. William, arms full of
shopping, merely gaped.  His wife had become a virtual stranger in her
own house.  Morwenna, ignoring her, wailed to be released, then ran
into the playroom to turn on the telly.  They were, Edwina saw, a quite
separate entity, complete and perfectly functional, sufficient unto
themselves.  "You're home early.  Anything wrong?"  As he unpacked meat
and groceries, there wasn't a hint of sarcasm.  "Just thought it long
overdue that we spent some time together."  She flung her arms
impulsively about his neck and kissed him, surprising them both. 
"Don't worry about supper.  I've got a stew in the oven."  And some
extra special burgundy in the wine rack. William, slightly baffled,
managed to disentangle himself then popped upstairs to his study to
sort out his head.  Now what was she up to? He was filled with instant
suspicion.  When Edwina played the little woman there was definitely
something amiss.  The meal was great and he the first to say so, as he
mopped up succulent gravy with fresh French bread.  "You've used
Guinness," he said approvingly and she laughed at his expertise.  There
had been a time, when they first got together, when he hadn't even
known how to boil an egg.

"I can still do it when I try.  I know I've been neglecting you
lately."  This was the moment that she ought to have come clean, but
somehow she sensed he wasn't listening.  There's a thing about Hitler
on later tonight," he said.  The first of a three-part series.  I think
I'll watch it.  No need for you to stay up," he added, starting to
clear away the plates.  Treat yourself to an early night.  I am quite
sure you richly deserve it."  And then, perhaps mercifully, the
telephone rang.  And Edwina never got to say her bit.  She finished
clearing up, while William talked to Tim, realising too late that they
hadn't even touched the salad.  Tim was positively jubilant.  Marsh had
really delivered.  Had fallen in with their theory and given it
substance.  The best part of all was his blood group was AB negative,
which suggested he'd been the prime target, though not in a
straightforward way.  "His feeling is that somebody wanted to hurt him.
And achieved that in the most vicious way by knocking off his wife and
little daughters."  "Has he any idea who that might have been?"  "None
whatsoever.  He is totally in the dark."  "And no one with a motive
comes to mind?"  "Not that he can think of.  I believe him."  The two
sat and thought in communicative silence, relieved to know that they'd
been on the right track.  "And he's definitely a donor?"  "Yes, he was
clear about that.  Gives blood regularly because of his rare group and
always to the same blood bank, which ought to help."  "Can we access
the files, do you suppose?"  William was suddenly getting hopeful.  Tim
was less confident.  "I'm not too sure about that."  Even his magic
press card might not prevail.  The time had come when they needed the
police, but both continued sceptical of the results.  If they hadn't
listened then, why should things have changed?  Except that they now
had Robert Marsh as their trump card.  It was Marsh, indeed, who
ultimately came to their rescue with his detailed knowledge of how the
transfusion service worked.  "Blood is taken and stored in many centres
until it is actually needed," he said.  "Is it mixed together,
according to blood group?" Tim asked him.  "Yes, so that it sort of
becomes anonymous."  "And who gets to use it?"  The notebook was out,
pencil poised.  Suddenly doors were magically starting to open.  At
last some explanation of their conundrum.  William's instincts had been
accurate all along.  "Any hospital or accident centre who needs it
suddenly.  In the case of real catastrophe the emergency services are
called in.  Blood is often transported from several different blood
banks.  It all depends on the immediacy of the circumstances."  "And,
presumably, also the rarity of the blood group."  "Quite so."  "So,"
said Tim triumphantly, talking again to William.  "All I need to do now
is go back through the newspaper files and look for major accidents in
the vicinity.  Which might have needed a large transfusion of blood." 
Like rail crashes, motorway pile-ups.  William was less sure.  "It's a
huge area for you to cover as well as a long stretch of time."  Already
five years since Jane Fairchild's death.  It seemed an impossible task
but Tim remained cocky.  "Leave it to me," he told William confidently.
"Remember I have friends and inside connections."  Luisa shyly shared
William's optimism when he poured it all out to her next day.  They had
daringly risked an afternoon cinema visit while Morwenna was safely
stowed with Polly's brood.  They sat entwined at the back of the local
flea pit sunk in old-fashioned armchairs, lost in their private world. 
Only a handful of pensioners were grouped in the front few rows. 
Otherwise they had the place to themselves.  It was some old Spanish
movie he'd been chasing for several years, but neither was very
involved in what was happening on the screen.  It took him back to his
teenage days, the thrilling, breathless furtiveness of it all.  The
close proximity, the fumbling, the thwarted desire.  Right now he had
never felt quite so sexually charged.

"I love you," he found himself murmuring, as he breathed in the essence
of her hair and felt her move instinctively closer in his embrace.

"I know," she responded, in a voice he could only just hear.

And then he kissed her, lingeringly and long, not knowing that by that
simple exchange he was irrevocably sealing their fate.

THIRTY-SIX

It was over, finito; the chips were finally down.  Overnight
fast.bucks.com had well and truly crashed.  The share price had dropped
by a hundred and twelve per cent and Edwina and Gareth's paper fortune
had effectively shrivelled into ashes.  All was lost.  They would have
to shut up shop and let the staff go.  And then crawl grovellingly back
to the financiers to explain just how badly they'd screwed up.  She
wept over the telephone to her father but all he could do was make
soothing sounds.  She had known all along it was a gamble, he reminded
her.  Now she must be a good, brave girl and learn how to ride the
storm.  One thing she was thankful for, she had not allowed him to
invest.  She remembered Gareth's wheedling suggestion and was glad she
had stood her ground.  Her parents' money was safe; that, at least, was
something.  Not that Arnold Fairchild would ever have been so unwise as
to speculate recklessly on something dreamed up by his daughter.  He
was adept at handing out free advice but far too canny to take a punt
himself.  Which was how he had held on to his affluence, she now
realised.  Another bitter lesson learned from life.

Now she had to go home and face William, and tell him she had casually
bankrupted them.  She knew that the house would almost certainly have
to go, though, beyond that, didn't dare conjecture.  She had managed to
raise half a million in loans and now the day of reckoning was upon
her.  Her father seemed confident she would make it all back in the
end.  She only wished she could share his positive attitude.  First,
however, there was Gareth to contend with.  He was in it every bit as
deeply as she was.  She refused to be the one to shoulder all the
blame, even though she felt she'd contributed most of the hard slog.
The team were standing around looking pale and grim, faced with the
prospect of sudden unemployment.  At a time when the whole industry was
notably in trouble and bright young things, like they were, two a
penny.  But Edwina, right now, could not spare them much sympathy.  She
was far too shocked to consider what she had done.  "It's your bloody
fault!"  she screamed at Gareth.  "You haven't been putting in the
hours."  Gareth, remarkably as suave and composed as ever, merely
raised one quizzical eyebrow and defused her.  "And whose idea was it
in the first place?"  he reminded her, buffing his nails languidly on
his sleeve.  "But I did most of the work," she said.  And you took
advantage of it, you sod.  "We both went into it with eyes wide open. 
We knew all along what a risk we were taking."  "But it could have
worked out, I know it could.  If only we had made a bit more effort." 
"Meaning me, I suppose?"  His demeanour was faintly mocking and now a
bitter smile quirked the corners of his mouth.  He was utterly vile,
she could see that plainly now, and had only ever been toying with her
for amusement. "You know I've worked my butt off," she said fiercely,
aware that their raised voices could be heard.  If only he would
comfort her, would share his own apprehension.  But he was as cold and
withdrawn as she'd ever seen him, as if she were nothing more than just
one of his cast-offs, way past her sell-by date.  Suddenly he started
to grin and she turned to see what he was finding so funny.  The
disdainful Portia was lolling at her desk, making no attempt to
disguise the fact she was listening.  Edwina wanted to spit at her. 
Instead she just legged it back to her work station.  It was
insufferable the way he was failing to support her.  Knowing what a
disaster this was for her.  Suddenly all she wanted was to be at home,
safe in their cosy kitchen with her husband and child.  She'd neglected
them both unforgivably all these months but now would do her utmost to
make amends.  William would sort things out, she knew that for certain.
Had never once let her down in all these years.  She told the team she
was going home and went off in search of a taxi.  She couldn't really
afford one any more but the thought of public transport was too
depressing.  The house was full of activity, with Mrs.  P running a
load.  She was singing along to Radio 2 while Morwenna sat crayoning at
the table.  "Mummy," she said as Edwina burst in, as though she hadn't
expected to see her.  She did have a point; it was only half past
eleven and lately she hadn't been home much, even at night.  "Something
wrong, pet?"  Mrs.  P shouted over the music, not even deigning to turn
the volume down.  Well, soon she'd be getting her marching orders,
thought Edwina with grim satisfaction. The woman was far too brazen for
her liking, treating the house as though it were her own.  Turn that
racket off," she barked, then looked around for William.  Just when she
needed him most he wasn't there. "Where's my husband?"  Mrs.  P simply
shrugged.  "I think he just stepped out for a breath of air."  Wearing
his good sports jacket and a hint of aftershave.  He hadn't said but
she hardly needed to ask; she hadn't come down in the last shower, no
way.  She was glad Edwina had caught him out, too.  The bitch had had
it coming all these years.

"D'you want a cup pa  she asked compliantly, automatically switching on
the kettle.  Edwina haughtily shook her head and stomped upstairs to
her bedroom.  Meanwhile Morwenna seemed totally unfazed.  Just went on
quietly with her colouring.

He was home by lunchtime, seeming a touch distracted and not at all his
usual equable self.  She didn't ask why she didn't dare but greeted him
more breezily than she felt.  He was taken aback to find Edwina there
and listened fairly stoically as she poured out all her woes.  Pale
sunshine at last was filtering through the storm clouds so they took a
bottle of wine out on to the patio and sat together on the old wooden
bench they had lugged home so enthusiastically from the garden centre.
Eons ago, or so it seemed, and now their world was crashing about their
ears.  Edwina badly wanted to cry as she looked around their small
patch, knowing they would soon have to give it up and all because of
her.  She painstakingly went through every detail and William listened
impassively.  He showed little sign of emotion, which was odd.  When at
last she finished, he just continued to stare into space, then said he
would make them a sandwich for their lunch.

"We'll just have to cope," was his only comment.  He had never much
bothered about material things.

What she craved more than anything was the comfort of his arms, but the
love he gave so lavishly to Morwenna no longer seemed to be forthcoming
to her.  Not that, in her heart, she could hold it against him.
Considering how unfaithful she had been, she no longer deserved it or
him.  If he knew about Gareth, he might turn and walk away and nobody
in the world could possibly blame him.  If only they could start all
over again but William still seemed so remote.  She bit back her sorrow
and tried to act normal.  She had to continue to put on a brave face,
if only for the child.

Worse was to follow, at least from Edwina's viewpoint.  When she
returned to the office early the next morning, she found her colleagues
buzzing with salacious gossip.  Gareth had gone, they told her
triumphantly.  Had cleared his desk and walked out.

"Bye, you suckers," he had said, by way of farewell.  "I'm off to start
a brand new life in the sun.  Hope you survive."  Just like that and
he'd meant it too.  She went through all his drawers and they were
empty.

"Where's Portia?"  she asked sharply, too stricken to cover up, and
complicitous glances passed among the group.

"Gone with him," said one of them, bolder than the rest, and Edwina saw
in their eyes how much they knew.  "Her father has a place in the South
of France."

She fled to the ladies and had a good cry, then walked on down the many
flights in order to avoid using the lift.  She dared not be seen till
she'd regained some composure, would not be made the office laughing
stock.

She sat miserably in a wine bar, wanting only to curl up and die.  All
she had ever striven for was now completely ruined and she wasn't
entirely certain she could survive.  She had really loved him and
thought he'd loved her too, had never known such intensity in their
lovemaking.  She thought of Rome and their recent time in Vancouver,
then put her head on the table and openly wept.  He had left her for
Portia, the trust fund babe, presumably to start a new affluent life.
He would doubtless marry her, he was getting on, and Portia couldn't be
more than half his age.  And rich.  At least, she thought as she
scrubbed at her swollen eyes, she had finally hit rock bottom.  Things
couldn't get any worse, which was some consolation.

She was wrong.

William had his own sorted life and Edwina didn't like to impinge.  She
had to admit that he coped remarkably well with both running the house
efficiently and Morwenna.  Even Mrs.  P had a clearly defined role in
their lives.  The mornings she came were filled with bustling activity.
Sitting in the playroom, trying to read to the child, Edwina could hear
the babble of conversation as they matily cleared things away. They
were still on about the murders and some crackpot new theory of his. 
He wouldn't have time for playing the sleuth once they put the house on
the market.  And Mrs.  P would have to go too, the sooner the better as
far as Edwina was concerned.  Morwenna was growing restless; the book
was a little too advanced.  Since the weather was better, she decided
to take her out.  Fresh air would do them both good.  "We're off to the
playground," she said, poking her nose round the door.  "Care to join
us?"  William shook his head.  He had other, more important, things on
his mind.  And if she took the child, he'd be able to escape and try to
sort out a problem of his own.  "Maybe I'll join you later," he said. 
"I have one or two small errands I must run first."  He was frantic to
see Luisa, trapped like a rat in a cage by his errant wife. He was so
used to having all his time to himself, he couldn't abide her
unexpected intrusion.  In some ways the crash of her business suited
his purposes, for an all-round upheaval might help him to sort out his
head.  Yet he also couldn't bear the thought of hitting her while she
was down, so would have to postpone any major confrontation for a
while.  He was sympathetic, just couldn't be bothered to show it, for
Edwina had had things her own way for far too long.  If only Luisa
would understand; he was cautiously confident that she might.  So long
as she knew that his feelings were real, she was decent enough not to
want to put herself first.  But she did deserve an explanation.  He
would hang around the surgery till she emerged.  Just thinking of Luisa
gave William a warm glow.  In a very short time she had grown such a
part of his life.  His heart began to flutter as he headed towards
Holland Park.  He felt like a foolish lovesick swam, more alive than he
had been in ages.  Edwina's disaster meant he'd have to get a job, so
at least, once again, he'd have money of his own.  Talk about silver
linings.  How they'd sort out the future he didn't know.  Provided it
didn't upset Morwenna, it was really more or less in the lap of the
gods.  He wandered up and down outside the surgery, not liking to
disturb her by going in.  She took her work very seriously and the room
was open plan.  When he'd tried it once before, she'd been obviously
embarrassed, so he hoped that today she was on the morning shift. Being
here reminded him of Aisha and the help she'd given him on the blood
group front.  He ought to go down to Cambridge and talk to Tim, felt
that just lately he hadn't been pulling his weight.  The news reports
on the Greenslade affair continued to dominate the headlines. The
murder of such a prominent figure, especially in such sleazy
circumstances, had finally caught the public's full attention.  So now
the police were suddenly on the job.  He still privately hoped he would
get to the killer first.  By 12.15 Luisa still hadn't appeared, so he
ventured to stick his nose round the surgery door.  He caught the eye
of the receptionist, who grinned when she saw him skulking.  "She's not
in this morning," she called to him.  Try again after lunch."  He
grinned and nodded, feeling a bit of an ass.  Was he making too much of
a spectacle of himself?  They must all consider him a frightful twerp.
He hoped it didn't discomfort Luisa too much.  If he walked very
briskly he could catch up with his girls and treat them both to a pizza
to save having to cook.  Edwina was slumped despondently on a bench
beside the playground, engrossed in the Financial Times.  Seeing the
words in stark, cold print made her dot com disaster seem even worse.

Now the world would know what a failure she was, after all the years
she had confidently swarmed around.  She hoped they wouldn't despise
her too much, that her father would continue to respect her.  Gareth,
in his accustomed way, had jumped ship just in time.  No doubt Portia's
father would see him all right, unless he detected what a fake the man
really was.  He had always used women and now she could see why.  She
ground her teeth to keep back the tears and bleakly wondered how on
earth they were going to cope.

A shadow fell across her.  William.  "Hi!"  he said, looking
considerably more cheerful.  The sun was shining, the gardens were full
of blossom.  Perhaps there could be a happy ending after all, as long
as he never found out about the affair.

'1 was reading the obits," she said, bravely trying to smile.  At least
they were in good company.  A hundred other new dotcoms had also
failed.

William sat down beside her and glanced at the paper.  "I thought we'd
all go for a pizza," he said.  He could see she was suffering, wanted
badly to make her feel better.  Felt terrible treachery at the way he'd
been carrying on.  He glanced around him.  Today the park was quiet.
Everyone else at work, of course.  Those of them who had jobs.

"Where's Morwenna?"  he said, the alert custodian, looking around the
playground for his child.

"Over there on the swings," said Edwina vaguely, chewing a hangnail
abstractedly as she read.

William stood up and turned a half-circle.  For once the playground was
completely devoid of children.  Even with this milder weather, the
wigwams were uninhabited.  While the swings hung listless and forlorn
like the one in the Marsh front garden.  Neglected like unwanted toys.
Deserted.

There was no sign anywhere of Morwenna.She had gone.

THIRTY-SEVEN

You bloody incompetent!"  William shrieked at her, virtually choking on
his panic.  "You've only gone and let some pervert steal our kid!"  For
a moment he thought he might actually die of rage, could feel his veins
bursting in his temples.  Edwina looked up from her paper and peered
around.  "What are you on about?  She's over there playing."  Only, of
course, she wasn't.  "Calm down," she said, beginning to take control.
"All that's happened is she's simply wandered off."  Men could be so
obtuse at times, though it wasn't at all like William to lose his cool.
William, still shaking, suppressed an urge to throttle her.  He should
never have allowed her to take Morwenna out on her own if this was the
measure of her responsibility.  No wonder she'd turned out such a lousy
mother, suited only for a high-flying business career.  Now, not even
that.  Edwina folded her paper carefully, stashed it in the stroller
and stood up.  She was more upset than she cared to let on but didn't
want William to see.  "You go that way' she said, pointing towards the
Round Pond,

'and I'll just check on the Bayswater Road."  Heaven forbid, let her
please not have wandered into traffic.  "We'll meet back here in, say,
fifteen minutes.  One of us will have found her by then.  Little
beast."  She even managed a half-smile.  The terrible twos, as they
were always reminding her.  Morwenna, despite her angelic appearance,
at times could be a holy terror.

William, gasping, ran shouting across the grass in the direction of the
palace.  He stopped and cross-examined the few people he encountered,
but no one remembered seeing a little girl.  The swans she'd probably
gone to look for them.  He ought to have thought of that immediately.
His heartbeat slowly regulated itself and he moved at a less frantic
pace.  That would be it, she'd be down at the edge of the water.
Provided she hadn't fallen in; panic re surged  Oh God, he would never
let her out of his sight again.  He blamed it all upon his guilty
conscience.  If he hadn't gone looking for Luisa this wouldn't have
happened.  They'd have been here together, a secure family unit, and
she would have still been happily playing in the playground, under
proper parental supervision.

A police car approached him across the grass, alerted by his obvious
agitation.

"My daughter," he told them when they wound down the window.  "She
seems to have wandered away."

"How long's she been missing?"  But William didn't know.  It might have
been as much as half an hour.  The policeman switched on his radio and
alerted his colleagues around the park.

"We'll find her, sir.  Don't you worry about that.  A two-year-old
can't have gone far."

At their suggestion, William got into the back of the car and sat
tensely watching for Morwenna as they drove.  First, they made a slow
circuit of the pond, then swept back in a wider arc to where he had
last seen Edwina.  Who was back at the bench with the empty stroller,
her face now a picture of dread.

"No success?"

"None at all."  At least there had been no traffic accident reported.
"So what do we do now?"  "Come back with us to the station.  And file a
proper report while we organise a search."  William was loath to leave
the park; suppose she came toddling back and found her mother not
there.  But the officers convinced him that their procedure was best.
The sooner they made it official, the safer she'd be.  William caught a
glance pass between them which caused his spirits to dive, but he
didn't, if only for Edwina's sake, want to show the extent of his
alarm.  His beloved Morwenna, the most precious thing in his life,
vanished like that in just a matter of minutes.  One look at Edwina's
pale stricken face helped put a muzzle on his anger.  It was her
daughter too and though undoubtedly her fault, that must make it all
the more upsetting.  And after she'd just been through so much at work.
He squeezed her hand and she gave him a grateful look.  At least the
ice between them appeared to be thawing.  They needed to pull together
now if only to remain sane.  I'm sorry," she whispered, with tears in
her eyes, so he pulled her gently into his arms and held her.  "We'll
need a recent photograph," said the desk sergeant when they got there.
He seemed so matter of fact that William's nerves steadied.  If the
police could take it so much in their stride, then it wasn't the end of
the world.  She could be already at home, they said, and he remembered,
with relief, Mrs.  E "Mind if I use your phone?"  he asked, then held
his breath as he dialled.  Please, please, please .. . but the answer
was a blank.  There wasn't yet any sign of her in Hillgate Place. 
"Poor little mite," said Mrs.  P, appalled.  "Do you want me to come
over there and help you search?"  No, he told her, best to wait there
at the house just in case there was any news.  Edwina had her mobile so
they could keep in touch and of course the police were monitoring the
whole operation.  And then he took a great gulp of air and reassured
the agonised Edwina.

They'll find her," he said.  "I promise you that."  But his heart knew
he couldn't be certain.  And that was what really scared him the most.
More than anything that had happened so far.

It was late afternoon by the time they finally got home and valiant
Mrs.  P was still holding the fort.

"Any news?"  she cried anxiously when they walked in the door, then saw
from their stricken faces that there was not.  All she could do was
wordlessly brew them some tea then, for once, have the sense to make
herself scarce.

"Call me any time you need me," she whispered in William's ear and even
went so far as to hug Edwina.  Edwina had turned into a walking zombie
whose teeth were audibly chattering with shock.  William suggested she
should go upstairs and lie down but she said that, until the baby was
found, there was no point.  She couldn't close her eyes, might never do
so again.  What had happened was vastly more terrible even than the
crash.  That had been only money, this her beloved child.  If anything
awful had happened to her, how could she possibly live with herself?

"It's entirely my fault," she chanted, over and over, and all William
could do to ease her pain was hold her.  The police had put all their
routines into action and the news was now spreading throughout the
metropolis.  Scotland Yard detectives had come on to the case and the
whole of the London police force was on red alert.  So this was what it
took, thought William bitterly, to galv anise them into any sort of
real action.  One tiny child, momentarily mislaid, whereas out there,
all these months, roamed a ruthless killer.  He didn't come out and say
so but the chill in his heart grew worse.  For some of these officers
had come from the Greenslade case.

So the time had finally come to spill the beans, and this he did, at
length, to the DI.  It took a couple of hours but they weren't going
anywhere else and, because of his shattering loss, the man was
sympathetic.  And after a little while, called in one of his aides and
instructed him to check facts and take copious notes.  At last William
had stumbled on a policeman with a brain who wasn't dismissing his
theories as foolish waffle.  "So you think your daughter's loss might
be connected?"  he said eventually and William mutely nodded his head
in pain.  It might sound far-fetched but they had to consider every
angle and he was, after all, a potential target since he'd unwittingly
appeared on television.  Especially as Greenslade had lived just around
the corner and the location of the murders appeared to be closing in.
"Any idea who you think might be responsible?"  "None at all," said
William with absolute truth.  All he could see was a strongly
developing pattern with a killer who moved on relentlessly stealthy
feet.  "It's a game of Look Behind You," he said.  You never could tell
when you were safe.  "And why the child?"  "He has done it before." 
The little Marsh daughters, the Hargreaves boys.  Aunt Jane's dog, the
yoga teacher's cat.  He seemed to be going vindictively for the
helpless and the weak.  For whatever reason, they didn't yet know, but
it looked like retribution.  William felt faint.  "So what does he want
from you?" asked the DI.  "Revenge," said William simply, suddenly
seeing it.  He had meddled where he ought not to have done and now was
receiving his comeuppance.  Rough justice, maybe, but it fit the
pattern.  And this particular murderer had no mercy.  "But if he's got
her," said Edwina, aghast, 'why has he not yet made himself known?"  No
ransom note, no threatening demands.  Nothing to let them know that he
held Morwenna.

"He will do," said the DI grimly.  "It can only be a question of time."
By the following morning there was still no news, so the whole thing
was handed to the media.  In a matter of hours, Morwenna's picture was
splashed across the press and plans were afoot for a television appeal,
with Edwina appearing live on Crimewatch.  It seemed awfully drastic in
such a short space of time but at least the police were finally doing
their stuff.  Even Arnold Fairchild detached himself from the shadows
and offered a fat reward to find his grandchild.  William spent many
hours closeted with Scotland Yard, explaining in detail his theories
about the blood groups.  And Tim was summoned from Cambridge to join
them, with the results of all the assiduous research he'd been doing.
The DI seemed impressed.  He lit another cigarette and thoughtfully
stroked his chin.  "If what you need now," he told them, 'is access to
the blood banks, I think the police computer can do the trick."  And so
it seemed they were finally on their way.  If it weren't for the loss
of Morwenna, they'd be exultant.  Edwina was steadily holding her own,
comforted by a WPC, while her parents hovered and tried to do what they
could.  At least disaster was unifying.  For the first time in what
seemed like ages, they were all pulling on the same side.  And all the
time William was secretly longing for Luisa.  He knew it was bad,
disloyal to Edwina, and somehow trivialised the horror of Morwenna's
disappearance.  Yet he ached for her to comfort him, to pour out his
darkest fears, to share with her the agony of this terrible night of
the soul.  He wondered if she'd seen the news coverage, assumed she
had, it was pretty comprehensive.  Worried about her own reactions to
it, too.  She had lately become so attached to the child, had already
had to endure the tragic loss of her own.  And Luisa was so fragile, he
hoped she'd be able to cope.  Thought about phoning the surgery yet
couldn't quite bring himself to do so.  Some stupid superstition told
him that if he was able to resist her, Morwenna was that much more
likely to be found.  There; and he who'd been brought up with no
religion.  Soon he'd be praying to Saint Anthony or touching wood.  It
seemed he was, quite simply, going mad.  And all because he had coveted
another woman.  Instead he turned his attention to Edwina and tried, by
both words and deeds, to make amends.  It was not her fault she'd been
raised such a headstrong woman, encouraged to do what she liked in
pursuit of success.  She couldn't help it either if she fundamentally
lacked maternal feelings.  Some people found it hard to love.  Edwina
was one of those.  He tried to salve his guilt by putting himself out
for her, persuaded her it had not been entirely her fault.  The
sainthood that her friends admired now cloaked him to the full while
all the time concealing a treacherous heart.  In his blackest moments,
when he couldn't sleep, he made a pact with the God he didn't believe
in.  If Morwenna could only be restored to him, safe and unharmed, he'd
be prepared to forgo Luisa and try instead to make his marriage work.
The prospect, on either front, was bleak, but the child was of prime
importance.  So he didn't phone her or try to seek her out, just
gritted his teeth and, yes, prayed.  "Please," begged Edwina tragically
that night, appearing, white and gaunt, on television.  "Don't hurt my
baby.  Help us to get her back."  Then put her head in her hands and
openly cried.  She'd been gone five days and still there had been no
sighting.  Nor had anyone emerged to claim the reward.  William and
Edwina existed like ghostly spectres while Mrs.  P rallied around
making pots of tea.  The Fairchilds, unable to bear the strain, had
withdrawn to the heights of Highgate while the press continued to bay
at the Hillgate Place door.  Tell them to go away," moaned Edwina but
William pointed out that they needed them there.  Morwenna's
disappearance had become a national issue, had forced the police to
exert themselves as well.  If anything could flush her out, it was this
sort of public attention.  With time, he knew, their interest would
wane as other hotter stories took her place.  And then where would they
be, without the cavalry?  One early evening he joined a park patrol,
painstakingly revisiting an endless circuitous route.  They stopped and
questioned everyone they encountered, repeatedly asking the same
monotonous question.  Have you seen this child?  Many of the people
they stopped were commuters who regularly took this detour home.  All
were attentive and sympathetic but none came up with anything that was
helpful.  For all the information they could glean, she might have been
spirited away.  William glanced at the statue of Peter Pan and tried to
close his mind to romantic theories.  They were returning dejectedly
along the bumpy track, back to the place where Morwenna had last been
seen, when William's practised eye was caught by a motionless figure,
standing inside a clump of trees, practically out of sight.  That
particular standpoint had a clear view of the playground and something
about the figure rang instant bells.  Of course.  How could he ever
have been so stupid?  The fear and anxiety of the past few days had
clearly affected his mind.  He banged urgently on the glass partition
and told the police driver to stop.  Then flung himself out while the
vehicle was still moving and set off in crazed pursuit.  This time
there was no escaping William, who caught him by the throat in frenzied
rage. "What have you done to her?"  he screamed hysterically, shaking
the man like a terrier with a rat.  The two policemen caught up with
him and tore them both apart.

"Arrest this man!"  shrieked William, beside himself.  "He's a
disgusting pervert, always hanging around the kids."  The seedy
stranger looked bewildered and afraid but made no attempt at all to get
away.  His clothes were shabby and his nose still red and chapped.  He
looked a very sorry specimen indeed.

"Your name, sir?"  asked the senior policeman, officiously flipping
open his notebook.

"What am I supposed to have done?"  asked the man quietly, calmer and
more self-possessed than William would have expected.  Did he think he
was going to brazen it out?  Clearly he had no shame.

That we'll establish back at the station.  First please identify
yourself."

Gregory Hill, he told them, still looking furtive, and was bundled into
the car without further ado.

"What's going on?"  he asked William anxiously, but William, sitting
beside him, still as a rock, refused to answer or even look at him.  If
the slippery bastard tried to wriggle out now, he'd not be responsible
for his actions.  The blatant gall of it, just standing there in full
sight.  But at least they had finally caught themselves a suspect.

THIRTY-EIGHT

With the help of the police laboratory and some official intervention,
Tim was well on the way to cracking the enigma.  William, he knew, was
currently too spaced out to put his mind to helping, or even care. They
had apprehended a suspect, that was all he'd been able to ascertain. 
Tim was determined to get there first for the sake of his future
career.  Now they had open access to the Blood Transfusion Centre in
Bristol, they were able, without too much effort, to check out the
names.  And all the murder victims they'd been tracking were recorded
as having, at one time or another, given blood.  In addition to which,
they all shared the same blood group.  The ultra rare AB negative.  If
Morwenna were not still missing, it would be cause for cautious
optimism.  As it was, Tim just stuck assiduously to the case. With hard
facts in hand, he was able to return to the clippings files and search
for any news story that seemed to match the criteria. Gregory Hill, it
transpired, was a writer of children's books.  When asked for his
credentials, he reeled off an impressive list, including the vastly
successful Cobbkywobs series (Morwenna's favourite) which had recently
won him a prestigious BAFTA award.  William continued suspicious but
the desk sergeant did a complete about turn and treated the famous
author with unctuous respect.  So what was he doing then, lurking in
the park?  It still didn't alter the facts.  Hill looked slightly
uncomfortable and fidgeted a little.  He went there for inspiration, he
explained, and the spirit of Peter Pan.  Writing alone all day was a
solitary business.  He needed at times to get out and stretch his legs.
But the playground, pressed William, while the sergeant merely
listened.  Why was he so fixated on the kids?  Hill turned incredibly
honest blue eyes to him and confessed that he did have a personal
interest there, too.  They're my sons," he said, 'and I'm not allowed
to see them."  There had recently been a particularly ugly divorce.  At
first William didn't believe him but he appeared to be sincere.  And by
now the sergeant was practically licking his hand. After all had been
sorted out and Hill had obliged him with an autograph, the charge sheet
was torn up and he was permitted to go. With apologies from the
sergeant for having detained him in the first place, but in delicate
cases, like a missing child, he'd understand they had to be extra
vigilant.  Et cetera, et cetera.  William, somewhat disgruntledly, left
too.  "I am sorry about your daughter," said Hill awkwardly, proffering
his hand.  "I can imagine the sort of agony you must be going through. 
After all, I've been in a similar mess myself."  Though not, of course,
life-threatening.  He appeared to bear no malice at William's
accusation, was keen to know if there was any way in which he could
help.  William, softening, accepted that he was all he said, then,
remembering his presence at Polly's party, asked how he came to be
there.  Now Hill did look a trifle uncomfortable and William's
suspicions returned.  That party had preceded the murder of Harvey
Greenslade.  The kiddibook writer's was the one face that didn't fit. 
"I gate crashed Hill told him honestly, after a pause. "Something, I
have to confess, I do quite a lot.  I tell you, being a writer's a
lonely occupation, which often leads to rampant cabin fever." 
Especially now that he'd lost his family and home.  William
sympathised.  He wasn't even employed at all yet sometimes found the
role of house husband confining, to say the least.  They parted
congenially and agreed there were no hard feelings and William trudged
wearily home.  Back to square one, he realised with a leaden heart,
with still not a clue as to where his baby had gone.  And now his
longing for Luisa surpassed all boundaries.  He had made a pact with
himself to forget her but found that it couldn't be kept.  She had
grown so very dear to him in the few months he had known her that an
endless vista of life apart was more than he could bear.  Certainly not
at a time like this, when his heart was cracked open and raw, despite
what noble resolutions he might once have had.  As it was, she must
think he had abandoned her entirely or surely by now she'd have been in
touch.  She had grown to dote upon Morwenna, as she had on her own
precious child, and since the abduction still dominated the news, there
was small chance she wasn't aware of it.  It might be disloyal to
Edwina but he also felt he had a duty to explain.  Most of all, an
irresistible urge to see her and seek strength from her calmness and
support.  He was, after all, only human.  And he loved her.  And so he
broke his self-imposed rule and slipped out one morning to call her at
the surgery.  The receptionist, sounding surprised, said she wasn't
there, had quit the job without warning a week before.  William was
shattered; this was not what he'd expected, had assumed that his
well-publicised suffering would mean she would stick around.  He sought
in vain for something coherent to say, then humbly asked for her home
number.  No,

said the receptionist, she hadn't been on the phone.  And had never
even told them where she lived.  Somewhere off the Portobello Road was
all she had ever admitted to.  None of them had got to know her enough
to have visited.  William was pulverised as he wandered dejectedly
home, bereft of his very last bastion of support.  He was still half
crazed at the loss of his daughter and Edwina was practically out of
her mind with grief.  Without Luisa's steadying influence, he wasn't at
all sure that he could cope.  There was a message in Mrs.  P's
flamboyant scrawl for him to contact Tim at the Cambridge number.
William was in no mood for talking to anyone but dialled it just the
same, with a shaking hand.  All he really wanted to do was run upstairs
and hide but Edwina was there ahead of him, working through her grief.
And, indeed, the call turned out to be well worth it, for Tim had more
excellent news.  His dogged research appeared at last to have paid off.
Working systematically backwards from the date of Jane Fairchild's
murder, he had come up with a handful of major disasters roughly within
the catchment area William had circled on his map.  By merging the two
sets of statistics, he had pinpointed things even more precisely.  So
that, after hours of headache-inducing scrutiny, he had come up with a
list of just five news items spread out over a period of several years.
One of which, the most dramatic, concerned a fatal car crash on the
A303, when a family named Urquhart had been totally wiped out.  Almost
exactly thirteen years ago.  "What happened to the other car?"  The
driver miraculously survived, but only just.  It was one of those fancy
foreign jobs which more or less imploded on impact.  They had to scrape
him from the wreckage and air-lift him to hospital."  "Was he given
blood?"

"A total transfusion.  That's what initially caught my eye."  "And his
blood group?"  "Haven't yet found that out but the police are on the
job.  All I've established so far from the cuttings is that his
passenger, unbelievably, walked away unharmed.  Didn't even hang around
to see if the driver survived.  The coroner diplomatically attributed
it to shock."  "And do you know anything about the driver?"  "One Enzo
Perrotti, an Italian from Milan.  Over here working in the motor
industry, based at Alfa Romeo in Milton Keynes."  William was hugely
impressed; his spirits suddenly lifted.  "So what are you hanging
around for, boy?  Get out there and go find him."  Despite his gloom,
he was suddenly fired up.  If this man, Perrotti, were still around, he
might well hold the key to the whole affair.  For starters, he'd
allegedly been responsible for the deaths of five members of one
family.  A terrible burden of guilt to have to carry, irrespective of
where the blame might actually lie.  Leading, very possibly, to
someone's desire for atonement.  He was, after all, the sole survivor
of the crash, apart from the one who had casually walked away.  "Will
do," said Tim importantly.  "Am taking the day off right now.  Over and
out."  He was clearly enjoying himself enormously, thrilled to be in
his natural element as sleuth.  It was some comfort to William to know
he could rely on such a capable pair of hands.  Then he slumped back
into despondency over Luisa.  And, of course, the loss of Morwenna. 
For now a truly dreadful suspicion was creeping into his mind, one he
tried hard to suppress yet couldn't shake off.  It seemed an unlikely
coincidence that they'd vanished at precisely the same time.  Morwenna
and now Luisa, apparently into thin air.  Maybe, just possibly, they
were somewhere safe together, though his mind shied off wondering why.
He couldn't talk to Edwina about it since she didn't even know of
Luisa's existence, and hesitated to take it to the police.  First he
would try to locate her on his own, at least until he found evidence to
implicate her.  But where to start looking?  He was totally in the
dark.  All he'd ever known about her private life was the same as the
receptionist had said.  Somewhere in the vicinity of the Portobello
Road, that was all she had ever let him know.  And he, blind fool, had
not given it a thought, despite his attempts to get her to take him
there.  The only possible clues lay in the surgery and that was when he
remembered the doctor, Aisha.  He rang and asked if they could talk and
she readily agreed to meet him that day for a drink.  When it came to
the point, there was no beating about the bush.  Morwenna's safety was
far too important for William even to think of playing games.  He did
see a spark in Aisha's eyes of something a little like disappointment.
But he was in no mood for flirtation, and now quite immune to her
charm.  He needed to find Luisa, and fast.  He begged Aisha to help
him.  She was thoughtful as she sipped her cider, running through
everything she knew.  "She wasn't exactly forthcoming," she said.
"Pleasant enough and efficient at her job, yet at the same time pretty
reserved.  I tried once or twice to pal up with her but she had a habit
of politely backing off."  William knew precisely what she meant, as if
one misplaced word might make her run.  He had put it down to a natural
timidity but now an awful idea was starting to form.  What, when it
came to it, did he actually know about her except that she was alone
and intrinsically sad?  She had hinted at some sort of darkness in her
past and there was, of course, the lost child.  But beyond that, he
realised, he scarcely even knew her.  Looking back, it seemed that he
had done most of the talking.  "She was certainly a good listener,"
said Aisha.  "I often thought she was wasted in that job."  "What
exactly did she do?"

"Just filing and clerical work.  She was a whiz on the computer, we
were lucky to have found her.  I can't imagine how we're going to
manage."

Nor me, screamed a voice in the void that was William's brain, but he
made a gargantuan effort to shut it up.  Not now, he told himself
grimly.  All that mattered was recovering the child before anything
worse could happen to her.  And, whatever the circumstances, this might
turn out to be a lead.

"We would normally keep some record at the surgery," said Aisha.  "But
for some reason she always insisted on payment in cash.  No P45 nor
even Schedule D. Pin money, I assumed, since she never appeared hard
up.  A cultured woman in a foreign land, doing part-time work mainly as
a hobby.  With perhaps a well-heeled partner in the background to pay
the real bills.  I wish now I had been a little more intrusive."

"You must tell the police," she urged but William was reluctant to
betray Luisa.  There had to be some sort of straightforward
explanation.  If only she would turn up and prove him right.

"You're crazy!"  said Aisha when he finally filled her in.  "If you
don't act immediately, you could be risking your daughter's life."

Which brought him down to earth with a mighty bang.  For a while he'd
been off with the fairies again.  He must be losing his grip.  Aisha
was right, of course she was, and he couldn't afford to waste another
second.  It might mean having to confess all to Edwina but that, right
now, was the least of his concerns.

He left his beer untouched.  Aisha said she would go with him to the
police station.

There was not a great deal more the police could do, short of a
house-to-house search.  It could be arranged but would take a lot of
time, which realistically they really didn't have.  Aisha returned to
the surgery while William trudged back home, stopping impulsively at
the cafe on the corner for a shot of much-needed caffeine.

"How's your little girl today?"  asked the lumpy-thighed waitress
brightly.  William stared at her dully; what planet had she been
inhabiting all week?  She swabbed down the table with a dubious-looking
cloth, then poured him a frothy cappuccino.  "Only she seemed a little
fretful when I saw her the other day.  Could it be she's having trouble
with her teeth?  Her nanny was being quite strict with her, practically
dragging her along.  Poor little mite."  William stared blankly as it
slowly sank in, then the blood started hammering in his ears.  "When
exactly was this?"  he asked, with a sudden jolt of hope.  Tuesday' she
said immediately, not even having to think.  "And the nanny?"  She had
to be making it up.  It couldn't turn out this easy.  The foreign
lady." She looked a little puzzled.  Surely he knew that already; what
was he like?  "I must say, I was surprised not to see you with them for
a change.  A right little threesome you've become."  "Where was this?"
William asked carefully, ready to kill if she failed him.  "Right
across the road," she said, pointing towards McDonald's.  In that great
forbidding tower block that dominated Netting Hill Gate.  The one he
was always complaining about because it ruined the skyline.  Thanks,"
he said, not even touching his coffee.  "Do me a favour, please, and
call the police."  It was a great grey concrete atrocity, built in the
frugal sixties, which should, by rights, have been dynamited years ago.
Rows of identical balconies on storey upon storey of depressing flats,
all with nasty identical net curtains and trays of withering plants.
William had passed it endlessly; it was straight across the road from
Hillgate Street.  He crossed and stood on the pavement outside, not
certain what he should do.  The panel of bells by the entrance gave
nothing away.  Numbers only, no names 33]

attached, in a futile attempt at security.  He knew he should probably
wait for the police but couldn't control his frenzied excitement.  He
had to get in there right away, would kick down every door until he
found her.  Instead he settled for pressing random bells until at last,
miraculously, someone answered.

"I've come to collect my daughter," he said, trying hard to keep the
anxiety out of his voice, 'but seem to have forgotten the flat number.
A two-year-old with a Dutch doll bob."

"Eighth floor," said the disembodied voice.  And obligingly buzzed him
in.

The lift smelled strongly of urine and was lavishly embellished with
graffiti.  William took it up to the top floor, then stood in the empty
corridor, silently pondering.  Eight identical doors led off a dank and
fetid passage.  It was like a nightmare game show in which he had only
one shot.  He dared not risk alerting her until he was ready to strike.
But the place seemed deserted and silent as the grave.  He didn't have
any idea what his next step should be.

And then he heard, quite distinctly, the sound of plaintive crying and
recognised immediately whose it was.  He crept along the concrete
floor, listening at each door.  Then made his choice and urgently rang
the bell.

"Luisa!"  he commanded.  "Open up!"

THIRTY-NINE

Enzo Perrotti's blood group was AB negative, though he wasn't listed as
ever having been a donor.  At the time of the accident he'd been
airlifted to hospital in Salisbury but from that point on the trail had
gone pretty cold.  His horrendous injuries were detailed in his medical
notes, including the fact that he'd been given a total transfusion.  He
had stayed there, critically ill, for eight weeks, after which,
miraculously cured, he had been discharged.  There it all was, in black
and white, but Tim was keen to discover a whole lot more.  He wangled
an introduction to a senior consultant who passed him on to the matron
of the hospital.  At first she was reluctant to talk but changed when
she saw his impressive authorisation.  Having been so sluggish in the
early days, the police were now falling over themselves to help.  The
Greenslade case remained unsolved though they did now admit there could
be a possible link.  She was big and bosomy in crisp blue and white,
and grudgingly offered Tim a cup of tea.  She had been at the hospital
eighteen years and well remembered that horrific fatal car crash

The children were the worst," she said.  "Practically smashed to
pieces, poor little things.  They brought them here but there wasn't a
thing we could do.  Killed on impact, both of them, which was, I
suppose, a blessing."  She shuddered as she recalled the scene and it
all came flooding back.  The grandmother had gone straight through the
windscreen, her head still just hanging on by threads.  "What exactly
happened?"  asked Tim, who had read the coroner's report.  She
shrugged. "A genuine accident, as far as I'm aware.  That particular
stretch of road is notoriously dangerous."  "Do you remember your
patient, Enzo Perrotti?"  "Indeed I do.  He was here with us eight
weeks."  She had looked up his file on receipt of Tim's urgent phone
call and now had the medical details off by heart.  "It's amazing he
survived at all; practically every bone in his body was shattered. 
They threaded him together on wire like a dinosaur.  I have never seen
anything so bizarre."  "Do you still have news of him now?  Where he
went after he was discharged?"  She pursed her lips and shook her head.
The only address we ever had for him was in Milton Keynes.  But
remember, that was thirteen years ago.  He might well have moved on by
now' Tim laughed before he could stop himself.  "Certainly if he has
any discrimination."  Then, conscious of her disapproval, adopted a
graver expression.  "Do you recall if he had visitors?  Nearest and
dearest, that sort of thing?"  "I do remember that his English was near
perfect and, even at his most poorly, the charm of the man."  Her eyes
grew thoughtful; she was looking back and a small, sad smile touched
the corners of her mouth.  "Even as ill as he was, he hated to be any
trouble, but all my nurses adored him.  He could do no wrong.  After a
while his wife turned up, flew in from Italy unexpectedly.  I

remember wondering why she hadn't come at once.  And what he was doing
living here without her."  Marina Perrotti.  It was all here in his
notes.  A regal woman who was totally controlled.  She had the style
and elegance of an Italian with real money.  And graciously tipped the
nursing staff as if in a five-star hotel.  Having established to her
satisfaction that he wasn't about to die she had done the unexpected
and gone home.  "Leaving him here alone?"  "So it would seem."  She
would never get used to the public, their odd little ways.  "When he
finally left here, he certainly broke a few hearts.  He really was a
charmer, like a film star."  That was about all she could tell him so
Tim said his thanks and got out.  Thirteen years was a long time for
tracking someone's peregrinations but his next stop would have to be
Milton Keynes.  When she finally opened the door and he saw her face,
his instinct was to grab her and not let go.  Gone was the fleeting
beauty who had captivated him from the start.  Here was a gaunt and
ravaged woman with staring black coals for eyes.  In a week she had
aged ten years.  He was appalled.  They looked at each other in frozen
silence until a thrilled Morwenna distracted him.  "Daddy!"  she
shrieked, and he instinctively stepped forward, ready to scoop her up
in his arms and console her.  "Get back!"  snapped Luisa threateningly,
stopping him short in his tracks.  At which point he saw the hostility
in her eyes and withdrew.  The room was stark and under-furnished with
only the barest necessities.  The carpet was fraying and disgustingly
stained, the furniture gathered from a tip.  Morwenna, his darling, was
seated in a playpen with some sort of harness confining her.  Beside
her on the floor was a pile of glossy new toys, but the teddy she was
cradling looked chewed and decidedly defunct, the relic of some other
child's pathetic past.  "You don't understand," said Luisa,
interpreting his thoughts.  And the truth was that, no, he most
definitely did not. Milton Keynes was better than Tim had imagined,
though created with an accountant's flair rather than any architect's. 
It was like so much of contemporary middle Britain, impersonal and
entirely without charm. But organised and well laid out and,
presumably, cost-effective.  Cedar Court was one of a mass of identical
red brick developments, conveniently situated for both shopping and
public transport.  Tim took a quick look round the neat little grid
before boldly ringing the Perrotti bell.  There was no answer.  Now why
was that not a surprise? "Can I help you?"  asked the woman next door,
popping out to water her geraniums.  It was warm and bright, a real sun
trap.  She had tomato plants trained up the wall.  "Nice here," said
Tim, at his most effusive.  "You seem to have everything on tap." 
"Good for the shops," she agreed cheerily, 'and only two minutes from
the station."  Though I wouldn't want to live here, thought Tim, but
left it diplomatically unsaid.  "I am looking for a family called
Perrotti," he said, making a point of scrutinising his notes.  "Do you
happen to know if they still live here?"  "She does," said the
neighbour, 'though she's very seldom here.  Been travelling a lot in
the past few years."  "And him?"  She looked up from her watering with
surprise.  "Enzo Perrotti?  Why, he's dead."  Morwenna appeared to be
perfectly well cared for, if a little over emotional at suddenly seeing
her dad.  She fought to reach him from the confines of her pen but
Luisa ordered her sharply to be still. All around the room were
scattered open suitcases, each in various stages of being packed.  One
appeared to contain nothing but little girl's clothes, each item
lovingly wrapped in tissue paper.  "Going somewhere?"  asked William,
folding his arms.  The child was safe, that was really all that
mattered.  The comforting could come later once he had got her home. 
Now there were questions to which he needed answers. "Back to Sicily'
said Luisa calmly.  "It is time to let my mother see her grandchild." 
William mentally gaped yet kept his cool.  The necessary explanations
could come later.  In the distance he dimly heard the sound of
approaching sirens; the waitress had done as bid and summoned the law. 
He didn't want to alert Luisa, needed to keep the dialogue flowing. 
Something was badly askew but he didn't know what. Tell me," he said,
at his most persuasive, making another dive to pick up Morwenna.  But
Luisa, lighter-footed, got there first.  She grabbed the child and
clasped her tight then stepped purposefully back towards the balcony. 
The door was wide open with the curtains blowing wild. The screech of
the police sirens had suddenly ceased.  "One more step," she said, 'and
she goes over the edge."  And he saw from her manic eyes that she
really meant it.  Something quite dreadful had happened to Luisa but
now was not the moment for idle chat.  William backed away again and
leaned against the front door.  His heart was hammering in his chest
but he wouldn't allow her to prevail.  Provided he kept his cool and
talked her through it, the police would shortly be here to back him up.
He could now hear distant voices and shouting in the street so started
to talk loudly and rapidly to distract her.  That's not necessary. 
Please put her down."  One false movement and he sensed she'd be true
to her word.  Morwenna,

fortunately, thought it was all a great game, and giggled with pleasure
as she hugged Luisa's neck.  "I mean it.  Don't move."  She backed up
against the balcony rail while William fought his panic and tried to
stay calm.  Tell me," he said again, placatingly.  "You are obviously
in some sort of trouble.  Please let me help."  "Dead?"  said Tim,
astonished.  "When would that be?"  "Oh, ages ago," said the woman.
"And shortly after, the little girl too.  It was a truly terrible
tragedy.  I tell you, I thought it would finish her off and indeed it
very nearly did.  She was in the hospital herself for a year.  And when
she came home she was strangely altered, tougher somehow and withdrawn.
Well, she would be, I suppose, after something that dreadful.  She had
always been so light-hearted and full of fun.  And vain, you never saw
anything like it."  "Do you mind me asking what he died of?"  said Tim.
"Don't really know," said the woman.  "Some sort of blood disorder that
he passed on to the baby.  He was gone in about a year from the
diagnosis."  Bells began to jangle in Tim's brain.  Piece by piece the
puzzle was solving itself.  "I had to do it," she volunteered after a
while.  They had destroyed my happiness, but most of all murdered my
baby.  All I could do was attempt to settle the score.  Why should any
of them get off entirely scot free?"  Her cheeks were now slightly
flushed with indignation and he saw again, fleetingly, a shadow of her
passing beauty.  He noticed now how much thinner she had grown; she was
really little more than skin and bone.  His heart began to go out to
her, though her words froze the blood in his veins.  If she meant what
he rather thought she did, then she was a dangerous killer.  But also
the woman he had loved, an impossible dilemma.

"What are you trying to tell me?"  he asked, watching her hands tighten
about Morwenna.  That it was me all the time, doing all those murders,
trying to seek some justice for what I had lost."  She started to cry
with great gulping sobs but still stayed exactly where she was. William
heard furtive movements in the corridor outside, a voice talking
quietly into a radio.  Then someone rapped smartly on the door and he
heard the jangle of keys.  They were coming in, but she had still got
Morwenna and he knew now for absolute certain that she meant what she'd
said.  "Hold on a moment," he told her and opened the door. Four
policemen and a WPC were crowded together outside, one of them holding
a bunch of skeleton keys.  "Stay back!"  he said urgently.  "I think I
can talk her through it.  And she's standing out there on the balcony,
holding my child."  The leading policeman assessed the situation then
gave him a silent nod.  "We'll be here," he muttered, indicating his
radio.  "We'll get access to the next-door flats and surround her from
outside."  William closed the door and resumed his stance.  If only he
could persuade her to put down Morwenna.  "She must be awfully heavy
for you," he said hopefully, holding out his arms, but Luisa fiercely
shook her head and clasped the child even tighter. William took a
couple of deep breaths, surprised to find his voice still nearly
normal.  He used the tone that he always took with her, soft,
sympathetic and affectionate.  He was only too aware that one false
move could blow it and that she was holding his universe in her arms. 
"What exactly did they do?"  he asked her, prepared to listen for as
long as it took.  His only consolation was that Morwenna was sucking
her thumb.  The extent of his injuries had meant a complete blood
transfusion.  Involving, because his blood group was rare, unexpected
complications.  The transfusion centre had sent out an SOS and they'd
borrowed from other blood banks in the area.  It was nobody's fault,
just the emergency services in extremis.  They had saved his life but
then later he died, from virulent Hepatitis C. The year was 1988,
before they were able to check out these things.  They were just
unfortunate, so the hospital said.  But she had taken it harder than
she might have.  "It was her only kiddie," said the woman, suddenly
emotional.  "And he and she were so totally in love, it warmed your
heart just to see them.  Things hadn't been easy for them in the past.
She never actually said so, but I could sense it.  I think he was an
exile from his family in Milan.  She obviously worshipped the ground he
trod.  She had wanted a baby all these years, then he passed on this
terrible infection."  There were tears in her eyes and Tim squeezed her
hand.  But inside he was positively shouting.  "One of those donors
killed him.  I never found out which one.  But I vowed, when Adriana
died too, that I was going to seek revenge."  She turned to him
beseechingly.  "Can you imagine how badly I felt?"  All too easily, he
wanted to reply, watching her shift the weight of his darling child.
She was growing emotional and had to be watched.  On either side he
could hear the stealthy scrape of marksmen getting into position.
"After the rest cure I needed something to do.  If only to keep myself
from going stir crazy.  I have always been good on computers, so
applied for a job at the hospital, where I found that annexing the
records was a piece of cake."  She smiled as if remembering quite how
easy it had been.  "And after that, it all fell into place."  William
was stunned, his brain in total shock.  The more she talked, the
lovelier she became.  "And had you no mercy?"  he found himself
whispering.  "Why should I?  What did they care?  Look what they'd done
to me.  They ought to have been more responsible in the first place
with all those good works they notched up."  From the hospital she had
moved on to the blood transfusion centre, cloaking herself in her
natural reserve so that nobody ever even noticed her.  It gave her
something to fill her time and kept her adrenalin flowing.  When the
killings started, she got carried away.  Most of the rest he already
knew.  "You were very clever to work it all out.  I have always admired
a man with a superlative brain."  Her smile had grown gentle and the
intensity was gone from her eyes.  At this moment she'd reverted to the
woman he'd thought he had loved.  "Why did you come to London?"  he
asked, fascinated despite himself.  She shifted the sleeping Morwenna
in her arms and gave him a provocative look.  "After you.  What did you
think?  It was obvious, I'd have thought.  You were the joker in the
pack.  I knew I had to stop you."  The beat of William's heart grew
stronger.  So he hadn't been wrong after all.  He took a long pause
before asking the next question, aware of exactly what it might set
off.  "But you didn't," he said softly.  "Why was that?"  "I think you
know the answer to that question."  And there they stood, only yards
apart though light years in practical terms.  "It's still not too
late." He was taking a massive gamble but, sadly, she shook her head. 
The game ended," she said throatily 'when I realised I had fallen in
love with you.  I always thought I was a one man woman; it turns out I
was wrong."  And this time the tears on her cheeks were the genuine
thing. From the adjoining balcony came the sound of a loud hailer the
waiting police had finally run out of patience.  "Luisa Salvoni.  Put
down the child and raise your hands above your head.  And then walk
forward through the door.  We've got you covered on all sides.  Give
yourself up."

The smile she gave him was bitter sweet as slowly she shook her head.

"Never," she whispered, and handed him Morwenna.

Then hoisted herself over the balcony rail and stepped off into
space.

FORTY

She was out in the garden, mowing the lawn, when he finally got home.
The traffic on the motorway had been nose to tail for the last
half-hour because of disruptive roadworks outside Oxford.  Still, he
was here now, breathing the purer air, and he stood and watched her
silently for a while before announcing himself.  The extra weight
really suited her, made her softer and more fulfilled, and he liked the
way she had cut her hair, framing her face in long tendrils.  Morwenna,
now a mature nearly four, was following her docilely with a broom,
sweeping up the grass cuttings into neat piles.  Together they were a
picture of tranquillity.  Emotion rose in his throat and threatened to
choke him.  He still found himself on the brink of tears on the most
unlikely occasions.  The shrink had said it would pass eventually, all
part of the process of healing.  He had to work his way through it in
his own good time.  "All right, sweetie?"  she called, noticing him as
she turned, and he strode across the grass to give her a kiss.  "You
shouldn't be doing that," he protested, wresting the mower from her
hands.  "Have some sense, for goodness' sake.  In your condition." 
"I'm not an invalid," said Edwina calmly.  "It won't do the baby any
harm." But he tossed aside his jacket and finished the last few rows
while she went into the cottage to pour him a drink.  "Good day?"  she
asked when they were seated under the trees, watching Morwenna romping
with her puppy.  That terrifying experience appeared to have left her
unscathed. It was amazing just how resilient toddlers could be. 
"Pretty hectic. Though I mustn't complain."  Teaching in Oxford was
keeping him on his toes.  "Well, we've baked some brownies and a
Victoria sponge and made you a very special supper."  Her skin was
glowing from being outdoors so much.  He had never, since they met,
known her look better.  "You know, pregnancy really suits you.  Perhaps
we should have a few more." "Whoa!"  she said in mock alarm.  "Let's
get this one sorted out first."  When they sold the house, they had
moved down here and pumped new life into Aunt Jane's cottage.  They had
packed away her knickknacks and stowed them in the attic until, some
time at a future date, Morwenna would be old enough to respect them. 
She and that ebullient puppy; the cottage looked like a scene of
carnage.  But they'd grown to love it, despite the lack of space, and
were living very contentedly in their reduced circumstances. 
Everything had changed in just a year and the biggest excitement of all
was, of course, the baby.  Edwina could not believe she could be so
happy, with all thoughts of Gareth completely banished and gone.  She
did feel a pang when she read about his marriage but even that had
really been only passing.  They deserved each other, he and the
supercilious Portia. She bet he would munch his way through her money
like the weevil he was.  And then, in all probability, move on.  It
seemed to be the pattern of his life.  When she thought how close she
had come to wrecking everything, she closed her eyes and shuddered. 
All that had happened had somehow been for the good, though she hoped
never to have to go through anything like it again.  The near loss of
Morwenna had driven her right to the edge, but William had valiantly
stood by her and they'd pulled through.  She looked at him fondly now
as he frowned over the evening paper, and liked the distinction of his
newly greying hair.  It suited him, made him look more mature by adding
a touch of gravitas he had formerly lacked.  Each of them had been to
hell and back and still hadn't talked it through.  Her mother had
insisted that they both have a spot of therapy but only William had
bothered to stay the course.  Edwina was far too impatient and
self-assured.  And all the curing she'd needed had been the baby.  When
it came to the crunch, she'd stayed quiet about Gareth, and there
wasn't any point in reviving it now.  Sue, when she came to visit,
occasionally asked about him, and Edwina was pleased to assure her it
was all in the past.  "I was a total idiot," she freely admitted. 
"Risking my marriage in that way."  But fate had generously given her a
second shot and now she was playing strictly by the rules.  And she
loved this idyllic, rural life, found she didn't miss the city one bit.
She had even revived Aunt Jane's bric-a-brac stall, though now the
proceeds went towards curing breast cancer.  She occasionally popped up
to town for a spot of shopping and still met up with the other two
girls for lunch.  Life for Sue continued much the same but Meryl was
visibly tenser and more neurotic. Still hadn't succeeded in catching
herself a man, was starting to date unsuitably and reply to lonely
hearts ads.  "It's all right for you," she grumbled to Edwina.  "You
always manage to come out smelling of roses."  It was amazing to see
how their marriage had stabilised and all because of the abduction of
Morwenna.

William found teaching in Oxford a real challenge, though more
exhausting than he ever would have imagined.  Caring for a toddler had
had its share of stress but not in the league of a bunch of bright
undergrads.  They certainly kept him on his toes and he sometimes found
it hard to stay one jump ahead.  But that was what made him so content,
the feeling that his brain was being stretched.  He sometimes came home
too tired for even the crossword which hugely amused Edwina.

What had happened with Luisa was something he'd succeeded in blocking
out, except occasionally in the dead of night when exhaustion kept him
lying there awake.  He still found it hard to believe she had been a
killer, that shy, gentle creature who had managed to touch his heart.
Now he understood why she had refused to get involved she was carrying
Hepatitis C and hadn't wanted to infect him.  Which meant that her
feelings towards him must have been genuine.  Though he dared not allow
his memory to go there, because it still hurt so much .. .

Edwina occasionally asked him about those horrible final moments, but
the memory of Luisa's falling body was more than he could bear.  Why it
had had to happen that way he still didn't quite understand.  Though
the police had told him he was lucky to be alive, since she'd been on
his trail all those weeks.  Instead of Greenslade it might well have
been him; they had found her list in the flat in Milton Keynes.

"Something must have happened to cause her to change her mind," said
the DI.  William said nothing.  What would be the point?  He hadn't
even confided in Tim when the case had been finally wound up.  Some
things would always remain sacred in his heart.  Especially the memory
of Luisa.

Carol Smith is the author of Darkening Echoes, Kensington Court, Double
Exposure, Family Reunion and Unfinished Business.  She lives in
Kensington, west London.