The Brother Death

George Tysley

Copyright © David Sweet 2014

     All rights reserved

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

The Brother Death

ISBN [to be filled in later]

Published by AudioArcadia.com 2014

This book, which includes text and cover artwork,

is sold on the condition that it is not lent, resold, hired out,

performed, recorded, distributed, circulated or handed out by any other

method to any other party, including third parties, agents, retailers or

any other source of distribution without the prior consent of the publisher.

The publisher can be contacted by email at info@audioarcadia.com

                                 saturday night

one

Yellow light slanted, a jarred moment, and the dead one’s cartoon shadow rose in silent horror striding gigantic toward him, toward the pavilion.

        Snickering, he reached for the axe.

“Talk to her ple-ease, Mi-ster Su-un…Speak to her, Mister Rainbow…” Right one cue, the moping voice of a long-faded pop idol, the once adored Sultan of Sob, broke with tinny resonance for the bell-horn speaker, “…And take her under your branches, Mi-is-ter Tree-ees...” 

The soppy drivel wailed into the still darkness, its sly message tailor-made to order.

"...Whisper to he-er, Mister Wind. Sing to her, Mister Robin..."

And like a sleek rat drawn to the Pied Piper’s fluted call, the image of his own mock-self strolled hands-in-pockets into the sulphurous arc of  the pavilion lamps, glancing around in that smug way, already bored by it all.

   "...And Miss-as Moonlight, put in a word fo-or me-ee..."

   "Oh, Brother,” he heard himself call. “Over here," and stepped fully naked outside.

   Sneering eyes turned, moving up and down. "Oh, God. Am I supposed to make a comparison? What is wrong with you, why are you staring like that? - and what’s this nonsense?"

   "One of the old favourites, remember? I thought you would be pleased."

   "Did you?"

   Yes, petty sarcasm. So typical. No reprieve now. He shuffled forward, the axe hidden. And nicely accommodating, the sketch sighed, made an insouciant half-turn away, and began the process of fixing one of his custom-made Turkish cigarettes into the long jade holder he always used.

   "...It shouldn’t end-a th-is way..."

   Oh but it should, his brain screamed, his arm coming around in a curved galvanic swipe…   

                                        *

...And watch to see they all do...Pe-le-ase Mis-ter Suuun..."

The creaky ballad reached crescendo with high camp relish, the syrupy boy and girl chorus joining with heartfelt support…

   ...And he was raging…

   …Shrieking with insane hysterical laughter, trying to hold the offending part in place.

   His hand was shaking. All of his body was shaking. The red world split and fragmented around him. For one brief, terrifying moment he forgot who he was. Couldn’t remember his name.

   He came back in a cold sweat.

   Black shapes loomed all around, dark mysterious trees. The old 78 began to run down, the needle moving back and forth in lisping undulations over the waxy vinyl. He gasped, panting, raking clawed fingers through sodden hair as the dread thought took hold.

   What if he had been wrong?

   What if he had made some awful mistake!

   The turntable managed one more sluggish revolution and creaked to a halt. The dead silence that followed sent a shudder of despair through him. He tottered, almost falling, and went blundering into the pavilion. Bleary eyes lifted seeing the frieze of burlesqued cherubs that rimmed the domed ceiling, the deception of the giant-fronded sunflower chandelier at centre, the tromp l’oiel that never ceased to amaze and delight him. The effect was hypnotic. Gradually, his breathing steadied. The balance stabilised in his ears. His heartbeat slowed.

   There had been no mistake. He had lived with the same form, man and boy, for close on forty years. There was bound to be a reaction. He had feelings. He could be as sentimental as the next chap when it came right down to it.

   Soothed, he fumbled back outside, his naked body rapidly cooling in the chill September night. And arms crossed in a cuddling hug, he edged tentatively to his past self. A tear escaped and ran freely down one cheek. Vacant eyes staring back seemed to ask, why, why?  

   Suddenly he laughed out, the sound reverberating in the dark silence.

   If the fool didn’t know then nobody could ever tell him.

   He licked off the teardrop’s salty taste, the laughter dipping becoming the gleeful chuckled of old. By turn and turn-about, all was in place.

   Just as quick, all merriment died. The grin on his face fell away. His head snapped. And like a moth drawn to the terminating flame, his eyes enlarged in a bleak luminous stare, fixing on the house. It stood dark and majestic on the night skyline. A single oblong of light shone out.

   That would be Chita. There. Watching.

   Credit where credit due, she had put in a worthy performance and right now would be getting pumped up for her big scene in the second act. Well, too bad, Chita. Change of plans. There wasn’t going to be any second act. Not for you at least, sweetie. But never fear. Though you won’t be around to collect it, the Oscar for live-theatre melodrama, as you might term it - supporting Oscar, of course - was all but guaranteed.

   That left Deborah.

   Yes, his absentee, oh-so-beautiful, oh-so-sluttish scheming wife.

   Her fate required some little thought, but it would wait. Right now there were other priorities.

   He found the axe. And mouth gaped in a raw dog grin he went lurching toward the house.

two

Deep set black eyes rounded in the rhomboid face.

   No you don’t, you fuck!

   She had kinda guessed this would happen. Once he went through with it he was sure to flip, it took no genius to figure that out. He was mad in his head, and you can never trust no mad fuck, just let ’em think you trust ’em. She was ready with her own plan. But shit, he was movin’ fast. Jesus Christ if he wasn’t! Jesus, unless she started movin’ like shit too she was gonna end up squiffed for sure, all her big aims for the high life, any kinda life, ended right this next minute.

   So what the fuck was she doin’ starin’ out through her ladyship’s window? Why wasn’t she outa there and gone? It was like she was glued to the spot. She gawked, becoming queasy in her gut as the realisation hit her.

   Jesus!

   She was in blind panic!

   He reached the path, and still she couldn’t move. She heard the patio doors crash wide. For no good reason, she stroked at the mousy down above her upper lip. A sour lump came up and lodged back of her nose.

   And then she was running.

   First around and around the big swanky room like a crazy pig trapped in a slaughterhouse. Then she was outa the door and going in a mad dash along the passage toward the staircase, cannoning off walls, going full tilt into the banister rail.

   She froze!

   Too late.

   He was there. Miles below in the desert of a place they called the Baron’s Hall. He was no longer chargin’ like a mad dog. Hunkered in a sweaty bloody mess, he stalked his slow sure way past all the arty shit heading for the staircase.

   She scrambled out of her white shift. In just underwear she had more freedom. Less for him to grab. And better for running. She was quick. In a race she figured to beat him, you betcha life.

   Shit!

   A strangled scream started in her throat. That’s just what she’d be doin’!

   She snatched a glance at her room.

   There was time. Get back inside. Bolt the lock.

   Christ! That was no good. He would smash through easy. What then? Drop from the window. Probably kill her fuckin’ self, do the job for him.

   Desperate eyes darted left to right.

   The fire-escape! Yeah. Her best bet. Through the door and it was a done deal. Reach the ground and run like shit for the trees. She was all prepared, her car and stuff ready and waiting.

   But where was he? She couldn’t hear him. Curiosity beating fear, she craned her head to peek down. What she saw made her eyes pop.

   The mad prick was at the foot of the staircase.  

   It was a crazy sight. His bare behind mooned at her and his arms were flung wide, back arched like he was trying to contort his spine in some weirdo osteopathic exercise. Of all things, the prick was staring goggle-eyed at the great big painting of his old man hung over that fireplace thing. As she watched, his head started making wild gyrating movements, the axe going up and down like some spooked Red Indian chief waving his tomahawk. Fascinated, she held glued as he raised the axe high. A thin screechy noise came out of him, clutching the haft with both hands like he wanted to hack the canvas to shreds.

   Christ, what was wrong with her! She must be as cuckoo as he was. This was her chance. Like the prick heard her thoughts, he swung around, forgetting his fixation with the big picture. His eyes were mad eyes and he was grinning a grin to send your blood to pure ice.

   "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sang out, starting up the staircase.

   She scuttled back across the landing. Shit! The white shift! It was a dead give-away. She made a reflex move to grab it.

    Stopped.

    Forget it! No matter if he heard her now. Leaving the shift, she sprang upright and ran with all she had for the fire-escape.

   She got to the door. Panting in a delirium of gasping breaths, she turned the metal handle and tugged.

   The door stayed closed.

   A panicked squeal started in her throat. She cranked the handle up and down with frantic urgency.

   She twisted to see his shadow bob into view.

   Oh God! Oh Jesus fuckin’ Christ!

   Run to her room! Now! Find something. A weapon. Scissors. Anything.

   She tugged again.

   Damn the door, damn it, damn it, damn it!

   Then she remembered.

   You fool! You fool!

   It was bolted. Christ, sure it was. She had bolted it herself, top and bottom.

   Shit! What to do!

   Her room? Or stay with the door?

   She went for the bolts. She stretched and snapped back the top bolt, pinching skin and flesh. Then the lower mother. Squealing, coming upright, she gripped and turned the handle.

   Cool air hit her face. The door snatched open. She gasped, sagging at the knees. And then she was moving and out into the night. She heard him laugh out in that crazy giggling way and knew he had found her discarded shift.

   He was that close!

   With no regard to safety, she leaped down the fire-escape. Somewhere along the way she had lost her espadrilles and her bare feet skimmed on metal. With no awareness of pain, she squirmed through the gap in the rail, scraping her bare side, her ribs, and jumped down to the next platform. For the last decent you had to unhitch a sliding ladder thing, but there was no time. The ground was fifteen maybe eighteen feet below. From that height you could break bones, your ankle, even a leg. Left with no choice, taking a grip, she hung at full length from the platform. Fingers stretched, clinging. And then she dropped.

   She landed with a jar on the paved perimeter path and went “Oof,” crashing forward bruising her knees and hands, leaving skin behind. Forgetting that, she rolled in a ball against the wall of the house, making herself as small and secret as she could. Huddling in the shadows, she tried to suppress her panting breath. Her pulsed heart was beating a fury.

   The door above banged open.

   A cry started in her throat. She gagged a hand to her mouth, clamping her teeth. She could smell her own stink and felt insects zipping, drawn to her fear. She pictured those lunatic eyes, piercing the night, searching. Light from the house spread in a dim amber blanket in front of her. Beyond was blackness, the safety of the trees and bushes. Her escape route.

   All she had to do was run.

   Only right then her limbs were swollen big and heavy, all the sap of energy drained away.

   Noise came from up above. A rustling sound. Her jaws parted to let out a moan. She couldn’t help it. She jammed the ham of her thumb inside, biting hard. A moment later a ghostly apparition issued and slid through the slats of the fire-escape, floating down like a kid’s parachute.

   A worm crawled through her guts as the thing settled on the ground in front of her, lying there like a shroud.

   Her white shift!

   Christ, the mad fuck was sending a message. Letting her know her time was up. That he was coming for her!

   She huddled there. She couldn’t move. It was like she was strapped up in a straightjacket. But why was he waiting?

   She tasted blood, and now her hands and knees started to throb where she’d skinned ‘em. She was bruised all over and her side rasped like she’d cracked a couple of ribs. Shit, it hurt. A million tiny pin-pricks were jabbing at her. Underneath, a warm wetness was spreading telling she had peed herself.

   Jesus, if she got out of this she was gonna make the bastard pay. Not via no life sentence in a nuthouse. Revenge is good, but money is better. You bet!

   He was up there, lurking. Undecided. Maybe he didn’t fancy the drop. Yeah, that figured, the prick never much liked the height stunts. She’d been ahead of him so far. All she had to do was keep her head, stay cool.

   But you needed balls. You sure did.

   Christ, after this. Nothing. No aggro. Just a swingin’ time with plenty of sweaty body contact and iced rum punch.

   Okay, now or never.

   Willing her limbs to action, she got set, arms propped, one knee raised like a sprinter.

   She swallowed, took a breath.

   Gave it a few seconds longer.

   And then she was running full pelt for the trees.

three

Massey halted a stretch back from the pavilion summer house. The scene looked peaceful, almost shrine-like. By now they would have secured the body, but the cloying, vaguely sweet smell of death still hung thick in the night air. Massey quickly picked out Lionel Stein, his bald dome brilliantly reflected by the high-powered spotlights set around. Lured from his bed in the early hours of Sunday, he stood huddled in conclave with his assistants thoughtfully plucking at his lower lip. The serious work completed, he had dispensed with the requisite white suit and mask and reverted to the heavy duty green rubber apron he more usually favoured. He saw Massey and came over to him.

   "So they’ve sent for the junior G-men," he said. "Well, well. Got it solved yet?"

   "Not quite."

   Lionel had been ill, cancer it was rumoured, and he looked thinner and more haggard than Massey remembered. The mischievous grey eyes though twinkled behind his rimless glasses as sharp as ever. When Massey learned he would be working with the Thames Valley crowd, he had taken a bet he’d find Lionel in the thick of it. He could be half-joy, half-devil to work with, and that suited Massey fine. He liked the old goat’s quirky sense of humour - gallows humour, as he liked to call it. More to the point, he knew he could rely on Lionel to tell it like it was in plain English without playing the high and mighty learned pathologist.

   "So what’s the score?" he asked.

   “Mayhem," Lionel said. "But you know that already. In all my years I have never encountered such unbridled fury. Skull, and pretty well all of the face, bashed in. Simply horrendous.”

   "And it’s solid he used an axe?”

   “Well, what would you say? Heavy instrument, sharp cutting edge. Started with a blow to the back of the head. Blade driven in hard behind the right ear. Used it on his genitals, after he had finished smashing him up. Fancy a peek?"

   "Not right now."

   "Can’t say that I blame you." Lionel pondered for a second. “Interesting, the mutilation. Has the feel of an afterthought, almost as if he wanted to obliterate what he had done.”

   “Go on.”

   “Well, look. He strips him and then slices off the penis. Performed quite a delicate operation, in fact. Took the member as neat and clean as you like close at the scrotum."

   "What, with an axe?"

   "No, no, that would be quite impossible. I should have said. A scalpel, more like. Certainly something keenly sharp. Then the madness sets in again and he has a full-blooded go at what remained of the private parts. Not that it made a fig of difference to the victim of course, his heart having long since packed in. There’s no trace of the penis, my guess being he took it away with him. Make of that what you will, Doctor Freud.”

   "How long dead?”

   “About four hours, since about midnight," Lionel said. "I’ll tell you more when I get him on the slab.” He was shorter than Massey and perhaps twenty-five years older, his shiny baldness standing out in stark contrast to the younger man’s tousled mop of dark prematurely greying hair.

   “When you do get him back,” Massey said, “take a look at his anal sphincter. I’d be interested to learn if it’s still intact.”

   “Gay killing, is that what you think? He is married, don’t forget.”

   “So was Nelson. There’s no robbery angle we can see. Not so far at least. It looks a possibility.”

   “The body mutilated, desexed as you might put it. Yes, almost symbolic, isn’t it? Some bad feelings here, whatever the reason. All right, I’ll shine a light up his fundament and let you know.”

   Massey couldn’t help smiling. The old goat’s eyes were twinkling.

   “Good to see a little smirk there, Samuel. I don’t want to step on any corns. I’ll just say I know you’ve had a rough time of it of late."

   "It’s no big deal," Massey said. "Just one more failed marriage to add to the list. You’ve had your problems, what I heard."

   "Yes, and heading for a nice well-packaged resolution, in my case. Just as well we can take a philosophical line on things. Anyway, you’ve got a real biggie on your hands this time and no mistake."

   "Should make a perfect conclusion for your book, then."

   "How do you know I’m writing a book?"

   "Well, aren’t you?"

   Lionel sighed. "My valedictory masterpiece, that’s right. A compendium of the most celebrated, or if you prefer lurid cases I have had the pleasure of dealing with over the years. I only hope I’ll be able to complete it."

   "You’ll make it."

   "We’ll see. It’s in the lap of the gods, actually. You are quite right, though. This should supply the material for a majestic finale. There’s going to be a heck of a lot of publicity. You will feature prominently, of course. The hero, one might say. Yes, Sammy Mass, hot shot detective who always gets his man.”

   Massey winced. He hated the Sammy Mass tag, dragging him back as it did to his East End market-working family roots. “If only,” he said. “And you can leave out the funnies. I need the media right now like I need a dose of hot piles. The jackals are already massing.” He squinted into the distance seeing flashlights moving. “So many of these damned trees out here.”

   “It will be light soon. Be a lot easier then.”

   "Let’s hope so."

   Massey gazed across at the white marbled pavilion with its faux turrets and cupolas and wondered why anyone would fork out what must have been a small fortune on such a monstrosity. Miles away, he reached absently into his jacket pocket for a flat metal spirit flask. And like a man caught halfway between his thoughts, he said:

   “Why come down here? Midnight. Saturday.”

   “Perhaps he liked to commune with nature,” Lionel said.

   "Or maybe he was out spotting flying saucers. No, he came to meet someone, didn’t he?"

   "Possibly."

   "For sure."

   The flask contained Bushmills whisky. Massey unscrewed the cap and had a snort.

   “You want to go easy on that stuff.”

   “Doctor’s orders." Massey offered the flask. "Care for a nip?"

   Lionel’s head shook with indignant refusal. A moment later a bony hand snaked out. He took a quick swig and passed the flask back. Dead-pan, Massey stowed it away.

   "What do you know about him, Lionel?”

   Creighton Dow?” Lionel raised and dropped depleted shoulders. “I wouldn’t know if he walked on his toes, if that’s what you mean. You’ll need to read between the lines of the society pages to get an angle there - no pun intended. Otherwise I suppose you would call him a playboy, to use the old-fashioned term. More money than sense. Something of a joker, apparently. Got a reputation for playing nasty little pranks on people. Son of old Zach Dow – Zachary Dow, yes? Even an ignoramus like you must have heard of that infamous gentleman.”  

   “I only know he was seriously rich. Bit before my time. He looks a hard old bastard judging by the heavyweight picture stuck up in the house back there. Canadian, wasn’t he?”

   “Came from Wales, originally. The old Cardiff Tiger Bay dockland area. Rags to riches story. emigrated at a young age and made his pile in Californian oil, which passed to the son here on his death, not that it will do him a whole lot of good now.”

   “Nope, can’t take it with you. What I don’t get is why our friend would go up to the house after, leave a clear trail like he did. I mean, why broaden the risk, when by all logic the thing to do was get away ASAP.”  

   "You might as well ask why he would commit such a horrendous crime in the first place. You’re definitely ruling out plunder?"

   "At this point. Hard to tell without an inventory. With all that art clutter, only the wife would know if anything of value’s been taken."

   "Any news on her?"

   "Not so far," Massey said. "A servant’s gone missing too, a Spanish woman according to the security wonk who found Dow’s body. Doesn’t look good, does it? By morning could be we’ll find both of them mangled up out in these woods somewhere." He glanced back at the house. “Could a woman have done this?”

   “Certainly,” Lionel said. “Heavy weapon, the victim struck from behind. The damage suggests more of a man’s musculature, but you can’t rule out such a possibility. Don’t tell me you suspect the wife?”

   “I wouldn’t go that far. Like I say, come the dawn good chance we’ll find her dead. Raped. Kidnapped, who knows? Only where there’s so much money involved, my gut instincts tend to point me at the one most likely to gain from the situation. She’s quite a bit younger than he is.”

   “He’s forty or thereabouts. I don’t call that old, not at my age.”

   “Deborah Dow is in her twenties and a real stunner. Have you seen what Creighton Dow looks like? - correction, looked like. Got the kind of mug that would stop a runaway bus. She wouldn’t have given him a second glance but for his money.”

   “So you’ve thrown out your homosexual connection?”

   “I haven’t thrown it out. I’m scratching around in the dark here, all I know right now is the murderer and victim couldn’t have been strangers.”

   “What about it being the handiwork of some madman with a grudge? I’m playing devil’s advocate”

    “The grudge I go along with, I think you’d have to. But this isn’t the work of a crazy blunderer. Bringing along a special kind instrument to perform a special kind of operation, for my money that adds up to a cunning mind. I reckon there’s a warped logic at back of this. I reckon this was a callous act dressed up to look like the touch of madness."

   "Which would take a rare kind of cold-blooded nerve."

   "Wouldn’t it just? Dow knew his killer, I’d stake my pension on it, knew him well in all probability. They meet. Words are exchanged. Dow conveniently turns his back. He reaches for one of his custom-made Turkish cigarettes..."

   "And gets whacked into oblivion for his trouble."

   "Right, and then what? The killer pretty much for sure is in his birthday suit. So to make his getaway, he gets togged up in the victim’s clothes, right?"

   "Well, he might have preferred his own stuff. No clothes were left behind, don’t forget. But that would be a clear possibility. Bizarre, whichever way you look at it."

   "That’s one word for it, “Massey said, and rubbed at his chin. “Isn’t there a sister somewhere, some kind of down-market film actress?”

   “Yes, so there is,” Lionel said. “I had forgotten about her. Veronica Dow, the queen of cheapo porn horror flicks, or was a few years back. Gave it all up when she got married, lives back in the States now I think. She was quite a girl, by all accounts.”            

   Massey nodded and thought he had become mixed up with one strange family.

four

The place smelled of old men’s dormitories, and he began to cheer up, seeing the funny side. It really was so deliciously ironic. He wouldn’t have been found dead in such a moth-eaten dump, yet here he was, dead, and he was in it. Choking with mirth, sneaking a sly show-off glance at the old corpse of a night clerk, he penned Jesse Mort in the dog-eared register. He did so like his jokes to be applauded, and in whatever fashion, amusement, disgust, hate, he wasn’t fussy.

   Straight off, his face fell.  

   The fellow mulched saliva caked disgustingly at the corners of his ghastly mouth and that was it. It was so very discouraging. He could have signed in as Beavis Butthead or Homer Simpson for what it achieved. As soon as his latest, not particularly welcome guest had been stowed with the other snoring deadbeats, the idiot would no doubt return to catnap and dream his fetid dreams until the army of slag scrub-women arrived at first light.

   The red tide came down.

   The coffin had overturned, the fiend loosed.

   Next all was calm. He was walking head bowed with funereal deliberation alongside the hearse, keeping slow time with clop-clopping of the plumed black hunters.

   Be charitable. ’Twas ever thus. Pearls before swine.

   The room was about as grim as grim ever gets. Cobwebs, peeling wallpaper, it was simply perfect. Wonder of wonders, there was even a mighty chamber pot, the bulge adorned by a pink tulip, somewhat faded, worthy of Dali. He gave a little shudder of delight picturing the many the bowels and bladders the ancient commode had afforded relief to, and risking the fleas, stretched grinning on the cot bed, all the old verve flooding back.

   He had blundered with Chita. Big mistake to have entered the house. The little slut would lose herself of course, and for the time being there was no option other than to wait. But greed would prove her undoing. Yes, she would resurface soon enough. When he would make good and sure the matter was resolved beyond analysis.

   Anyway, he refused to let it spoilt the mood. He had pulled off a wonderful trick. He had succeeded where the likes even of Harry Houdini had so miserably failed. He had crossed the divide. Set foot in That Undiscovered Country. But from which he most definitely would be returning.

   A Gideon Bible lay mouldering on what passed for a bedside cabinet. He reached for it and read at random.

   ...while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain...

   An omen surely, the stars and the moon not darkening.

   Though wouldn’t it have been better if they had been?

   He squinted at the open page. He could smell the damp mustiness. From Ecclesiastes, for what it was worth. He snapped shut the Book and chucked it back.

   Superstitious gobbledegook. Who needed it?

   The grin came back, spreading wolfishly, as names emerged carved in the air above him. His face darkened then mellowed fixing on one name. Hers was emboldened larger than the others, and rightly so.

   Dear, Verro.  

   He would call her. Yes, why not? Tell her the good tidings. Spontaneous is always best, and she deserved no less.

"Creighton?" she said, jolting awake.

   "Your own dear brother, who else? Don’t sound so surprised, Verro. I simply had to tell you. I have just pulled off a most amazing feat. I have murdered myself."

   She flopped back on her pillow, heart racing. What was the fool talking about? Another of his stupid tricks. She might have known he would find her. She was angry, yet knew equally she had wanted him to call. Why else was she here in London?  

   "Did you hear what I said, Verro. I said - "

   "I heard you," she snapped. "You have set my nerves jangling! I was dead asleep. How did you know I was here?"

   "Well, there is no need to become testy. For the record, a little dickie-bird informed me you were back. It was only a matter of putting two and two together. The good old Savoy. Simple. You always did have expensive tastes above your station. I’m miffed, all the same. You might at least have let on that you were winging your way homeward.”

   “I – I was going to get in touch. Today.”

   “Were you now?”

   “Yes, I planned to call after breakfast. I needed time to adjust for jet lag."

   "You are such a liar, Verro. But I forgive you. I also have to admit to feeling rather jealous. There you are, luxuriating at the Savoy, swaddled up in silken sheets no less, whilst I languish in about the crummiest of dumps one could imagine. It isn’t right." He gave a sudden hee-hee laugh. "Actually I am fibbing. This place is wonderful."

   "Creighton, please. I am completely wiped."

   "Oh, and you’ll love this. Under the bed there is even a big old po, which I must admit I am tempted to abscond with."

   "Creighton - "

   "You’ll never guess what name I signed in the crummy old register book…Jesse Mort - je suis morte, get it? Isn’t that brilliant, Verro?"

   "Yes, yes, it’s sensational. Look, I can’t be dealing with this right now. I’ll call you in the morning."

   “Is that a promise?”

   “A promise, sure, I’ll call you.”

   “You won’t be able to.” Sniggering. “Not unless you can get through to the spirit world.”

   She closed her eyes and groaned.

   “Evidently you don’t believe me. Very well, leave it there. You want your beauty sleep, which I can well understand. But you will see. It is going to be such a surprise for Deborah when she returns by dawn’s early light. As you might suppose she is off on one of her, what shall we say, nocturnal sojourns."

   "Leave me out of that. You married her."

   "How true, and please spare reminding me that you were right all along. Foolish me. I always end up getting it the wrong way round, if you take my point. Oh, dear. I hesitate to own up to it, but I am afraid I have - what is the term? - cocked it up with Chita also."

   "Do I have to listen to this?"

   "The cunning little minx second-guessed me. She had the gall to play hide and seek. She saw what I had in mind and made herself heap scarce. Not that you can blame her, I suppose."

   "We’ll talk about it later."

   "Oh, all right, be a spoilsport, if you must. Never bend the unwilling ear, as they say. Off you go to bye-bye land. In any case, I need to sit down and plan my next move. Yes, something special I fancy. Chita’s piece of ad-libbing has actually made things rather awkward. Very well, leave it there. I will be in touch. Kiss, kiss, sweet dreams.”

She sighed and closed her eyes again. Sleep in any meaningful sense now was pretty much impossible. The premonition of some dread happening he had so skilfully planted in her mind refused to subside. What did he mean he had murdered himself?

   She did then drift away for a while, his grinning face merging with the smatter of some troubled dream, that horrible neighing laugh echoing in her brain.

   Next she was dressed and out walking. He always had the power to confuse like that. She regretted now making the detour to London. She should have been stronger. She had no responsibilities for Creighton or his failed marriage - why did he always make her feel so guilty! She should have gone directly to Amsterdam. Or maybe just stayed on in Los Angeles. The Amsterdam offer wasn’t much. She was scraping the barrel she had no illusions on that count. But it was an offer.

   Lights gave way to darkened streets. She trudged on, deep in troubled thought. In lieu of sleep, she found the damp September night air strangely intoxicating. She crossed the Thames at one point. There was a recollection of low-grade housing and wet pavements and alleys, furry and out of line with reality. The new day was breaking as she turned into The Strand coming back to the Savoy.

   What had been the point of it? She had walked and walked to God knows what purpose. She hauled herself up the steps of the hotel, tired beyond description, and something strange was going on. The lobby was filled with people, uniformed men and women, police officers. Staring at her as if she were an exhibit on display.

   And then a tall round-shouldered man with a face like a camel approached and told her that her brother had been the victim of a vicious assault in the grounds of his Maidenhead home, from which, regrettably, he had not survived.

five

“Guess what," Ray Whitmore said. "The sister’s turned up. Staying at the Savoy. Flew in a couple of days ago. Vic Davis is on his way to see her.”

“So Vic’s getting in on the act, is he?” Massey tapped at his teeth “And right on cue she comes back. Booked in at the Savoy, no less. Don’t stint themselves do they these people? Why not the family home, I wonder?"

   Whitmore shrugged.  He was Massey’s sergeant, slim, with blond thinning hair, about thirty. “Maybe she wanted her own space, or maybe she can’t hack it with her sister-in-law, who knows.”

    “Yeah, who does? All right, Ray. Get hold of Davis, see what he’s come up with.”

    “I might need your help first, with the press and media crowd. They’re hagging for a statement. They’ve got cameras and everything set up down there.”

   “Christ, can’t the Maidenhead crew handle it?”

   “Barrett, their guvnor, says he thinks it best if you did. Reckons he’s not up to speed with all what’s happened.”

   Massey made a grunting sound. “Nothing like copping out is there?”

   “Sorry to dump it on you, Mass,” Whitmore said.

   “That’s how you look when you’re sorry, is it? All right. Give me a minute and I’ll be down.”

Left alone, Massey wandered pensively through the expanse of the big house.

   The wife missing and now the sister turns up, in London all the time. Okay, like Ray said, maybe she needed her own space and time, and she was hardly Mary Poppins. The bright lights of the Savoy he supposed would be more up her street than sniffing the country air with the dogs and horsy set.

   He continued on absently wondering what it would be like to live in a place like this. For his money it was more a vast banqueting hall than a comfortable dwelling for human beings – chalk up another reason why Veronica chose to stay away. If you wanted to throw one of those medieval feasts, mead, venison, with all the trimmings, you could hardly do worse. There were just two levels, the upper floor elevated a good thirty feet and buttressed by a kind of cantilevered balcony arrangement. Down below, over a huge inglenook fireplace, hung the towering portrait of old Zachary Dow.  Massey went up to take a better view.

   In oils, it depicted a tall athletic-built man in his middle-aged prime. He was dressed how one of the early aviators might have dressed, jodhpurs and riding boots, a royal blue windbreaker jacket open to the waist. One arm was fisted to a hip, elbow aggressively out-thrust. Under the other he clenched a mighty blood-red tome with indistinguishable lettering mounted on the spine. Behind him, oil derricks stretched away to the horizon, idealised billowy white clouds floating in the misty background. He looked a tough, leathery character, iron-grey hair, Mexican bandit moustache. Not the sort of man to get the wrong side of, the chilling stare said.

   But he sure must have thought a whole lot of himself, Massey thought. The work was so vast the artist would have risked painter’s colic halfway through completion. The significance of the red book escaped him, unless it was meant to be a Bible

   More art was decked out further along. The whole place, in fact, resembled some madcap art collector’s paradise. Or junkyard, depending on your take of things. Some of the stuff was good, according to Massey’s eye. The rest just looked like trashy smut. Like the life-size statue of a naked kneeling woman, blindfold, hands back of her as if bound, head raised in suffering. Various other sculptures were spread around, objects on pedestals or free standing, cast in ivory, bronze, iron, all manner of substances. In all this old Zach Dow’s museum piece looked as out of place as a red nosed comic doing a turn at Buckingham Palace. Yet there it was, more than holding its own. What would Creighton Dow’s arty friends have made of that, he wondered?  Massey pictured them loafing on the big heavy silk cushions that were strewn around, fey women and sexually uncertain men. Sniffing coke and tonguing back absinthe while they debated the transcendental worth of Henry Miller.

   Getting too cynical by half Massey a hidden voice told him.

   Ah, to hell with it. What if he was? What did he care about some rich fool lying bollock-naked with his feeble brains spread over his face? Nothing, he decided. But it was still his job to search out the truth. Try to at least.

   A magnificent picture window had been built into the far south-facing wall. Massey went up three steps and on to a shallow stage to peer out. When the sun was up the view would be spectacular, sweeping across the northern reaches of Windsor Great Park. Over in the low east the early dawn was breaking. Not much to see otherwise. A few dimming stars plus Massey’s ghostly reflection staring back at him.

   He turned from the window.

   The stage was large enough to house a crescent-shaped teakwood bar and a Steinway baby grand piano. He went up to the piano and hit middle C, the note ringing out with a sharp true pitch. The galaxy of framed photographs set atop the piano interested him more. He moved them around, various portraits and group shots.

   The dead man was easy to pick, posing with his sparkling young bride on their wedding day, a full works studded tie job. He was an odd looking character, Creighton Dow, beanpole thin and showing too many teeth and too little chin.  Massey snorted. There was little of the playboy joker in evidence in that mush. The upturned nostril holes were like those you see with infants before they form out and reminded him of the old Phantom of the Opera mask. His face overall had a horrific, strangely girlish, strangely oriental look about it. Not the kind of deuce you’d want to meet up with late at night back of a graveyard, that’s for sure.

   Veronica figured just once. It had to be her, a publicity shot by the look of it. She stared out from a black backdrop with theatrical intensity like she was getting set to play Lady Macbeth with all the stops out. Massey wouldn’t have called her outstanding – her eyes were just a little too narrow-set, the upper lip just a little too long. She had scored over her brother in the looks department, all the same. Though he could still make out a likeness around the unstable mouth and chin.

   Commanding pride of place, a super-large gilt-framed portrait of Deborah Dow dwarfed all the competition. Massey needed both hands to lift it. Even allowing for some touch up work, the angel smiling back at him was as close to female perfection as you are ever likely to get. Her large cornflower blue eyes had a soft limpid quality and honey blonde hair fell in soft waves around a superb neck. The face was oval, with high cheekbones tapering to a narrow but firm jaw, the mouth wide and shapely humorous.

   Holding the heavy picture, a strobe of irrational anger struck home. He felt the hard set of his mouth, his chest tightening. He nodded with bitter eyes. “Where are you now, beautiful Deborah?” he said out aloud. “And are you involved?”

   Setting her portrait back in position, his hand brushed aside a small silver-framed black-and-white curio. He frowned. It was like the tarnished little picture had been hidden guiltily away. Massey slid it out.

   It showed two fair-haired little boys. They were dressed in sailor suits and they were sharing a ride on one of those big old hand-carved rocking horses. They wouldn’t have been any more than four years old, the little boys, and they were identical. It wasn’t a happy scene, though. Their unsmiling tubercular little faces were stamped more with duty than with joy, sitting there in a tense obedient pose. The photograph had a Victorian, by-gone age feel to it. But it couldn’t have been that old. The resemblance was unmistakable.

   Both boys looked like Creighton Dow.

six

They had cleared away the body and Massey was back at the big picture window watching the sunrise and drinking strong black coffee he had laced with a healthy slug of his late host’s single malt - he didn’t suppose he would mind - when Ray Whitmore bustled up, excited.

   “She’s here! She just drove up!”

   “What?”

   “The dead man’s wife. She’s here. Now! Outside the gates.”

   Massey dragged himself from the well of fatigue. “Well for Christ sake, get her up here.”

   “We can’t. The TV crews, and the press. The arseholes are all over us. We can’t move down there.”

   Massey hissed through his teeth. “Come on,” he said, and gunned a car down the long drive to the high double iron gates that fronted the Dow estate.

   There was commotion right enough. A big juicy bone had been tossed out and the jackals were all but fighting themselves, cameras flashing, calling. “Mrs Dow, Mrs Dow! This way, Mrs Dow!”

   She sat as if in deep thought behind the wheel of an oyster-white 7-series BMW convertible, the black top up. Massey shouldered his way through. The car was locked. He rapped at the window, took out his police ID card and pressed it flat to the glass. After a moment, her head came around. She wore a white headscarf knotted under her chin. He mouthed at her to open up. She stared dazed at his ID. Then she nodded to say that she understood and reached mechanically and snapped the release button.

   Massey pushed inside. “Move over.”

   She gave a bewildered look but obeyed, squeezing across to the passenger seat, her skirt riding up, cameras flashing, tv crews recording the scene for the breakfast news-flash.

  He made a get back, get-away gesture and edged the car forward. The uniformed boys were doing their best to clear a path, but it wasn’t easy. The juicy bone was slipping away and the jackals were tussling to get in their last shots, fighting for advantage, hammering on the roof of the car. Massey ground through. He manoeuvred the BMW between the iron gates and drove directly back up the long drive to the house.

   He neither spoke nor glanced at the woman on the short journey but could sense her sitting rigid with shock beside him. He parked and cut the engine. She remained perfectly still, head tilted back, lips slightly parted. She was scarcely breathing.

   Then in an abstracted voice, she said, “He is dead. Creighton.”

   Massey frowned, squinting at her. “You mean you only just heard? For God’s sake, Mrs Dow, your husband’s been murdered. We’ve been trying to find you all night. Where have you been?”

   “Nowhere,” she said.

   “Nowhere? What the hell does that mean?”

   She gave no reply, staring straight ahead through the windshield. He studied her for a minute, then got out of the car and went around and opened her door. "Let’s get inside," he said, helping her out.

   She staggered against him. She was shorter than he imagined, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder level. Holding her steady he guided her into the house and sat her down on a big kidney-shaped yellow leather sofa. She was deathly pale. Massey stepped back appraising her.

   “Do you want anything?” he asked. “A drink, would that help? Brandy, or maybe some coffee?”

   She didn’t hear him. As though in a trance, she unknotted the white headscarf and gave her head a freeing shake. Her hair was cut different than in the photographs, sweeping back to mid-shoulder level, and taking him on the wing the surge of irrational anger of before rasped at him. He got out his handkerchief and wiped off his hands, pushing it roughly around his mouth. He stowed the handkerchief away and took a steadying breath, getting his emotions under control. Whatever else, seen up close, he had to admit she was really something.

   “Let’s get this straight, Mrs Dow," he said working the palms of his hands back and forth. "You are saying you didn’t know about your husband’s death till now. Is that right?”

   She shook a confused head. “I can’t believe this is happening, Creighton…dead.”

   “Murdered,” Massey said.

   The blue eyes came into focus, and he could see the old trick being played. She would be good at it. The helpless female.  Her lower lip jibbed quivering and she said to him, “You have to tell me what happened.”

   “Be glad to,” he said, nodding. “I still would appreciate your confirming this is the first you have heard of the event. Your husband’s been dead for over seven hours, since around midnight. There have been broadcasts going out all night trying to locate you. We even considered the possibility you had been kidnapped. Where were you, Mrs Dow?”

   “Out driving.”  She threaded a strand of blonde hair in place. “I sometimes have difficulty sleeping.”

   "So you take a car and drive?”

   “Yes, I like driving at night, I find it relaxing.”

   “Maybe, but it doesn’t seem very wise, an attractive woman like yourself. Out alone late at night in an expensive car.”

   Copying Massey, she fished her own small white hankie from the inside of her sleeve and dabbed at her lips. “No, I suppose not.”

   “You have trouble sleeping, you say?”

   “Sometimes, yes.”

   “Insomnia. Not good. I get it myself now and again. Do you take anything for it, pills or anything?”

   “Not as a general rule.”

   “I know what you mean you wake up in a fugg. Any particular reasons as to why you can’t sleep? Do you have troubles, worries of any kind?”

   “No more than usual.”

   Massey wondered what usual would be for people with the kind of money the Dows had. He rubbed hard at the back of his neck to stimulate some life. “All right, let’s start here," he said. "What time did you leave home last night, Mrs Dow?”

   She fiddled with the hankie. “Immediately after dinner, I think.”

   “You think?”

   “Yes, after dinner, that would be right. Around ten o’clock, perhaps ten thirty.”

   “Between ten and ten thirty, a bit on the late side to have dinner, isn’t it?”

   "Saturday night, we generally ate later."

   “I see,” Massey said, not really seeing at all. He nodded. “You were lucky then, Mrs Dow.”

   “Lucky?"

   “I would say so. Given the time your husband was attacked, if you hadn’t left when you did – well, who can say what might have happened.” Massey watched for a reaction, but the blue eyes stayed glazed and off-centre, not wanting to engage with his.

   Breaking the trend, she glanced up at him then quickly away. “Who did this thing?”

   “We don’t know,” he said. “Not yet. Could be anybody with a grudge against your husband. It might even be the work of a maniac. We have to keep an open mind at this stage. You wouldn’t have a thought there by any chance would you, Mrs Dow?”

   “Why, no. I am utterly baffled. Shocked. Please, you have to tell me what happened.”

   “All right,” Massey said. “It’s really quite simple. While you were away cruising, somebody, for reasons so far unknown, took an axe and decided to smash your husband’s head to bloody pulp.”

   She winced, her head swiping sideways as if he had struck her. “That is an awful way of telling me.”

   “There is no easy way. And I am afraid there is more. He didn’t stop at murder, whoever he was. The body was mutilated. The private parts.”

   Her eyes screwed tighter and she made a hushing sound.

   “If it’s any consolation,” Massey went on, “the first strike probably killed him outright. Either way, he wouldn’t have known much from there on in. The battering and mutilation took place after death set in.”

   "Poor Creighton," she said.

   “Yes, I sympathise,” Massey said without sympathy. “Your servant’s missing, too."

   "Carmen?"

   "Is that her name? Yes, she’s gone. I take it she was still here when you left last night."

   "Yes, in the house. What do you suppose...?"

   "Happened to her? We don’t know. Could be she witnessed the murder and took off.  We’ll get back to Carmen later. A security man doing his rounds found your husband. He was lying out there in front of the pavilion – is that what you call it? Seems to me like he went to meet up with somebody – where have you been, Mrs Dow?”

   “I told you - ”

   “Out driving, yes I know. About eight, maybe nine hours worth of it I’d say. Enough to make it halfway to Scotland and back if you had a mind to.”

   She was still having difficulty meeting his gaze. “Of course, I wasn’t driving for all of that time.”

   “Oh?”  Massey waited to hear more.

   “I was actually parked up for a good deal of it,” she said, then added as if it had just occurred to her, “In fact I did drive a fair way. I went all the way down to the south coast, near Sandwich, in Kent, to watch the early dawn come up over the ocean. I like to do that, sit and watch the night turn to day.”

   “All on your own in peaceful solitude, like.”

   “Why, yes. Don’t you believe me?”

   “It isn’t a question of belief,” Massey said. “I have to deal with tangibles, boring old facts. And short of facts, I have to weigh how things look. Shall I tell you how this looks? It doesn’t look right. Quite frankly, it looks queer, you just happening not be around when your husband gets brutally beaten to death.”

   “Are you implying I had a hand in what happened? You are accusing me of a terrible thing.”

   “Murder is a pretty terrible business, Mrs Dow, especially when it’s done for pure gain. In my book, that’s the worst kind of murder.”

   "What do you mean, for gain?"

   “I meant nothing by it, forget I said it. I’m tired and you must be under a lot of strain. Look, Mrs Dow, I’m not accusing you of anything, neither am I sitting in judgment. With me a person’s morals are their own business. Do you understand what I mean?”

   She blankly shook her head.

   Massey sighed. “All right,” he said.  “Laying it on the line, it looks to me as if you might have been away all this time seeing someone.”

   “You mean...another man?”

   “You tell me, Mrs Dow.”

   “I haven’t.”

   “Fine. But humour me for a minute. Let’s for argument’s sake say you have. Now I appreciate you wouldn’t like having to bring it out into the open. It could be embarrassing, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. You might not believe it but we can be pretty discreet about such things. Nobody would ever have to know. Well, Mrs Dow?”

   He could see the wheels of her mind turning, deciding how best to respond.

   “I went out driving,” she finally said. “I needed time to think. I drove to the coast. I am unable to tell you anything further.”

   "And did your husband mind?" Massey said.

   "Mind?” She snatched a look at him. “No, why should he have?"

   For a very obvious reason Massey thought but kept the thought to himself. He pulled a hand down over his mouth and tried another tack. “What sort of relationship did you have with your husband, Mrs Dow? Were you deeply in love with him still?"

   Her head snapped around. “You go too far. My relationship with my husband isn’t any of your business.”

   “I am afraid it is very much my business. Murder changes things. Married but a year, you’d expect some of the starry-eyed magic to be left, wouldn’t you?  What you wouldn’t expect is for a recently married young wife to go out driving all on her own on Saturday night and stay out until the morning. Have you got a lover, Mrs Dow?”

   She bit down on the troublesome lip, head shaking. “I refuse to answer any more of these aggressive questions. I have been confronted with the most awful shock of my life. My husband, dead. My world wrecked. And you…this is horrible!”

   Massey smiled a thin smile and got set for the waterworks. But instead of tears she sat up straight and said tersely, not looking at him, “If this is to continue I will have to insist upon speaking with my lawyer.”

   “You don’t need a lawyer, Mrs Dow,” Massey said.  “You just need give a convincing account of your whereabouts.”

  She said nothing, staring straight ahead of her.

  Massey felt a thick tiredness dragging through him. “All right," he said wearily. "You’ll have to change."

   She stared up at him, confused. "I don’t understand..."

   "The body has to be identified. You’ll want to do that, won’t you? Confirm the dead man is your husband."

   "But if he as you say... "

   "No, he’s not a pretty sight, but an ID still has to be made. I’m asking for your co-operation. This officer will go with you.” Massey indicated to the young WPC standing close by. “She’ll take the clothes you have on.”

   "My clothes?"

   "Yes, a necessary procedure, I’m afraid. Whoever killed your husband will likely have traces of the crime on them. I’m sorry if this offends you. See it as a process of elimination, all right?”

   "This is insufferable," she said tightly. She inhaled deeply as though in preparation for some odious task. And making up her mind she stood in one quick movement and, ignoring Massey, walked numbly in the direction of the staircase.

   Massey stalled the WPC as she moved to follow. “Make sure you get all her clothes,” he said to her. “You understand what I mean?” She nodded to say she did and went after Deborah Dow.

   He watched them go. He knew he was over-stepping the mark, taking one almighty risk in fact. Only right there and then he didn’t care. Her story was phoney and he was determined to break it. He turned to see Ray Whitmore staring with disbelieving eyes.

   "What’s wrong with you?"

   "Nothing," Whitmore said.

   "Well that’s good, then."

seven

“Her clothes.”

   Lionel gave the cellophane bag Massey dumped on his desk a measured look. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Are you thinking straight? What is this meant to prove, how macho you are?”

   Massey folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, making no reply. The old doctor watched him with shrewd eyes.

   “You are dealing with influential people here, you know. The lady is rich, and it looks very much as if she is about to become a good deal richer.”

   “So?”

   “What do you mean ‘so’? In case you haven’t heard, the rich aren’t like the rest of us. They believe the law exists for their exclusive good – which for the most part I am bound to say it does. They expect and usually get the kid glove treatment. What they positively don’t expect is for police detectives with a bee in their bonnet to get above themselves by setting out to bully and humiliate them. Am I getting through to you by any chance? Silly question. Listen to me, Samuel. Do you mind if I proffer some much needed advice?”

   Massey shrugged. “Be my guest.”

   “It is simply this. Ease up. Don’t push this thing. You will be on a loser for sure.”

   “Then it’s my funeral. I’m betting she had a hand in what happened.”

   Lionel shook his head. “You disappoint me. I always had you down as a thinking man’s copper. Now you are telling me you are in to laying bets.”

   “Lay off, Lionel. I’m not in the mood for this bullshit. I’m tired.”

   “You look it. I’ll warrant you’ve taken a drink or two to perk you up and now the effects are wearing off, which is why you are so bloody irritable. You know it doesn’t pay to involve with important decisions when the mind is fatigued. If there is one thing you can say about dead men, they don’t mind waiting.

   “I’ll bear it in mind,” Massey said. “Right now I want to know how this stacks up. She’s been out driving all night, or so she claims. Turns up fresh as a daisy and not a clue about hubby’s demise. Doesn’t that strike you as being just a wee bit odd?”

   "It raises questions, I concede."

   "Questions? It stinks!"

   "All right, but it’s hardly worth all this argy-bargy. Can’t you see you are over-reacting?"

   Massey pointed at the bag of clothes. “Whether I am or not, I want this stuff checked out.”

   "To what end? This is madness. Do you suppose she stood around while her accomplice – her clandestine lover maybe? Watched as he wielded the axe? A kind of macabre spectator sport.”

   "Yeah, yeah, very funny."

   “No, it’s not funny at all," Lionel said. "There’s a case on record similar to this, the Baird case. Before your time, but it wouldn’t hurt you to look it up. Fellow hacked off a nurse’s head; this was in Birmingham back in the late fifties."

   "I know of the case."

   "Good, then you’ll know it was taken for granted the murderer was covered in blood, and as it so happens there were sightings of just such a bloody man on a bus not too far from the scene of the crime. But there was no blood. The man on the bus, whoever he was, had nothing to do with it, probably involved in a punch-up. The real killer had stripped off to do his grisly work and then sluiced away the evidence in the girl’s shower. Nothing has to show."

   "Okay," Massey said, "I get the point. I’m not saying she swung the axe. I want to know if she had sex in the last seven or eight hours.”

   Lionel flopped back in his chair. “Are you joking?”

   “Do I look as if I’m joking? You said it yourself, her clandestine lover. She’s covering up. There’s a man somewhere in the picture and I want you to run a check to verify it.”

   "What?"

   "Do I have to spell it out? I’m asking you to check for semen stains."

   Lionel took off his glasses and came forward over his desk. He covered his face. “Oh, dear,” he said through barred fingers. “Even if you are right and there is a man, it is unlikely to show in her underwear. You would need a full physical examination to establish sexual intercourse, and what would it prove? By what twisted logic would an act of adultery link to Creighton Dow’s murder?”

   "It would at least give me something to bite on."

   Lionel hooked his glasses back in place. "And I suppose you want me to get cracking on it now. Fat chance, my friend. I’m tired, too. I’m about to knock off for a spell." He stopped and sat bolt upright. "Hang on. Where is she? You haven’t brought her here, I hope?”

   “To make the ID," Massey said. "I want to see her face when she looks at Dow.”

   Lionel pushed back his chair and came bustling around the desk. “Have you gone completely mad? You want to put her through a first-person identification, now, at a time like this!”

   “She’s in on it. I know she is."

   "Rubbish! There isn’t a jot of proof against her."

   "I know when I’m face to face with guilt. She made a good show of being the distraught wife, but underneath she’s as cool as an iceberg."

   "Well? Wouldn’t you say it is because she is trying to hold her emotions together? Coming home to a shock like she has would be enough to blow anybody’s fuse. Think it through, man. This is sadistic. The head is wrecked. It’s a nightmare. Do you want her to have a breakdown?”

   “If that’s what it takes, yes.”

   Lionel paused and nodded his head. "Yes, I see it now. Your wife leaves you, and you are taking it out on this woman."

   Massey’s lips tightened. "Leave my personal life out of this."

   "But can’t you see? This woman looks something like Linda. Well doesn’t she, petit, with golden hair? Strikingly pretty."

   "I said, leave it out!"

   Lionel set a hand on Massey’s shoulder. “Sam, you mustn’t do this. It is completely unacceptable. You’ve browbeaten her into it. You’ve taken advantage of her fragile state of mind. Which is pretty despicable, I have to say. Can’t I make you see sense? You are on the brink of a scandal here. You are risking your career. Everything you have worked for.”

   "I’ll take my chances,” Massey said. “Just do as I ask - and keep your nose out of my affairs!”

   Lionel’s hand dropped. “Who are you to give me orders? I will not be party to this. I refuse.”

   “Then I’ll find somebody else to help me. Don’t stand in my way, Lionel. One way or another I am going to get this identification.”

   There was an icy pause. Then a shrewd light entered Lionel’s tired eyes. “Very well, I’ll give you your identification,” he said, head nodding.  He snatched up a phone and told the party at the other end what he wanted. He set the phone down and moved to the door, stopping to turn back.

   “Incidentally,” he said. “Creighton Dow’s anal sphincter had been ruptured. Good intuition. Though what that gives you in the light of all this I wouldn’t know.”

eight

Deborah Dow sat with her head lowered. She wore dark slacks and a navy roll-neck jumper and looked very pale and tense. The room was small and functional, half-panelled with glass frames. The young fair WPC who had collected her clothes stood with her back to the wall a short way off, hands folded in front of her. Seeing Massey, Deborah got to her feet.

   "Can we get this over with?" she said.

   She darted an apprehensive glance at Lionel, who returned a sympathetic nod. He introduced himself and calmly explained what was about to happen. Giving her a moment to adjust in readiness, he took a firm but kindly grip on her elbow and walked her along a passage and through plastic swing doors to a white-tiled rectangular room. Stark fluorescent tubes set in the ceiling shed a hard bright light and there was a traced smell of disinfectant in the air. The large echoing space was empty, save for a single wheeled trolley carriage stationed at centre of the room. The trolley was six feet plus in length and was covered the whole way by a humped white sheet.

   Lionel guided Deborah forward. "You do understand there is very little of your husband left to see, Mrs Dow," he said softly.

   She gave a jerking nod of her head in reply, eyes fixed starkly on the mounded trolley as if it were a thing of horror.

    “Quite frankly, identification is nigh on impossible,” Lionel said to her. “Your husband is here. If you begin to feel faint, rest assured I am here beside you.”

   He gently moved her up to the trolley. She stiffened, clasping both hands tight to her sides. Massey sidled around focusing on her pinched white face.

   "But you have nothing to fear, Mrs Dow,” Lionel said. “I see no good reason to subject you to an actual sighting of the injuries. There would be little point, in any case." She stared up at him, confused, and he said, "There must be some other way in which you can substantiate that this is indeed your husband." Helping her along, he said, “Some distinguishing mark, perhaps?”

   Massey cursed Lionel for an interfering old fool, seeing what was about to happen.

   Her eyes came wide open with hope. “Why, yes," she said. "A birthmark.”

   “Birthmark?”

   “Yes, a strawberry coloured birthmark," Deborah said and trailed a finger down from her neck to describe the pattern, "About three inches long running down from the lower part of his neck, here.”

   Lionel patted her arm and smiled. “There is such a mark,” he said. She released a gasping breath, tension visibly draining from her. Lionel glanced cunningly at Massey and stated to all present, “We would appear to have satisfied the matter of identification.” He nodded to a thin bespectacled man in a white coat, who came around to remove the trolley.

   Massey was already moving. He strode up to the corpse and swept back one corner of the covering sheet.

   “Look!” he said.

   A unified gasp went up as all eyes were drawn compulsively to the exposed wrecked head.

   And then Deborah shouted out.

  She gave one wailing cry of despair, and then convulsed as if mute, head tipped back, mouth stretched wide, the scream continuing on inside her head.

   Jolting from his own shocked reaction, Lionel pulled her head into his shoulder. She sagged against him. And keeping his firm hold, he led her from the room. Too late, the thin bespectacled orderly got the covering sheet back in place. As he wheeled the trolley away, he twisted his head to send a venomous look of contempt at Massey.

                      *

The room emptied leaving Massey standing there. He felt numbed, completely drained of emotion. A full minute or more passed. And then he heaved a sigh and pushed his way through the plastic doors and trudged out of the building to where his car was parked. He saw Ray Whitmore had been trying to reach him and wearily reached for the phone.

   “What is it, Ray?” he asked when Whitmore answered.

   “Listen, seems this Spanish servant’s car is missing, a Peugeot. Looks like you were right and she took off. We’re running a check on it."

   Massey grunted.

   "Course, she might come back of her own accord. The maid, I mean, now it’s all blown over."

    “Sure, Ray, we’ll see,” Massey said. “Look, I can’t get my head around any of this right now. Go home and get some shuteye. That’s where I’m headed.”

   Whitmore said after a minute, “Are you all right, as anything happened?”

   “You could say that.”

   “What’s up?”

   “I’ll tell you tomorrow - if there is a tomorrow."

                                       sunday

one

She made up her mind. She stubbed out her second acrid-smelling cigarette in a saucer, coming abruptly to her feet, and left the café. The dirty looks that followed her meant spit so far as she was concerned; the sign said Thank You For Not Smoking, well, she wouldn’t ask for no thanks, that’s all. She went out into Paddington High Street. Just up from the station there was a bank of payphones. Except that was no good. There would be nothing but a hood thing to stick your head into. Conversations could be overhead and she had the heebie-jeebies bad enough without some creep tuning in. Mobile phones were no good, either. She wasn’t certain of her emotions. She needed privacy. She needed a booth, or what did they call ’em? Kiosks, yeah, that was it. Where you could pull the door shut and fart and scratch your tits, all by yourself.

   She found what she wanted on the first throw. Would you believe, across the street, two of the big old red telephone kiosk booth things stood side by side in front of Boots chemist shop just waiting for her.

   Easy. But first she’d take a walk. The phones weren’t gonna run away. Yeah, get psyched up, clamp the nerves worrying inside her gut like a thousand buzzing mosquitoes. Nothing to fear, she kept telling herself, meandering on, going over and over in her head what she was going to say. She had it all worked out. The silver-tongued bastard could huff and puff all he liked. He could try and throw a scare, probably would. But they was miles apart. She grinned. She got him by the balls. She was safe, sure she was. Twenty-four hours from now she’d be free and gone, sitting pretty for the rest of her life.

   The thought cheered her up and she let rip with a diverting laugh as she wallowed in the dream of the golden future lying ahead. The laugh did its business for all of three seconds. Then the jumps got her again, along with that bastard pain at her side, the big laugh that she threw bringing the mother back to life again.

   Shit, this was arsehole time.

   So get it over and done with. Sure. No more stretching it out. Go for it! Get in, do it, and get out of there.

   She steeled herself and headed across the street.

   There was nothing unusual about her as she dodged her way through the traffic. Only perhaps the garish but obviously expensive black leather crocodile handbag slung over her shoulder. To the demure eye she might have been considered a touch common, tight-fitting short leather skirt, suede collar-less jacket, but no more than a million other city types. Had anyone taken the trouble they might have noted the crow’s feet around her eyes, the heavy set of the mouth telling she was a few years older than first thought. And despite the streak-blonde hair, styled in a sweeping wave and all but blotting out her left eye, a closer scrutiny would have revealed a skin texture somewhat less than fair. Not Afro dark. But not Anglo light either.

   Both booths were occupied, and she said, “Fuck!” out loud, spitting out the expletive, causing heads to turn, frustration and relief mixing in a strange neurotic brew inside her.

   Inside the nearest booth, a thin grubby young woman of no more than twenty was jabbering merrily way. She had lank mousy blonde hair and was wearing a years’ out of date shiny red plastic shorty mack. In between pauses, she was doing a lot of grinning and using a lot of expansive hand gestures. Next door there was some old working class dame, and that was even worse. She fixed on the mousy girl again. Damn the stupid bitch! It seemed like she was set to go bleating on for ever. Didn’t she have no mobile, every prick’s got a mobile now. Was the bitch too poor, or what? The hot glowers sent in her direction had no effect. She was in her own little world, spaced-out on pot or acid likely as not.

   Then it was over. The mousy girl set down the phone, collected her things, and skipped out from the booth, still smiling in her merry dopey kind of way. The woman with the dyed blonde hair swept down over her right eye pushed forward, purposely bunting her shoulder into the girl as she went by. Serve her right, knock the stupid grin off her stupid face. She was a skinny bitch and wouldn’t be lookin’ to make no come back. The pain in her side was making her feel crabby and the small act of aggression gave her some satisfaction. Helped eased the tension.

   She took a breath. A minute, two at the most, and it would be all done and dusted. The booth stood empty, hers for the taking. All she need do was step forward and claim it. She took a couple of paces forward then froze to a halt, fixing on the door as it creaked back on its hinge to slowly close itself.

   She gawked around, uneasy, having second thoughts. The mad fuck would have some trick up his sleeve. He’d be sitting there waiting for her call, ready to spring it. Nerves knotted up her belly again. Shit. She began to traverse a short route in front of the two red kiosks, taking a few desultory paces this way and that. Every now and then she stopped to dart fevered eyes at the waiting handset.

   And as if with a charged rush of blood, she dived in and quickly dialled. Her face was grim, hanging on, lips parted. She was scarcely breathing.

   The ringing phone went on for a short spell then stopped. An echo came in, followed by a whirr followed by a click and a recorded voice inviting the caller to leave a message.

   She crashed the phone down.

   She wanted to scream.

   A rotten answer machine!

   And it was the wrong voice.

two

Brian Conner prowled the floor of his office. He shook his head. “Well, this is a right dog’s breakfast? What in God’s name could you have been thinking of? You do realise what a mess your actions have placed us in? My God, the woman finds out about her husband’s murder and you decide to spill her entrails all over the floor. Making her view the corpse like that. I just can’t believe you would have done such a thing."

   Massey took it as he had to. He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his feet. Conner studied him narrowly. He was a wiry man of medium height, about forty. He was known to be cool under pressure, but even so cool a man as Connor has his limits.

   Not letting up, he said, “So much for the new caring image we are supposed to be projecting. I’ll let you guess as to the kind of language Maidenhead are using right now. God save us. They ask for our help, call us in – the so-called experts - and we end up dumping a load of dog shit on their doorstep. Not good, Sam.”

   Massey stretched his upper lip back from his teeth but said nothing. Connor was pacing again.

   "You know Norman Pargeter?”

    "Oh, yeah, I know Pargeter,” Massey said.

   “Then you know what we are up against. He’s acting for the Dow woman, and he has already managed to kick up one God-almighty stink. I’ve had the Chief on my back all morning, who I can assure you is not best pleased. Got pulled off his Sunday morning round of golf.”

   “Oh, dear. The biggest catastrophe since the wheel fell off Ben Hur’s chariot.”

   “It’s no joke Sam, believe me. This is serious stuff. I can see us having to make a big settlement here. The press are going to have a field day, they’re gonna love this. The Chief won’t deal with Pargeter first hand, which is something. Insists the first point of complaint has to come through me. Pargeter doesn’t much like that. A mere commander isn’t quite good enough, it would appear. But that’s by the by. I have been left to sort it out – and quick. It’s lucky it’s Sunday, gives us a breathing space. But you may as well know it, Pargeter wants your head.”

   "Well, he can have it," Massey said. "If it means that much to him, he can hang it over his mantelpiece and gloat over his kill in the long winter evenings.”

   “Oh give it a rest! I just can’t believe it. A man with your intelligence. What got in to you?"

   “I was trying to force the issue, Brian.”

    “Force the issue?” Conner gave a short laugh. “Well you’ve succeeded in doing that, and no mistake. You came down on her like a ton of bloody house bricks. She might as well have been some obscure little nobody, the way you performed."

   "Instead of a high-blown moneyed lady, you mean?"

   "Don’t give me that. There shouldn’t be any difference, but there is. You know it as well as I do. You lost it. You let her get under your skin, didn’t you? You let it become personal.”

   Massey’s spine riled, hearing Lionel’s words reverberating. “If I did I had just cause," he mumbled. "She’s hooked up in this, I know she is."

   "Anything to back that up? Other than a gut-feeling?"

   "Not a whole lot, when you come right down to it,” Massey said. “But do you buy that crap about being parked up all night looking at the stars? She was with some stud, it’s obvious.”

   “If she was it’s no criminal act. What are you saying? That she was in league with this character to commit murder?” Connor shook his head. "Won’t wash, Sam. We would need a hell of a lot more before we could move on it.” He walked thoughtfully around his desk and sat in his swivel chair. “Vic Davis is outside,” he said

   Massey nodded. “I saw him.”

   “He’s of the opinion I made a mistake handing this job to you. He thinks I should pull the plug and pass it over to him.”

   “What else would you expect him to say? He fancies this brief. He’s got his toe in the water already, and he’s senior to me - leaving aside the fact we don’t much like one another. Oh, yeah, Vic would just love to get his hands on this little pot. And it would solve your immediate problem, wouldn’t it?”

   “That’s right,” Connor said. “So what about this? What about if I let Vic take over as the head of operations, with you in a back-up role? You could still play an important part.”

   “What, as head tea boy? No thanks. There’d be no place for me in Vic’s set-up.” Massey shook his head. “Do you really think Vic’s right for this deal, Brian? He’s a procedures man, you know he is. Put him in charge and he’ll make the predictable, bog-standard moves. He’ll work his tabs off with his charts and things and six months down the line we’ll be no further on than we are now.”

   Connor tilted his head left to right. “Well, he likes routine I’ll go along with you that far. Only I’m not sure I would agree with you as to his effectiveness. He’s actually proved himself a pretty good detective."

   "Unlike me, you mean."

   "I didn’t say that. You have strengths Vic will never have. But if I had to choose an anchor man, a solid workman I could rely on to hold the ship steady I’d go for Vic every time.” Connor paused, and then he said, “Any objections if I have him come in?”

   Massey shrugged. “It’s your call.”

   “That’s right,” Connor said, “my call.”

three

Vic Davis was a tall sparely-built man with an undertaker’s face and ill-fitting clothes, a shiny grey off-the-peg suit this morning. He would be in his mid-forties and wore his straight black hair oiled back in the old way. He nodded a curt nod at Massey and arranged his bony frame in a chair next to him, both men facing Connor.

   "I want to settle this quick," Connor said. "Right, if I hand this over to you, Vic, how would you propose to proceed?”

   “In my usual way, sir," Vic said. "I would be starting from scratch of course. To my mind, there’s no value in following the trail as it currently stands." He glanced sideways at Massey. "Sorry, Mass, but I think you grabbed the wrong end of the stick on this. Putting it straight, you got it wrong in supposing the woman was implicated in her husband’s murder."  

   "That’s the conclusion reached by your sterling brain power, is it?" Massey sneered.

   Davis’s heavy eyebrows squeezed together like angry mating caterpillars. “There’s no call for sarcasm. We are all of us entitled to our point of view here."

   "Even when we are talking out of our arse."

   “That’s rich, coming from you. You haven’t exactly covered yourself with glory. From what I can see of it, you’ve done a top-rate job of spoiling our good name.”

   "Piss off! What good name?"

   Conner held up both hands. “Hold it, let’s keep it on track. Keep the personal stuff out of it – and less colourful language, if you don’t mind, Inspector.” Massey muttered sorry as Connor focused his attention on Vic Davis. “You don’t like the Dow woman for the part, Vic, but I take it you don’t rule out the proposition that Creighton Dow knew his murderer?”

   Of course not," Davis said. "In all probability he did, and based on that assumption, what we have to do now is set about compiling a menu of everybody who knew or had anything to do with him.”

   “Yes, I think I would agree. A schedule of his acquaintances would make a good starting point. All right, so tell me, what do you make of the sexual mutilation?"

   "I would go along with Inspector Massey on this. Yes, I would say it may well be we’ll find a homosexual link of some kind, and which to my mind backs up my supposing the dead man’s wife had nothing to do with it."

   Connor sat back and mused on it. He said to Davis, "Give me more of a rundown on how you would take things on, Vic."

   "Well, sir," Davis said. "As a priority I would build bridges with Maidenhead, aim to forge a good working relationship that combines our expertise backed up with their local knowledge.”

   “Set up a task force, in other words.”

   “Exactly. I believe a corporate approach is needed here. Not one that relies on inspirational hunches.”

   Massey let that go by him, too weary to bother with a response.

   Connor tapped with the pencil. “Yes, that makes sense.”

   “I think it does, sir. A case like this demands persistence. As you know, I like to do things by the book, nail down all the details. I accept that might sound boring to some, but my approach does get results. By Tuesday I am confident I will have a full database of possibilities to go on.”

   Connor turned to Massey. “See anything wrong with that?”

   Massey let a hand drop. “Not a thing.”

   “All right, that’s settled. Get to it, Vic. Do what’s required with Maidenhead. I’ll have words with the powers that be and let them know you’ll be taking over.”

   “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

   “I’m sure you won’t," Connor said, and to Massey, "I’m sorry, Inspector Massey, that’s the way it has to be I am afraid. You were pitched in at the deep end, I accept. But I tend to be in agreement with Vic. You could have handled things a whole lot better.”

   “So it would appear,” Massey said out the corner of his mouth.

   Connor glared at him then peered up at the ceiling, then he stood and came around and propped his rump to the desk facing his two subordinates. He folded his arms and thought for a second.  "In spite of my misgivings,” he said, “I am going to ask you to continue with your line of inquiry, Inspector."

   Massey sat up and stared blankly.

   "Not directly as part of Vic’s corporate investigation I would add, but rather in an independent capacity."

   “Well, thanks,” Massey said.

   Connor showed him a flat hand. “Don’t rush your fences you are not being set free to do as you wish. It goes without saying that you proceed with discretion, and I mean it, Sam. Keep in touch with Vic. Let him know what you are doing at all times – yes, you agree to those terms?”

   “Well, yeah, sure.”

    Connor turned to Vic Davis. “And is that all right with you, Vic.”

    “You really think this is for the best, sir?” Davis said. “With all due respect, won’t we risk getting in each other’s way, not knowing who is in charge?”

   “You will be in charge of the operational end, Chief Inspector. But I still would like Sam to take a shot at this. I don’t much care for the woman’s story, either. There’s something out of kilter there.”

   “What if Maidenhead object?”

   “Leave me to deal with Maidenhead. This is how I want to play it. All right?”

   Davis grudgingly nodded his narrow head. “Just as you say, sir.”

   “Good. Let’s try to make it work shall we? – and please, without egos getting in the way.” Connor peered down his nose at Massey. “Don’t make me regret this, Sam. If I had any sense I would put you on gardening leave. Be that as it may, I have made my decision. But don’t imagine you are out of the wood. We still have to confront Pargeter, so you had better have some answers ready. Keep your head down for the next twenty-four hours. Whatever you do, stay well clear of the Dow woman.”

   Massey nodded, already working out his next move.

“You think I went over the top with her, then?”

   “Being honest, yes," Ray Whitmore said. "I thought, Christ, he’s going to get her to take her kit off.” He gave a snigger. “And you got to admit she is a cracker.”

   They were in the canteen, drinking mugs of sweet stewed tea. "Yeah, if you like em cold," Massey said. "Nothing’s come up on the Spaniard, I don’t suppose?”

   “Not a whisper. But she’ll turn up. She’s got to.”

   “You reckon? She could be anywhere for all we know, back in Spain by now even. Anyway, leave that. For now we hang loose, which should suit us right down to the ground. Okay?”

   “Sounds good to me. So what’s the first move?”

   “First, I fancy a couple of rounds of buttered toast. You take the rest of the day off. Spend a bit of quality time with that nipper of yours touch base first thing in the morning.”

   “What about you?”

   “After I’ve had me toast, I think I’ll drop in and have a word with the sister at the Savoy.”

   Whitmore frowned. “Do you really think you should, after what Conner just said?”

   “He’s given me carte blanche, hasn’t he?”

   “I dunno. Being honest I think you might be stretching it. And Davis did go and see her, don’t forget.”

   “Only to let her know her brother had bought it, and as you well know I’m not exactly a hundred percent behind Vic’s architecture. I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, not least what she’s got to say about her sister-in-law.”

   "Davis won’t like it."

   "Davis can go and fuck himself."

   Whitmore pushed a troubled hand through his thin hair. “Look, don’t think I’m telling you what to do, Mass," he said. "But wouldn’t it pay to let things cool down, get yourself a bit or rest?”

   “Before rushing off half-cock, you mean? Don’t look so worried, Ray. You’re getting as bad as Lionel.”

   “Well, just be careful, that’s all.”

   "Me? I’m always careful,” Massey said. “The soul of discretion, that’s me.”

   Whitmore tilted his head and gave an old-fashioned look.

four

Deborah’s oyster-white BMW was parked where it shouldn’t have been, directly outside the Savoy’s main entrance. She could get away with it, class, beauty, not to mention money. Massey’s mouth twisted into a sour grin. So much for Connor’s stern warning. But it hadn’t taken her long to get over the heart-rending shock he was supposed to have meted out. Wouldn’t you expect her to be lying prostrate with grief in a darkened room somewhere? Well you might if you still believed in fairy stories.

   She would be inside talking to the sister, and they would have plenty to talk about. If he had been on his toes he might have foreseen the possibility. In the old days he would have lighted up to think it through. Now he chewed at a fingernail as a poor substitute and gazed up at the lone crusader above the Savoy Court. Good sense told him to depart and write it off as a no-sale. On the other hand, the BMW parked where it was said Deborah wouldn’t be there too long, so no harm in giving it a quiet five minutes. Yeah, see how it broke. The stoical old crusader, he thought, would be in agreement.

   Earlier there had been a cloud burst and a couple of bell-men were busy squeegying off surplus rainwater from the pavement in front of the hotel. As he watched his mind shifted to the runaway Spaniard. There was something screwy there. To make a run for it was one thing, what you would expect if some crackpot with a bloodied axe is gunning for you. But the danger had passed, she had to know that. Why stay lost…?

   A knuckle rapped at his window. He turned to see a security creep glaring in at him. Massey was tempted to flip him off, but instead got out his ID and held it up. The security guy was a plump red-faced type, probably a retired copper. He scrutinized the ID without pleasure and then made a swirling gesture, wanting the window lowered. Massey complied, allowing six inches.

   "How long do you expect to be parked here, mate?"

   "Inspector to you. As long as it takes, all right? – mate!"

   The window went back up. Red face scowled and then grumbled a parting shot about the need to keep the entrance to the hotel clear as he plodded away. Massey had already consigned him to history, checking the time to see twenty minutes had already passed.  

   He had begun to settle back when Deborah came marching through the colonnade fronting the hotel. She wore brown corduroy pants and a cream shirt blouse and had her head held back in a haughty, determined fashion. The tall raking amazon who followed her out had to be Veronica Dow.

   Massey craned forward to get a better look. A giant pair of Ray-bands covered a lot of her face, but she didn’t look like a girl headed for a good time. She was decked out in an outrageously short sleeveless white dress and had her dyed jet-black hair scraped back and tied in knot behind her head. Her bare legs and arms were deeply tanned and she moved with a raunchy professional swagger, oozing in-your-face sex. Massey grinned. Knowing her form, he wondered if there would be anything underneath the skimpy white dress.  

   A superannuated flunky pandered up behind the two women carrying a small compact suitcase. That said Veronica was planning to stay with Deborah for a spell. The old flunky was having his work cut out keeping his rheumy eyes and thoughts off such matters he ought perhaps have long forgotten. Still, this was his big moment and he made the best of it, fussily stowing the case in the boot of Deborah’s car, closing the lid as if he had achieved a real accomplishment. She rewarded him with a glorious smile, tipped him and got in behind the wheel. The smile on its own would probably keep him going for the best part of a week, Massey thought. Veronica was already in place in the passenger seat. They exchanged a brief word, and Deborah moved the BMW forward. She didn’t see Massey, driving past with her chin raised. She paused at the exit of the court, checked to her right, and then turned into The Strand merging with the traffic flow.

   He drummed fingers on the steering wheel letting her get ahead, remembering Brian Connor’s clear instructions to stay away from her.

   Then he started up his car and followed.

He picked up the distinctive BMW in Knightsbridge close to Harrods and kept them in sight going out past the Albert Museum. They continued on through Hammersmith and then on to the A1 and finally joined the M4 motorway beyond Chiswick. The rain had stopped and it was turning into a pleasant evening. Deborah had the black top of the BMW down and Massey could see her blonde hair fluffing in the breeze. Veronica was wedged low in her seat beside Deborah like she had her feet up on the dashboard.

   The flow of cars moved at a steady, sluggish pace, travellers making the best of the turn in the weather before coming to terms with the Monday grind. Windsor Great Park would be hot on the list of destinations. When things had been good with Linda one of their favourite haunts had been the Star and Garter in Windsor. They used to drive out there on Sundays when Massey wasn’t working, which he usually was. Sugar Ray Robinson had trained for his fights with Turpin and Downes at the Star, and back then several photos of the great man were plastered around the walls. Maybe they were still there. In those lost golden days, Massey liked bending the landlord’s ear, talking fights with him. Linda had been a sport about that, about a lot of things, in fact. Ah, me. If only we could turn back the clock, start again. He sighed and focused tired eyes on Deborah’s car.

   Very unusual circumstances, for sure. There would be a lot of strain, for sure. But you didn’t need to be an ace in body language to tell there was no love lost between the pair of them. When they came out from the Savoy their tight-lipped Siberian chill hit from twenty-five yards away. Yet there they were, off together for a few days, and he wondered what Deborah’s angle might be. It had to be her idea. Might just be a case of extending the courtesy of hospitality, as innocent as that. If he wasn’t such a cynic he could almost believe it.

   They would be in the grip of the murder, it couldn’t be otherwise. But if he had it right, a further cause would be absorbing their fevered minds right now. The question not asked, but hanging there all the same. The small matter of how Creighton Dow’s estate was going to be carved up.

   His hopes of talking to Veronica looked pretty remote now, and neither did he want to cross Brian. So best call it quits. Besides, he was dead beat and right then the prospect of diving into the pit of oblivion was pure heaven.

   But what he wouldn’t give to tune in to their conversation…

five

Veronica fished a cigarette from a blue pack and lighted up, tossing the spent match into the wind. "I’m still trying to figure this out,” she said. “You and I have never exactly been buddy-buddy, and right now we’re getting all set to scratch each other’s eyes out over Creighton’s loot."

   Deborah held the BMW steady in a cruising middle lane position. "I hope that isn’t true," she said.

   "It’s true done up in pink ribbons. How else can it be?"

   "It can be anyway we want. We don’t have to be enemies. I had hoped we could forge a good relationship, or at least try. I hadn’t intended to raise the subject of Creighton’s will quite so soon -  "

    "But since I have..."

   "Yes, since you have.” Deborah paused then said, “Suppose I told you I am prepared to split everything down the middle.”

   Veronica turned and stared at her from behind the dark glasses. “Are you kidding me?”

   "I have never been more serious in my life. Do we really want to become snarled up with complicated legal wrangles? The estate is huge. Why be greedy?"

   Veronica chewed it over for a moment. "You know something I don’t."

   "No hidden codicils, if that is what you mean. Creighton never discussed his will. I have as much knowledge as to its contents as you do. I simply want to avoid any unnecessary bitterness."

   "Okay, but aren’t we the two little angels? Creighton gets his brains beat out of him, dead less than twenty-four hours, and here we are already carving up the spoils."

   An inner voice warned Deborah to hold back, not to appear too anxious to talk money. She stole a glance at Veronica. Her sister-in-law seemed more finely drawn than the last time they met, parting in acrimony two days before she married Creighton. Time had blurred her accent, giving it a certain mid-Atlantic character, and alcohol and fast living had hardened her features. The mirror sunglasses, she decided, were as much to do with a shield against ageing eyes as mannered style.

   Choosing her words, she said, “I didn’t mean to sound mercenary. I simply want to resolve things as quickly as possible, in everybody’s interest."

   Veronica nodded and blew smoke into the air. "You’re a pretty cool customer, aren’t you?"

   "Why…no,” Deborah said. “Not particularly."

   "You could have fooled me. Already down to the bone with money and here we are like we are on a Sunday school picnic. Just the two of us headed back to that big empty house where Creighton got whopped. I’d want to be miles away."

   Deborah shifted gear as the traffic slowed. "I made a decision, Veronica," she said. "I chose to stay because it seemed the right thing to do. As for the will, I find talking about fundamentals helps keep my mind off things."

   "Okay, I’ll buy that - is it always as bad as this, the traffic?"

   "On Sundays, yes, and I suppose for most of the rest of the time."

   The rows of vehicles began to move freely again. Veronica took another drag on her cigarette. "Okay. Staying with the fundamentals. You sure that’s how you want to play it? A fifty-fifty horse trade, right down the line?"

  "I see no reason why not. In any case, I can’t imagine Creighton would have done anything other than the correct thing in terms of a settlement.”

   Veronica smiled. “Doing the correct thing by my brother’s lights generally meant stirring things to all hell between people. Or didn’t you notice?”

   “Creighton was an unusual man," Deborah conceded.

   “Well that’s one way of putting it.”

   “All right, we both know of his oddities, but that now is incidental. As the main beneficiaries, you and I are in a position to manage things as we see fit. There may have been a degree of tension between us in the past, but what went before doesn’t prevent us making amends now. We never really did get to know one another, after all.”    

   “You mean in the six weeks it took from lining Creighton in your sights to nailing him at the altar. Which was damned fast work I have to say.”

   Deborah felt the burn at her cheeks, the two red dots that always appeared when emotion got the better of her, betraying her anger.

   “Please, Veronica,” she said. “Don’t let us start like this. I loved Creighton, I truly did.”

   “Sure, you loved his baby blue eyes and charming manners. Let’s stop pretending shall we. Creighton was a runt. A honey like you wouldn’t so much as spat in his direction but for his horde. "

   “So I schemed to trap a wealthy husband, is that it?”

   “On the button, since we are all of a sudden not pulling our punches. But leave it there. You want to split the take? Okay, fine with me. How soon can we move on it?”

   Not too eager, not too eager.

   "First, of course, there is the matter of the funeral to consider.”

   “I won’t be attending.”

   “Surely, you must.”

   “No thanks. If you want to know, I don’t much fancy seeing the coffin go down.”

   “I had thought a cremation.”

   “Comes to the same earth to earth dust to dust stuff. Creighton was all the family I had, I guess, but then sentiment never figured large with us. I’ll send a wreath of lilies. Stay with the will. I take it we can’t just snap our fingers and get this thing fixed."

   "Unfortunately not,” Deborah said. “Probate will have to be followed, but there is nothing to prevent us establishing a pro tem agreement."

   "You mean like a binding contract we both sign up for?”

   “Exactly, yes.”

   “Okay, let’s shoot for that."

   "Very well,” Deborah said. “I’ll give my lawyer a call immediately we arrive. I took the precaution of talking the matter through with him and he assures me that we have the basis upon which to proceed.”

   “What, not old what’s-his-name? The old family retainer.”

   “John Clayton, you mean. No, this is my own legal adviser, Norman Pargeter. He is very able. I was going to suggest having dinner with him this evening.”

   Veronica smiled. “Don’t miss a trick, do you?”

    Deborah answered with a merry laugh. “Norman will be entirely impartial, I assure you, and he is dying to meet you. He is actually something of a fan of yours. He has seen lots of your films.”

   “Must be a masochist. He wouldn’t be single by any chance?”

   “Yes, I believe he is a free agent at the moment.”

   "You don’t say? How old?"

   "Early forties, I would think."

   "Gets better and better. All right, why not? I’ve had an offer, of sorts, over in Amsterdam, so the sooner we can get this all done and dusted and I can be on my way is fine with me."

   Deborah’s brow crinkled. “You mean another film? I thought you had moved on from all of that."

   "Yeah, well, so did I,” Veronica sighed. “But then things don’t always turn out the way you plan ‘em, do they? Besides it’s all I know. I tried the marriage bit, in case you had forgotten. Yes indeed, short even if it wasn’t particularly sweet.”

   “We were sorry it didn’t work out for you, Creighton and I. Of course, we never did get to meet him.”

   “You were lucky. He was a Greek con-artist, fat, bald, and gone fifty. I’m scraping the barrel with the Amsterdam deal, but at least it keeps me working and moderately happy.”  

   "Then I hope it works out for you."

   "Thanks.” Veronica twisted around and gave Deborah an appraising look-over. “You know you wouldn’t do so bad in my racket. I could see them going for the cut-glass English accent. You have to strip off every now and then and get mauled around by some muscle-bound jerk, but I imagine you would be able to could cope. Might be you would enjoy it. Pity to let all that natural talent go a-begging.” She threw back her head and laughed. “What am I saying? You have put it to the best use possible, haven’t you? Dear old Dad, he must be spinning in his grave right now?”

   Deborah’s foot went down on the accelerator, shifting with speed into the fast lane. Veronica calmly smoked her cigarette settling back.

   “You take all this crap and I wonder why.”

six

The reactive snap of her head told that Deborah had spotted him. No point in easing back now and he had wanted to talk with Veronica. Maybe at some hidden level he had forced it. Left with no alternative he kept on her tail, not too close, but not hanging back to hide himself either. The BMW held position for a while. Deborah seemed to be making up her mind. Then, without signalling, she made a fast manoeuvre, shifted position to thread through the traffic lanes bringing the car to a grinding halt on the hard shoulder.

   Massey followed. Cutting in front of a big white removal van, getting a blast from the driver’s horn, he made it to the hard shoulder and pulled up fifteen yards behind her.

   He cut the engine and waited.

Veronica lighted a second cigarette with the remains of the first, tossing the spent butt away. “I guess this is as good a time as any to talk about Creighton.  Where you fill me in on the gruesome details.”

    Deborah winced and shook her head. “It was awful, Veronica,” she said. “Poor Creighton, to die like that. So senseless. Murdered by some – maniac.”

   “Is that what they think? A crazy killer?”

   “What other explanation can there be?”

   "The obvious one, I should have thought. That it was somebody Creighton knew who had it in for him. You really go for him wandering down to the pavilion all by himself and just happening to bump into a homicidal nut?"

   “No,” Deborah said. “Being rich and fairly well know it may well be that he attracted some insane person’s jealousy."

   Veronica focused on the red tip of her burning cigarette. "If you are right, let’s hope he’s not on a roll, whoever he is. Know what I mean, with the remaining family members in mind."

   Deborah shuddered. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

   “Maybe you’d better. Maybe we both had.” Veronica stretched back and grinned. “There is one other possibility of course. That Creighton isn’t dead.”

   Deborah started, losing concentration.

   “As a matter of fact,” Veronica continued, “I had a strange dream along those very lines last night. And you know I could see him going for it, the stunt to end all stunts. All he would need is a nice fresh corpse and he’s in business. Could be he found some poor schmuck who’d had enough of this world and swapped his body for a suitably large pile of dough to be passed on to his starving family. Yeah, I like it.”

   “I am afraid I can’t find this very funny, Veronica,” Deborah said tightly.

   Veronica sighed. “No, you’re right, bad taste. It isn’t even sound. There are as many holes there as in some of the flyblown scripts I had to work with.” She drew on her cigarette. “Mighty handy you being away, when it happened.”

   Deborah trod carefully seeing the elephant trap. “I went for a long drive,” she said evenly. “When I got back the police were there. It was dreadful beyond words.”

   “I can imagine. And you were out driving, all on your ownsome? On a Saturday night, too. Lots of fun you kids had.”

   “There was nothing unusual about it. I haven’t been sleeping well and find it relaxing. Creighton understood.”

   “Yeah, good old understanding Creighton. What about this servant who’s gone missing, what’s her name?”

   “Carmen you mean? She took fright, or so the police think.” Deborah hesitated. “You see, apart from the head injuries Creighton sustained, he had been...abused.”

   “I think I get the picture. So she took off and so far hasn’t come back – what’s wrong?"

   Deborah all at once had become tense, tight-gripping the steering wheel. “Damn him! He won’t let go!”

   Veronica glanced back. "We being followed? The press?"

    "No it is a detective by the name of Inspector Massey, and a wretched bully. He practically forced me to identify Creighton, made me journey to a hospital to make the identification.”

   “He did that?”

   “It was wholly uncalled for. I was led to believe he had been reprimanded and removed from any further involvement with the inquiry, yet here he is, large as life. My own little watchdog."

   "If it’s bugging you, lose him. You’d have no trouble in this."  

   “There would be little point, he would turn up again soon enough. The man is nothing less than a sadist.”

   “You don’t say? So what’s he like?"

   “Like? I haven’t the faintest idea, nor care less. Tall and fairly rugged-looking I suppose, if you want a physical description."

   "Seems you might care more than you think." Veronica put her tongue in her cheek and smiled. "Pull over. I’d like to take a look at this varmint close up."

   Deborah smiled thinly. Easy to read her sister-in-law’s one-track mind. At the same time she was aware of her own reaction, a strange mix of anger and charged anticipation.

   "All right," she said, "why not?" and swung the steering wheel.

seven

Massey got out of his car and walked up to the BMW. “Hello, Mrs Dow,” he said.

   “Inspector Massey,” she said, her face flushed. “What a coincidence.”

   She would barely look at him, cars zooming by. He glanced across at Veronica, who removed the Ray-bands and smiled a pouting smile at him. Her face was more hollowed out than in the publicity shot, the scraped black hair throwing her high cheekbones into sharp relief, giving her a predatory, sex-hungry look. Her grey eyes were the kind that changed colour with different shades of light and had something of the oriental slant of her brother’s. Her lean, muscular figure spoke of a too severe diet and long hours spent in gymnasiums to maintain a figure ten years below its chronological age.

   He said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Mrs Dow.”

   “How thoughtless of me," Deborah said. "This is Veronica Dow, my husband’s sister. Although I imagine you already know that.” She laughed a trilling laugh. “But, of course. Inspector Massey knows everything. Why he even knows who murdered Creighton. Isn’t that so, Inspector? Go ahead, why don’t you? I am sure my sister-in-law would be most interested to hear what you have to say on the subject.”

   There was a moment of cold mutual challenge. Massey broke first, aware of Veronica’s look of wry amusement. "I wanted to meet you," he said to her.

   “Well here I am, kind sir," she said. "Free and available. Is that right, you know who done it? Do tell, Inspector. Please.”

   “Yes, why don’t you,” Deborah said. “What is wrong, Inspector? Don’t tell me you have lost your tongue. How unlike you.” She said turning with a sigh to Veronica, “Apparently, I am the monster everyone is looking for. As Inspector Massey would have it, I lured my husband into the night and struck him down when his back was turned. Isn’t that so, Inspector?"

   “Nobody’s saying that, Mrs Dow," Massey said.

   "How refreshing. I obviously got it wrong. I was under the impression I was as good as booked, judged, and sentenced."

   "You know that isn’t the case. But you also must know we have to follow any line that doesn’t look right to us."

   "What on earth can you mean? Perhaps you would care to elaborate."

   Massey saw he was getting in too deep. "I’m sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he said backing away. “Best if you drive on, Mrs Dow. I won’t hold you up any further."

   "Don’t tell me you are leaving, Inspector," Deborah said. “You obviously have things on your mind."

   She was goading him into a fight and good sense told him to beat it out of there fast. He went back toward her.  

   "All right, Mrs Dow," he said. "You have to admit there are questions still to be answered.”

   “Such as what exactly? Go on, Inspector. Here we all are the interested parties. Don’t mind my feelings."

   "Okay, if you want it straight there’s a big hole concerning your whereabouts at the time of your husband’s murder. So why don’t you come clean? Why don’t you...?”  

   "Yes, why don’t I what?" Deborah prompted him.

   "Nothing, sorry,” he said, trying to put a lid on it. “Let’s leave it there."

   No chance, a voice inside told him. Her flushed look had given way to a tense pallor, revenge working overtime behind her frigid blue stare. There were going to be consequences and they just might be heavy.

   A police cruiser chose that moment to intervene, drawing up behind Massey’s car. He glanced back at it then at Veronica.

   "Could we talk sometime?"

   “Oh, please,” she said. "It seems I’ll be staying with dear Deborah here for a while. I imagine you know where that is. Why not give me a call? But then why wait?” Veronica held out her fisted hands. “You can take me in now.”

   Massey smiled a crooked smile. He took out one of his cards and handed it to her. “I’ll try sometime tomorrow, if that’s all right. Otherwise, you can reach me on any of those numbers.” A police officer in shirtsleeves had stepped out of the car behind and was moving in a measured way toward them. “You’ll need to drive on now, Mrs Dow,” Massey said to her. He nodded to Veronica and went up and introduced himself.

   They were joined by a second younger officer. Massey told them who the driver of the BMW was and it would be all right, that she would drive off soon. Both men seemed a bit doubtful, casting uneasy glances at Massey. Deborah remained stiffly in place behind the wheel for a minute, and then to Massey’s relief, she started up the engine and moved the BMW forward and glided back onto the motorway, rapidly picking up speed.

   He watched them until they were out of sight. He nodded and said his thanks to the motorway patrol guys and returned wearily to his car. Deborah had dangled the bait and he had snapped. He closed his eyes and leaned back with a faint groan. Dammit, couldn’t he for once keep it buttoned up? He felt like some tired old nag of a horse being led into the knackers yard, and with about as much prospects.  

eight

Deborah was still seething when they reached the house. “Help yourself to a drink,” she said when Veronica’s overnight case had been dumped. “I have to make a call.”

    Veronica was gazing around. “You mean to your sharp lawyer, about your little skirmish back there? Sure you want to? He looked okay to me, Inspector Massey. He could yank my chain anytime. Why not leave things where they are?”

    “He humiliated me, and in front of you. I won’t have that.”

    “He said a few words. He didn’t exactly drag you on to the highway by your hair. Seems to me you did some promoting to open him up."

     "I was angry I will admit, but the man is obsessed, and quite honestly I wish you hadn’t agreed to talk with him. My mistake, I accept. I never should have stopped.”

    “So why did you? Couldn’t be, could it, underneath all the venom you’ve got the hots for one another?”

    Red spots burned Deborah’s cheeks. “That is utterly preposterous."

    "Oh, I dunno. The pair of you got quite animated there for a while. He got your goat, or you got his. I’m still trying to figure it out."

    “I am sorry, Veronica, this is hardly amusing.”

    “You think I am out of line? Okay, but for the record I agreed to speak to the guy because he seemed sincere. Maybe he did overstep the mark, making you identify Creighton. But this isn’t a game of ping pong. Like he said, you were conveniently away missing when the dirty deed got done, and if you don’t mind my saying, your story does sound pretty weak. I take it you do want to see Creighton’s murderer brought to book?”

    “Certainly I do.”

    "Then could be Massey’s your man. He’s prepared to cut corners, take a few chances, and I like that."

    Deborah chewed at her lip and nodded. "All right, we’ll see,” she said. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to speak with Norman about this evening. We’ll leave Inspector Massey on the back-burner for the time being. Help yourself to a drink," she said, and went swiftly up the wide staircase to her bedroom, where she made two calls.

Deborah came back to find Veronica staring up at the giant picture of her father. Deep lines cut from the base of her nose to her jawbone, making her look as grim and remorseless as the giant man towering above her.

    “So the old bastard’s still king of the walk," she said, aware that Deborah had come up to stand beside her.

    “Creighton loathed it," Deborah said, sharing her perspective. "Yet he never could bring himself to have it removed.”

    “In character,” Veronica said, and shifted position. “Make your call?”

    “Yes, it’s all arranged. Norman has a restaurant in mind near Tower Bridge, if that is all right with you."

    "Sure, anything you say."

    "I thought it would be nicer to dine out. You didn’t make yourself a drink, so shall we? Is sherry all right?”

   “Sherry’s fine, but before we cut the phlegm, I’d like to go down to the pavilion.”

   “The pavilion?” Deborah hesitated. “There really isn’t anything to see.”

    “All the same, I would like to take a look. Do you mind?”

    Deborah nodded after a moment. “Yes, of course,” she said, and led the way through tall french windows and down the grassed bank, coming to a halt fifteen feet back from the pavilion doors. She took a breath. “As I understand, he was lying here,” she said, and they both gazed down in morose silence.

   Veronica’s face had drained white beneath her deep tan. Deborah watched her along the line of her eye. An early evening breeze moved a lock of her hair and she wrapped her arms tight around her as if chilled. A minute or more went by. She was about to suggest they return inside for the welcoming sherry, when in one sudden movement Veronica went down on her knees and reached with a flatted hand to run it over the hobbled ground.

   It was as though she were smoothing it.

   The way a tidy housewife might smooth a rumpled tablecloth.

nine

Massey plodded up the steps to the entrance door of the big old Victorian house where he now lived. He was beyond tiredness, setting one foot in front of the other like a zombie making his doomed trek through the bayous. En route he had called in at a supermarket and carried two bags of shopping.

    His flat was at the top, his third floor penthouse as he sardonically called it, a pokey, soulless place after the double-decked bungalow he had shared with Linda in Wimbledon. Still, taking all factors into account he supposed, it wasn’t so bad.

    Wandsworth was generally considered an all right place to live, desirable even, and in truth he had been lucky to grab the lease when he had. Or just lucky enough to have an in with the right people. That was one of the advantages of his job, one of the perks if you like - you could always find punters willing to grease up to London’s finest.

    He had been there three months now, since the marriage folded absolutely and for all time – hope springs eternal, but not much doubt on that score. The flat was pricey for what it was, but then all real estate in the London area was these days. Even being able to touch the right buttons made no difference so far as that went.

   It was times like this he hated most, coming home alone and tired and kind of blue to empty rooms, shadows and memories crowding in on him.  

   The supermarket bags got heavier with each ascending step. They contained his Sunday supper: chicken Madras and pilau rice, plus a few papadoms and a bottle of middle-road-priced dry white wine. All he needed was the will and energy to set up the microwave. Maybe he would just drink the wine. He turned the key in the lock and went on through to his tiny hall, and a flea with icy legs ran the length of his spine.

   He smelled tobacco.

   Since kicking the habit his olfactory senses had sharpened to detect the barest hint of nicotine. Automatically his eyes went down. A crack of light showed beneath the door to his lounge sitting room.

   He had company.

   He switched the bag held in his right hand to join the one in his left. He was no longer tired. He let his heartbeat steady. Then he turned the knob and went on into his flat and the big man sitting with the ease of ownership in his favourite black leather armchair said, “G’day,” in a coarse Australian twang and grinned a big friendly grin at him. His visitor had helped himself to a can of Stella Artois from the fridge and smoke trailed in the air from a burned-down cigarette wedged between the knuckles of thick white fingers.

    Straight off, Massey knew two things about his guest. First that he didn’t like him - resented him, in fact; the black armchair was the sole piece of furniture he had brought with him from Wimbledon - Linda hanging on to its twin - and he was somewhat particular as to who should sit in it. And then that was a copper, a fellow policeman. It was all there. In his manner, his dress.

    Like he had just twigged an important truth, the big man narrowed small eyes, pointed with cigarette butt, and said, “You’re Massey, right?”

    Massey gave a slow returning nod, and keeping his composure, he nudged the door shut behind him and came on into the room. His fear and anger had now given way to curiosity. For now he left aside the matter of how he had managed to get in. Chummy was waiting with a message. And unless he was much mistaken, the message in questions had to be tied up with the run-in with Deborah on the motorway and he was about to get warned off.

   “Big shot London detective," the big man said conjuring back the wide grin. "I knew that of course. Funny, don’t you think? Know what I mean, the way we always have to state the obvious? All so bloody pointless, but that’s the way it is.” He gazed with distaste at a crammed bookcase set in one wall. “Ever get to read any of these books, or are they just there to impress?” His head came back around. “You all right, by the way? If you don’t mind my saying, sport, you look a touch off colour. Ain’t bin workin’ too hard, I hope, you know burning the midnight oil. Too much booze and not enough kip.”

   Massey made no reply. The Aussie twang was broad, maybe put on. He made a mental note to check it out. He would be around his own age, wide as a house through the shoulders, with close-cropped reddish blonde hair. He had the large handsome head of a Roman emperor and with something of the same brutish indifference about it. Massey weighed the odds of how they would come out in a punch-up and didn’t much like them. His visitor sat there, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, comfortably sure of himself.

    Grinning, he pointed with the burned-down cigarette. "Why don’t you park your goods?"  

    Massey felt suddenly foolish, standing there like a wuss with shopping bags dangling. He lowered them to the carpet and worked his way around his guest to perch his rump on the arm of an easy chair. Keeping a poker face, he folded his arms and said nothing. Chummy was playing a similar game, both waiting the other out. The big man blinked first.

    "Don’t you want to know who I am? What I’m doing here?"

    Massey let a few more seconds to go by, and then he said:

   “Which patch?”

   The grin decayed on the brutish face. “What do you mean?”

   “Patch. You know, where you operate from. You’re on the team, aren’t you? You’re a copper?”

   “What makes you think so?”

   “Takes one to know one. Thought I’d seen you before,” Massey lied. He pointed. "Bow Street, right? Only I can’t just place the name…”

   The grin came back. “Not bad, sport. I wondered how long it would take you to catch on. Hope you don’t mind, I kinda let myself in – thanks for the tinny, by the way.” He hoisted the can of Stella. “The name’s Bowman - Grant Bowman, to give you the full monika.” A hand the size of a dinner plate pushed out for Massey to shake, merely smiling when Massey declined the gesture. Letting the hand drop, he said, “Thought it might be a good idea if you and me had a little chinwag.”

   “All right, let’s do that.”

   Bowman smoked down to the butt and glanced around. “Got an ash tray?”

   “You’ll have to use the grate. I’ve no use for them anymore.”

   "Become one of the puritans, have you?" Bowman bent over grunting to stub out the remains of the cigarette in the tiled hearth. He coughed, clearing his throat, and sat back in the black chair lacing his big hands across his belly. “I’m from Maidenhead,” he said.

   “Oh, yeah?” Massey said.

   “Yeah, dainty little upper-class Maidenhead, but you’re right. I was in the Smoke at one time. Might even be our paths did cross somewhere along the line. Not at Bow Street, though. Took a wrong guess there, sport. Anyway, as luck would have, here we are both involved with the same razzmatazz case. Only thing is I never could understand why we had to bring you lot into it in the first place."

   "It’s a mystery all right."

   "Nah, not really. The long and short of it is my guvnor chickened out. Jeez, what a cock-up that’s turned out. I always thought you lot were over-rated.”

   “Sorry we didn’t come up to scratch. Don’t recall seeing you around last night, though. There was somebody called Barrett in charge from your end.”

   “Bob Barrett, yeah, he’s the one I was telling you about. Just took over. Landed the job on account of belonging to the funny handshake brigade, know what I mean? Got the sympathy vote, as you might say. Trouble is he ain’t got what it takes to be head honcho, which is why you got the call. Knows he’s crap, deep down, poor old Bob. No, as chance would have it, I was off duty yesterday. I’ve sort of come into it since, you know doing the PR bit. That’s why I’m here now. I’ve sort of come to compare notes. Maybe offer some advice.”

   “Go on.”

   “Yeah, well. You know how it is. A big deal like the Dow murder attracts all manner of dross. You wouldn’t believe the number of cheap-jack reporters I’ve had to send packing with my toe up their arses. Like flies around dungy poo they are. Real persistent little fuckers some of them. Had to administer a slapping or two. Only thing  them pricks understand – that’s between us girls of course. I’m not saying I place you in the same category, sport. I mean, you’re persistent, sure. But persistence in a detective of your calibre is something to be admired. Am I right? Course I am. Accounts for why you’ve done so well for yourself, in the super league as you might say. Only thing is – how can I put it? You wouldn’t want to get a reputation for being a pain in the rear end, now would you? Get what I mean?”

   “No,” Massey said. “You’ll have to spell it out.”

   “All right,” Bowman said. He stretched and got to his feet and bulled hefty shoulders around. “Put it this way. If you give it some careful thought, weighing the plusses and minuses, you might come to the conclusion it’s time to take a breather. You know a well-earned rest, which if you don’t mind my saying, you look like you might well need - this your missus?” He made a swipe for a framed portrait of Linda set alongside the bookcase. Bowman gave an s-whistle. “Not a bad looker, is she? Well stacked, too. Yeah, she’s some woman, all right. Bet you got your work cut out fending off the young braves.”

   Massey came off the arm of the chair and reached for the picture. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your leaving things where they are.”

   “Why surely, sport,” Bowman said, letting him take it. He spread his hands. “No offence.”

   Massey set the picture back in place. He turned back to Bowman, and standing facing him, the difference in size came home in spades. There wasn’t much in their height; Massey might even have been a shade taller. But Bowman would have a clear weight advantage of at least twenty-five pounds over him.

   “So is that it?” Massey said, holding position. “Said what you want to say?”

   Bowman held up a big hand. “Don’t be so hasty. I don’t want to leave you with the wrong impression. I mean, I wouldn’t want you to jump to any misguided conclusion about what I’m doing here. This is purely a social visit. One right guy talking to another all nice and friendly like.” His eyes lighted on the supermarket bags. "Cripes," he said, and stooped to poke around the contents. "You live real well, don’t you, sport. Nice drop of vino here, some hard stuff over there and plenty of tinnies in the fridge. Pity I’m short on time, otherwise we could’ve made a session of it."

   He left the bags, coming back to full height, his eye fixing in a cold hard stare. "As I was saying, you don’t want to go and make a dick-head bloody nuisance of yourself. Just ease off. We’ve got things covered. Play the game, that’s all you got to do, and there could be a good drink in it for you. If you get my drift.”

   Massey thumbed at the door behind him. “Get out,” he said. “Now!”

   “Not need to get huffy about it. Look, mate, I’m here to help you out.”

   “I don’t need your kind of help, Bowman. I want you to leave. Like right now.”

   “Okay, that’s fair dinkum with me,” Bowman said. The grin on his face went away. He crumpled the empty beer can and let it drop. “But if you take my advice, you’ll think good and hard about what I just said. Be a wise move on your part I promise you.”

    His hard stare had become flat and psychotic. Massey smelled his stale nicotine breath, saw the crater pock marks on his orange peel skin.

   Then Bowman grinned and thumped Massey playfully on the shoulder. “’Cept’ there’s no reason why we should fall out, right?" he said. "I reckon we could get along real well, you and me. It’s all a question of accommodation. Seeing the other bloke’s point of view. Right, I reckon I’ll be going now. Just bear in mind what I said and everything will come up smelling sweet as fresh violets. Be good for your health in the long run.”

   He reached the door and turned squinting. “Hope you ain’t got in mind to do any reporting of this, sport," he said. "As I say, just two cobbers chewing the fat, right?” One droopy eye closed in a knowing wink and he was gone.

   Massey listened to his heavy tread going away, fading to nothing on the stairs. Anger swelled up in him then, snatching out a handkerchief to wipe off his hands, annoyed to find them hot and sweaty. He wiped more sweat off the back of his neck and then swatted at the air to disperse the lingering cigarette haze. Stuffing the handkerchief away, he crossed the room and opened a window and filled his lungs.

   Leaving the window wide, he turned and strode over to his sideboard and poured himself a stiff jolt of Bushmills and knocked it straight back. He pulled out his notebook. He wouldn’t be forgetting Bowman in a hurry. All the same, he clicked a ball-point pen and wrote out in bold black print: GRANT BOWMAN – MAIDENHEAD – CHECK!

ten

Norman Pargeter was seated between Deborah and Veronica. Dinner was over, pan-fried Dover soles accompanied by a superb chilled Chablis, and they were toying with large brandies. They had elected to dine by candlelight beneath the cafe’s awning. On the walkways in front of them people moved lazily, tourists with cameras, lovers hand in hand, the Thames and Tower Bridge forming a perfect backdrop.

   At first the mood had been sombre. Pargeter had quickly dispensed with the awkward business of the estate; he proposed a preliminary reading of the will, suggesting they convene a meeting at the earliest possible date, perhaps by the following Tuesday, and where he hoped they would be able to agree the basis of a settlement.

   Then, as if in reaction to the horrors of the last twenty-four hours, a kind of heady gaiety had set in. Pargeter and Veronica were smoking sweetly scented cigarettes he had produced from an elegant monogrammed silver case. Deborah studied them narrowly as he talked on, keen to discuss the world of film.

   “...the cinema has long held a fascination for me. I confess to having had a love affair with the form since my halcyon days at Cambridge.”

   “You are a buff,” Veronica said.

   “Yes,” he agreed. “I think I would have to own up to that designation, and which is why I am so very thrilled at meeting you tonight, Veronica.”

   “You don’t say?”

   “I assure you I am not exaggerating. To dine with a star of the silver screen, to be actually be sitting here talking shop with her, is an experience beyond the reaches of imagination.”

   “Want my autograph? A somewhat lesser star, I fancy.”

   “Nonsense. Yours was – is – a sublime art.”

   “You sure we are talking about the same thing? I’m not Julia Roberts, you know. I hear tell you’ve viewed some of my stuff.”

   “But, mais oui.” Pargeter kissed his fingertips. “Wonderful.”

   “Sublime, wonderful. This gets better and better. Anything in particular?”

   Deborah came in, saying, “Veronica is considering resuming her career, Norman. An offer of a part over in Amsterdam, no less.”

   His eyes rounded with delight, and Veronica said, "Yep, my big awaited comeback."

   “Renaissance is surely to be preferred. Why, this is wonderful news. Needless to say, I await the release of your first venture with bated breath.”

   “You can keep them coming. But don’t think you’re going to duck it that easy. I still would like to know which of these acclaimed vehicles of mine you found so enthralling - and for that matter, why.”

   “The explanation is simple. For me they are akin to the tales of Hoffman or the brothers Grimm. As I see it, they are in the best tradition of the Volksmarchen, infused with grotesques, a hideous but fascinating weave of high camp humour and horror.”

   "Not bad,” Veronica said. “Pretty damned impressive. I think I’ll hire you as my publicist.”

   Norman Pargeter flashed an easy smile and stroked fingertips at his dark hair where it had started to grey at the temple. His features were small but handsomely defined and he spoke in an appealing light baritone. Only the squint in his pale blue eyes let him down, betraying a likely contact lens irritation. He turned smirking to Deborah.

   “Veronica doesn’t think I am trading square,” he said. “She thinks I am fibbing.” He swilled brandy around the bowl of his glass and flirted his gaze at Veronica. “Are you in a sporting mood?”

   Veronica pruned her mouth. “You are one smart guy, aren’t you? Don’t know about laying bets. I’ve read my Damon Runyon. I’d say there’s an ace up your sleeve."

   He gaped the arm of his midnight blue blazer. "As you see, no aces tucked away."

   "Okay, what about this? You name the movies and we’ll see about fixing a reward.”

   “Now that is the best offer I have had all week. Very well, let us see...I have found most all of them to hold – what shall we say? – a certain surreal quality. All right. This is a purely subjective choice, but if I had to pick out the best of the bunch I would plump for Heat Death and Salem Blood Legacy - which of course is nothing other than an erotic reworking of Little Red Riding Hood - Oh, and we shouldn’t overlook Robo Fiend Girl, which I regard as being truly special. Yes, those are the ones I would highlight.” Pargeter sat back, pleased with himself.

   Veronica nodded. “Not bad, you win a cigar.”

   He tipped his head and raised his glass to her in acknowledgement.

   "And you know I never saw the link between Salem and Red Riding Hood till now. I like it. Course, you could have mugged up on that stuff before you left home tonight.”

   “True, but I didn’t. If you wish, I will describe the plots, the action scenes. I have seen all of those films, and more, I do assure you.”

   “I’ll take your word for it. And you saw Robo Fiend Girl? Which so happens to have been my swan song.”

   “Only your latest to date. Now, what of my reward? I had hoped for something a little more enticing than a cigar.”

   “I’ll think of something,” Veronica said slowly, her gaze yellowing in the soft evening light. She shifted back her chair. “Now if you don’t mind I am going to take the air for a while, give you a chance to talk. Deborah, I know, is bursting to discuss a certain matter.”

   “You are referring to this troublesome Massey chap," Pargeter said. "Yes, it would appear we have to take stern action against him.”

   “Seems a pity. He looked a good cop, to me.”

   Deborah came in to say, “Veronica believes I am over-reacting, Norman. She thinks I should leave him to work his own vein as he thinks fit.”

   "Well, yes, clearly that is an option,” he said. “It rather depends how strongly you feel your position has been compromised.”

   "I don’t know. I feel something should be done."  

    Pargeter took a thoughtful sip of brandy and set down his glass. "I know Massey, as it so happens. He is a cut above the usual blunderbuss plod you tend to get. Recently divorced, so I am informed, which perhaps goes some way to explain his tetchiness.” He drummed fingers on a crossed knee. “All right, what about this? We call for a meeting, where I will insist upon his removal from the investigation, but accept finally an unreserved apology and his agreement to lay off with his bully-boy tactics. Do you suppose you might settle for that, Deborah?"

   “Yes, Norman,” she said, “I think I could  accept those provisions."

   "Very well” Pargeter said and brushed off his white duck trousers. “Problem resolved...”    

Veronica strolled pensively to the short red brick wall bordering the river. She had finished Pargeter’s scented cigarette and now lighted one of her own, becoming absorbed by the reflected lights dancing on the water. After a while, she turned and directed her absent gaze at the crowded walkway. As she watched, the frame moved off centre. A hand came up and reached unconsciously to drag the cigarette from her lips. The hubhub of noise dipped to a dull hush around her and drained to a dead silence.

   Back in the crowd something moved.

monday

one

Five rings and the connection was made.

   Followed by silence.

   Long seconds went by. She could see him waiting. See his rotten, smug, grinning face. She was at the point of giving way, when that whiny self-pleased drawl she knew so well said, “Well, sweetie, are you going to say your piece? Or am I meant to read your mind?”

   Big teeth flashed. She punched the air.

   Yes!

   Now I got you, you fuck!

   He said, when she failed to answer, “You haven’t been taken ill, I hope? You are not seized with some dreadful malaise? Or could it be I am waiting in line to be sold the latest, most wondrous innovation known to mankind? ”

   A jealous rage fired up inside her. She jammed thick lips into the mouthpiece and near shouted, “Wanna guess who this is?”

   There was a pause, a chuckle, and then he said, “Chita. You have called at last.”

   “You bet,” she said, but his glib confidence had already knocked her off balance.

   “Actually, I guessed it was you,” he said. “I was sitting here thinking, now I wonder how long it will be before Chita gets in touch. And here you are.”

   Her mouth opened but words failed to come.

   “Here I am, Chita. At your service – it is still Chita that you are calling yourself, I take it? You really go for this Spanish Harlem turn, don’t you? But if it pleases you, where is the harm? Now what exactly is it that you want? Let me guess. But of course…You want your money.”

   She gulped, blurted, “You – you bet I want my money. An’ – an’ don’t try to smooth-talk me neither.”

   “Why, I wouldn’t dream – ”

   “I want what you owe me, you fuck, an’- an’ lots more on top.”

   “Ah.”

   “You had me twisted round your string, but that’s history. Now it’s me what’s callin’ the shots, you hear! You thought you was gonna wipe me out, didn’t you, you bastard? Well, you got it wrong and now you gonna pay - but plenty! You gonna pay till your ass bleeds white.”

   Hot mixed race blood pumped through her veins. The words had come at last and she felt good. In control.

   His sly chuckle drifted out.

   “Very good, Chita. Pray continue, I am enjoying this.”

   Again, his slick act threw her. “Listen,” she said, “don’t try your tricks, you crazy fuck. I ain’t foolin’. You better listen to what I gotta say.”

   “But I am. I am waiting here in rapt anticipation.”

   “Now-now-now you-you listen, you, you – ”

   “Calm yourself, Chita. Take deep breaths. One two three, in. One two three, out. There, isn’t that better? Shall I put your case for you? Might be for the best, don’t you think? It amounts to this, does it not? You have worked it out and have come to the conclusion that circumstances have placed you in a unique position. In short, you are of the belief you are holding the aces and now seek to convert your advantage to monetary gain. Would that be a fair summation?”

   “You shut your face,” she yelled. “I know I got aces, you bet. An’ I want my money. All of it!”

   “Chita, darling, your share-out was never in dispute. I had your money all packaged and ready for you to collect, exactly as we arranged.”

   “You bastard! You was all set to rub me out!”

   “Oh, Chita. How can you say such a thing? After what we have been to one another too."

   "Shut up! You think you can rig me like that!"

   "Chita, I swear - ”

   “Swear all you want! You think I am estupido? You think I didn’t see you with my own two eyes, comin’ for me like a crazy out of hell!  An’ you almost fuckin’ got me, you bastard! So don’t give me this ‘what we meant to each other’ shit. It don’t count for nothin’. I was lucky, Jesus was I lucky. I ain’t gonna be forgettin’ that for a whole long time. But now I got the edge, so you’d better hear me out."

   He sighed down the phone. “I am indeed sorry it has come to this. I was in error, I confess. Momentarily, I became caught up with the theatricals of the moment. But it was only an act."

   "An act? You damn stinkin’ bastard!"

   "A bit of showing off, nothing more. I never could have harmed you."

   "Listen, you fuckin’ freak! I near enough busted my ribs getting away from you. I had to strap them up with bandages, an’ - an’ take a whole lot of fuckin’ pain killers on top to get some relief. You hear me!"

   "It is obvious I can nothing to convince you. I am sorry for your hurt, truly I am. But very well, Chita, leave it there. Go ahead. I am listening. You have the floor."

   A florid business type hurried up to the booth she was in and peered in at her. She gave him the finger. His jaw dropped and he bustled away. She fed in more coins.

   “You still there?" she said. "You ain’t gone away.”

   “No, Chita. I ain’t gone away.”

   “That’s good. Right, I bin figurin’, and this is it. We gotta meet up.”

   “Yes, we have to do that.”

   “Today, and no funny business - ”

   “Nothing was further from my mind.”

   “ – Wanna know why? ‘Cause I got all the right shit held with a certain somebody. Geddit!”

   He groaned. “Chita, that is so corny.”

   “Yeah, sure, it’s corny. But you know somthin’? It works, see. Insurance is what it is. You try anythin’ and the whole thing gets blown sky high. The whole fuckin’ shebang. You better believe it, you fuck.”

   “Oh, I do, I do,” he chortled. “Good. We meet today. And I take it I am to bring a certain little something with me. Would that be correct?”

   “You got it. I want that fifty grand up front. But that’s just a down payment. I wanna splurge some.”

   “Entirely understandable.”

   “I had to fork out most all I got to stay in some crummy Paddington hotel these last two nights.”

   “Yes there are some dives in Paddington. It wouldn’t have been The Somerset where you stayed by any chance?”

   Her mouth came open like a trout snapping a fly then clamped shut. “No you don’t, you cunning bastard. You don’t get me that way. I’ll tell you where we gonna meet up. I’m plenty smart. Don’t try to stiff me. Fifty thou, and bring it with you.”

   “A mere fifty thousand, are you sure?”

   “Don’t shit me. I know you can get that much.”

   “Certainly I can. It just seems such a trifling amount, considering what you have been through.”

   She hesitated. “What you mean?”

   “I mean this. Suppose I upped the ante? Suppose instead of the fifty thousand you ask, we double it to make it a hundred thousand. It so happens I have such a tidy sum all ready and waiting. A hundred thousand, in crisp new one hundred pound notes. Raise your head, Chita, and you will smell them."

   She tugged at her hair. He was mixing her up. “Now you-you listen,” she said. “I told you not to start getting’ cute.”

   “But I am not. This is straight goods, as they say. See it as atonement on my part. Better yet, see it as the first step to accruing your target figure. You know the sum you believe you will be able to milk from me over time. I would take a guess at a figure somewhere between a quarter and half a million. Would that be right? So why not cut out all the waffle? What would you say to a full million? Think of it, Chita. A million. In your hand. Give me three days, we meet again, and it is yours.”

   She gazed fitfully about her. It was a trap, some trick. She could feel it.

   “No trick,” he said, reading her mind. "There may even be a bonus on top. We will see. But, of course, nothing is for nothing. First I ask a favour.”

   “What you mean, what favour?”

   “Actually, task would be more accurate. Yes, I have a task for you. One that is in urgent need of performing, and which you are very well qualified to carry out. It concerns my dear sister Veronica, who has returned temporarily to the fold. It also concerns my equally dear wife – or should I say, widow. There are others involved, but they are the key players in our little drama.”

   She went very cold. Now she knew for sure he was mad. “What kind of crazy world is it you live in - ?” she started to say. He quickly cut her off.

   “Your opinion of me is of no interest,” he said. “I require your commitment, nothing less or more. And a word of warning. Whilst it is undeniably true you could inflict serious damage upon my person, bear in mind in sinking me you would in the process be assured of your own certain demise. Need I remind you of the far from negligible part you played in carrying out the dirty deed? I regret having to point out such an unpalatable fact, but there it is. We hang together or we hang separately, as the saying goes. Now, I imagine you have worked out a suitable place for our rendezvous. As an indication of my good faith, I will furnish the hundred, not fifty thousand pounds as a first payment. We will then discuss the necessary steps leading to your acquisition of the vastly larger sum.”

   She licked dry lips. His eerie silky poise had unnerved her. “Don’t forget I got insurance,” she said.

   “Stop being so ridiculously melodramatic,” he hissed at her. “I am not seeking any kind of double-cross, to use the old-fashioned jargon. This is a business arrangement, pure and simple. I have need of you, Chita. I need you as much you apparently need me. We worked well together before, did we not? So why not again?”

   She didn’t feel so good. He had something cooking, and she knew for stone cold certain her ass was on the line. A voice inside told her to forget the money. Get on the first train she could and get miles away.

   Then she thought again what she’d been through. She had come this far. She couldn’t give it up. Not now.

   Okay, this was the deal.

   She would pretend to listen to his madness and just take what she could and split. Yeah, made sense. Play it safe. She had already given up any thought of squeezing him for more. He was too dangerous. But she had picked a good spot and that fortified her. He wouldn’t be able to touch her there.

   She swallowed and said, “You know Westminster Abbey?”

   He gave a laughing gasp. “You are joking?”

   “Why should I be? It’s a big public place and that’s what I want.”

   “You seek security amongst the crowd. I see your reasoning, but you have not properly thought the matter through.”

   “What you mean?”

   “Chita, have you ever been to Westminster Abbey? This is the height of the tourist season. There will be lines of people stretching back a considerable way. It would take ages to get in, and once inside you would be faced with a great deal of confusion as to exactly how and where we would actually meet”

   “Then we do it outside. Yeah, outside in the street, that’s what we’ll do.”

   “Jostling with the riff-raff of London? I cannot imagine anything more…plebeian, and it would be nowhere near as straightforward as you imagine."

   "You ain’t getting out of it like that."

   "Chita, darling, I am not trying to get out of anything. I am only trying to make things work, our need to meet is not in dispute."

   "Then where we gonna do it?”

   "Yes, where?...I know, what about the Catholic Cathedral? Yes, not only would your safety in numbers requirement be satisfied, it would add a dramatic religious flavour in keeping with your current persona. It is but a short walk or taxi ride from Westminster Abbey.”

   “The Catholic Cathedral? Yeah, I think I know it. That big red place with the tall tower thing, is that where you mean? You think you gonna push me off, is that it?”

   “The Bell Tower? No, Chita, we will not even venture into the Tower, although the view I understand is well worth the trip. We will conduct our business in the main hall of the Cathedral. You will find it to be entirely suitable, I assure you.”

   “An’ we can get in easy?”

   “As pie.”

   She dithered it around for a minute, still suspicious, still sensing a trap, but then she said, “Okay, then make it there. Be there at five.”

   “Very well, Chita. At five o’clock this evening.”

   “Where do we meet up? It’s big inside, right?”

   “It is vast. Let me take care of that end. Just walk around like any other visitor, and I will find you.”

   “An’ – an’ don’t forget the money.”

   His returning chuckle sent a shiver down her spine. “The money will be safe and secure on my person. So, are we in agreement?”

   "Yeah, seems like it is."

   "Excellent. Oh, just one more thing. Should you arrive before I do...”

   “Yeah, what?”

   “Say a quick one for me.”

two

“Back on the beat after this, is it?”

   “There are bound to be repercussions, if that’s what you mean. You wouldn’t follow advice, wouldn’t you? You had to have it your way.”

   “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t go against you.  I went to the Savoy to have words with the sister and Deborah was already there.”

   “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to simply pack it in and head off?  No, silly question.” Connor shook his head. “Things would have cooled down. All you had to do was lie low for twenty-four hours. Instead of which you get on her case and let her have the rough end of your tongue – and in front of her sister. Christ, what got into you!”

   Massey hard pinched his nostrils. He was sitting next to Connor in the back seat of a black Rover, being chauffeured through the slow moving London traffic. They went on in silence for a while, eventually turning from St Martins Lane into The Strand and continued on toward St Paul’s. He gazed out, absently aware of the city scene, people bustling about, a young beggar sitting huddled against a wall next to MacDonald’s.

   He said, “So now we have to go cap in hand to Pargeter’s office like a couple of naughty school kids.”

   “That’s right," Connor said. "Cap in hand about sums it up. I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is of your own making, Sam. You can’t expect to get away with being a law unto yourself at every turn. Have you ever stopped to think why it is you haven’t progressed beyond the rank of inspector? By rights a man of your ability ought to be a grade higher by now, at very least. You are not much younger than I am you know.”

   “So much for a university education.”

   “Yes, go on, twist it round. Turn it into a joke.  It’s not the fact of having or not having a university education. Your talents were recognised early on, but you won’t play the game.”

   “I play the game.”

   “Only when it suits you. Look at the high-handed way you treated Vic yesterday.”

   “Well he gets up my nose - and anyway it was six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

   “He gave as good as he got, I concede. But there’s no give in you. You don’t like calling higher ranks sir. You don’t much like taking orders – well look at this balls up.”

   Massey grinned. “You want me to call you sir, Brian, is that it?”

   Connor shook his head in mild despair. “You are such a clever dick. I don’t give a toss personally whether you call me sir, but the brass tend to notice these things. You could try commander, if sir’s too much for you, at least when we are operating in a formal setting. The police are a very conservative body, or has that little fact escaped your attention? If for no other reason, you might bend a bit for my sake.”

   “So toe the line and there’s every chance I could become an administrator. Great.”

   “A pen-pusher, why not? We all have to grow up sometime. You can’t go on feeling collars forever. What are you now, thirty-seven? Do you want to end up as one of these sad bastards, freeloading for drinks at bars that turn a blind eye for coppers? And while we are on the subject, watch your drinking. I know you have good reason, but it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

   “I might have hit it a bit hard of late, but come on. It’s part of the crack, it always has been.”

   “Not anymore. Times have moved on from the old booze culture." Connor took a breath and let it out in a sigh. "All I am saying is ease up. Pretty soon, the way you are going, you’ll need a shot or two to get you kick-started every morning.”

   “Christ," Massey said. "So now I’m an alcoholic.”

   “It happens. I’ve seen more than a few good coppers hit the slippery slope - we both have. You carry a flask around with you, don’t you?"

   "Only for - "

   "Medicinal purposes, I know. Sam, I’m telling you this as a friend. I know it was tough, what happened with Linda, but you won’t find the answer in Bushmills whiskey. Give it time. You’ll meet somebody soon enough.”

   Massey stared out of the window. Only Connor could lay it on him like that. And he was right. Can’t hang on to the past. There was a girl called Donna who had helped deaden the pain, and for a while it seemed she might become a permanent fixture in his life. She was a nurse, but now she had gone off to do her nursing in the States. She said it was only temporary and she would be coming back, although right then it didn’t look very likely.

   Still looking out, he said, “I still reckon she’s involved, Lady Muck.”

   Connor snorted. “I’m past caring. I fondly wish the whole bloody thing would crawl away and die somewhere.”

   “Then hand it to Vic full time,” Massey said his head coming back around. “I’m serious. Give him total control, the lot, and you can get it wiped off your plate.”

   “That’s a cheap shot, Sam. If I wanted the easy option we wouldn’t be on our way right now to see Pargeter. Why do you suppose I bent over backwards to keep you on line with this thing, why I’m still in there plugging for you? Vic’s a smokescreen, don’t you understand? I worked the oracle setting him up to keep Maidenhead sweet and keep you in the game. God knows why, but I’m backing a hunch you just might be on to something - and getting a lot of aggravation for my trouble. But you are right. All I would need do is pick up the phone and tell Pargeter you are off the case and I could breath easy again.”

   Massey ground his teeth. “Sorry, boss, I was out of order. I didn’t think it through.”

   “Saints preserve us," Connor said. "Sammy Mass not bothering to think something through? Whatever next?”

   “I deserve that, and okay, I suppose I might have been a bit rough with her.”

   “Well, progress at last. She’ll be there this morning, don’t forget. You might want to think about giving her an apology. Yes, I know, apologies run against the grain. But it wouldn’t hurt to offer at least a token gesture along those lines. See it as a PR exercise.”

   “Jesus.”

   “It might be the only way to save yourself.”

   “Then stuff it, I’ll quit. I’ll go private. There’s good money to be made in that racket, and I’d be rid of all the paperwork crap we have to wade through.”

   “You think you’d be any better off as a self-employed independent? You’d soon find yourself up to your neck keeping records and managing tax returns and all the rest of it. You’d just be exchanging one set of bureaucracy for another.”

   “No escape, then.”

   “Not till they wheel you out into the pale sunlight all muffled up for your warm milk and biscuits.”

   Massey gave a short laugh. "What a thought."

   “Isn’t it just? You know what they say, adapt or die.”

   “Like with the dinosaurs.”

   “Exactly. Promise me this, at least. Keep your cool, don’t let Pargeter needle you. We’re in line for a kicking, so let’s be big boys and take it as we have to. Whatever you do don’t start ladling out any of your famed razor-sharp sarcasm. Pargeter would just lap that up.”

   Massey nodded. “Hearing you loud and clear, Commander. I’ll take my kicking. I won’t let you down, my word on it."

   "Good enough," Connor said.

three

Breath caught in her throat.

   “Who is this?” she said, and he chuckled. The same vicious, spoilt-brat chuckle heard down the years, the past.

   “Look,” she said, firing up when he wouldn’t speak. “Who the fuck are you, some sick joker? Well, you can shove it, buster. Your act stinks.”

   He said, “Is that what you think it is, Verro? An act?”

   Verro.

   A chill of fear ran through her.

   Only one person ever called her Verro.

   "Come now," he continued. "You know me better than that. I never joke. Save when I am being deadly serious."

   The chuckle came again, high and effeminate, somehow slyly obscene. It seemed to echo, as if being played through twin magnifying speakers, out of synch. The room had begun to spin around her.

   “Look…Look…”

   “Oh, Verro, do lighten up. Where is your sense of humour? Don’t tell me you left it back in California. You were always such a good sport, too. Ah, me, the ravages of time. Or could it be that you are having difficulty believing this really is your own dear brother speaking?  What can’t speak can’t lie. You saw me last night you know full well that you did."

   "But…it couldn’t have been."

   "You are in denial, dear. I admit it was a weeny bit naughty of me, letting you glimpse me like that," sniggering, "but I couldn’t resist it. Oh, it was such glorious fun. You ought to have seen the look on your face."

   "No, I won’t believe it!"

   "Belief is a self-deceptive trope. What did you imagine? Did you suppose it was someone else, an actor perhaps, employed by some mysterious third party to plant the seed telling you that you are going off your head? Sounds like a not very original plot line from one of your trashy movies. Now honestly, Verro, you surely never bought into the notion that I was pushing up the daisies. You would have known."

   "No."

   "You cannot escape it, Verro. We are joined, you and I. Not at the hip, but through our very souls. When one of us experiences joy or pain then so will the other. Oh, yes, the pain, the delicious pain…"

   She slammed down the phone.

   She wouldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t!

   The room had started spin. She groped for the table. She gazed down emptily, and the floor came rushing up to hit her. Oily blobs swam in her eyes. She clawed weakly at the carpet pile. She had never fainted, not once through all his crazy stunts. Not even when he had somehow managed to conceal a spider in her underwear, one of those choice big black things with spongy legs.

   One of his tricks, her own words came back to her.

   The trick to end all tricks.

   A hazy vision returned. Nausea welled up inside her. On hands and knees she crawled gagging for the bathroom. She reached the toilet and vomited. Gasping exhausted in the aftermath, she lay on the cold tiles, knees drawn up, hands pressed tight into her groin.

   She moaned around for a time.

   And then screamed out as the spasm gripped and shook her in a raging orgasm.

four

Pargeter was seated behind a splendid teakwood desk playing with a dagger letter-opener, the handle shaped as a nude female. The top of the desk bore an onyx pen holder set and a slim black state-of-the-arts recording machine. Propped at one corner, a framed portrait of a pretty sophisticated-looking woman told the world he was happily married (a lie, as he had been long divorced). He wore a charcoal-grey pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt with a cut-away collar and a plain silk blue tie. The black horn-rimmed glasses he favoured this morning made it plain that he meant business. He nodded to two strategically placed chairs. He made no move to rise or shake hands. Connor sat as directed. Massey remained standing.

   Away to the side, Deborah stood gazing through venetian blind slats of a tall Georgian window at St Paul’s Cathedral, a faint mysterious smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Massey was already telling himself it was a class act. She was superbly turned out in a silver-grey tailored two-piece suit, the understated display of makeup and jewellery which she wore nicely complementing the elegant effect. Her blonde hair this time was styled up around her head, giving her a softer, more vulnerable look.

   “Do you think you might sit, Inspector?" Pargeter said, gazing up at him. "We won’t be making a charge.”

   Massey glanced down at the chair and sat.

   “Thank you,” Pargeter said then faced his maroon leather chair at the window. “When you are ready, Deborah, I think we can make a start.”

   She nodded and came away from the view of St Paul’s, the mysterious smile still in place. All three men seemed to hold their breath as she steered a glacial course across the room to lower herself into the short-backed armchair, also of maroon leather, positioned to Pargeter’s right. She crossed her legs with care, stretched the hem of her skirt tightly into place above her left knee, and gave a silent little cough into her fingertips.

   Massey studied her legs. They were worth the study. Slim but not skinny, tapering with a nice shape to classic ankles. She caught him looking and gave another tug at her skirt.

   Pargeter brought him back with a sharp cough. He introduced Deborah to Conner, and touched at the slim recording device. “Unless you have any objections I propose recording this conversation.”

   Connor nodded his agreement and produced a miniature tape recorder of his own, setting it in play on the desk in front of him. Pargeter smiled an amused smile and clicked on his machine, tilting back his handsome chair.

   “Coming directly to the point, my client believes she has been used badly by Inspector Massey and now seeks full redress of the situation.” Pargeter came forward, laying the unusual letter-opener down in front of him. “Given what she has told me I have advised Mrs Dow that she has grounds upon which to file serious charges.”

   Connor said, “Naturally, we want to avoid any unpleasantness if we can, Mr Pargeter. We are sorry if Mrs Dow has been put out.”

   Pargeter’s face darkened. “Pious regrets are all very well, but this is no small matter to be brushed aside with an airy wave of the hand.”

   “I am sorry if I gave that impression. I was simply expressing my concern. I would point out that we are involved with a particularly horrific murder and that such investigations are never easy.”

   “Thank you for reminding me, Commander. And you are quite right. All the more reason, I would have thought, to select officers who can be relied upon to enact their duties with discretion. My client has been treated little better than some common criminal.”

   “Surely you exaggerate, Mr Pargeter.”

   “You think so? Allow me to set out the facts. Following the tragic happenings of Saturday night, Mrs Dow was first subjected to a barrage of aggressive questioning – this in the sanctity of her own home, be it noted. At no time was she given a moment to collect herself, or indeed offered any kind of medical assistance. She had obviously sustained a terrific shock, but such considerations held no sway with Inspector Massey. Having bullied Mrs Dow to the point of tears, under some spurious pretext he then put her through the humiliation of giving up the clothes she was wearing. If all of this were not enough, taking advantage of her bewilderment, Mrs Dow was then pressured into journeying to the police mortuary in Slough, where she was compelled to make an identification of her husband’s remains. Why such brutal measures were deemed necessary is beyond comprehension.”

   Massey said, “Mrs Dow’s clothes were not taken on any spurious basis. It was done to clear her of being present in the actual murder.”

   Pargeter tapped a finger at cunning lips. “In other words, she was a suspect. Did you have good reason for making so wild a supposition, any basis in fact?”

   “It isn’t a question of having a basis in fact. Most murders have a domestic link to them and such possibilities have to be considered.”

   Connor cut in, saying, “In our line of work we sometimes have to do unpleasant things, Mr Pargeter.”

   “Yes, yes,” Pargeter said, head pecking in mild irritation. “I am fully aware of your difficulties. Inspector Massey’s conduct would still appear to be highly questionable. I am right in stating, am I not, that not a jot of evidence was found in Mrs Dow’s clothing?

   “But we couldn’t have known that at the time, and the verification does work in Mrs Dow’s favour.”

   “Very well, but what of the visit to the mortuary? Isn’t there a code of practice stating that a next-of-kin identification should only be carried out once an acceptable period of time has lapsed, and when the individual in question has had full time to prepare for such an event?”

   Connor grudgingly had to admit this was so.

   “As I understand, conclusive proof had been determined, but this apparently was not good enough for Inspector Massey. Her husband had sustained severe cranial damage. To make her view such a horrific visage was nothing short of inhuman.”

   Deborah Dow closed her eyes and pressed a dainty handkerchief to her lips. Pargeter reached a sympathetic hand toward her.

   “Forgive me, Deborah. I appreciate this must be terribly difficult for you." She nodded bravely, and he turned back to Connor. “Such a callous act might well have resulted in a serious breakdown. How would you have felt about that, Commander? From the very outset, Inspector Massey appears to have been fixated upon establishing an unnecessary account of my client’s whereabouts, virtually browbeating her into admitting she had spent the night with another man. An outrageous suggestion.”

   “Then where the hell was she?” Massey said.

   Pargeter narrowed his eyes. “Keep the tone of your voice in check if you please, Inspector. You are not meting out one of your third degree interviews now.”

   “Yes, Inspector,” Connor muttered. “Remember why we are here.” He said, “I take on board all what you say, Mr Pargeter. Mistakes may have been made. But with all due respect, and I repeat, dealing with a murder inquiry such as this is not an easy proposition. Time is often of the essence, and in the pressure of the moment actions are sometimes taken without due regard to their consequences.”

   “Glib words if I may say so, Commander.” Pargeter stroked at the nude handle of dagger letter-opener. “Do you wish to add anything, Deborah?” he asked, glancing at her.

   Her gaze lowered, and she said in a quiet voice, “I would only stress that I am anxious to have this matter settled here and now this morning.”

   Pargeter sagely nodded. “The nub of it, Commander, is that your man here has acted in a totally unacceptable fashion, and I am forced to the conclusion that he set out deliberately to break my client’s spirit.”

   “Now just a minute, Mr Pargeter - ”

   “How else would you describe it? Consider the incident of yesterday afternoon. Employing his usual bullyboy tactics, Inspector Massey dogged my client on the motorway. He forces her to pull over onto the hard shoulder, whereupon he again recites his half-baked litany of her somehow being implicated with the death of her husband. This, be it noted, in the presence of her husband’s sister. A young woman struggling with the violent death of her brother. Furthermore the incident took place after you and I had spoken on the telephone, when you assured me actions would be taken to rectify the matter. Well, Commander?”

   “Inspector Massey may have been out of line,” Connor mumbled down in his beard.

   “Indeed, so.” Pargeter turned contemptuous eyes at Massey. “Scarcely a vote of confidence from you superior, is it, Inspector? Do you have anything to add in mitigation?”

   “No one forced Mrs Dow off the motorway,” Massey said through his teeth.    

   “But you cannot deny you were following her.”

   “It was accidental. I wanted to speak to Veronica Dow and saw them drive off together from the Savoy. Mrs Dow pulled over of her own accord."

   "Because she saw you tailing her."

   "Yes, if you like, and words were then exchanged, but I didn’t accuse her of anything. I didn’t shout at her or harangue her. I only responded to questions Mrs Dow put to me. As for Saturday night, I accept Mrs Dow may have been given a rough ride. But she wasn’t able to provide a satisfactory explanation of where she had been.”

   “A satisfactory explanation according to your definition, you mean?”

   “By any right-minded definition. I still hold to that view.”

   “So you regret nothing?”

   “Listen, Mr Pargeter, this wasn’t some minor happening where you can go nicely through the procedures. Murder is a dirty business, and when you’re involved first-hand some of the dirt is liable to rub itself off."

   "And that is the best you can offer by way of an explanation." Pargeter sadly shook his head. "I am somewhat bemused, and frankly very disappointed."

   "Is that right?" Massey said. "Well just think on this. Here we are, using up valuable police time bandying words around, and what are we concerned with? Mrs Dow’s injured sensibilities. What’s happened to the real issue? It seems to me the murder of husband got lost in the shuffle.”

    Pargeter sighed and turned wearily to Deborah. “It would appear we have no alternative other than demand Inspector Massey’s removal.” He settled his gaze on Connor. “Those are the terms, Commander. If you fail to comply, I warn you I am prepared to take matters to higher authority, and possibly press for substantial damages.”

   Massey felt Connor stiffen in his chair.

  “I don’t much like being warned. If you want to take this to higher authority, that is your affair, but until I am replaced I will continue to make judgments as to how I run my department. For you information, the operational brief has been passed to Chief Inspector Davis and Inspector Massey is no longer fully in charge of the investigation.”

   “I take it to mean he will remain in some capacity.”

   “Reporting to me in the first instance, Inspector Massey will continue to pursue his line of inquiry, and where he can expect my total support.”

   “This is not acceptable. If it is a war that you want – ”

   “Little boys talk of war, Mr Pargeter.” Connor came to his feet. “I think we have taken up enough of your time.” He gathered up his mini-recorder and turned for the door. “Inspector,” he said to Massey.

   Massey began to rise, stunned by the power of Connor’s response, halting as Deborah spoke out:

   “Please, Commander Conner," she said to him. "Please don’t leave. I am certain we can sort this matter out.”

   Connor gazed questioning eyes at her, then after a moment came back and sat as before, waiting to hear what she had to say.

   “Thank you.” Deborah compressed her lips and said, “This may come as a surprise, but I do understand Inspector Massey’s position. Putting it simply, he has not entirely discounted my guilt." She glanced at him. "Isn’t that so, Inspector?”

   “I’m only trying to get to the truth,” Massey said.

   “I am certain Inspector Massey has nothing personal against you, Mrs Dow,” Connor put in.

   She tipped her head in acknowledgement. “Yes, Commander, I think I see that. Having now given the matter further thought, and particularly in the light of what Inspector Massey has said here this morning, I believe I would be happy for him to continue with his investigations.”

   Pargeter frowned at her. “Is this altogether sound, Deborah? What you are proposing?”

   “I believe so, Norman. I accept Inspector Massey’s point. There are more important considerations than my feelings alone.” She said to Connor, “I take it you consider Inspector Massey to be a worthy officer?”

   “Inspector Massey is one of our very best detectives,” Connor said. “His approach, I admit, can appear somewhat unorthodox. But he has the gift of being able to locate the critical point in an investigation others often miss, which is why I still want his involvement.”

   “Then I suggest you allow him continue.”

   “You would be happy with such an arrangement?”

    “I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, Commander. But if Inspector Massey is capable of bringing these special qualities to bear, then so be it. I want whoever is responsible for my husband’s death to be brought to justice. I have nothing to hide and I promise to give him my fullest co-operation”

   Deborah’s gaze settled on Massey.

   “It would be a rather nice gesture, of course, if he could bring himself to offer some form of apology for the distress he has caused me.”

   The room fell silent. Massey could sense Connor willing him to say the right words. Pargeter sat studying a thumbnail. As for Deborah, if she was playing a game it was one he couldn’t fathom. She was like the Sphinx, sitting there, that enigmatic smile playing at the corners of her lips. But whatever it all meant, Massey saw he had no choice other than go along with it.

   “All right, Mrs Dow,” he said. “If I have upset you, then I’m sorry - truly. I apologise. Is that all right? But thanks for the vote of confidence. In return I’ll do all I can to find the answer to this thing.”

   Her blue eyes locked with his. “I don’t doubt it.”

five

She came from the bathroom towelling off. The bath had helped, though she still felt strangely muddled in her head, just a little queasy. The face she glimpsed in the cheval mirror wore an astonished, disoriented look.

   She turned to the bed. Her open suitcase lay there waiting for the last few items to be added. She had made up her mind to leave and wanted to get clear before Deborah got back. She started to dress. Her movements were mechanical, rather clumsy. She put on a black close-fitting catsuit, the pants terminating at calf length. She managed to zip herself up and went back to the mirror, sitting at the foot of the bed to comb out her wet hair. Lost in thought, a figure emerged in the glass, sharpening into focus. She twisted around coming to her feet. A big man with sandy red hair stood leering at her from the part-open door.

   Too late to duck back, he grinned and said, “Hello there.”

   She gaped at him. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He looked enormous standing there, one big hand propped to the doorframe. After a moment, still grinning, he pushed the door fully open and strolled on into the room. He was nicely at ease. Flat pale blue eyes moved freely over her.

   “Sure fits nice and snug, that outfit,” he said in a rough kind of accent. “Don’t leave a whole lot for the imagination to work on. Cripes it’s so tight it could near enough be sprayed on.”

   Water dripped cold from her wet hair and trickled down her back. She wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “Who are you? What do you want?”

   The big man continued his leering appraisal. “Just my duty,” he said. He picked at an irritating tooth with a thumbnail. “Name’s Grant. That’s my first name. I’m kind of the security man round here."

   “You mean you look after the house for Mrs Dow? She pays you?”

   The grin on his face widened slyly. “In a manner of speaking.”

   “And-and your duties extend to prowling around inside? You feel free to come spying into bedrooms?”

   “Absolutely. Have to make sure you good ladies are all tucked up safe and sound. Besides, I wouldn’t exactly call it spying."

   "No, then what would you call it?"

   “Being of service is how I see it.”

   “Service?”

   "Why, sure. I’m a serviceable kind of bloke. A real handyman, as you might say. Got lots of good strong tools in my toolbox. Bet I could surprise you, lady all on her own, like. You’re the late Mr Dow’s sister, the lady what’s in the pictures, am I right? Sure you are. I recognised you straight off, even with the different colour hair and all. Real sorry about your brov."

   “You knew him?”

   "Sure did," the big man said. "Knew him well. A real fair dinkum gent, he was. Got on with him a treat. Rotten shame what happened, but there it is. No sense splittin’ your pants over what’s done and dusted. You’re here, that’s what counts."

   "Is it?"

   “Absolutely. Life’s for the living, right? The way I look at it we just have to pick up the pieces and move on. That’s my philosophy. I’m a sort of fan of yours, you know."

   "Oh yes?"

   "Yeah, saw one of your pictures once. Set in Florida or some such, you know the Everglades. You was running through this burning swamp in your smalls and there was this creature, this kind of scary monster freak coming right there after you. I reckon I could see what he had in mind. Not that I blamed him one little bit. You had yeller hair then. It was longer and prettier. No offence, but I reckon I liked it better that way.”

   “Did you?”

   “You bet. I like a woman to look like a woman, if you know what I mean.”

   Veronica became aware of her trembling hands and spread them down her sides. Something told her she mustn’t show fear to this man. He had lurked watching her dress, although right then his voyeur act seemed of minor significance. He was so sure of himself. His pale soulless eyes seemed to look clear through her.

   “Interesting though all this is," she said, "I’m still trying to figure out why you are here in my bedroom.”

   He tapped at a worrying tooth. “Nothing to figure,” he said. “Like I say, I’m here to protect and reassure. No cause to be put out. Nothing I ain’t seen before, and for sure you got no reason to be coy. You can take that as read. I’m the law, see."

   “You mean you are the police?”

   “Nothing less. Want to see my ID?”

   She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “No, I trust you,” she lied, and went back to her packing, trying to appear casual about it.

   “Set to be leaving?” he asked.

   “That’s the general idea,” she said. She tossed the comb into the open case, snapping it shut, stiffening as she sensed him hovering close behind.

   “Seems a real pity. We could have sort of got to know one another, you and me. Reached a point of mutual benevolence, if you know what I mean?”

   He lifted a wet strand of her hair with a stiff finger and set it carefully in place. She held still for it, flinching as his big hand lingered to touch damply at the nape of her neck. She could feel his hot breath swarming at the back of her ears.

   "You sure are one sexy lady."

   “I suppose that’s meant as a compliment,” she said, shifting position.

   “Sure it’s a compliment. Tell you what, life being short an’ all. Why don’t you put off going for a while, say until the end of the afternoon? Be worth it, scout’s honour. You ought to know, ladies have paid good money for my services."

   Trying to joke it off, she said, "Sorry, have to give it a by-pass this time."

   “You’ll be missing out. Sure you don’t want to reconsider?”

   “Not possible I am afraid. I have an urgent meeting in London.”

   “You mean a new script to look over, something like that?”

   “Yes, something like that.”

   “Hope it’s a good un. You know a fair few of the ladies I mentioned said I oughta be in the movie business myself, on account of my looks and build.”

   Veronica laughed a false merry laugh. “You see yourself as an actor?”

   “Why not? Ain’t nothing to it, from what I can see. Just a matter of pretending, right? Take the swamp monster guy who was chasing you. I could play the role as good as the fella what got the part. Be easy, just put on the outfit and go snarling around all over the place.”

   “Before you get star billing, you mean?”

   The gibe went over his head, or else he didn’t care. The worry was he didn’t seem to care about anything. He grinned and struck a pose for her.

   “What do you think?”

   She made a fast study and shook her head. “Stick to being a cop would be my advice.”

   "Oh, why so? Go on, be honest.”

   “Okay," she said. "Being honest, your eyes are wrong. Too small and set too close together, and your voice isn’t right. Too high and reedy.”

   As the words came out she knew she had made a mistake. What was wrong with her? It was as if she were deliberately trying to bait him. The grin on his face had turned rancid and she became jittery, fiddling with things for no good reason.

   “You still hundred percent certain set on leavin’?” he said, no longer light-hearted, a hint of menace behind the question. She swallowed and zipped shut her case.

   “Sorry, but I have to.” She swung around and forced a smile. “All right, Grant, you want to be of service. You can lug this case downstairs for me.” She reached for the telephone. “I’ll call a cab.”

   “To hell with the cab,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her tight.

   Her mind whirled. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Wild, improbable thoughts stormed through her brain. Had Deborah paid him to do this? Throw a scare into her?

   He nuzzled her softly, and holding her locked in place his free right hand began to roam. Thick fingers clamped her breast, caressing, moving down, stroking over her abdomen. She had stopped breathing, couldn’t move, the phone useless in her hand. And in spite of her fear, or because of it, she felt herself respond, her groin lurching at the apex.

   And then she was shouting. “Get off me, you motherfucker!”

   He stalled. “Asking for it rough?”

   She fought for air. She was blacking out.

   “I’m not asking for it any way! When I want your hands on me, I’ll say so! Now, get away from me! Do you hear! Get away!”

   His wet tongue coursed roughly across the back her neck by way of response. Crazily, she glimpsed the reflected scene in the cheval mirror, her face white and startled, his ragged with lust. For one intense moment it teetered in the balance. He was ramrod hard.

   Then the python grip slackened and he was moving back. “Okay,” he said. “Just as you say. No offence taken, I hope.”

   She stumbled, gulping for air. “Get out of my room,” she choked out.

   He backed off, grinning, hands raised as in an old gangster movie. “Going. See? By the door. No hard feelings. Little bit of pattacake that’s all. Say you want that case moved, glad to oblige.”

   “Just get out!”

   He made a fast grab for the case and carried it from the room. Veronica tumbled across and slammed the door shut, cradling her head. His footsteps sounded on the stairs, going away.

   She pounded a fist at the door.

   Weeping.

six

Ray Whitmore said, “We’re still on track, then.”

   Massey took a swallow from his pint of bitter. They were in the Lamb and Flag, just over from Covent Garden. It was the peak of midday and the pub was busy. “We’re still in there swinging," he said. "One minute she was all set to fry my balls. Next she was coming on strong as you like in support of my cause.”

   “Women, you can never figure them.”

   “Yeah, I was all set to write my obituary. Though got to say, Connor backed me to the hilt. When it came to crunch time, he was prepared to walk and take the consequences.”

   Whitmore nodded his agreement. “He’s a good bloke, Connor.”

   “He’s that right enough. I owe him a lot, and not just for this. We go back a long way, me and Brian. Funny thing is we didn’t hit it off at first. I was brash, rough around the edges. The exact opposite of how he was."

   "Some things never change."

   "Thanks a bunch. Twenty-four, he was, a sergeant already and set for big things. I suppose I was jealous, him a Cambridge graduate and me with my working class insecurities. My sullen act never fazed him, though. Water off a duck’s back that was to Brian. Even then he was on top of the game. We were daggers drawn – or I should say I was. Had a huge chip on my shoulder, or I did till he took me aside one lunch time. He bought me a pint, said he was moving on, been made up to inspector, and that he wanted me to go with him - after telling me what a prat I’d been making of myself.”

   “Like I say, some things never change.”

   “Nice to know you’ve got the respect of your sergeant." Massey swallowed more beer and chuckled. "I was gobsmacked. I was an usher at his wedding, you know.”

   “Get out. You, an usher?”

   “Yeah, it is kind of funny, but what a do that was."

   “Hope you were on your best behaviour.”

   “Had to be. You should have seen the guest list. There I was all duffed up like Jeeves the butler, simpering little smiles at everybody. No brown ale at that do, oh no, nice drop of sherry, though. Chances are he’ll be chief constable one day, and good luck to him. We could do with a few more Brian Connors on the force. Right, let’s eat. They do a good steak and kidney pud here, okay?”

   "Dunno," Whitmore said. "Steak and kidney pud sounds a bit heavy. Me and Chris are out to dinner tonight, got a baby sitter lined up."

   Massey gave him an amazed look. “You’ve got a baby sitter - tonight? With all that’s going on. Are you joking?”

   "Oh, come on, Mass. Be fair. It’s Chris’s birthday. This was booked ages ago. I got to have some life outside of the job. I mean, we are not all like – well…”

   “Like me, you mean?" Massey gave a snort and nodded. "Okay, like you say, you’ve got your life. All right, seeing as it’s Chris’s birthday I’ll see if I can’t wangle you your romantic Italian dinner for two.”

   “Thanks, Mass. You’re a good un.”

   “Course I am. In the meantime a bit of steak and kidney pud won’t do you any harm. You got hours to work it off. You’re all skin and bone, it’ll build you up. Besides, I’m buying.” He drained his glass, getting to his feet. “Another one, want a short?”

   “Better just make it the half,” Whitmore said a bit sheepish.

   Massey smiled and went to the bar to place the order, coming back with two half pints plus a scotch for himself. “So you think I’ve been lucky?” he said when he had sat down.

   “Just a bit. Don’t you?"

   “I don’t know I’m still trying to work it out. I had the funniest of feelings back there in Pargeter’s office. It was like we were following a script. Better yet, it was like one those fixed prize fights they used to have. Know what I mean? Boys go through the motions, give the mugs a run for their money then wrap it up as planned with a nice clean dive in the fifth round. I reckon they had it all worked out in advance.”

   “That makes no sense. Why would they do that?”

   “Nothing makes sense till we see what sense it’s making.” Massey sipped back half of his scotch and chased it with a gulp of bitter. “As to why, I dunno. I’m still trying to figure it. Pargeter was full of spiky invective, like you’d expect - and don’t he love the sound of his own voice. But he was just doing his performing seal bit. Deborah was the one in the driving seat.”

   “She wants to piss you off then hold you back in. I still don’t get it.”

   “Ray, you can join the club. As far as I can work it out, she either thinks she can get me to soft peddle on her, or else she really does want me to go ahead and solve this thing.”

   “In which case…well, you would have to say she’s innocent.”

   Massey nodded. “That would be the obvious conclusion.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, I really don’t...”

   The food arrived and they tucked in. “So what happens now?” Whitmore asked, munching away.

   Massey got some pie down and gulped beer in its wake. “First off I want you to get the low-down on a certain Grant Bowman. He’s on the payroll, so he claims, over in Maidenhead. I got paid a visit from him last night. The bastard was waiting for me when I got home, sitting there large as life in my own armchair. Tried to put the frightners on, warn me off.”

   "What a copper warning another copper? I never heard of anybody doing that before."

   "Use your loaf, Ray, it was unofficial. Maindenhead didn’t send him."

   “Oh, right, I get it – I think. But if it was just this one bloke, why didn’t you show him the door? You can handle yourself, in a pinch. One against one, I’d back you every time.”

   “You haven’t seen this geezer. He could blow you and me away as soon as look at us. Talks with a kind of phoney Aussie twang, you know goes in for all this g’day cobber Paul Hogan bollocks. Anyway, have a sniff. See what you can come up with.”

   “Okay.” Whitmore got out his notebook out. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

   "Do so. What interests me is the sequence of events. I have a set to with Deborah on the motorway and then this Bowman character turns up."

   “You mean you think she twigged him on to you?”

   “Funny sort of coincidence otherwise, wouldn’t you say? Which leads me to another thought. You never know, he just might turn out to be our dark-skinned gent in the woodpile.”

   “The lady’s lover, you mean?”

   “Got a chance. She’s not as pure and above it all as she’d like to make out. I could see her going for a bit of rough trade. Yeah, check him out, Ray. Meanwhile I get to pay her a visit, all rubber-stamped and above board – what’s a matter with you?”

   Whitmore was trying to hold down a snigger. “I was just wondering if you might not fancy getting your leg over. I mean, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”

   Massey grinned a twisted grin. “More rough trade for her, you mean? Be like having it away with a lady tarantula.” He stared off into space. “I’m nowhere near as sure about her as I was, but something’s not kosher. She’s beautiful, cool, smart. It’s all there. Yet it’s like an old record with a crack in it. Something keeps going click – click – click…”

seven

Veronica had reached the foot of the stairs when the phone froze her to a halt, the hollow peal calling her to return and answer. Blood pounded at her temples. A tremor worked its way up through her arms and into her neck and shoulders. She swallowed painfully and made a gasping breath.

   Then she was hurrying on.

   She went in haste, head and eyes lowered.

   She wouldn’t answer. She wouldn’t listen to him.

   She had left a short note for Deborah. It wasn’t working, the note said. The house was getting on her nerves and she needed to get back to London, which was near enough true. Outside a taxi waited. She signalled to the driver and he came in and collected the case from the hall. There was no sign of Grant. She took one last glance around. Then she climbed into the cab. She told the driver to take her to the Savoy and they drove away. She held her gaze to front as they passed between the iron gates, the ringing telephone still reverberating in her ears.

She was so tired, so far adrift when the driver turned into the hotel courtyard, she was scarcely aware they had arrived. She went through the mechanics of paying and tipping him. A hazy figure in uniform saluted and there was a vague notion of passing through the lobby with eyes following her. Next she was lying crashed out in her suite, the blinds closed.

Muted traffic from the Strand buzzed around her. She stirred, murmuring, dozed for a while, then pinched at her eyes and checked the time, astonished to discover she had been asleep for more than two hours.

   She lay there a while longer in the darkened room, letting the rhythms of her body settle, trying to piece together a dream, vaguely recalling a high ceiling with strange coloured markings. It was a disturbing dream and a nagging headache had fastened over her left eye. She tried to forget it. Most dreams were disturbing in one way or another she told herself and swung her legs over the side of the bed. A moment later she had toppled giddily back to the counterpane. She lay there for a spell breathing deeply through her mouth. Gradually the dizziness left her, and she sat up. The headache was still there but had faded to a dull throb. She thought for a minute then smiled and dug Massey’s card from out of her purse and reached for the telephone. His call came through later, after he had picked up her message.

 “So how did it go?” she said. She had taken a second bath and was on better form now.

   “Seems Deborah had a change of heart,” Massey said. “She wants me to carry on in my own sweet way and not pull any punches.”

   “Well, well.”

   “Yeah, I was surprised, too. Could be I got her wrong.”

   “Who knows? Want to tell me about it? How does tonight sound? I’m back at the Savoy now.”

   “So I see.”

   “The house was too much of a strain. The air around here suits me a lot better. So why not come up and see me, to steal a line? Say, around eight? We’ll maybe nibble a glass or two, and who knows? I have things to tell. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”

   “Okay,” Massey said. “Eight it is.”

eight

Okay, it was big, just like he said it would be. No complaints on that score. Plenty of dumb shits moved around with dumb looks on their dumb stupid faces, but you had space and time to move around.

   There had been a moment of feared hesitation, the voice in her head coming back to tell her she had been set up. But once inside the cathedral thing, her pulse rate began to settle. You could walk around here without getting jostled all over the place and you was never out of touch with people.

   It galled her all the same. It was her party. She shoulda been the one calling the shots. She had pushed for the meeting, but he hadn’t been slow to grab for the opportunity, and which was kind of worrying. He had been pretty damned persuasive too, spieling out his oily words, making good and sure it was all lined up like he wanted. The little voice told her he was rolling over and just playing dead. Yeah, betting was he had some funny business worked out in that kooky brain of his.

   But what could he try in a place like this?

   As long as she kept herself well in the middle of the crowd she would be safe.

   One thing. She had to watch letting him talk her into going anywhere quiet and private. And not by any stretch up in that tower thing, not matter what he said. She was ready for that one. She wouldn’t let him spin out the talk, either. Just take the dough then kick her heels and to hell with this task thing he said he wanted her for.

  A hundred thou was worth the nervous sweat. An hour from now it would be a done deal and she would be on a golden cloud, which got her to thinking. You could do a lot with a hundred large, sure, but even more with three or four times as much.

   Second thoughts began to creep in as she pictured the kind of life on offer with more of the green stuff coming in nice and regular. Yeah. When you stopped and thought it through, a hundred thou didn’t look so very much. She planned to live big. It wouldn’t last that long. Why let him get away so easy? The sum was small change to him and the well was deep. Provided she played it cool and didn’t fall for his scary act, she would be set for life. She wouldn’t let on what she was thinking, no way. She would spring her smart trick out the box later. No call to make a hard play. For now, let him think he was in the driving seat. Sure, let the crazy bug fool his smug self.

   She wandered around looking at statues and things, feeling a nice warm glow of future anticipation. Even the pain in her side didn’t feel half so bad now.

   Getting into the spirit of things, she dipped a finger in the holy water and knelt down the way she had seen it done in the movies and crossed herself. She always wanted to do that, surprised to find it gave her a kind of thrill. It felt dramatic, sensuous. After ten minutes she began to feel at home in her surroundings. Maybe this religious shit had something going for it after all.

   But where the fuck was he?

   She went on around the basilica, or whatever they called it, to the big main altar place and looked around there for a while. She checked her watch for what seemed the hundredth time. She was beginning to doubt if he was gonna show. Okay, nice to pretend. It was peaceful, and all that. But business is business. She sniffed, getting a whiff of a strong disinfectant or something. Like the stuff they use in public washrooms. She sensed more than felt a movement behind her.

   And in that terrifying way of premonition, when realisation kicks in that split second too late, blood rushed like a molten storm into her brain telling her she had made the one fatal mistake she should never have made, that all her big plans had turned to dust, and she was about to die.

nine

When she lifted the phone she had already seen off a bottle of Lanson and was well into the second. She liked champagne, the good stuff, liked the fast hard elevator ride, the heady swimming lightness. She had acquired the taste, not in Paris as might be supposed, but Cheltenham after a wild spree with the yoikes, tally-ho set back in the late Nineties. It was an expensive habit she indulged whenever the opportunity presented itself. And if she drank too much on occasion, got loaded, then so what? It was her damned business and nobody else’s.

   She was in good form now, guzzling a healthy swig, preening herself in a tall smoked wall mirror. She had on a silver fox curly wig, four-inch high silver slippers, and a very short, very close-fitting dress of vermilion red, the dress held snagged to her waist by a broad patent leather belt with a huge silver buckle, matching the wig and shoes. She wore black eye shadow and dark, near-black red lipstick. It had taken her a full hour to apply the vamp makeup. She rather liked it. It was a vulgar look, but good. It suited her personality – her personality that night. The red and the black.

   She had forgotten the telephone in her hand and was taking another drink, when his sing-song voice said, “I would expect you to be either blotto by now, Verro, or at least well on the road to ruin.

   Champagne back-spurted, stinging her nose and eyes. The glass dropped from her hand, wine splashing the carpet.

   He giggled as if seeing this, saying then, “So tell me, Verro, have you missed me so terribly terribly? Silly question. Do dogs not miss their lampposts? Of course you have missed me, as I have missed you. But never fear. We shall be as one again, very soon.”

   She gasped like a stranded mackerel. Fingers fluttered, scratching and tapping at her teeth and gums. Her distorted  image reflected back at her in the smoked glass. Ghastly and aged.

   “No,” she said.

   “Sorry, what was that? Could my ears have deceived me? Was that a ‘no’ I heard? How it pains me to hear you speak so absolutely. I see now my error. I was neglectful in the extreme, I took you for granted. There, I admit it. My humble pie bit.”

   “Whoever you are, please leave me alone.”

   “Leave? Why I could never contemplate such a thing. It is simply not a point for consideration. What I can do is try to make amends.”

   The room had begun to tilt.

   “Don’t do this to me.”

   “Oh, dear. I blame myself for this. But alas, the moving finger having writ cannot be recalled.”

   “But...But...?”

   “Yes? What is it that troubles you?”

   “You...You are dead!”

   She heard his sniggering schoolboy laugh in response. “No, Verro, not I, but at least we progress. There would now appear to be a token acceptance of my existence. Had you not become so emotional when we last spoke I would have gladly set the record straight. So please listen and I will do my best to enlighten you. It is true I am supposed to be dead. All conventional wisdom holds to that grim proposition. And to be sure, there is a corpse, presumably residing in formaldehyde with a name tag attached to the big toe bearing some resemblance to my form. Happily it is not my corpse. As you now bear witness, I steadfastly occupy the land of the living.”

   She groped blindly. “How...how...?”

   “How did I pull it off?” He chuckled. “That would be telling. As you well know, we of the magic brotherhood are sworn to secrecy. From time to time, it is true, we may allow the untutored a glimpse of our more pedestrian work. Our very best illusions, however, we keep jealously guarded. I will simply say the trick required as nice a piece of legerdemain as you are ever likely to see. The touch is still there, eh? And to pre-empt your next question, I gave you at best twenty-four hours with darling Deborah before you skittered hotfoot back to your Savoy bolt-hole. You might as well face it, Verro, I know all there is to know about you. We have a bond. Sealed in blood, one might say.”

   “No.”

   “You are being worryingly monosyllabic tonight, Verro. Tut, tut, the very best in education that bad money can buy, and all you do is grunt and gasp like some wretched fish peddler. Do please try a little harder, dear. It isn’t every day one has the chance to welcome back a loved one from the grave.”

   Pain seared through her head, her brain squeezed as if by a giant vice.

   He said, “Verro? Are you still with us? You haven’t deserted me, I trust?”

   “What is it you want?” she managed to croak.

   “Excellent, a response.  I want, Verro, what is mine, nothing more nor less. Actually I am somewhat peeved. Certain individuals have not been playing straight and a swift remedy is required. To that end, we must unite. Yes, we must set a strategy, a course of action without delay.”

   “Stop it! How do I know you are who you say you are?”

   “Don’t be ridiculous! You know it because you know it. It is as fundamental as human frailty. But if a vestige of doubt lurks in the denizens of your wine-soaked brain, it will easily be disposed of when we meet.”

   “I don’t want to see you!”

   “ – Now tomorrow afternoon of course you are required to attend this preliminary will reading knock-about that you and Deborah have seen fit to rush through – what a mercenary pair of articles you are. I would anticipate the proceedings taking until around three-thirty, possibly a little longer to allow for the ritual swilling of a glass or icky-sweet sherry. Why it is thought necessary to go through such a puerile rigmarole is beyond me. But there it is. Proprieties have to be observed I suppose – are you at all concerned to know how much you are in for? Go on, you must be. You would be less than human if you did not. Well, Verro, whilst it wouldn’t be fair to let the cat all the way out of the bag, you will find – hint, hint – that you have not come out half badly. Just wait and see. So, allowing time for you and Deborah to bristle your tails at one another, I suggest you then make your way to our famous hidden theatre of sin. You know the establishment which has served as a launch pad for so many of your masterpieces. There is a good feature running, so I am informed. It boasts an exciting new, young star. Do try not to be late. I will be in my favourite seat. If you are good I may well buy you a tuti-fruiti ice cream. It will require the postponement of the little trip you had planned, but the compensations will be well worth it.”

   She swayed giddily. How could he have found this out? She had booked a flight to Amsterdam and intended leaving as soon as the will reading was out of the way.

   “Oh, yes, Verro,” he said. “I know all about your – what shall we call it? – your flawed ambition. Dear me, what is there to say? When our business has been concluded, by all means go if your heart yearns so starkly. I do fear, however, that you are heading for a bitter disappointment.”

   “Don’t say these things to me.”

   “We must face facts, Verro. You were a tad shop soiled for your last two, possibly three vehicles. What is the expression? past your sell-by date? An overworked cliché to be sure, but I do so like the aptness of its imagery. I shrank from pointing this out to you at the time, but it was as glaringly obvious as graffiti chalked on a lavatory wall that things were fast heading in a southerly direction.”

   “Don’t, please...”

   “I speak only the truth. To each there is a season, and your season happens to have passed. End of story.”

   “No...no...” she said, weeping.

   “Oh, very well then, I am wrong. Your return will be heralded a triumph. You will sweep all before you. There, does that help soothe your pathetic ego? Do you now feel inspired to go running back to your prostituted flea market?”

   “You are cruel. Like Creighton. He was cruel.”

   “Nature is herself cruel, Verro, and the cruellest act is to play the false prophet. Remember, there will always be those oozing their greasy charm, whispering the lie that you have it all before you. Beware of such flatteries, Verro, for they mask the snarl of deceit. You are being used, do you not see? The family still has a name, of sorts and I would suppose the sensation of my death has added a certain geegaw flavour to the proceedings. I am afraid your return threatens to be no more than a pyrotechnic flash. As surely as night follows day the rocket will fall damp and spent as quickly as it is thrust skyward.”

   “It is a chance I have to take.”

   “There is no chance. You are deceiving yourself. I saved you last time, but you won’t learn.”

   “You cut off my source of funding.”

   “In my harsh way I was trying to be kind. Open your eyes Verro. You lacked the talent to carry your career beyond the dross that was you meteor.”

   "I did have talent! You never saw!"

   "When will you ever face reality? You had a style of looks, a certain brash sexuality, and for a time we were able to cash in accordingly. Once it became apparent time’s wicked hand had you in her lethal grip, the ride was over. You struck a chord with a baser segment of our fair society, and while it lasted we both had some fun. To hold it to be anything more is pure delusion."

   “I hate you.”

   “Yes, yes, you hate me. I am becoming bored by this footling self-pity – and do stop blubbing. I have far more important matters to consider than your shallow vanity. Get focused on the main issue. We are to meet. You understand this? And where we are to meet?”

   “Why should I do as you say?”

   "How else can you assuage your doubts? You see? Good. There we are. Not so difficult, was it? Cheer up. We are set to have some fun. It will be like old times again.”

   “Please, God, no!”

   “The die is cast – and since when did you ever believe in God? - Oh, when we have done switch on the goggle-box and you will see something of interest."

   "What do you mean?"

   He chuckled. "How can I put it? One overdue account has been scratched from the books. Yes, quite a satisfactory conclusion I thought. Sweet dreams now.”

   Gone.

   Her arm dropped in a dead weight. The telephone slid from her hand, twisting in a spiralled whirl with the coiled flex. As if all energy had drained from her, she buckled and sank to the carpet, keeling limply against a couch. Dead eyes stared through the hotel window at the blurred city lights, the telephone dangling, brushing against her.

ten

A dentist’s drill grated.

   She stirred and blinked her eyes. It took a minute, and then she realised some fool had his thumb held down on the door buzzer. He stopped and peace settled. She began to sink away, and then the buzzer started up again, sounding more petulantly determined this time. Cursing, she got the dangling telephone at the second attempt. Propping a hand to the arm of the sofa, she set it in place and wobbled upright. The headache was back, the locus of dull pain throbbing over her left eye. A dizzy spell tottered her around for a moment, and then regaining a measure of balance, she went in a staggered zigzag across the room. She reached the door and pressed her face to panel.

   “Who – who is it?” she said.

   “Massey.”

   She remembered then. She put a hand to her head, pushing the silver wig out of place. She had forgotten she had been wearing the damned thing. “Hold on,” she called out and made a lurching turn and went stumbling into the bathroom.

   Her head swam. She peered mole-like into the expansive mirror set above the wash basin. A puffed, haggard face stared back at her, the mouth grim, dragging at the corners. Tears had dried on her cheeks and the mascara she had taken such care to apply had run in tramlines.

   She did the best she could. She rinsed her face with hot then cold water and scraped away the residual make-up with Kleenex. There was no time for a complete re-do, but she daubed on lipstick, worked her mouth and gave herself the once-over. She looked like a made-up skull, she decided, but it would have to do. The dull headache continued to belt away, but at least most of the whoosy drunken feeling had left her. She set the wig straight, smoothed down her dress, and went back and opened the door. Massey stood there propped sideways to the frame with his arms folded.  

                                               *                                                                      

“Come on in, Inspector,” she said. “Step into my parlour. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

   “That’s okay,” Massey said.

   He took a second to look her over. She was as pale as a sheet and she had been drinking, weeping too by the look of it. She gave him a kind of dopey lopsided grin and led the way into the suite. Following behind his foot bounced the upturned champagne glass. He stooped to retrieve it.

   “Clumsy,” she tittered, coming back, taking the glass from him. “I was having myself a little snort waiting for you. I was all a-flutter with anticipation.” She swayed unsteadily. “And right now I need another. Champagne, do you go for it?”

   Massey shrugged. “When I can get it.”

   “Top of the range stuff, I promise. No cheap fizz-water here.” She made it to where a silver ice bucket and glasses had been set out and reached out the started bottle. She held it up to the light. “Nearly all gone,” she said, squinting through the thick green glass. “Like life, slipping away. The end comes all too fast." She lowered the bottle. "But why be morbid? We have more in reserve and the night is young.”

   She filled two glasses, the bottle going plonk down. “Whoops,” she said, and wobbled across to where Massey stood. Champagne spilled en route and he moved fast to grab his glass before it was all lost. She steadied her balance and sent him a predatory look.

   “Well, here’s to...here’s to what? – Crime? That’s what they say in the movies, the old movies. Here’s to crime, they always say, but never in real life. It only gets to be said in the old black and white movies you get to see late at night. Anyway, that corny old stuff doesn’t fit the occasion. Or does it? You tell me, Inspector.” She screwed up her eyes. “In-spec-tor. Do I have to keep calling you that? Now what does it say on that card you gave me...? Detective Inspector S H Massey, am I right?”

   “Spot on,” Massey said.

   “Good. So what’s the SH stand for? Let’s see, the S could be Simon or Samuel? - Sidney even? How about that, Sidney Horatio? No, I don’t like it.  Too old-fashioned, reminds me of gas lights and Jack the Ripper.”

   Massey smiled. “You got it right first time, near enough. Samuel Harry – Sam, to my friends.”

   “Sam? Hey, that’s not bad. It suits you. So I’ll be your pal. I’ll call you Sam too, okay?”

   “If you like.”

   She set down her glass and moved closer. “You are very attractive, Sam," she said. "Did you know that? Sure you do. All attractive men know it, damn them. You’re married, I’ll bet. Got little wifey waiting back at the ranch.”

   Massey turned his head slowly left to right. “No little wifey,” he said. "Not anymore."

   "You mean she took off, left you crying in your beer?"

   "About it."

   "Well, join the club. I’m a veteran of many campaigns, though married but once. Want to hear about it?"

   "Why not?"

   "Yeah, why not? It’s a sad tale, Sam my friend. My single sojourn into matrimony lasted all of three not-so-glorious months. I met him in Cannes, on the French Riviera. Marcus Anton Demesthenes Christophordis, would you believe, though he liked to call himself Marcus Christo. A superior name for a superior shit. He wooed me on his yacht, which turned out not to be his yacht. He was only caretakering it for a super-rich pal of his. Was I the sucker. He couldn’t get it up, either. I ended up paying him off. Or I should say Creighton did."

   "That’s too bad."

   "Isn’t it just? But no cause to get hung about it. He was merely one in a long, long line. If you want to know, I’m a gal with a past, Sam. So watch out."

   She smiled a cat smile and guided his glass to her lips. She took a gulp. And cheeks bulged, her free arm snaked around his neck and she pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him, made him kiss her back. Her lips parted, parted his, and she spewed the contents of her mouth to his. Massey had to swallow, champagne mixing with her saliva. It was both disgusting and erotic. She laughed wickedly, pushing away.

   "Little trick I learned. Like it? Call it a down payment if you want.” She came back and stroked a hand at the lapel of his jacket. “I like you, Sam. That’s the way I am. I either like a body or I don’t. And you are okay. Yeah, you are one guy I could really go for.”

   “Well, that’s good,” he said, his pulse slowing.

   “You bet it is." She made a disappointing mouth and shook her head. "But I got to tell you. Deborah’s not here.”

   “No?”

   “Not unless she’s hiding under the bed. She’s the one you are chasing down, right? Prissy little blonde Deborah, with her powdered prissy little pink rosebud. I saw the way you looked at her. That tough detective routine was just a front. You want to get inside her pants, and don’t tell me otherwise. Well it’s just too bad. ‘Cos tonight, baby, you got to settle for me. None of that iceberg stuff Deborah hands out. You know, seven eighths below the surface, making you wonder what’s down there. With me you get all eight eighths. The works. And if you don’t like it then it’s your tough luck. I live my life to the full. Which is what life is for. Right, Sammy? For living.”  

   Massey let her ramble on. He had seen it before. She was on a high that was just a little too high, and the bubble was about to burst with a loud pop. As if in confirmation, the gaiety bled away and a worried, almost desperate look settled over her features.

   “You find me attractive, don’t you, Sam?” she asked. “Please say you find me attractive.”

   “Any man would," he said.

   “You mean that?”

   The smeared lipstick made her look like a little girl who had raided her big sister’s cosmetics drawer. He touched at her pale face. “I mean it,” he said.

   She sighed softening into him. He felt the tensions leaving her. Felt at the same time the stir of his own arousal. Her breasts were firm against him, and it had been a while now.

   Solving the matter for the moment, she gave him a swift pecking kiss and pushed away She picked up the near empty bottle, draining it, getting a half glass measure. “Looks like we’ll need to open another bottle,” she said. “You any good with these things?”

   Massey pulled out a fresh bottle from the ice bucket and began the opening process, peeling away the gold foil at the neck.

   She pouted. “What, no standard lecture about drinking too much? ‘Don’t you think you have had enough, old gel’, sort of crap?”

   “I stopped giving out bullshit advice like that a long time ago.”

   “You would leave me lying in the gutter. Walk on by. You are one mean sonofabitch, you know that?”

   “What I would do is pick you up, get you back on your feet. I’ve been there, don’t worry.”

   “I guess you have at that. And you would try and get me straight.” She shook her drunken head. “I get the feeling I should have met you a long, long way back.”

   “Well here I am now.”

   "Hey, that’s right. And there’s no time like the present."

   "So they say."

   "So this being the present there’s no time like, where do we start?"

   He twisted away the wire and began the task of working the cork free, releasing it finally with a dull plop. He topped her glass. “Tell me about Deborah.”

   Veronica shuttered one eye. “You mean like what colour panties she wears?” She grimaced. “There I go again, me and my dirty mouth. But I was right all along. Deborah’s the one you are interested in.”

   “Only professionally.”

   “Oh, right, a professional interest. You should have said. You know this is really something. There she is saying in one breath you do as much for her as one of those creepy crawlies you find under a rock. Next she’s pulling out all the stops to keep you close by. It sure is one screwball thing the pair of you have going.”

   “Like I said - ”

   “I know. It is just professional. So let’s be professional. You came here to find out things. After there might be a little ray of sunshine waiting, know what I mean? Let’s hope so, Sammy, right? But first the deal is I got to talk. So let’s talk. You want to know about Deborah? She’s a phoney, that’s what.”

   “How do you mean?”

   Veronica pointed a red finger. “What I say. Last night we went out on the town with her smooth lawyer, know who I mean? The guy you mixed it up with today.”

   “You were with Norman Pargeter?”

   “The very same. Two against one. Not fair, not cricket, old boy. They thought they had the edge. They thought they could soften me up, discover my weak spot, but they were out a mile. See, I already knew her weak spot. Meow, meow, catty as all hell I am. I have been checking her out, and brother have I learned things.”

   “Go on.”

   “Got the man’s interest. Okay, for a start, that back of the throat accent she hits you with. All put on. If you want to know she hails from Portsmouth, you know the sailor town, and not the posh end, either. I haven’t hit pay dirt, not so far. Mostly it’s stuff like that. Where she came from, what she did to earn a crust before she got into the big time. But an Ivy Leaguer she ain’t. I have a very exclusive private detective agency working on it. Want to see their reports?”  

   “Might be interesting. So when you hit pay dirt, what exactly is it you expect to find?”

   “Number one that she was married before and probably still is. And which means if true that her marriage to my brother was nothing but a piece of illegal chicanery.”

   A tingle started at the base of Massey’s spine. Veronica might be completely off target, motivated entirely by spite, but some of the wool was beginning to unravel. If nothing else, finding Deborah had been putting on a big front about her background could just turn out to be important.

   “What makes you so certain she was married before?” he asked.

   “Oh, Sam Massey, come on. Where have you been? Look at her. What is she, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? You want to tell me there hasn’t been somebody someplace messing with the goods – and stop looking like a cat hanging around a fish stall.”

   “But this is still only a hunch, and I’m not sure how it impacts on your brother’s death, even if you are right.”

   “Okay, mark me down a grade-A bitch. But I knew from day one there was something fishy about her, and don’t tell me you haven’t thought likewise. Her name isn’t Deborah, by the way. It’s Jean – Jean Nolan, if you want to know. You want to make a note of that?”

   “I just did,” Massey said.

   Veronica tapped her forehead. “Smart. The giant brain has pounced. She had a number of jobs before she started hobnobbing with the upper set, accounts clerk, sales assistant, that level of thing. She knew enough to carry her act through. She’s clever and no mistake. I told Creighton what she was after, but he wouldn’t listen.”

   “His money, you mean. You’re convinced of that?”

   “Jesus Christ, Sam, let’s not fence around. Money for sure was her goal. Not that I blame her. Many a poor girl has closed her eyes and opened up her treasures for a slice of the good life. In her place I would have done the same. Only I don’t dig her walking away with the pot. She hasn’t earned it. Not by my reckoning. It takes more than a fleeting marriage to a rich fool to lay claim to sort of wealth she is likely to walk away with.”

   Massey dipped a finger in his glass and sucked it off. “If you feel the way you do, how come you agreed to stay with her?”

   “I’m not all the way sure myself. Put it down to a mixture of nostalgia and curiosity. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake. I got a big scare thrown into me. One I am pretty sure Deborah set me up for. You ever hear tell of a cop by the name of Grant Bowman? – what’s wrong? You know this guy?”

   The tingle was back at the base of Massey’s spine. “I know him,” he said. “You had better tell me what happened.”

   She shook her head. “I don’t want to go into details. He snooped up on me as I was getting dressed. He scared me that’s all I want to say.”

   “Do you want to make a complaint?”

   “I’d rather not.”

   "All right. But for what it’s worth, I’m on Bowman’s tail. I’ve got what you might call a personal interest in his activities. I might need to talk to you again on it."

   “We can talk anytime, Sam. Only I’m not sure I want to get mixed up in some messy vendetta, if that’s where this is headed.”

   Massey wondered how far Bowman had gone, but left it there. He set down his glass and brought out the small silver-framed picture of the two little boys. “Have you ever seen this?” he said.

   She took the picture and looked it over, then looked up at Massey. “Where did you get this? I haven’t seen it in years.”

   “It was among the photos on the piano in your brother’s house. I found it there the night he was murdered. That’s him as a little boy, isn’t it? One of them at any rate. They are twins, aren’t they?”

   She nodded gazing sadly at the little picture. “Creighton and Leicester Dow. As alike as two peas in a pod, so everybody said. Leicester died when he was four. I don’t know any more than that. It all happened before I was born.”

   “What caused his death?”

   “It was never discussed. Daddy’s word was law at Baronmore, which is what he called the house, and the topic was ruled taboo. We used to joke about Baronmore. We liked to think he picked the name because he wanted to be more of a baron. It kind of fell into disuse after he died, all except for the big hall of a room, that’s the Baron’s Hall, in case you didn’t know."

   "It fits."

   "It fits with the kind of man my father was.  You can’t have missed seeing that damned painting of him.”

   “Yeah, it’s what you might call large.”

   “It belongs in a museum for sick egos. He was a louse, Sam, a bully and a tyrant. Many a time we used to pass the idle hour plotting how we would do away with him. The old bastard never knew it, but he died a thousand times.”

   “You disliked him that much?”

   “Dislike?” She laughed a short bitter laugh. “We hated him. Creighton wasn’t even allowed to draw breath in the same inch of space. No son was ever going to top him, and for sure not a pansy like Creighton. His glorious portrait shows him as a tall commanding figure, right? Only that’s a lie. He was no more than average height in the flesh, a good bit shorter than you are. And yet he did seem...I don’t know. Gigantic. He crushed people underfoot, and most especially those he judged to be weaklings. Like poor Creighton. It got so bad he wouldn’t have him eat at the same table.”

   “Grim.”

   “You said it.” She handed back the picture. “I can’t tell you anymore about Leicester, only that he died young. But there was always a gloom around, and could be his death had something to do with it. Maybe it accounted for the way Father behaved. There was something bad inside of him, no question."

   Massey put the picture away and picked up his glass. “So how did you fare with him?”  

   “With dear old pops? Well, looked at one way you could say I got off light being only a daughter. I didn’t escape all the way free, though. Not long after we left California, he caught me smoking with two local youths in a boat-house of this house he had rented. After he had bawled me out and put the fear of bejasus into the two kids, he marched me back inside and made me lift up the skirt so he could inspect my underwear. I was just coming up to sixteen.”

   “You’re kidding.”

   “Oh no, he was lovely man, my father.  He did that and worse. You don’t know the half of it. His aim was to turn me into a society princess, if you can believe that. In his warped view women were either whores or sainted angels, and I was all fitted up for the second category. But my elevation to sainthood only figured as a secondary issue, the first being his knighthood. He wanted to be revered as the self-made colonial like Beaverbrook had been, if you know about him.”

   “A newspaper tycoon, is that right, going back a while?”

   “You got it," she said. "See they were both Canadians, and the old man reckoned anything the Beaver had done – which is what he called him - he could do too. Only he never did get the royal blade tapped on his shoulders. He never got to run a newspaper either, which was another failed ambition of his. All he got was a great big English country house to rattle around in, plus a lot of high blood-pressure frustration to go with it. As for me, I got shipped off to a whole list of snob schools, ending up at a very prim and proper finishing school for well-bred young things in Geneva, and Jesus, what a fish-trap that was.”

   “At least you got to see a bit of world,” Massey said.

   The red finger pointed. “Funny man." She swallowed back champagne. "I loathed every second of it, Sam. All it ever did was make me more determined to go in the opposite direction. I got myself kicked out of that last place in Geneva. After that he gave up on me and probably accounts for my getting a downgrade in his will. "

   "You had it tough, sorry I made a joke of it."

   "But that’s what it is, Sammy. Don’t you see it? A big joke. There’s Deborah with her airs and graces, fresh from the boondocks, and here am I with all the Dow money at back of me, acting like a tramp. With me the style stuck. I made it stick, and especially in the old bastard’s presence. When he was in range, I played it as feisty and vulgar as I could. It used to near enough drive him to apoplexy, and did I get a kick out of turning him over. We both did. When he died, we were glad. Glad? Jesus Christ, we were overjoyed.”

   “So what happened then?”

   “After he kicked off? We went wild, I guess. Mom died when we were young back in the States. I don’t remember much about her, only that she was a chronic arthritic. Knowing the way he operated, he probably bullied her into an early grave. But anyway, there we were. Two little rich waifs lost on life’s highway. Got a cigarette?"

   “Gave them up,” Massey said.

   “Wise man,” Veronica said. “Over there, if you wouldn’t mind.”

   He collected French cigarettes and a book of matches from off a coffee table and lighted her up. “So you went on a binge?”

   She sucked dreamily on her cigarette as though the evocation had taken her back and she was sucking on a joint. "Sure, but orgy would be more accurate. Left to our own devices, we went for it with gusto. You know the stuff about a time for living and a time for dying? Well this was a time for wild, wild living. I lost my virginity, at some madcap party, Creighton too. We were asking for it. We were stoned out of our tiny minds. Held down and given the full treatment.”

   “Was he a homosexual, your brother?” Massey asked.

   She stopped and looked at him. "That was a zinger from leftfield."

   “I have a good reason for asking.”

   “You mean because his dick was chopped off.”

   “Yes, and what you said about him being a pansy. The mutilation would seem to point to some kind of sexual tie-up. Plus we know he had same-sex relations at some time in his life.”

   "So he had been buggered," Veronica said. "No big deal there.” She sighed. "He was never completely straight, if that helps. He spent some time on the gay scene, as do a lot of men who are not especially attractive to the opposite sex. He gave it a whirl, but then so did a lot of us. We mixed with a pretty mixed up set, if you get my meaning.”

   “Could he still have been involved?”

   “Creighton, with the gay scene? Well you couldn’t rule it out, although I tend to doubt it. See, my brother discovered an altogether different way of getting his kicks, one that suited his, ah, special needs.”

   “Go on,” Massey said, and she darted a sly smile at him.

   “This is where it could start to get a little warm. Only there is a price.” The tip of her tongue showed. “And the price is you got to party. No more crafty sipping. I’ve been watching. You want to get me pie-eyed so I’ll open up? Fine. But you gotta be there right along with me, pal. Drink for drink, that’s the tab.” She drained her glass. “Go on, down the hatch.”

   Massey gazed down at the weakly jumping bubbles in his glass. He smiled and sent down the lot in one.

eleven

Veronica was ready to top them up. “That’s the spirit, Sammy. For what it’s worth, Creighton was seeing a shrink. A certain Doctor Naomi Fischer – that’s Fischer spelt the German way, if you want to note it down.”

   This time Massey did, using the back of one of his cards. "So what was his problem?"

   "Where do you want me to start? Naomi Fischer is a big wheel in the shrink business, operates from her home in Islington. When she’s not busy lecturing on the circuit. She’s more an academic than a private guru.”

   “How do you know all this?”

   "A few years back I had what you might call an emotional hiccup, or thought I did, but it seems Naomi is a very choosy type. She only bothers with cases she deems to hold a special interest for her and my little bag of woes didn’t measure up.”

   “But evidently your brother did.”

   “S’right, he qualified for her golden file, so if you want to find out what made him tick, go look her up.”

   Massey thought he would do just that. "Tell me about this certain way your brother got his kicks.”

   She drew on her cigarette and blew out smoke in a thin trail. “I guess you could say he got them by proxy."

   "Proxy?"

   "You know, second-hand. The shrinks have a word for it, transference, something like that. Early on it was through magic. He got into conjuring when he was young, and actually developed into a pretty neat magician. Being Creighton, of course, his tricks went way beyond the usual rabbits out of hats and sawing scantily clad young ladies in half, though he did work that routine on me once. Even got me wearing this little blue satin outfit with tassels. I was left wondering to the last minute if he intended making two of me. Later, he developed more exotic ways of satisfying his needs. Clickety-click, if you know what I mean.”

   “Help me along,” Massey said.

   “Clickety-click, you know. Come on, Sammy, use some lateral thinking. You want me to spell it out? He took dirty pictures so he could get himself off drooling over them. Ask Deborah to show you her portfolio some time.”

   “You’re sure of this?”

   “Oh, yes. I know all about my brother’s little quirks. He got most all of the estate when Father went and then used quite a bundle of that to finance my movie career. And you have to know what my movie career consisted of. We made the kind of movies that only get a showing on the perv circuit. The back street Soho dives. The places you would hit on when you were out looking for pimps and dealers, Sam. The absolute pits.”

   Massey watched as she grabbed for more champagne. He tipped his head at her. “You just might just be doing yourself a big disservice. Some of that stuff is considered art, has quite a cult following, so I’m told.”

   “Did you say art? You want me to wet my knickers?  You are a sweet man, Samuel Massey, and I thank you. But I have few illusions about the crap we peddled. All for Creighton’s salvation. Except that’s a lie. I got my kicks along with him. Which I suppose is why I want to get back into it. If you’ve got time I’ll tell you all about the big offer I’ve had over in Holland.”

   Veronica  finished off her cigarette and searched around for a place to drop the remains. Massey pinched the butt from her fingers and ground it out in the cusp of a big green vinous potted plant. "All right," he said, "I’ve got time."

   She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be worth it. What’s on offer ain’t worth spit, Sammy, bilge porno crap of the lowest rank.  Believe it or not I once had ambition. I even had a notion to get into RADA, which handed Creighton a big laugh. RADA? Forget it. Stick to what I was good at, a turn-on for dirty-minded creeps sitting in the dark with holes in their pants’pocket. When he was on form, he could really turn it on. But bottom line, no talent, is what he said.” She closed an eye and crooked a finger. “Let you in on a secret. He’s still saying it.”

   Massey said, “Still?”

   She came up and pawed at him. “What am I talking about? Jesus, I’m near enough boxed.” She wobbled unsteady and said, “Good old Creighton, my big brother and protector. Laying it on the line, those movies require the actors to go over the top, and then some. You have to be committed. Like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved but the pig is committed. Which is what I was. I was co-mitted. And Creighton, he was co-mitted, too. Committed to watching me getting roughed up, tied up, near enough laid. Sometimes the whole damned stinking fucking works!” Her face seemed to fall away. She lifted the emptied glass she was holding and made to hurl it against the wall.

   “Take it easy,” Massey said, and calmly slipped the glass from her fingers. He set the glass down and took her gently by the shoulders. A sob caught in her throat as she nestled into him.

   “Sure, take it easy. Why not? Screwy thing is I can’t leave it alone. It’s like a drug, a compulsion. I have to try again. If they’ll have me.”

   “Why wouldn’t they? You look good enough to me.”

   “You must have come down from the stars. Too old, Sam,” she said.

   “Don’t be crazy, you’re not old.”

   “But I am, and I know it. In our business young means really young. Below twenty-two is what they look for, and once past the benchmark you are on the slippery slope to nowhere. Even twenty-five is stretching it. Thirty and you are all washed up.” She gazed up at him with red eyes. “Hold me, will you? Just hold me.”

   Massey held her tight, and his mobile phone rang out.

twelve

Her body convulsed in his arms. It was as if an electric current had snatched through her. Stricken eyes switched in panic to fix on the hotel telephone.

   “It’s my mobile,” Massey said, and slid it from his jacket pocket and held it up for her to see. “Just somebody after me.” He checked and saw it was Ray Whitmore. “Can’t this wait, Ray?" he said. "It’s difficult right now.”

   "Forget whatever it is you are doing," Whitmore said, excited. "We picked up a body, a woman with her face pulped, not a stitch on her. Mid-thirties to forty, tawny-skinned. You see where I’m coming from?”

   Massey did, tight-gripping his phone. "Where found?"

   “Right on our own fuckin’ doorstep. Dead about two hours. You’re gonna love this. A young priest fell over her behind a screen in Westminster Cathedral.”

   “What, you mean the big Catholic place up near Victoria?"

   "The very same. Traffic’s at a halt outside, it’s like a madhouse."

   "And she’s naked, you say? ”

   “She’s starkers. Jesus Christ, she’s laid out there back of the altar like she’s sunbathing. You can’t believe it.”

   “Get on to Lionel, Ray. It’s not his patch but he’ll want to be party to this. I’m on my way. Five minutes.”

   He closed off the call. Veronica had drifted across the room and buried her face into the folds of the curtain, clutching at the soft cotton as if her life depended upon it. He went over and drew her to him.

   "What’s wrong, tell me? Have you been getting some bad calls?”

   She came around into his arms. "I am going off my head," she said muffled into his shirt. "I thought for a minute..." She shook her head. "It doesn’t matter."

   "What did you think, Veronica? Who did you think it was?"

   "If I told you, you would know for sure I have gone mad. Maybe I have." Her warm breath damped around his heart. "You are going."

   "I have to," he said.

   “Don’t," she said, gripping him tight. "Please don’t go. Not yet. I need you to stay here and hold me.”

   He felt a nervous terror raking her body. He stroked at her temple, trailing his fingers along her hairline and down past her ear. Her pulse throbbed behind his hand in her neck. He kissed her forehead and she tilted back her head for him to kiss her mouth. Massey complied, delivering a brief, tender kiss. Her lips trembled under his. They seemed to taste of despairing hope.

   She drew back to gaze up at him with wet eyes. And then she sighed and came forward into his arms again. She reached and kissed him, the kiss becoming more passionate, pressing her mouth hard to his. His heart quickened. Her body quivered against his, the impulse of before stirring in his loins. They had both stopped breathing. She gave out an urgent moaning cry, grabbing his hair, gasping and gnawing at him with a savage hunger. Briefly he held back. And then he was wrapping masculine arms around the woman holding him.

   Waves of desire washed over their joined bodies. More waves followed, surging and ebbing. Hot spongy waves, rolling over them.

   Until there were no longer waves.

   Only one giant wave.

   One thrusting enormous releasing tidal wave.

thirteen

A crowd had formed outside the cathedral, citizens roused to ghoulish curiosity, plus the usual media circus. Massey hustled his way through. He flashed his ID, going directly to the main cathedral hall, Veronica’s animal scent still clinging to him. Ray Whitmore was standing with his hands in his pockets talking with a couple of uniformed officers. He saw Massey and pointedly checked his wristwatch.  

   “Sorry, Ray,” Massey said, joining him at the rear of the pews.

   "Long five minutes, that," Whitmore grumbled sideways.

   “Look, don’t give me the arse. I made it as fast as I could, all right?”

   “If you say so.” Whitmore sighed. “Anyway there’s nothing spoiling. It isn’t as if you could have done much.”

   “So what have we got?”

   “Something big. I reckon this could be the Spanish servant we’ve been chasing. Trouble is there’s no way of knowing. She’s been bashed about too much. It makes me want to puke just thinking about it.”

   “Same MO as with Dow then?”

   “Not quite. The face is smashed up, but the beating didn’t kill her. She was strangled. Choked with something thin and strong, like piano wire."

   "You don’t tell me."

   "Yeah, quite an expert job. There’s hardly any blood in evidence, even with the beating.”

   "Blood or skin under her fingernails, anything like that?"

   "Dunno yet. Not likely, I shouldn’t think. By the look of it he took her quick, before she could put up any kind of fight."

   “Did you call Lionel?”

   Whitmore indicated down the wide central aisle. “He beat you to it. He’s up there back of the altar with the rest of the eggheads. Like you said, he couldn’t get over fast enough once he knew the score.”

   “Okay, good.”

   “For you perhaps. Just my luck, I got the call just as Chris and me were leaving to go out. Got the baby sitter settled in and everything. Connor told me to get on to it and make sure you knew. Chris is right pissed off with me.”

   “I can imagine," Massey said, mock serious. "I’ll bet you’re glad now I talked you into that steak and kidney pud.”  Whitmore gave him a sour look. Massey grinned and dug him in the biceps. “Come on, Ray, lighten up. Don’t tell me this hasn’t got the old juices flowing.” He glanced around the big church. “Who’s running the show?”

   “Pete Makenzie, officially, but Connor’s the main man. He’s done all the up-front stuff so far with the cameras. He said to call him as soon as you can. That was about an hour ago."

   “All right, knuckles rapped," Massey said. "I’ll get on to him pronto. Anything else I need to be up to speed with?”

   “Not really. It’s like I said. She was strangled and then battered and stripped, that’s about all anybody knows for the present. But he’s got some cojones, whoever he is. He took her with people praying, priests and nuns and tourists all over the place. There was even a service in progress. Can you believe it? He chokes her, strips her off, every last stitch, and then sets about obliterating her features.”

   "Any sexual interference?"

   "No mutilation, if that’s what you mean. You’ll have to check with Lionel and Co. I wouldn’t think he’d have had time to rape her, even with his brass neck. He took her clothes and stuff with him - ring any bells? Must have brought a bag or a case along for that very purpose."

   "Like he planned it."

   "I’d say so."

   "No sightings of a bag-carrying man I don’t suppose."

   "Not so far."

   Massey worked a hand at his jaw. "He’s got balls, you’re right there. He’d also need the luck of the Irish to pull off a stunt like this."  

   "True," Whitmore said. "But he made sure the odds were stacked in his favour." He nodded down at the alter again. "He got her inside a screened area next to what they call The Lady Chapel. It’s all nice and secluded in there. All nicely made to order as you might say. There’s even a sign posted outside telling you it’s private. Seems the choirboys use it to get into their gear.”

   “A robing area,” Massey said.

   “Is that what they call it? More like a disrobing area, if you ask me. She was lying there for near enough an hour before the body was discovered – as chance would have it by a young curate. Who hasn’t exactly been too well since.”

    “And nobody heard anything?”

   “Not a thing, or if they did they didn’t connect it with a struggle. You just don’t expect to come across extreme acts of violence in a place like this.”

   Massey nodded. “What about Vic?"

   “Still over in Maidenhead, so far as I know. Brian’s playing it cagey, hinting at a copycat killing. He won’t come right out and admit to a link with the Dow murder, which might hold Vic off for now.”

   “Let’s hope you’re right. We’ve already got more chiefs than Indians. Come on let’s have a word with Lionel.”

fourteen

They made the long walk via the nave and basilica to the rear of the church. Herded back beyond the taped cordon, nuns and priests huddled in mutual comfort, horror and disbelief written across their shocked faces.

   The Lady Chapel was adjacent to the towering organ and majestic central alter, and the critical area was thick on the ground with white-suited police and forensic personnel.   Lionel was going head to head with a heavy-set bearded man, a telltale green plastic sheet tented behind them. He scowled seeing Massey. He muttered a few concluding words to his colleague and came over.

   “So you got away with it,” he said.

   No time for a smart comeback. “I owe you an apology, Lionel,” Massey said. “I was out of order.”

   Lionel grunted. “Contrition doesn’t become you. You can buy me a drink sometime to square it.”

   Massey smiled the wisp of a smile. In his crabby way Lionel was telling him he was forgiven, that he understood.

   “All right for some, isn’t it? Champagne, if I’m not mistaken,” Lionel said, taking a sniff

   "Following an inquiry.”

   “Is that what it was? Nice expensive perfume the lady was wearing. Yes, it’s all there, the glittering eye, the slightly flushed, guilty look. I’m obviously in the wrong job. I only hope you are compos mentis. You are going to need a strong stomach for this little package.”

   “I can handle it.”

   “I’ve heard that one before.”

   “All right, Lionel, save all that. I got Ray to give you a call because I took it as read you would want to get involved. So there’s just one question: Is this Carmen, the Spanish woman we’ve been trying to find?”

   Lionel narrowed shrewd eyes. “That’s what we would all like to know. She’s spot on in terms of age and size and colouring. The hair has been bleached out, recently I should think, but the roots are quite evidently much darker.”

   “It fits then,” Massey said.

   “Don’t rush your fences. It fits up to a point. She was stripped, the face rendered formless. But if you are comparing the two murders there are some striking differences."

   "You mean because she was strangled."

   "Yes, but it isn’t only that. There isn’t the same rage in evidence. This is actually a very systematic killing. Quite a cold-blooded act, in fact."

   "But then it was with Dow, if you remember. Or so you reckoned."

   Lionel nodded. "I would agree to some extent. What we have here still has a different feel to it. According to the indentations he used a small hammer, something of the sort favoured by precision craftsmen. A little weapon easy enough to conceal in a pocket or bag but potent enough for the purpose in hand."

   “To hide her identity?”

   “It looks very much that way. Short of cutting off her head and hands, he went as far as possibly to nullify any individuality, even going so far as to smash her teeth, one assumes to queer any dental identification."

   "Christ,” Massey said, “he really wanted to wipe her off the slate."

   "He most certainly did. There were no personal artefacts left on the corpse at all, no rings on her fingers or anything like that. Let me show you something.”

   Lionel led Massey to the green tent. He poked inside, drawing back a flap to reveal one side of a woman’s head. “See this? Her earlobe? See how it’s been ripped?”

   Massey did. Below the ear a thin guttered red track bit deep into the mottled yellow throat. Lionel let the flap fall and came upright.

   “He was so intent on removing every identifying feature he even tore off her earrings.”

   “Isn’t there anything to give us a line?"

   “Not as it stands. DNA will solve it in the end, I’ve no doubt. Right now the only identifying feature is a small purple flower tattooed on her left shoulder. Obviously he couldn’t remove a tattoo, but I should think there are thousands of tattoos of that description floating around. For my money it almost for sure is the Spanish woman, but for now we are stumped.”

   Massey tapped at his teeth. "There is Deborah Dow.”

   "Quite so,” Lionel said. “The thought hadn’t escaped me. So do you want to fetch her down here and give her another bad turn?"

   “I was thinking more along the lines of describing the tattoo to her. There’s a fair chance she would remember seeing it.”

   “Yes, might be worth a try. I take it you no longer regard her as a suspect? Or do you have it in mind she dressed herself up as a nun to carry out a second murder?”

   Massey replied with a sour grin. He said, “He wants to stop us knowing who she is, but why?”

   “Buying time, perhaps,” Lionel said.

   “You know, Doctor, you could just be right. Only time for what?”

   "Happily the problem falls in your department, old cock."

   “Yeah, my department. It’s her, Lionel. Be good to have it confirmed, though. How soon before you can deliver on a DNA match?"

   Lionel pulled down his mouth. "A day, maybe two, I would assess.” He pondered for a second. “It would cause more disruption for the lady of the house, and they are never particularly good taken from a corpse, but if you want a fast ID fingerprints probably offer the best option."

   "Might be worth a go,” Massey said. “Like you say, could be awkward. We’ll see. Anyway, thanks for the support, Lionel. And thanks, you know, for..."

   "Letting bygones be bygones? There’s a drink on it don’t forget, and it will cost you a double. Make sure you duck when you talk to Deborah."

   "No worries there. I’m not the pariah I was twenty-four hours ago." Massey held up two entwined fingers. "We are like that now, working as a team.”

   Lionel peered at Massey from above his glasses, head shaking. "How do you manage it?"

fifteen

“I’ve put Vic on hold for the time being, but you are going to have to keep him up to speed with developments. He’s no fool he can make out a connection as well as anybody."

   “I’ll go and see him tomorrow, after I’ve had my talk with Deborah.”

   “Mm I wonder if I ought to come with you."

    "I dunno, Brian. I’d be glad to have you along, of course. Only...”

   "I’d get under your feet, I know. All right, do it your way, but just make sure you tread carefully. Anything else I need to know?"

   “One or two things, but nothing concrete.”

   “Tell me anyway.”

   "Well, I called on Dow’s sister, Veronica, and I got the feeling something’s badly out of line there. She’s frightened out of her wits, I know she is."

   "Couldn’t it be a case of nerves? She’s an emotional character, an actress, highly strung in all probability. Wouldn’t that explain it?"

   "I don’t think so, not all the way. The poor little bugger is a complete mess right now."

   Connor huffed a laugh down the phone. "You really are a puzzle. One woman you kick in the guts without so much as a by your leave, and another brings out all this tender heart in you." He paused. “You haven’t stepped over the line with her I hope? – on second thoughts, I don’t want to know. Any idea what might be bugging her?”

   “So far as I can make out she’s been getting some heavy phone calls.”

   “What, menacing calls, you mean?”

   “I think so.”

   Connor paused again. “I don’t know what to say. It seems the least of our worries right now. So what else? You mentioned one or two things.”

   Massey decided to keep Grant Bowman under wraps for the time being. “Nothing worth the candle, Commander,” he said.”

   "All right, keep me posted. Don’t ask me why, but I think Deborah might have a soft spot for you. Just don’t go and upset the apple cart, all right?”

   Massey found Ray Whitmore and they walked out through a side door of the cathedral into the warm night air.

   “We need to cop this bastard, Ray, and quick."

   “Any thoughts?”

   “None that makes any sense”

   “One thing,” Whitmore said. “I checked out your big Aussie.”

   “Good. What about him?”

   “He’s bad news all round. Worked for the Met a few years back. They more or less had to show him the door. Don’t give a toss for anybody or anything, and especially women. Got a reputation for being a bit of a sadist where the girls are concerned. There was some nasty business with a WPC, and before that there had been one or two very dodgy incidents. He could have ended up in deep shit over the WPC thing, but she was married and wanted it kept hush-hush. Other arrangements were made, you might say, which is why he ended up in Maidenhead. Though God knows why they took him on.”

   They halted under a lighted arch. “I got a feeling about Bowman," Massey said. "Take it on, Ray. See if he didn’t get called out to the Dow place sometime in the recent past. See where I’m headed?”

   “Yeah, and you just might be on the right track. Seems she especially asked for him to be on call at the house, for protection according to her.”

   “She asked for Bowman specifically, did she? Well, well.”

   Whitmore leafed pages in his notebook. “The Paul Hogan stuff is legit, near enough. Could be he puts it on a bit, but he is an Australian. Or at least grew up there. His folks took him out when he was eight. They were from Swindon originally. They split up over in Oz and his old man brought him up, an ex-army sergeant, if you get the message. He came back to the UK about seven years ago.”

   “What rank is he?”

   “DC. He’s bright enough by all accounts but can’t get promotion despite several tries. Never been married and no close mates to speak of. And get this. He lives all on his tod in a caravan trailer on the outskirts of Taplow, which just so happens to be about a mile and a half from the Dow place. I’ve got his address if you fancy paying him a return visit.”

   “Think I might just do that.”

   “Watch your step, Mass. I got bad vibes about this bloke.”

   “You and me both. Okay, we’ll see how it plays.” Massey checked his watch. “Too late now to call Chris and pick up where you left off, I suppose?”

   “Looks like it," Whitmore said gloomily. "Baked beans again, plus all the aggro.”

   “So why not chance it tomorrow night?”

   “Think I should?”

   “Sure, go for it. The way things are it might not happen, but if the intention’s there...See what I mean?" Massey grinned. "You might find Chris is ever so grateful.”      

                                        tuesday

one

Sunlight washed in behind Deborah through the tall Georgian window. Dressed appropriately in tasteful black, a glass of brown sherry held steadily at chest height, she stood all alone at one far end of the oak-panelled room, her tight gaze penetrating above the long polished table, strewn with portfolios, fixing on Veronica.

   She smiled bitterly.

   What a fool she had been. Norman’s clever ruse hadn’t turned out to be so clever after all and the lion’s share of the Dow wealth was set to be squandered by this sex-mad travesty. The thought was insufferable. She watched seething as the slut flaunted herself in a vulgar low-cut white dress, teasing the idiots drooling over her: John Clayton, seventy-plus and egg-bellied, who had supervised the proceedings, and Maurice Jenner, a scruffy specimen with untidy clothes and swarthy blue jaws, picking up easy money acting as her solicitor.

   An hour ago it had been a different story. Arriving pale and tense, clearly hung over, wearing those ridiculous black mirror sunglasses, she had been like some recovering invalid. Now, the result in, she was going hard at the sherry, throwing back her head, laughing her common throaty laugh. An emotion close to hate stirred behind Deborah’s eyes. She shifted her gaze to the dejected figure of Norman Pargeter, hanging propped to the wall like a dead fly glued to flypaper. Forced to meet her hard blue stare, he trudged the length of the room to join her.

   “Remember, this is only a preliminary reading,” he muttered. “We can still contest.”

   “Can we?”

   “Of course, of course we can. If you so wish.”

   “I see. And what do you advise Norman?”

   "Caution in the first instance. On reflection, I fear we may have been over-ambitious. Yes, I see that now."

   "Do you?"

   "The result as presented would appear to be in line with the norms of realistic expectations.”

   "Where did you get that from, some idiot’s guide for dealing with outraged clients? Is this what I pay so lavishly for, to be fobbed off with a few weasel platitudes? I feel let down, Norman. You should never have allowed me to be rushed into things like this."

   “I only followed your instructions,” he said helplessly. "Even had we gone through due processes I fear we could not have expected anything better."

   She glared at him with cold contempt. Then her eyes misted fixing in mid-space. “Losing the impressionist paintings hurt the most.”

   His head jerked, nodding. “Yes, yes, I fully understand your disappointment. Nevertheless, you have some very worthy gains to consider. You have scarcely come out a pauper. You are now a young woman of considerable wealth. You have the house, plus a goodly percentage of the holdings. It could be argued that you have come away with the majority share-out.”

   “So I am not to complain, I see.”

   “I am only urging you to hold back from doing anything rash. There is nothing to be gained in venting your emotions. Smile if you can. In due course, we will make an assessment of the situation.”

   A nerve jumped below his left eye and he stabbed a finger into his cheek to arrest it. Deborah coldly measured him. “What is wrong with you?”

   He forced a weak grin. “Why, nothing.”

   “Yes there is. You are a bag of nerves.”

   “Clearly, I am somewhat upset by the outcome. I assure you I am perfectly fine.”

   “You look anything but perfectly fine. You look like a dead fish.” Her gaze shifted and she arranged her shoulders as if in preparation for a stiff interview. “But right now I have another matter to attend to, the joyous task of congratulating the winner.”

   Pargeter delayed her with a cautionary hand. “Choose your words with care, Deborah,” he said.

   She brushed him aside and walked head erect toward the group, the glass of sherry held with a steady hand. Veronica saw her approaching and they came face to face. There was a brief moment of appraised silence, and then Deborah spoke the acid words as she had to:

   “So you win.”

   “It was better than I had allowed," Veronica said. "I might have shaded it. Depends on your take. Seems to me you haven’t done so badly.”

   A muscle clenched in Deborah’s jaw. “Perhaps not.”

   “You didn’t want to lose those paintings.”

   “No, I confess they are very dear to me. I had quite some involvement in their purchase.”

   “Well, you can’t win ‘em all.”

   Be calm, be calm.

   “I had hoped to avoid this. I was shocked to find your note when I returned home yesterday. I tried to call you. Had you stayed I am sure we could have settled matters amicably.”

   “You phoned me?” Veronica asked, her eyes masked by the black glasses.

   “Yes, at around mid-day.”

   “It was too late by then.”  

   “Why should it have been?”

   “Let’s just say I take exception to being pawed around by your strong-arm boy. You know the character I mean, calls himself Grant?”

   "Grant! He was there?”

   Veronica smiled. “Are you telling you didn’t know? Claims he’s a cop.”

   “Why yes, he is one of the officers appointed to keep watch at the house. I obviously forgot to inform you.”

   “Obviously.”

   “I am sorry if he surprised you.”

   “That’s one way of putting it. He came within an inch of raping me.”

   Deborah saw what had happened. The fool had overstepped the mark in his usual uncouth way. She gave a dismissive little laugh. “Surely you exaggerate.”

   “In a pig’s eye. You hate me that much?”

   “I – I don’t hate you. I will speak to him, take it up with his superiors if needs be.”

   “Forget it. Let’s get down to the gristle. I got the paintings, you got the house. Want to barter?”

   Deborah hesitated. “I am not sure,” she said. “The house was Creighton’s. It is only right, as his widow that I should be the one to benefit.”

   “If you want to be accurate, it was my family home from the time I was sixteen. Okay, the house passed to Creighton when Father died, but I never did buy into him getting sole rights.”

   “He was the legal heir.”

   “We are getting mighty sniffy about it all of a sudden, aren’t we? What happened to all this sharing out we were supposed to do? Even Steven, remember? Seems like the wind has shifted. You want the pictures but you don’t want to trade. Fine. We stand pat. You keep the house I’ll hang on to the art.”

   “You are forcing my hand,” Deborah choked out. “You know how much those paintings mean to me. But I won’t part with the house, not at any cost.”

   Veronica shrugged. “Then be satisfied.”

   “I will fight you.”

   “You would be stepping out of your class. Take some advice and count your winnings. You come out in pretty good shape as I see it. Play it cool and there ought to be enough in the pot to keep you in the top society bracket for the rest of your natural. Not bad going for a gal working her ass off in an accounts office less than two years ago.”

   Deborah felt blood drain from her face. “You have been investigating me.”

   “You guessed it,” Veronica said nodding. “And it’s pretty much as I suspected. You are a grabber. So if I were you I’d quit complaining. Quit while you are still ahead."

   “You are despicable,” Deborah said through her teeth.

   “Call it any way you want. But your act never fooled me. I had you in your box from day one. Pity Creighton wouldn’t listen. Now look where he is.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “Work it out for yourself. I have this funny kind of notion. Want to hear it? Goes like this. You have a husband stashed away somewhere. Like your real husband? A minute ago I was all set to leave things lie. Now, seeing you for the selfish little plunderer you are, I’ve changed my mind. I’m on to you Deborah, or Jean, or whatever your name is. And if I am right, the party is going to be well and truly over.”

   Deborah tossed the contents of the sherry she was holding in Veronica’s face.

   The room jerked silent. Startled eyes fixed on the two women, standing arched in combat like two alley cats. Then a sardonic grin worked its way around Veronica’s mouth.

   “Feel better now?”

   All three men came out of shock and converged on them. Veronica took one of the proffered handkerchiefs. Sherry was splashed over her dress and face, lines trailing over the black glasses. Pargeter, deathly pale, led Deborah quickly away. She twisted around to see Veronica being escorted from the room by John Clayton and Jenner, both men blubbing their apologies, Veronica assuring them it was all right, pretending to laugh it off, simply one of those things.

   Deborah was vaguely conscious of Pargeter mouthing words at her. Inside her head a dread voice was telling she had played it horribly wrong.

   That she was about to lose it all.                                

                                                *

   A taxi waited. Veronica said her quick goodbyes and thanks. She got into the taxi and told the driver to go. Out of sight, she crumpled in one corner. Sherry had begun to dry stickily on her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe it off. The driver asked for instructions, saying it over again when she gave no answer.

   She knew where she had to go.

   A tear trickled down her cheek, mixing with the drying sherry. She thought sadly of Massey and realised it was too late.

two

Massey went up and pressed the call button. No answer came from the squawk box and he pressed a second time, keeping his thumb in place. Still no inquiring voice crackled out to ask his business. He kicked at a pebble and thought about it. It was a nice day on the whole, a little cool, but with that pleasant late afternoon stillness you sometimes find in the early Autumn. Overhead one of two early birds swirled around getting in practice for the big southward push.

   He was debating his options, when he picked up the hum of an approaching car. He stepped back as it swung into view on the drive, moving at a fast clip toward him, a grey Citroen, one of those fashioned like a pre-war cripple carriage. It ground to a halt on the other side of the gate and Grant Bowman squeezed out. Massey didn’t know whether he was surprised or not. It amused him all the same, such a pokey car for so large a man.

   Seeing Massey, Bowman grinned his big wide grin. “Well look who’s here," he said and sauntered up to the gate. "G’day to you, sport. Now what the fuck do you want?”

   “I could ask you the same thing,” Massey said.

   “Oh, full of our little self today, are we? You know, I seem to recall telling you to keep your snoopy nose out of things what don’t concern you.”

   “I know, but see that’s the problem. I find they do concern me.”

   Bowman slowly shook his head. “Best think on that again, cobber. I’ll just remind you of my little health warning. That was sound advice, take my word for it.”

   “Actually, cobber, can’t say your word rates a high value with me right now. You got the key to these gates?”

   “Got it here.” Bowman jiggled a key fob for Massey to see. "Clever little doings. You press this zapper thing and aim it up at the column and the magic eye opens the gates all by themselves. You can do it from inside the house too. Real smart, it is. All you got to do is check to see who the nosy bastard might be what’s calling and decide whether or not to let ‘em in."

   "Is that right?"

   "Yup that’s exactly right. The wonders of modern science. Trouble is the speaker doings is a temperamental little gadget. Works when it’s in the mood, know what I mean? When it’s on the blink you have to get up off your arse every five minutes to make the trip down here, which can be a bloody nuisance."

   "I can imagine."

   "You’d think with all the money on display they’d have close-circuit cameras rigged up. Still, this little trip can have its compensations. Keeps you in shape and you get to see if immediate remedial action is required, if you take my meaning.”

   “Good,” Massey said. “Open up. I got business inside.”

   Bowman cocked his head sideways. “You don’t say? And what might this business be exactly?”

   “Police business.”

   “Is that right? Well now, seeing as how I represent the police interest around here – you know part of the new streamlined super task force what’s running things – it seems to me your presence is redundant. So if you don’t mind. Piss off!”

   “I don’t propose arguing with you, Bowman,” Massey said to him through the iron bars. “Just do as told. Mrs Dow is expecting me”

   “No she ain’t,” Bowman said as if that settled it.

   “Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

   “I don’t need to. Be a pointless exercise anyway - ‘cause she ain’t home. And which being the case, sorry to say, you ain’t welcome, friend. So get lost. Be not here. Before I come and shove your head where the walls see no sunlight.”

   Massey gazed back with level eyes. “You realise you are obstructing a higher ranked officer, and worse using threatening behaviour toward him. That could land you in trouble, Bowman. You want that, after what happened back in the Smoke?”

   Bowman smiled a swift flaky smile. “Been reaming through the muck, have we?”

   “In a manner of speaking. Not exactly what you would term an uplifting tale I have to say. On the Met’s payroll, before they saw the light and cleaned out your cage. Glad to see the back of you, so I’m informed.”

   “Oh, yeah, what else them lying shites tell you?”

   “Oh, this and that. Got yourself quite a reputation, if you can call it such.”

   “All fuckin’ lies.”

   “You don’t tell me?”

   “Kick around a Paki or two and you get dumped on. That’s what it’s getting like now in the wipe-my-arse on scented lavender paper so-called people’s police service. Everybody’s gone shit soft. You know the score. It’s fuck all to jostle a spade or two. That’s normal.”

   Massey nodded. “For the likes of you I suppose it is. Only I heard different. I heard tell you were something of a ladies’ man, in your own twisted kind of way. Lucky to get off as light as you did, the way I heard it.”

   Bowman was starting to look ugly in a serious way. “Nice sense of humour you got there, sport," he said. "Maybe it’s a good thing for you the gate is locked, after all.”

   “That’s easy settled. Open it up.”

   “Oh-oh! Fancy your chance, do you?”

   “Just open the gate.”

   Bowman began to dry-wash big hands. Massey could see the tussle going on inside of him. One part of him was licking his chops at the prospect of tearing his visitor limb from limb, the other telling himself to be careful and not take chances.

   This time caution won out. The hands dropped. “There’d be no point. Like I say, the lady’s not around. Gone off to the races for the day, by the look of it.”

   “Now why should I believe anything a thug rapist like you tells me?”

   Bowman’s pig-eyes all but disappeared. “Watch your mouth, Massey. I don’t have to take that kind of shit. What you said was never proved. I could press charges against you for that remark.”

   “You could,” Massey agreed. “You could also open the gate.”

   Bowman gawked at him. "What are you, some sort of bloody masochist? What do you weigh, one-eighty wringing wet I’d say.” He thumped his chest. “Two-twenty and all of it muscle.”

   “Between the ears, too, I’ll bet.”

   “You asking for it or what? Want me to come and sort you out?"

   "I wouldn’t trust you to sort out dead flies, Bowman."

   “You know, sport, you could push a little bit too far with the smart-aleck talk. Make one crack too many, if you’re not careful.”

   “Just the one? You think that might do it? Shouldn’t be too difficult. Let’s see. You have to prove your manhood, don’t you? Yeah, it’s always the same with you macho boys, frightened you might secretly be a bit queer. Probably got a little dick and have to make compensations.”

   Bowman closed in on the gate. His small eyes had withered to no more than tiny points in his head. Massey saw the risk. Where he stood, one of the big hands could snatch out and grab him. And Bowman looked fast, no question.

   Again good sense prevailed. Bowman backed off, nodding. "Yeah, I rough you up and I’m up on assault charge, my job on the line. Good try, sport, but no way. I got better things to attend to.”

   “Like reading through your comic books, you mean?”

   “Go fuck yourself.”

   Bowman started to turn away. Massey said, “You hear about the body found last night? Woman all smashed up like Creighton Dow was.”

   “So? What am I meant to do about it?”

   “Depends. I got a strong feeling it’s this Spanish servant we’ve been searching for.”

   “Oh, right, I get it. You found a body and you think it’s the dago maid? What the fuck you trying to prove? Trying to build a big juicy case for yourself is that it? I don’t see out how I’m supposed to figure in all this, but this time you’ve missed by a mile. Know why? ‘Cause she’s back.”

   “Back!” Massey gaped stupidly. “What do you mean?”

   “You have a hard time with English when you were in school? She’s up there at the house like I say. The dago. Surprised me too. But she’s there all right. I saw her not ten minutes ago.”

   “This meant to be some kind of put-on?”

   “Now what makes you think I’m so all-fired eager to put you on? Look, mate, you can believe what you want. Sorry if it knocks your theory inside out, but what I’m telling you is so. Her stuff’s right there in her room, her case and things.”

   “How would you know something like that? You get the run of the place?”

   Bowman gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, try to get to the picture. I’m carrying out my duties. What I get paid for. Got it? Police duty, like I said. I’m giving Mrs Dow the protection she is entitled to, on account of what happened to her old man. You can check it out when you get to speak to her – if you ever do.”

   Massey brushed that aside. “You saw her, the Spanish woman?”

   “Jesus H Christ. You want me to produce photographic evidence?”

   “Does anybody know about this? Have you informed DCI Davis?”

   “You mean that long streak of agony who’s telling us how to tie our laces?" Bowman sneered. "He gets told when I’m good and ready. She’s there and it don’t look as if she’s set to go running off. It’ll keep.”

   “You’re certain of this? Did you speak to her?”

   “Fuck me left sides and back from Friday. How many more times I gotta say it? She’s back. She was up at the window, large as life. I was on my way to do the decent thing and let her know I was around, when you stuck your unwelcome snout in.”

   “If what you say is true I need to see her," Massey said. "Urgent."

   "Urgent, is it? You should have said. What do you want to do? Ask her if she’s the one found dead over in London?”

   “Open this gate. I’m telling you. Right now.”

   Bowman grinned, head shaking. “Not today, sport. You got no jurisdiction around her. You’re bluffing, Massey, and you know it. If you was here in any official capacity, like you’re pretending to be, they’d have sent on the cheery news in advance. So like or lump it, but no way are you getting in. Not until I get told otherwise from my guvnor.”

   "Massey made to reach for his phone.  "Okay, let’s call him. Get it cleared up."

   "Good idea. Tell him I got things in hand and you’re queering the pitch. Give him my best, while you’re at it."

    “This is going to look bad for you, you know.”

   “You’re scaring me shitless.”

   “All right, Bowman, have it your way. But we are going to talk again, you and me. And not before too long I’m thinking.”

   “You could just be right there, cobber,” Bowman said with slow meaning.

   Massey eyeballed him a few seconds longer then swung away. It had become a silly game. But one way or the other he intended finding a way into the house. He had to know if Carmen really had returned. He got in his car. As he drove off he could sense Bowman’s psychotic pig eyes tracking him.

three

The welcoming gloom enveloped her. She found her familiar seat at the back of the theatre. The row was empty save for one other person. He sat there, a dark shape, a number of empty seats away. She stared at the screen. She wouldn’t look at him. The main feature was running.

   At first, she was aware only of uncoordinated movement, a cacophony of noise.

   The screen flashed.

   Colours.

   Sounds.

   Giant faces.

   Music. Swelling and thundering with dramatic effect.

   The small theatre was less than a quarter full, but the sparse audience had rapport. They were a team. As the action developed there were sighs in unison, giggles and whoops as they enjoyed their shared experience. “Watch out behind you, love,” a cheery camp voice called out, “that’s how I first got it,” the team responding with spontaneous laughter and catcalls.

   Up on the screen, the heroine, dressed primly chic in Edwardian riding gear, walked with great trepidation up a series of marbled steps toward a huge and scary iron-studded door. She was a pretty little deb type girl of no more than twenty and exuded an air of innocence. A black bowler was angled stylishly on her head and she carried a riding crop. Her blonde hair was fashioned in a chignon.

   Veronica began to drift.

   The girl came up to the gigantic door and halted. An iron ring handle hung from the mouth of a grinning gargoyle with sly devil’s eye. She bit down on her lower lip and reached nervously for the handle, her black-gloved hand stalling in mid-air. Her feared gaze lifted, and a cut-away shot showed the Gothic spires and arches of the sinister castle she was about to enter. Overhead, dark clouds swirled across a black sky at ridiculous speed.

   Sweat formed on Veronica’s upper lip.

   Taking courage, the girl reached again. This time the gloved hand succeeded in closing around the dull black metal ring.

   Veronica felt the cold iron.

   Felt it through the thickness of the leather glove.

   The ring handle clanked twisting. The door creaked open a few inches and then stuck. The girl pushed with a hand. The door wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder and had to lean with all her might. Creaking, the giant door moved slowly back, until finally there was just enough space for her to pass through.

   Again she hesitated.

   A wisp of menacing steam drifted out from the aperture.

   Her lips tasted. She swallowed, and bravely making up her mind, she angled her slim body and squeezed through emerging into a vast arid hall. She paused there for a moment. A close-up highlighted her rounded eyes. They stared up and around. The hall was gloomy and foreboding, the ceiling disappearing into high blackness. Flamed torches burned on the stone walls.

   She went forward, slowly, mechanically, her booted feet resounding on huge flagstones.

   Ahead of her, a dark archway loomed.

   The girl continued on in her leaden way, one foot following the other as though sleepwalking toward it.

   Closer.

   She came to a halt, and a small ugly hand with ridged knuckles slithered around a marble column behind her. A moment later, a second hand joined the first. And then another came. And another...

   Gradually, the column became infested with a mass of small gnarled hands. They fluttered like a nest of writhing white spiders.

   Veronica’s heart was pounding. She was breathing fast, forward in her seat. She had forgotten her purpose, why she was there. Sweat ran and mixed with the sweet sherry that still clung to her cheeks.

   She was in the movie.

   Living it.

   She had become the blonde girl.

   Faces showed around the column. Grinning dwarf faces. Hideous faces, tufted with hair and warts, blackened teeth. Their little eyes twinkled evilly. They watched the girl with greedy anticipation as she contemplated the arch. Lascivious tongues came out to lick with sly menace.

   Sensing something, the girl snatched around. But the dwarfs hid, darting with wondrous agility behind pillars and walls.

   She waited, frightened and confused. She turned once more to face the black archway. A slim hand reached to touch for reassurance at a small silver crucifix that hung in a thin chain around her neck. She started forward again, moving with slow dread as if drawn to her fate.

   The dwarfs peeped out grinning at her.

   They watched for a while.

   Then came scurrying out like mice from holes, fanning out, tiptoeing in their grotesque way. They closed on her from behind. There were seven of them.

   The girl came to a final halt, unable to bring herself to take another step.

   Behind her, the dwarfs had formed a tight semicircle.

   One of them sniggered.

   A wave of terror passed across her face. And, eyes popping, she made the slowest of slow turns, knowing there was something behind her. Not wanting to find out what that was. Knowing it was something horrible and malevolent.

   Her petrified stare passed above their crouching heads.

   They grinned, suppressing giggles, waiting for her to discover them.

   Her eyes lowered, mouth stretching.

   She saw them and screamed.

   They snared her.

   Veronica cried out in the dark! Clawed fingers snatched at the seat in front of her.

   The girl beat at them with the riding crop. Torn from her hand. She beat with her fisted gloved-hands. They held her. She kicked out screaming as the dwarfs overpowered her, tipping her over and down, swarming over her. They pulled away the old-fashioned gear, tunic, shirt, petticoats, boots, giving out guttural sounds of glee as they set about their work.

   Stripped, she was lifted and carried shoulder high through the darkened arch. They ran with her. They ran through winding passages. They had unravelled her long blonde hair and twisted it in a bizarre crisscross pattern around her body. She was screaming. One of the dwarfs had on her black bowler.

   They slowed approaching another dark arch. It towered peaking, the tallest and most sinister yet. Total blackness lay beyond.

   Briefly, the dwarfs became excited, laughing sniggering laughs like naughty children, clapping their little hands in their gleeful way.

   Stopped!

   In one sudden instance, the mood changed. All jollity and brazen naughtiness disappeared. Grave of face, as though on signal they hoisted the girl and turned her around and around as if to make her dizzy, then carried her with solemn reserve through the archway into some kind of satanic chapel. The girl was no longer screaming. She was mute with fright.

   The chapel reeked of evil. The walls were draped with black curtains and more torches burned on the walls. At the tapered extremity of the chapel, above a stone alter, furled a gigantic black curtain. The curtain was trimmed in scarlet and blazoned at centre was the Sign of the Goat. The girl’s eyes rounded in terror, her body twitching in a pathetic effort to resist. It was no use. The dwarfs marched her forward.  Red velvet cords lay in readiness across the grey stone. Using these, they roped her down. They fastened her like a starfish, arms and legs stretched wide.

   Completing their task, forgetting themselves, they became excited again, mocking and prodding her with gnarled fingers. The dwarf who had taken the black bowler became almost manic, grunting like a pig, reaching to unbuckle his belt, making a series of little up and down jumps in the air. The others slapped him back. They squabbled around for a time. Then fell silent. Fingers were held to pursed lips. All bravado gone and they stared around at each other, aware of the approach of some dark power. And quickly, silently, they melted away.

   Left there bound, the girl’s saucered eyes switched about her, tension music building as she struggled to free herself.

   Back in her seat, Veronica became aware of a strange smell.

   Vaguely, she was reminded of hospitals.

   She jolted.

   He was sitting there beside her.

   She hadn’t felt or heard him move. She had been absorbed with what was happening to her by proxy up on the screen. Smothered by his confining presence, his shoulder cramping hers, the dominant emotion was that of annoyance. It was as if he had intruded. As if he had woken her from a dream she wanted to get back and finish.

   The hospital smell grew stronger.

   She made herself fix on the screen.

   The black curtains were in near focus. They began to part.

   His hand clamped her knee.

   She ignored it, holding her upward gaze.

   The parting in the curtains widened.

   His fingers dug into her like a vice.

   Through the blackness beyond the curtains an eye appeared. A huge, staring, inhuman eye, bulging with bloodied capillaries.

   His vice grip was so fierce that her leg was turning numb. His free arm entwined her shoulder clamping her in place. She made no attempt to resist. The hospital smell was overbearing.

   The eye filled the screen.

   As she watched, a vertical crack formed on the pupil and began to spread.

   The eye split.

   Blood oozed as the ether took her.

   Flooding.

   RED!  

four

Massey was parked back along the lane in a recess, a handy sycamore tree providing effective cover. He had made up his mind to wait for as long as it took, either Bowman leaving or Deborah putting in an appearance, in which case he could make it official.  

   The sound of Bowman’s approaching Citroen called the decision, and from his hideaway he watched the tiny car storm into the drive and grind to a halt. Bowman got out leaving the engine running to part the gates, pausing to peer left and right. Satisfied, he returned to the Citroen and drove out on to the open road. He did the business with his zapper through the car window and clanked the gates closed. He fixed on his seatbelt, glanced around one more time, and then took off in the Maidenhead direction.

   Massey gave it a minute. He had spotted a promising breach in the hedge, and without wasting more time, he left his car and ducked into the gap, coming out the other side with a few pokes and scratches to show for it. The rear of the house was about fifty yards away. Over to his right he glimpsed the crackpot pavilion summer house, and provided the light held, he determined to take a last look before leaving. He remained unconvinced about the Spanish servant, but what good reason would Bowman have for lying? It just didn’t make logical sense. The body in the church had to be hers.

   He reached the perimeter of the building, going on through a picket gate to a rounded courtyard. From there an arched porch led to a dark green back door. He went up and knocked using the brass knocker and tried the handle. The door was locked and he continues on along a narrow slab path, stopping to peer in through a latticed window. He saw a spacious, well-ordered kitchen with copper pots and the like hanging on hooks.

   Getting nothing out of that, he worked his way around the side of the house. And whether hearing a sound or catching a movement from the upward line of his vision, Massey stopped dead in his tracks and gazed up.

   White curtains were sucking at an open window.

   And maybe something else.

   He continued to stare up at the drifting curtains.                        

five

The trailer was positioned on its own in a hollowed-out wedge of waste ground. In the past it may have counted as some person’s proud mobile luxury home. Now, many years and many occupiers later, it had become a cheap rental dwelling for transients, or rough careless men like Grant who liked to live apart.

   His car wasn’t there, but taking no chances Deborah moved aside the mesh screen overlaying the narrow plywood door and rapped lightly.

   “Grant?” she called tentatively.

   No reply.

   She glanced back quickly then fished in her purse and brought out a key and fitted it into the lock. Taking a holding breath, she turned the key and stepped inside, the mesh screen swinging back in place with a dull clatter. A stale fried cooking smell greeted her. Pans and dishes lay cluttered in the galley kitchen sink and a bluebottle fly droned overhead. She made a grimacing mouth. He was a pig, like all men were pigs. Turning her back on the stomach-churning mess, she rummaged urgently through her handbag and brought out a small silver automatic handgun.

   She had acquired the weapon only the week before, working her feminine charms at a cocktail party to diddle a promise from some louche business type, Reggie something or other, to fix her up with a snappy little piece, as he called it, lady’s gun don’t you know. She had smiled her best seductive smile and said why not, and the dim fool had complied turning up to coach her in the rudiments of holding techniques and so on. Why she had sought the need of a firearm remained obscure. But now, with the little gun in her possession, she felt a sense of security and, more than that, a sense of power. She released the catch in the way her shady admirer had taught her and returned the gun to her handbag, making sure the clasp remained unfastened and the grip was within easy reach.

   Braced by that assurance, she crept silently to the single bedroom, and still taking no chances, she called through the closed door, “Grant? Are you there?” waiting, listening.

   Getting no response, she turned the handle and pushed open the door and walked in to the stale leftovers of his sour BO. She scrambled out a handkerchief pressed it over her mouth and nose. Keeping the handkerchief in place, she gazed around the poky stuffy room, noting the dishevelled cot bed, the disgusting state of the place, the disgust within herself. Things were junked around the floor, underwear and socks and things. A broken-down chipboard wardrobe gaped with its doors open. Clothes hung there crammed in any old way. Wedged between the wardrobe and the cot bed was a big battered cardboard box. Keeping the box firmly in mind, she backed out grimacing.

   Grant was a slob, but she knew that already. She pushed the hanky into her sleeve and went quickly to the far end of the trailer. This was where he did his relaxing, a cramped space hardly more appealing than the bedroom had been. Rag curtains drooped on a string tied across the tiny grimed window and a thin shaft of weakening sunlight cut through where they failed to meet at centre, dust particles flocking in the narrow beam.

   Down on the floor there was a grubby coconut mat, and down on that were an array of vulgar girlie magazines, a whole untidy heap of them lying open and well-thumbed, strewn around. More of the same spilled over from the cheap sofa, a bony padded affair covered by a faded and torn green-and-brown striped cheesecloth, where in the middle a big grease stain had spread out.

   A sparse easy chair, heaped with clothes, had been pushed crookedly to one side and a plastic table with a black and white checked top and featuring a well-used bottle of Heinz tomato ketchup was crammed underneath the small grimed window.

   In a corner, a big flash state-of-the-arts television and music centre dominated. The dull mustard walls were bare, save for a single colour spread that Grant had torn from one of the magazines and stuck up roughly on a nail.

   She went up to stare at the picture.

   The model pouting back was very young. She had extravagantly blonde waving hair and wore a sou’wester and shiny black thigh length waders and nothing else. She stood mouth pouting in that provocative way, legs planted wide, the hint of juvenile pudendum showing through a tangle of golden pubic hair. A fishing rod was propped languidly over her right shoulder and a fish dangled on a line behind her.

   Deborah was all teeth and eyes. She began to tremble. A sound, barely human, rattled from deep within her. Her hands came up in claws, the sound becoming harsher. And in one savage movement, she tore the picture from the nail and tore it furiously into pieces, dashing the pieces to the floor, glaring down with hate.

   Long moments went by, and then as if snapping from a trance, she glanced around with neurotic urgency. Time was of the essence and she had wasted too much of it.

   She made a fast check of the gun in her bag. She squinted out through the murky glass of the small window, needing to use her hanky to smear a viewing circle. She saw her parked BMW, nothing else. She came away from the window. Her pulse was racing. She hurried to the bedroom.

   She checked the cardboard box first, finding mostly junk, a few discarded VHS videos, old jumpers and trainers and such like, stuffed in haphazardly. On top, crumpled with use, were more girlie mags, as well as a few lurid true life crime magazines. At first she began carefully, noting where various items had been. As she continued, less care took hold, until she was scrambling without thought or reason. She tugged out clothes and things, tossed them aside.

   The box emptied, she glared down at the jumble. Her breasts rose and fell. She kicked the box angrily and then swung around to the chipboard wardrobe. She went through the pockets of his jackets and coats. She scrambled through everything that came to hand, all the while a frantic despair building inside her. She tugged and pushed, making harsh grunting sounds. She hunted in corners. Her flat hand swept to no gain over the top shelf. She waded in final desperation through the pile of soiled laundry on the wardrobe base.

   Nothing.

   She shouted out and threw one side of the wardrobe with all her strength, watching mesmerised as the door swung on its hinge, her own ghastly reflection merging and disappearing in the fixed mirror, slowing to a final maddening stop.

   Her mouth smeared in a silent howl.

   She twisted and beat at the wall of the trailer.

six

Massey by-passed the brass bell contraption and tried one of the twin white ivory doorknobs. The door clicked open and he stepped into the hall. The billowing white curtain could be put down as much to a jumpy imagination as anything, he told himself. If Carmen or anybody else were at home, they sure as hell weren’t busting a gut to make their presence known.

   Speaking of which, his presence he knew was questionable, technically that he was trespassing. But bigger issues prevailed and he continued on through the familiar archway to the vast main living area. A few lamps shone at intervals around the walls, but probably signified nothing more than a custom of leaving some lights burning.

   The huge painting of old Zachary Dow grabbed his attention and walked across to take a second viewing. How had Veronica described it? The projection of a sick ego? No arguments there. Leaving the old boy in all his manifest glory, Massey headed for the wide staircase and started up.

   The silence of the house was all around him. He reached the landing and leaned on the banister rail to gaze down at the canyon of a room below, getting a slight case of vertigo for his trouble. He went on, going around the extended balcony, where he paused at each door in turn to tap and poke his head into unoccupied rooms, small sitting rooms and en suite guest rooms. One door stood ajar. He prodded it back and peered inside. On the medium-sized bed an open suitcase gaped at him. Massey went on in.

   The case was a cheap composite job and had seen plenty of hard service. A few items of female clothing lay waiting to be removed, but otherwise a thin-knit cream cardigan and white cotton shift were folded beside the case on the bedspread. A pair of espadrille pumps were perched neatly side by side on the carpet and next to these, also evenly placed, were some lightweight black composite walking shoes.

   A tidy woman, Carmen, if it was her. But if not her then who? And why would anybody go to the trouble of making out she had returned? Massey nudged the shoes with a foot. They looked big for a woman, but if that denoted anything he couldn’t see it. He worked a hand to the stubble on his chin. Okay, the signs said she was back, but he still couldn’t buy it. In his bones he remained convinced she had been strangled and battered to hide her identity in that church last night.

   The sash window was open and filmy white curtains drifted with the in-coming breeze. He wandered over and gazed down to the spot below where he had seen something, of thought he had. He closed the window, shutting off the draft, and went into the bathroom.

   The usual odds and ends were in evidence, a toothbrush and various creams and lotions, and the floor was damp. He swished back the shower curtain. The showerhead dripped and a clump of hair clogged around the drain together with a few sludge bits of soap. He dragged the curtain back in place.

   He lifted the lid of a wicker laundry basket seeing a bra and a pair of pants dumped there. He replaced the lid and mooched out from the bathroom. Hanging on the back of the door from long straps, above a beige linen jacket, was a shiny black crocodile leather handbag. Massey unhooked the bag and sat on the bed to examine it.

   It was a flash ugly thing, but not cheap. It wasn’t the kind of thing you would expect a domestic servant to own. But then what did he know? Perhaps she had saved for it, maybe had it as a gift. He opened the clasp and nosed inside. There were two combs, one wire, one white plastic, various cosmetics, and in a neat red leather purse some loose change. Tucked in a pocket, he found a small tarnished crucifix and a set of rosary beads.

   He picked out the crucifix and twiddled the little icon around between thumb and forefinger, dropped it back into the side pocket of the bag and snapped the clasp and set the bag down on the bed beside him. He crossed his arms and thought about it. Outside, the sunlight had all but gone.

   He got up and went through the pockets of the beige jacket, collecting dust and fluff, not much else. Delving deeper, he found a London Underground day traveller showing yesterday’s date. He mulled on it for a second and from habit tucked the ticket away in his wallet and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

   The door of master bedroom was bigger and grander than the others, set into the veneer of a hard glossy black wood, probably teak or maple with a gold trim around the edges. Taking care not to dirty the fluffy white rug puffed up at the entrance, he turned the gold knob and went on inside.

   The room was L-shaped and quite breathtaking. Double french windows curtained with pale diaphanous chintz above turquoise blue velvet drapes led to a spacious balcony with a wrought iron balustrade.  Dressed in a rose and gold Japanese patterned silk counterpane, a huge rounded double bed commanded majority space. Beside the bed, a bronze statue of a woodland nymph, about two feet in height, hoisted a fronded globe lamp the size of a honeydew melon. Deborah’s super white dressing was set facing the french window and to the side of that, occupying one entire wall, stretched a magnificent glass-panelled wardrobe.

   Massey slid back one of the panels. Everything the chic lady of fashion would be wearing this season was on hand, suits and gowns, all top of the range designer gear by Gucci and the rest of them in that league, and enough for any ten women. Shaking his head he slid out drawers to discover feminine things, perfume, jewellery, lingerie, grinning sheepishly as he recalled an escapade as a kid.

   The occasion had been his big cousin’s wedding. He had crawled under the dance stage with two other snot-nosed little shits to peek snickering through the slats as the ladies’ went swirling overhead. They got away with their dirty juvenile trick, but nobody would have cared and might even have kicked off a good belly-laugh. The adults were too merry with drink.

   With some haste he pushed shut the drawer and made a fast exit. Old Zach Dow’s disapproving stare followed him all the way down the wide staircase. Guilty as charged, guvnor. He left as he came through the big double front doors.

   The evening chill was setting in and he turned up the collar of his jacket, glancing back. Above the stone cornice a bas-relief symbol of three oil derricks had been chiselled out, two smaller ones backing up the big centre-stage fellow like a scene from Calvary. Massey saw it bleakly in the dimming light.

   The night was now fast moving in and he set off at a brisk pace down the grass slope toward the pavilion, halting at the spot where Creighton Dow’s body had lain. The sun had sunk below the skyline and the grass had turned sepia. Briefly, an irrational shaft of fear ran through him. He pushed it away and ploughed on to the pavilion. The doors were shut but not locked and he went inside.

   Straight off, the short hairs at the back of his neck bristled. He snapped on the light switch and an array of dimmed amber globe lights set around the circular wall struggled into a semblance of life.

   Below the rim of the ceiling a frieze of cherubic figures gave the place a kind of Victorian museum feel. The paintings around the walls were of bleak landscapes and stuffy old geezers with mutton-chop whiskers. The furniture was of the uncomfortable-looking chaise-longue variety.

   A big ornamental chandelier adorned by curling green tropical fronds came down from the ceiling. Massey stared fascinated at the elaborate fixture for a lost minute. Then he grinned as the penny dropped. The fronds didn’t actually stand away from the ceiling, they only appeared to. What was the term, trompe-l’oeil. He had seen the same effect at the Brighton Pavilion, which looked to be the inspiration for this pocket-sized version.

   On a wheeled platform near the door there was a dark-wooded antique gramophone with a zinc bell-horn speaker. An old 78 record sat ready on the turntable, a Columbia recording, the artist one Johnnie Ray and Please, Mr Sun. There seemed to be a message in that somewhere. He vaguely recalled Johnnie Ray as some kind of pre-Elvis sobbing ballad singer.

   Massey let his gaze travel around. A lot of money had been lavished on what seemed a grim, cheerless relic of a place. If you wanted a private hideaway to go quietly mad in, you could hardly do worse than this soulless mausoleum.

   Day had all but seeped away. A cold finger touched his spine and he snapped off the lights. He fastened the doors and trudged toward his escape hatch, quickening his pace to cover the last stretch. He found the gap in the hedge. Before going through, he paused to look at the house and froze. A light shone from an upper windows, the yellow oblong standing stark as clear in the blue night

   Had he left that on?

   Maybe, maybe not.

   But no way was he going back. Even the nerves of case-hardened London detectives have their limits. He made it to his car and reached automatically into the glove compartment for his flask. He took a quick jolt and wiped off his lips. He hadn’t found Carmen, and somehow hadn’t expected to. Yet her things were there plain to see in her bedroom. A light was showing and he couldn’t get it out of his head that a figure had been peering down at him.

   Whatever it came down to, the answer wasn’t about to spring out at him. Massey started up the engine, switched on his headlights, and cruised past the locked iron gates. They looked bleakly sinister in the encroaching night. As if they were guarding some dark secret.

seven

Gravel crunched. Heavy feet pounded up to the door and Grant came bursting in. Seeing Deborah he stopped dead. Her parked car would have flagged loud and clear that he would find her inside. For a second, even so, he seemed like a man caught off balance. Recovering, he grinned, his flat eyes going over her in a sleazy way.

   “Well now,” he said. “Bin making yourself at home?”

   “I have been waiting for you, Grant,” Deborah said.

   "So I see."

   He flicked a suspicious glance at the bag she clutched tight against her, his shifty gaze sliding beyond her right shoulder to the bedroom. The grin on his face flickered, and a wave of panic went through her. Had she forgotten to close the bedroom door? Was it there, gaping with tell-tale certainty? Deborah fought the urge to turn her head. Grinning in his sly way, Grant back-kicked the door shut and ambled up to her.

   “So how we come out?” he said and ran the back of a hand lazily over her cheek.

   She twisted her head away. “Keep your distance.”

   “Why? Nobody’s watching.”

   “We can’t take chances.”

   “Is that right?” He stroked at an imaginary beard and pretended to check around, going over to the sofa, lifting a cushion to peep underneath. He shook his head. “Nope, we look to be all by our little selves, just you and me. I think we can say we are safe from prying eyes. Unless you want to count the cockroaches, that is.”

   He came back toward her, pausing as she tightened the grip on her handbag. He thought on that for a second, glancing again in the direction of the bedroom, and preoccupied he said, “Get rid of the porno queen?”

   Deborah’s mouth stiffened. “Yes, she’s gone. Not without leaving her mark.”

   His head came around with a hard stare. “What do you mean, her mark? You get the money, or what?”

   “Some of the money, yes.”

   “Some?”

   “Yes. Some.”

   Grant was no longer grinning. “Lady, I’m a patient man, but you had better tell me the score, and quick. You get much? You get the house?”

   “The house, a goodly part of the estate. Stocks and bonds, wealth by your terms.”

   “But not by yours, is that what you mean?”

   “By mine too. Yes.”

   “So why the jib?”

   “Because she got more than I expected – a lot more. He left her the paintings, damn him! My paintings!”

   “What that weirdo gooper shit?”

   “No, no, the collection of impressionist works I spent ages putting together.”

   “Held to be important, like?”

   “Of course they are important! They are practically irreplaceable. They had nothing to do with her. They were mine. He knew how much they meant to me. I was to keep them that was the understanding. A sample of his famed black humour I suppose. Now all gone to that...obscenity!”

   “Worth much?”

   “Priceless. But that isn’t the point. She hasn’t the right to them.”

   Grant prodded gingerly at his back teeth. “Does seem a shame, I admit, them being worth so much. Question is, what you intend doing about it?”

   “What can I do? Nothing! I have been pushed against my better judgment into this wretched situation!”

   “Meaning by me, I suppose. That’s just bloody typical of a woman. I gave you a little nudge along, which as I seem to remember was about all you needed. Besides, I wouldn’t say you couldn’t do nothing about it. If you’re so far put out you could make a fight of it, legal like. You and your smooth lawyer you’re so keen on.”

   “It wouldn’t be worth it. She would win in the end, I know she would.”

   “Then forget it. Why get all steamed up about a bunch of musty old pictures? From where I’m standing you’ve done just fine. You got money and you got the house, plus plenty more on top. Seems to me you could turn around and buy yourself a whole new batch of art and shit if you wanted.”

   “I could,” she said.

   “Let’s face it you’re just a spoilt little lady. You want it all. Now me, on the other hand, I’m different. So long as I realise my premium I reckon I’ll be satisfied.”

   She gave no reply and Grant’s eyes became shrewd watching her. He was having trouble with a molar. “Got to get this seen to,” he said prodding again. “But you ain’t give it me all, have you? There’s something gnawing at you, I can tell, and not just the pictures and things."

   “She is threatening me."

   Grant gave the tooth a rest. "What do you mean, what’s she got to threaten with?”

   “She suspects. She has had me investigated.”

   “Relax. What if she has? You’re getting too up-tight. She won’t find anything.”

   “She knows all about me, I tell you, my background, the jobs I held. She knows my real name. She’s been digging deep and she won’t stop until she uncovers it all. What am I going to do? I’m going to pieces. I can’t hold out much longer. I tell you I simply can’t!”

   “Keep your hair on. There’s always a way. If it comes to it things will have to be, you know, arranged.”

   She stared wide-eyed at him. "No. Not that.”

   “Too messy you mean?" He tapped at the worrying molar. "This is really giving me gyp. Yeah, you could just be right. I got a lot built into this and I don’t mean to stick my neck out without good cause. It’s not good her knowing things I admit, but the plain fact is you were his wife, common law or otherwise. Okay, he was bats, but she’ll have a hard job making it stick. All you got to do is keep your nerve. Face her down when the time comes - if it comes."

   “I can’t, I told you. My nerves are shot.”

   “Sure you can. You’ll see this through, don’t worry.” Grant punted his tongue around his lower lip letting it slacken into a loose knowing grin. “Gravy ride starts here, you bet. No more living in rat holes like this, and as for the boys in blue, they can kiss my arse. Which being so, I reckon it’s time we chewed the fat about a few things. You hear what I said? I said we should talk.”

   She was trapped. She was never going to escape.

   “I hear you,” she answered in a dead monotone.

   “Good, get things settled, you and me, Jeanie.”

   A flush of raw anger went through her. “Don’t call me that, do you hear! Not ever!”

   He stood his hands on his hips and shook his head. “There you go again, getting yourself all riled up over things what don’t matter. There ain’t nothing to a name. I’ll call you the Duchess of Donk, if it suits. Just so long as I get my dues.”

   The flash of anger went as quickly as it came. “Look...look...” she started to say.

   Grant sliced the air with a hand. “Got something you want to get off your chest, go right ahead and spit it out. Don’t do to keep things bottled up, you can get ulcers if you’re not careful.” The bedroom was worrying him. “You just take your time,” he said, and walked past her to take a look inside. “Go on, I’m listening.”

   She heard him fumbling around. He would see things had been disturbed. He would also know she had found nothing. She hung her head as he came back pleased with himself, the ever-present maddening grin on his horrid face.

   “Well, go ahead,” he said, cajoling, playing with her. “Take all the time you need.”

   She fumbled for expression. “This – this has got to be...”

   “Last time?” he said, helping her out. “Last throw of the dice? Cripes, it’s like you never want to see my hide again. You sure know how to be hurtful. Just when things are starting to come good, too. But I got to tell you, girl, our show’s set to run and run.”

   She stared at him speechless. He flicked a hand grinning at her muted rage.

   “Easy up, just funning,” Then he was worrying at the troublesome molar again. “The maid’s back, did you know?”

   Her head snapped. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

   “She’s back, the greaser, like I said.”

   “Carmen? But that can’t be.”

   “Why can’t it? She goes away, she comes back. What’s so unusual about that?  Good pay, don’t have to wipe her sore bum on yesterday’s news every mornin’. Who’d want to throw a cushy number like that away? Makes pure sense to me. I bumped into her back at the house, large as life.”

   Deborah searched his face. “You are making this up.”

   “Now why would I want to make it up? Jesus Christ, why is everybody getting so wound up about some half-arsed domestic? She’s there you can take my word for it. Plus that snoopy Massey bastard, he’s sniffin’ around too. Said you’d agreed to talk to him or some such, that right? Found another body it seems, and he thought it was the dago. Whatsamater? You gone a funny colour.”

   The room darkened. Her entire world was crumbling. She was vaguely aware of Grant scanning a hand in front of her face. And then that he had noticed the torn-up picture scattered on the floor and was stooping to retrieve the pieces.

   “Why this was my all-time favourite,” he said, making a show of matching the bits together. “Ain’t right, people coming around destroying other people’s property. Wilful vandalism is what it amounts to. Now what harm’s this little thing ever done you?” He grinned a leering grin at her. “I always did wonder what you had in mind to do with that stinky old fish.”

   “We have to end this,” Deborah blurted, coming back to herself. “I can’t take any more.”

   “You mean like now I’ve done all the dirty work and you’re all set to Ritz it up, you want to fuck me off out of the way. Smooth.” He worked the torn picture into a ball and swatted it away. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ve only just got started.”

   “But…”

   “Like it or lump it.”

   “You said you would go. You agreed. Once things had been settled you said you would go and never come back.”

   “Something I forgot to tell you. I never was much noted for my truth-telling ability.” He halted her protest with a stiff finger. “I’d advise getting that mean look out of them big beautiful blue eyes of yours. Brings on the ageing process, squinting like that. Don’t worry, I’m set to be leavin’. I’m through as a cop, no doubt there. For one thing, that jumped-up prick from the Met has started putting two and two together, and the cards are telling me it’s time my arse was somewhere else."

   Taking his comfortable time about it, Grant peeled off his jacket and tossed it away to the side. A shudder of disquiet went through her.

   "Might not be a bad idea if I looked over the old country again. Must be all of fourteen years since I was there. Be kind of nostalgic to raise a few schooners in good old Sydney. Wonder if the Stoned Crow’s still going strong? But you’ll be hearing from me, don’t worry."

   She watched with growing unease as he started to unbutton his shirt. She said, “You agreed to one final payment.”

   “What I said ain’t worth chickenshit. Now you listen here, Miss Fancy Drawers, I took some fuckin’ big risks for you. Want me to remind you? Remember Joey-boy, your first wed? Remember him?”

   “I was barely sixteen, it isn’t fair.”

   “Life ain’t sweetie, didn’t anybody ever tell you? And I ain’t interested in your squawking. I swear to God I never met a Sheila yet could see things for what they are. Be satisfied. You come out smelling like a violet fart from what I can see of it, no matter what Rita Hayworth gets it in her head to do. You’re all set for the big time and Joe is dust. You can rest easy so far as he is concerned, take my word on it.”

   She blindly shook her head. “I never wanted it that way.”

   “You make me smile. Ain’t you the little hypocrite? You wanted it all right.”

   She swung around and glared at him. “How do I know you are telling the truth? I only have your word for it.”

   Grant finished unbuttoning his shirt and peeled it off, using it to wipe sweat from his big hairless torso. “Joe been in touch with you of late? Be a big surprise if he had. He’s gone to a better place. Or at least I sure hope he has. Nope, I don’t think you’ll be seeing too much of Joey-boy in the future.”

   “I would have heard.”

   “Not from where he’s at you wouldn’t. Use some sense. You reckon the no-hope prick would have walked away from the sweetest deal he had in all his crummy life? You think I just put my arm around him and said, ‘Shit Joe, now you be a fair dinkum sport. Your little girl’s gone and worked her tail off to get what she’s got. You don’t want to mess it up for her, now do you? So do the right thing, Joe. Get yourself lost like the decent bloke I know you to be, and here’s a tenner for a pint or two to help you along.’ Is that what you suppose happened? Get real. It’s done, and more.”

   A band of steel tightened inside Deborah’s skull. "What do you mean?"

   “Now what do you suppose I mean?”

   It was true about Joe, she knew it. But not this. Her eyes narrowed. “This time I  know you are lying,” she said.

   “Me lying? That’s spicy coming from you. If you want to know, I got bloody fed up of that ponce calling the shots, swanking around in his flowery silk pyjamas. I got to thinking things out, and it struck me my interests would be best served if he was no longer around. Let’s face it, I played my hand and it flopped. The little creep just didn’t give a toss. I kind of admired him, as a matter of fact. He called my bluff, shit if he didn’t. I thought I had him, but I was out a mile. He had me. ’Course, I was grateful for what I got no gripes there. I enjoyed every second of it. Can’t fault his imagination in any way. But an asset ain’t much good unless you can cash in on it. I don’t reckon I have to give you any lessons there. So after I saw to Joe, I decided to go for broke. I took my chance. I fixed it to look like the work of a loony, did a pretty good job of it too, got to say. So you see? You’ve got this little piggy in the middle to thank for all the loose change you’ll be getting.”

   She smiled thinly. "No, Grant, it won’t wash. You are capable of murder, I don’t doubt it. Joe perhaps, but you didn’t kill Creighton. You are forgetting. You were with me Saturday night."

   “True," he said. "But then lots of things happened Saturday night. If memory serves, you showed up late, around one thirty. Which kind of poses the question of what you had been getting up to between times. There’s a couple of hours missing from the books according to my reckoning. You still say I am lying? Well, sugar-plum, if I am that puts you right in the hot seat.”

   “You can’t frighten me.”

   Grant’s flat eyes moved freely over her. “I sure go for the all black outfit. Mourning black. Suits you. Goes all the way underneath, I’ll bet. Don’t shit me, girl. Frighten you? If I decide to tell what time you showed up the night hubby copped it, your story of driving around lost in a dream is going to look a might frayed. It’ll be a damned sight more than a fright you’ll be getting.”

   “But you wouldn’t do that you would have nothing to gain.”

   “Spot on. I wouldn’t talk, not as things stand. I got too much at stake. But if things took a turn for the worse, I’d have to reconsider my position, know what I mean? You may as well face it. I got you sewn up tighter than a Jewboy’s foreskin. So any time you feel like wearing your high hat, just pause a second to consider who you owe for your nice comfy lifestyle. The same party who only needs to open his trap to get you booked a VIP cell in Holloway for the next twenty years. Lucky for you there’s no death penalty any more. Over in the States they know how to do it right, or used to, at any rate. Before they went all mellow they used to have the gas chamber and electric chair. It’s said they’d allow the ladies to pretty themselves up before they threw the switch. But no sense in getting morbid about it. All you got to do is keep me sweet, and you got plenty to do that with now. Just keep on paying the tab and it’s roses all the way.” He smirked, closing in on her. “Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mind smelling a rose right now.”

   She backed away. “No!”

   “You’ll be wearing them suspender doings, I’m betting.”

   Her eyes darted left to right. She bit down on her lip, and next the small silver automatic was in her hand, pointing at him.

   Grant stopped and looked at the gun. “Well, now,” he said.

   “We end it, Grant, I mean it. All of my life I have had men using me for their own selfish ends. I’ll take prison rather than this. One final payment as we agreed and nothing more. I will shoot if I have to. Please believe me.”

   He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I think I do believe you. Be a right prick not to, wouldn’t I? But, honey-pie, you don’t want to be plugging me. Not good old Grant. And for sure not with that little popgun. What is it, .22 Beretta? Think it would stop me?”

   “We will find out.”

   He nodded and made a clucking sound. “I sure do like a spunky woman. I’m getting real horny, you know that? Checked the safety catch, made sure it’s off?”

   “It’s off,” she said.

   He nodded, clucked again. “One last payment you say?”

   “One payment and we go our separate ways.”

   “Okay, got it with you?”

   “No – no, not with me. I – I have it ready at the house.”

   “You mean you want me to come over with you and get it?”

   “No, I will bring it here.”

   “You ain’t just saying it I hope, you know stringing me along, maybe with the view to buying yourself time to work out some clever new twist?”

   “I promise you I have the money. It’s yours. It wouldn’t be in my best interest to try any tricks.”

   “It sure as hell wouldn’t. Only I come to get it. Suits my purpose as it so happens. An hour then I’m gone. Except it ain’t gonna be just one last payment.”

   She flinched, the gun making a convulsive jerk, as he reached a big hand casually toward her. Paying no heed, Grant grinned and stroked at her neck, his hand coming down to diddle fingers at her shoulder, letting the tip of his index finger trail all the way down the length of her arm. His hand closed around her tiny wrist. The smiling grin went away. He pushed the nozzle of the gun hard into his midriff.

   "It’s make your mind up time," he said. "All you got to do is squeeze the trigger."

   Their eyes were inches apart. A strip of yellow light fell diagonally across Grant’s mouth. Do it, her inner self said. Now! Risk the consequences.

   She couldn’t and he brought back his certain grin. His grip tightened on her wrist and slowly he twisted his hand. She gave a faint cry and loosed her hold. He prised the gun from her fingers, slung it away, and yanked her to him.

   “No!” she gasped.

   He bent her back smearing her mouth with his. She cried out feebly, beating pathetically at him, a crane-fly beating at a spider. He wrenched the jacket back from her shoulders, pinning her arms. His big hand came up and he tore away the black dress, tore off the elastic strap of her brassier. In the same movement, he scooped her up in his big arms, carried her to the grease-stained sofa and dumped her down.

   There was nothing left. Nothing worth fighting for. All spirit had gone. She slid defeated to the floor. Absently, she plucked a torn strip of material and folded it back in place over her exposed left breast. Grant scrambled out of his trousers, grunting, hopping comically on one leg to pull them free. She lay passive, arms tight against her sides, waiting for his animal act. A long filmy cobweb stretched across the roof of the trailer. She stared up at it, fascinated as his face came into view, grey and vicious in the twilight gloom.

   A whimpered cry of despair whistled in her throat as he came down over her.

eight

Verro was such a disappointment. The foolish girl. Getting moonstruck over, of all people, a police detective. A lean muscular type, no doubt, though lacking anything by way of finesse or education. Alas, it was the old story, the character flaw in her makeup resurfacing. Luckily he had spotted the defect in time. At least she was out of harm’s way, stored for the time being in a nice dry safe place. There had been no choice in that. He could not have risked her betrayal.

   She would awaken soon, when she would have plenty of time to contemplate the error of her ways. He sighed. It was a great pity. She would be missing from the finale, and that wasn’t right. But then we cannot have everything in life.

   He held his gaze studiously to front going past the old swine. As ever, the beady eyes would glint with paternal censure. Once out of range of that foreboding glare, his gait became the frisky step of a ballet dancer. He allowed it to glide him up onto the stage and around the bar to where the drinks were kept.

   He grazed the palms of his hands together. Now what was it to be? The libation had to be exactly right. His eyes went over the range of drinks on offer, brandy, scotch, gin, rum – Crème de Menthe! Well, why not? He pulled out the curiously shaped green bottle and immediately had a change of heart. He shuddered. Ghastly stuff. A drink for cretins. The bottle went back where it belonged.

   There was always good old champagne of course, the emperor of toasting drinks. A couple of bottles stood chilling temptingly on the cool shelf, Moet & Chandon l987, a reasonable quaff. And yet somehow even champagne was not quite right in this instance.

   His gaze travelled to the lower shelves and lighted with evangelical zeal.

   Eureka!

   Of course. Guinness. The only decent drink to be had at any self-respecting wake.

   The single large bottle had been pushed to the far reaches of the lowest shelf. It looked lonely standing there. It was as if it had been anticipating this very moment, waiting like a captive genie for the moment of glorious release.

   The bottle was covered with ancient dust and he made a disapproving mouth lifting it out. He set it down on the bar top and brushed off his hands, searching around for some kind of opening device. Finding just such an implement fixed to inner rim of the bar he levered away the pale gold metal cap with the harp pictured on it.

   Straight off, his brow knitted.

   This wasn’t right. Where was the froth?

   Guinness was supposed to froth and spill from the neck of the bottle in a rather lewd way. That was all part of the ritual.

   He sighed heavily. Yet another disappointment. How much was one expected to take? Being so old, likely as not, it had gone stale and flat.

   More in hope than expectation, he sniffed at the open bottle. It was a rather odd smell. It was how he recalled coke to smell. Was that because it was musty? Or was it meant to be so acridly pungent?

   He sighed again and moved patrician shoulders in a resigned shrug. Oh, well. Stomach poisoning was probably the worst he might suffer. He found a tall glass and began to pour out the Guinness. The Fates had decreed what the drink was to be, so good enough.

   Froth did then flare up. There was so much, in fact, the spillage foamed in excess over the rim of the glass like a bilious amber waterfall. His face brightened. The Guinness was good after all, and which was a good omen. He tilted the glass and poured more steadily until the bottle was emptied, then raised it to the light, watching as it settled, sediment rising like sand in a disturbed sea.

   The stout actually didn’t look at all bad. It had a nice rich dark midnight colour, a creamy frothy appearance. He sniffed and had a taste, raising his eyebrows, appreciating the tangy flavour. Indeed, it was not at all unlike how one might imagine coke to taste. He wiggled the tip of his tongue between pursed lips, eyes puckering. Yes, not bad. But some additional ingredient was required. He scanned the spirits and settled on cognac, mellowed fire and body, and added a good reasonable drop. He tasted and made a circle with his thumb and finger.

   Perfection!

   Liquid velvet.

   Satisfied, he carried the Guinness laced with cognac across the long room and up the wide staircase to the master bedroom. He went in closing the door behind him and adjusted the lighting, aiming for the soft dimmed aura of a funeral parlour.

   Getting the effect he sought, he strolled up to the great rounded double bed and patted it. Satisfied, he dragged up his favourite wicker armchair and positioned the mahogany side table with the signs of the Zodiac etched upon the circular top next to it. He set down his drink on the little table, brushed off his knees, and settled back in the wicker chair, swinging one leg over the other.

   It was going to make a nice surprise for Deborah when she came walking in through the door. She would be the first of his guests, so to speak.

   He lifted an enamelled cigarette case from out his breast pocket and carefully fitted one of his custom-made Turkish cigarettes into the jade holder he liked so much. That accomplished, he produced a tiny ladies’ silver lighter, lighted the cigarette and blew a thin expeditionary trail of smoke up into the air and smiled.

   On with the wake.

nine

She turned on the wall light. "I have to say straight off, Inspector, that I doubt if I will be able to help you.”

   “I still would appreciate your talking things through,” Massey said, trailing on behind into the room.

   She paused to measure him clinically for a second then stooped to strike a match at an ancient gas fire set under a marble mantelpiece, the elements igniting with a startling pop.

   Might as well be warm, Massey thought. If anything though it seemed close in the room, and Naomi Fischer didn’t look the sort to suffer the cold. She was a big-boned woman with heavy handsome features, somewhere in her early forties he guessed, and a long way from the central casting movie shrink he half-expected. She wore black stretch pants and a grey loose-fitting cotton jumper rolled back to her elbows. A large topaz ring adorned the second finger of her left hand and there was a smaller ring with a ruby stone set on the little finger of the same hand. A double row of mauve and green beads hung around a surprisingly slender neck.

   She plonked down on a battered but comfortable-looking brown leather sofa and crossed stocky legs and reached for cigarettes and matches from the desk top behind her. She gestured with the cigarettes.

   “Any objections?”

   “No, go ahead, passive smoking is the nearest I get to a nicotine fix these days.”

   “You kicked the weed? I’m impressed. It’s a tougher proposition than overcoming a heroin addiction, you know."

   "So they tell me."

   "Just so long as you don’t turn out to be one of these holier than thou converts.”

   “No danger there, Doctor Fischer. It came down to quitting or ending up in one of those hospital wards with a harrowing name.”

   She smiled and lighted up as Massey took a glance around. The place was untidy in that unorthodox barmy professor kind of way, books crowded everywhere. He slid a paperback book from the top of a stack piled on the floor, a second-hand anthology of science fiction stories.

   "Are you a reader?" she asked.

   "When I get the chance," he said and flicked pages.

   She puffed smoke into the air. "So how exactly did you find me? Please. Sit. Pull up a chair.”

   Massey replaced the paperback and dragged up a cushioned chair as directed. Naomi Fischer’s strong dark eyes were letting him know if it came to a battle there was only going to be one winner. Well, no problem there. He wasn’t looking for victory, just information. “I found you through Veronica Dow,” he said, and sat facing her.

   “I see. And what did she tell you?”

   “Among other things that she once asked for your help, but you turned her down.”

   “Are you admonishing me? To be accurate, I counselled her for a short period, but I saw she was playing games, with which I have little patience. I would advise you to tread carefully with Veronica Dow, Inspector. She is an hysteric, do you understand what I mean?"

   "You mean somebody who likes to give full vent to their emotions."

   "Not quite. Hysteria is what is known as a dissociative disorder. It is characterised by a breakdown of consciousness and the perception of self. Veronica is one of life’s fantasists. The problem for such people lies in their inability to distinguish where drama ends and real life begins."

   "Couldn’t it be then the game-playing she pulled was a symptom of her hysteria?"

   She half-closed her eyes and sighed. "The trouble with psychology, Massey, is that everybody imagines themselves to be experts in the field. In my assessment, Veronica’s personality disturbances were not of an order to warrant a long drawn-out course of analysis. As with many spoilt, rich people, she was much taken with the idea of spending idle hours lying on the psychiatrist’s couch. It was clearly a waste of my time.”

   “But not so with her brother. I take his problems were deemed more worthy of your invaluable attention.”

   Naomi Fischer angled her head and gazed at Massey with narrow curiosity. "I can see I am going to have difficulties with you."

   He grinned a lopsided grin. "You’ll get used to me."

   "I sincerely hope I will," she said and drew on her cigarette, smiling in spite of herself. "You are right, though. Creighton was of interest to my work - my invaluable attention, if you like. Only I am not certain I can go any further with this. Professional ethics do have to be taken into account."

   "Bit late in the day, wouldn’t you say?"

   "You mean because he is dead? I am not certain. Even with death the trust between a doctor and patient is sacrosanct, and never more so than with matters of the mind. You can liken it to the role of a priest in the confessional box."

   "Trouble is, Doc, you’re talking to a man who hasn’t exactly a high regard for religion, in any shape or form."

   "Then what do you believe in?"

   "Not that mumbo-jumbo, for a start."

   "I see, you are a cynic."

   "On my better days," he said. "Can’t I persuade you to open up? It won’t go any further, I promise you."

   She smiled as if doubting this and took a drag on her cigarette. "I will tell you this much. I counselled Creighton Dow late on Saturday afternoon, not many hours before his death.”

   Massey frowned at her. “Why didn’t you come forward to say this?”

   Her tawny eyebrows knitted. “I hope this isn’t about to become some kind of forced interrogation session. I didn’t inform you because I saw little of value in doing so. The consultation was unexceptional, booked in advance and followed the pattern of our usual exchanges. There was nothing either in what he said or by his manner to indicate prior knowledge of his murder, if that helps.”

   “You sure about that? I appreciate you want to guard your professional ethics, but I am afraid I’m going to have to push you on this."

   "I don’t much like being pushed."

   "Sorry, wrong choice of words. Let’s try this. Let’s for argument’s sake say we have gone five years down the line. The dust has settled and emotions have cooled. You have discussed Creighton Dow left side from backwards with colleagues, maybe written about him in essays and books and what have you. So can’t we make one of those mind-jump things?"

   "A paradigm shift, you mean."

   "Is that what you call it? Look, Doc, anything you tell me isn’t going to hurt him now and it could just turn out to be vitally important.”

   “A matter of life and death, no doubt.”

   “It could just be.”

   Naomi Fischer sucked on strong yellow teeth and considered. "Do you know anything of the works of Carl Jung?”

   “Not really,” Massey said. "I’m more of an Elmore Leonard man. I think I might have come across him somewhere. One of Freud’s cronies, wasn’t he?”

   “Very good. Yes, both men were closely associated, before going their separate ways. I also like Elmore Leonard, as it happens. But it could be well worth your while to read Jung. He would have much to say for a man like you."

   "Should I take that as a compliment?"

   "I’ll leave you to work it out. I am serious, though. Jung was one of the first thinkers to explore the link between Western and Oriental minds. He was also a firm believer in the intuitive process, a position with which I am in full agreement. We are brought up to manage facts, here in the West, the so-called civilised world, and as a consequence we have become doubtful of our emotions."

   "I have to follow facts," Massey said. "They’re the basis of all detective work. Emotion only gets in the way."

   "Only the wrong sort. Intuition would provide our best guidance, if only we could learn to trust it. Wherever possible I follow my intuition, Massey. And following my intuition, I find that I like you. I also find you sexually attractive – don’t worry, I always speak with utter frankness. To do otherwise is to waste time, and time is what life is made of. Why you have chosen to do what you do, I find puzzling. The role of policeman has always seemed a questionable one to me, evoking as it does certain aspects of the authoritarian personality. Yet you appear to be intelligent and to display a core of existential honesty.”

   Massey found himself ogling her big full breasts, noting she was sitting there bra-less. “Thanks,” he said. "If you can jot those thoughts down and sign it, I’ll use it in my next review session."

   She smiled. “I would take a guess and say you are divorced, and recently so."

   "Is it so apparent?"

   "There are signs. Has it upset you?"

   She had made the shift into professional counselling mode he realised. "It did for a time," he said going along with it. "Probably still does. You know how it is, you blame yourself, ask yourself over and over where you went wrong."

   "What happened?"

   "Nothing out of the ordinary. My wife found a man more in tune with her needs and I wasn’t the easiest of characters to live with. She wanted kids and I didn’t, or thought I didn’t. It’s all for the best."

   She smoked away, the dark eyes probing him. Then she hauled herself from the battered sofa going around to her desk. She clicked on her desk light, opened a deep drawer and brought out a bottle of Glenfiddick and two large whisky glasses. She sloshed out a couple of good measures, handed one to Massey and sat as before.

   “What do you want to know?”

   Massey stared down into his glass. “Well, anything that might help, names maybe. You know people Creighton Dow was involved with. I’m ready to try anything.”

   "Do you believe his death to be a random slaying?"

   "No I don’t. I think there has to be quite a bit more to it."

   “All right, talk it through. Start at the beginning and we will see. If nothing else, it might help you piece matters together.”

   “Shall I lie on the couch?”

   She chuckled. “If you think it would be productive. Take a drink first. That is pure malt. It will give you the boost you need. You do like good scotch I hope?”

   “I’m trying to get used to the taste,” he said, and took a healthy sip, wondering what kind of boost she had in mind.

   She was right though, Naomi Fischer, the scotch was damned good. He tasted some more, the golden burn firing all the way to the pit of his stomach. He came forward, rolling the glass back and forth between his hands. Easy to say start at the beginning. Massey had a feeling the beginning was located a long way back. Maybe the thing to do was plunge right in and lay bare the rogue thought swilling around in his brain.

   "I have this theory," he began.

   She nodded. “Also a question you want to ask. I see it hanging on the tip of your tongue. You hesitate because it seems so outlandish. You want to ask if it’s possible Creighton Dow might not be dead after all, am I correct?”

   Massey stared into her dark compelling eyes. “Could it be?” he  said.

   “Are you asking me or yourself? Almost anything is possible, although it hardly seems likely. When did this notion first occur to you?”

   “I’m not sure. But you’ve obviously considered it. You were already two steps ahead of me.”

   “I saw the way your mind was working," she said. "It is what I do, and am good at. But go on with it, try and substantiate the basis of your theory.”

   "All right," Massey said and took a belt of his drink. “In the first place, the corpse was badly battered. The face as good as obliterated. Creighton Dow’s wife, by a strange coincidence, happens not to be there at the time, although that’s by the by.”

   “No matter, let your mind run with it.”

   “My mind’s done nothing but run with it."

   "And...?"

   "Maybe I’m fooling myself, but certain factors just don’t ring true.”

   “As for instance?”

   “Well, to begin with, the means of identifying the body weren’t all they might have been. No DNA test was carried out to corroborate the identity of the dead man. It was assumed from the start the murdered man was Creighton Dow.”

   “Surely some steps were taken to identify the corpse.”

   "His wife identified him by a distinctive birth mark.”

   “Isn’t that enough?"

   "Ordinarily you might say so. I take it the chance of a birthmark replicating itself would have pretty long odds stacked against it."

   "Millions to one I should think. You wouldn’t appear to have much too back up your hunch, which is all it can be said to be.”

   “Put like that, it does look a bit thin.”

   She dawdled the cigarette she was smoking around her lips. “Assuming for the moment Creighton is alive, it would appear to raise two fundamental questions. The first being why he would want to falsify his own demise. And then the even bigger question of who it is that has taken his place in death.”

   "Yeah, what you might call a conundrum."

   "The sure way to establish the identity of the corpse of course would be carry out a second post mortem.”

   Massey shook his head. "Not much chance there, I’m afraid. In the first place I would need some pretty solid evidence to push for it, and my stock right now isn’t exactly riding the crest of a wave."

   "Why so?"

   He gave a vague shrug. "I was a bit rough with Deborah Dow, more than a bit rough, in fact.  You heard about the second body turning up.”

   “The Murder in the Cathedral," she said. "Yes, the similarities are starkly evident.”

   “For my money it’s a Spanish woman called Carmen Beuno.” Massey explained the history of how she found the body then disappeared. “The baffling thing is there is evidence she has now returned. I just came from the Dow house, and sure enough her case and things are there in her room for all to see, together with other pointers of her presence.”

   “But not the servant herself.”

   “No. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

   Naomi Fischer crushed out her cigarette in a copper ashtray and lighted another. “It would seem to me you have overlooked the obvious explanation. Namely that the corpse in the church is not hers and she really has come back. Perhaps it isn’t so baffling. The easiest proposition, Massey, is the one which convinces us we are right. It is called going beyond.”

   “And you think I’m going beyond with this. Okay, maybe I am. But I’ve gone this far and I have to carry it through.”

   "Yes, it has become a big thing for you, hasn’t it?"

   Massey loosened his tie. The heat from the gas fire together with the scotch and smog from the cigarettes was making him feel thick in the head. He hustled forward and spread his hands. “Look, Doc," he said. "Can’t you give me an angle? I’m asking you to help me out here.”

   Naomi Fischer tapped with a finger then wedged on a pair of steel-framed glasses. She set aside her scotch and reached behind her for a manila folder.

ten                                

“Veronica was Creighton’s most significant other,” she said opening the file. “Are you familiar with the term?”

   "You mean she was the single most important person in his life?" Massey said. "Even more than his wife, would you say?"

   "Considerably so. She was the younger by some six years, which is a consequential gap between siblings. Yet she manifestly became the one he looked to for approval.”

   “What about him once having been a twin?”

   She took off the steel-framed glasses. “You are to be congratulated, Massey. You have delved deep. This information came from Veronica of course. You must have succeeded in getting very close to her.”

   Massey shifted guiltily in his chair. She refitted her glasses and smiled a covert smile, going back to the file.

   “Yes, Creighton did have a twin brother,” she said. “Though you are not correct in saying he was once a twin. Twins are twins throughout their lives. They never cease to be such, even with the death of one of them. Do you know anything of the psychology of twins?”

   “I only know people in your line of work have put in a lot of heavy overtime into the study of twins, like they are supposed to hold some special key to explain our behaviour.”

   Naomi Fischer compressed her lips showing approval. “You are a surprising man, Inspector. If you are interested you could do worse than read Otto Rank’s The Double: A Psychoanalytical Study.”

   “It sounds a knock-out, Doc. Put it on the list with Jung. How about you give me a fast run-down?"

   “Very well," she said, "a fast run-down.” She stared at a corner of the ceiling. “The study of twins has a long history. It goes back well before psychology was established as a legitimate science. It is steeped in mythology, the obsession with the double and the ancient superstition that derives from the bipolar ambiguity that exists in all of us. Our sane and insane counterparts. It is the threat of our self from our self. The exposure of the bad, free other side of our personality driving us to those mad desires we secretly crave, at bottom of which lies narcissism and paranoia. Sorry, am I being obscure?”  

   “No, I get the drift," Massey said. "We are into Jekyll and Hyde territory, aren’t we?"

   "Yes, you have it. That is the premise behind Stevenson’s classic tale, without question."

   "Okay, so how did this affect Creighton Dow?”

   She moved her big shoulders. “It is not easy to sum up in a few words. Creighton and his brother were monozygotic twins, which is to say they came from just one of their mother’s eggs. Physically and mentally they were as identical as it is possible for two people to be. Monozygotic twins have been known to experience the pain of the other, to catch colds and flu at the same time even when miles apart. There are even claims to telepathy, though not substantiated. The fact of Creighton being both a monozygotic and a parted twin does go some way in explaining his deep-seated neurosis.”

   “So where does Veronica fit in?”

   “Veronica took the place of the lost brother. Between them they put up a barrier, a kind of united defense against their father, whom they both despised.”

   “She said he was a swine.”

   “Yes, a deeply disturbed man without doubt. Despite the gap in years, Creighton’s reliance upon his sister morphed into an addictive necessity. She became in effect his surrogate twin, and which is why he experienced such trauma when he finally married."

   "The way Veronica had it Creighton was the one calling the shots. According to her, he virtually browbeat her into doing these porno films, which she claims she hated."

   Naomi Fischer nodded. "Their relationship was certainly highly complex, with one or the other adopting the dominant position depending upon their ego states at a given time. You can liken it to the role play of the lion and the lion tamer. The lion tamer has the upper hand most of the time. He bullies the lion. He keeps the beast at bay. But he is never totally in control, knowing as he does that it is the lion and not he who holds the real destructive power if the beast should choose to use it."

   "So who was the lion and who the lion tamer?"

   "Creighton was the lion tamer, the manipulator."  

   "Making Veronica the lion. Was the thing they had between them incestuous?"

   She paused to suck on the stem of her glasses. “Their relationship was certainly incestuous in spirit. I could be wrong, but I would tend to doubt it went beyond that.”

   "It all sounds pretty mixed up, whichever way you put it. He was the strong one of the two, but at the same time he was the weak one."

   "Don’t confuse aggression with strength, Massey. Creighton’s personality was chronically insecure." She studied a page from the file. "His obsession with magic and prank playing was a significant reflection of this. Allowing him as it did to gain superiority over others by diminishing them and making them look foolish. As to why he would wish to carry out his own surrogate murder, together it has to be supposed with an actual murder, assuming your theory to be correct, is  another question entirely."

   Massey rubbed at his chin. "Would you describe him as a schizophrenic?"

   “Do you understand the condition?”

   “I’ve come across criminals labelled as schizophrenic. It just seems to fit, you know the split personality aspect.”

   "Well, you are not exactly right, schizophrenia does not mean split personality, as is commonly understood. Creighton was a little boy who liked pulling the legs off spiders. But there is something in what you say. There is no question he was becoming increasingly detached from reality, absorbed with wish-fulfilling fantasy schemes."

   "Like his sister’s career in cheap horror films."

   "Yes, a fair example. He lost a good deal of money on her film career along with other ill-fated projects. In his mind’s eye of course he was never anything less than a brilliant entrepreneur.”

   “So why come to you?”

   “Because a boiling kettle is sealed it does not mean it will not eventually build up steam and explode. Creighton was experiencing nightmares of horrific proportion. His mood swings had become wildly unpredictable and he had begun to fantasise about his own death to the point where he half-believed he was already dead.”

   “Jesus.”

   “Don’t become carried away, Massey. The notion of Creighton being alive fits only with the world of imaginative fiction.” She turned a page. “He was a brilliant mimic, always imitating people, at parties and over the phone, pretending to be them.”

   “Causing no-end of mischief.”

   “Of course, mischief and pain being his prime aim. Only it didn’t stop at mere voice impressions. He would take on the complete character, going so far in many instances to dress up as the target person. It was a form of compensation, you see, making up for the absence of a securely defined personality of his own."

   “Was he capable of murder? – in your opinion.”

   Naomi Fischer continued to chain smoke lighting up a third cigarette, wafting a hand at the smoke in a token preventative gesture. “Well, what would you say, Massey? Most everybody is capable of murder, aren’t they, given the right conditions? If you are asking me if he showed evidence of homicidal tendencies, my straight answer would have to be, yes, he did. It was all there in his romantic fascination with death. I had only begun to scratch the surface of his problem when he died – assuming of course you are wrong.”

   “Supposing I’m not wrong? Logic says you would be the one person he would seek out for help. You might find yourself placed in danger.”

   “Aren’t you being just a little dramatic?” She added a further slosh of Glenfiddick to her glass gesturing to Massey with the bottle.

   He shook his head. “Better not. Be careful, Doc. I know you think I’m day dreaming, but it can’t hurt to take precautions. I could arrange to have your house watched. Might not be such a bad idea.”

   The thought amused her. “I hardly think so. I would never recover my reputation. In any case, in the event I am arrogant enough to believe myself capable of dealing with him. But I thank you for your concern.” She got up from the sofa. “So what are your plans now? Are you hungry, you look as if you might be? I could make you a sandwich.”

   She was close to him. He could smell her body smell. “I have to get cracking, I’m afraid," he said.

   “A pity. Well, Inspector, it has been interesting. I think you are mistaken about Creighton, but I would certainly like to know how things progress. Will you keep me posted?”

   Massey knocked back his scotch and creaked himself upright. Standing together, she was almost as tall as he was. “Don’t worry,” he said. He grinned at her. “I’ll be back. How else am I going to get a good drop of this smooth scotch?”

eleven

Back at his car there was an urgent message from Ray Whitmore. “Two things,” he said when Massey reached him. “You were bang on the money about Bowman getting called out to the Dow house. They had an attempted break-in eighteen months ago, and guess who the investigating officer turned out to be?”

   “Surprise, surprise. Okay. What else?”

   “This is a strange one. Of all people, Norman Pargeter’s been trying to reach you.”

   “Pargeter?”

   “Been on at least three times," Whitmore said. "Won’t talk to anybody else, insists it has to be you. Got your pen?” He reeled off a Chelsea address and phone number.

   “He didn’t give any idea what he wanted?”

   “Not at clue. He sounded scared.”

   “Scared, how do you mean?”

   “Just what I say. He was jumpy, stuttering and getting his words mixed up.”

   “Pargeter was?”

   “Call him and you’ll see what I mean.”    

   Massey did, straight after finishing the call, picking up the engaged tone. He drummed fingers on the steering wheel. What could be bugging Pargeter? He wasn’t the type to get scared. Ray must have got his lines crossed.

   He had given little thought to food over the past ten hours and wished he had taken up Naomi’s offer of a sandwich. He started up the engine and set off in the direction of Chelsea, becoming immediately snarled up with the heavy West London traffic. Crawling along he tried Pargeter a couple of times but the line stayed busy. Well, nothing unusual about that. A high-flyer like Norman Pargeter he supposed would have calls coming thick and fast at all hours.

   Following a hunch, Massey rang the Savoy, where he finally managed to squeeze out of the suspicious toffee-nosed young female he spoke to that Veronica had already checked out and left to catch a flight from Heathrow for Amsterdam. He got the number of Heathrow and rang the airport.

   After going through the rigmarole with the automatic answering system and more wrangling about his identity, he succeeded in establishing that she had sent on her luggage to Amsterdam but had not actually caught the flight. Massey asked the clerk if she was certain about this, and she told him rather snottily that she was.

   Pensively, Massey clicked his phone in place.

   A dull light burned back of his eyes.

twelve

Deborah leaned back to the bedroom door and released a muted groan. She stayed that way for a long while, holding the torn dress in place, eyes closed, letting the rhythms of her body settle.

   Gaining then as much inner calm as she was going to, she stumbled on into the room. Grant’s animal smell hung about her and she stepped out of the ruined black dress, and then stepped out of the rest of her clothes. She eased on a white terrycloth robe limped into the bathroom, turned on hot water, and came back and lowered her aching limbs to sit at her dressing table.

   She fingered numbed lips in the mirror but could detect no signs of bruising. Her shoulders told a different story. A little squeal of pain issued from her lips as she hitched back her robe. A tender area was already turning blue. She folded the robe carefully back in place, took up a stiff hairbrush and began to brush in a dreamlike way at her hair.

   She paused.

   Her nostrils twitched.

   There seemed to be an acrid smell in the air, like someone had been smoking. She swung around, her heart lurching. For one dread moment it seemed Grant had followed and was there in the room with her.

   Her mouth went down, her pulse rate calming. There was no reason to suppose that. He had got what he wanted. She turned back to the mirror. She took up the hairbrush, and paused again.

   The room really did smell of tobacco.

   It reminded of the foul Turkish stuff he would use.

   A shudder ran through her.

   No, it was ridiculous. She was imagining things, which was hardly surprising given the humiliation suffered at the hands of that Australian pig. She focused on her mirror and got busy with her brushing again, trying to shift her thoughts on to other things.

   She halted again, the brush poised in mid-air.

   It was definitely there. Tobacco. Thick in the air.

   A strobe of fear ran through her. Mechanically, she laid the brush down, the base first then the handle, hearing the tiny putting noise as it settled on the hard polished wooden surface. Her heart was pounding. Absently she traced back a tendril of hair, folding it with neat precision behind her ear. She dallied with her cosmetics, examining an opaque white vial wondering for no good reason if it would do all it claimed. Cosmetics, how could you trust them? Wrestling with these pallid thoughts, she reached trembling to move a mirror flange.

   He was watching her from a darkened corner, lounging in the slumped, indolent pose she knew so well, head cocked to the side, one leg dangling idly across the other. He wore his all-too-familiar tiredly amused smirk and had one of his awful foreign cigarettes held aloft, blue smoke trailing in a haze around him.

   For one long moment she stared paralysed at his reflection.

   It was a dream, a nightmare.

   It had to be.

   And then he spoke. He said in his whiny effeminate way:

   “Trading rough again, darling?”

   She came twisting to her feet. A giant gong sounded in her brain. She gulped for air. Gagging. The room darkened around her. She groped to keep balance.

   “Whatever is wrong, darling? You look ghastly. You look – well. You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

   And he laughed his nasty braying laugh.

   She took one faltering step, as if drawn to him. The floor was cotton wool under her feet. His face was a grinning white mask. She moved her lips but couldn’t speak. She managed one more step.

   And then pitched face down in a dead faint.

thirteen

It was close on eleven by the time Massey made it to Pargeter’s Chelsea home, a smart three-storey townhouse in a section of townhouses. No real estate signposts needed in this neck of the woods. No undesirables of whatever stamp required, thank you very much.

   He mounted marbled steps. A Victorian lamp hazed light brilliantly off the glossy black-painted door which, upon moving closer, he saw had been left conveniently open a few inches. Thoughtful of Pargeter, save his guest having to knock. Massey glanced upward. The orange burr showing behind the scalloped transom told he was home. He peered over his shoulder. The street was empty. He turned back to the door and, accepting the invitation, stepped inside.

   The hall was about twelve feet long. Overhead the high ceiling had been painted a dense matte black, the walls a deep maroon and decked with tasteful silhouette prints. A vinous plant sprouted from a heavy bronze tub where the hall widened at the far end. Next to the tub, a lightweight Crombie overcoat and a paisley scarf hung from an old-fashioned wooden coat-stand. A wedge of amber light showed up ahead. Massey headed in that direction.

   “Pargeter?" he called out.

   No reply came back, and he followed the trail of light leading him down a short flight of stairs. At the bottom a door had been left ajar. Massey pushed on through into Pargeter’s office den, and there he was waiting.

   He looked angry and he had every right. He lay face down on the carpet, his chin propped forward as if testing to see how far it would stretch. The struggle of his position had bunched his lips in a carp-like grimace, the swollen end of his red tongue protruding as if blowing a comic raspberry. The one eye on view stared popped and clouded, reinforcing the expression of anger. He looked like a man who gets a fish bone lodged in his gullet and is straining like mad to disgorge it.

   He had died quickly. But then no one survives too long after sustaining a wound to the jugular such as he had received. More a savage tear than a cut, the slash gaped across the left side of his throat like a grimacing second mouth.

   "Jesus," Massey said softly.

   The dead man’s left arm was twisted underneath him, the right thrust out in a kind of flamboyant theatrical gesture. The wall had been duck-egg blue. Now it was spattered in gory red. Crazy infantile scrawling lines trailed down to the dark green carpet and appeared to join with the tip of one pointing finger.

   Massey stared at the bloodied wall, then down at Pargeter.

   Had Pargeter been trying to write out a message – in his own blood!  If so it had been a futile labour. The scrawling bloody mess was no more than that.

   It had been a simple enough act. Pargeter had been working at his desk and the killer had walked up from behind and slashed him. A backhanded slash judging by the angle of the wound. The contents of Pargeter’s old-fashioned brown satchel briefcase had then been dumped out and rummaged through, and could be he had hit the jackpot. Nothing else in the room looked to have been disturbed. No desk drawers had been pulled out and rifled through. Getting what he came for, he would have departed quickly, leaving Pargeter to crawl his last few inches and drown in his own blood.

   Massey dispelled his pent-up breath. A guy like Pargeter, the world in the palm of his hand. Educated, wealthy, successful. Feared even. Ending up like this.

   The popped red eye stared across the room. Massey followed the dead gaze. It seemed to be fixed on the wall-high bookcase. Was that intentional, or just the random position of his head in death? Probably the latter he figured. As with the pointing finger, it configured nothing but a final death spasm. He walked across the room and appraised the shelves.

   A small battalion of legal books bound in stiff grey cloth were set uniformly on the middle and upper shelves. Below were novels and other literary stuff, history, philosophy, poetry. Most interestingly, one entire section was taken up with books and magazines on the cinema, biographies and analyses of various giants of the screen, Fellini, Buñuel, Hitchchock. This was where Pargeter’s heart lay no question. There hadn’t been enough room for all of the material and some of the stuff had been layered horizontally.

   Massey pulled out a thin volume: Women in Film Noir. He had already weighed the value of fingerprints and dismissed it. Sometimes the wrong thing to do is the right thing to do. And it kept coming back to him. The thread of the movies. Always creeping in. Dow. Veronica. And now Pargeter.

   In five minutes he was ankle deep in fanned pages. Only it was a hopeless task. It would take a team of experts the best part of a week to find anything, assuming there was anything there to find in the first place.

   He was at the point of giving neck and calling forensics, when he opened out a glossy poster. Folded inside some underground art house magazine, the spread featured one of Veronica’s films: Robo Fiend Girl.

   The artwork was lurid, in-your-face stuff. Veronica had star billing, her name splashed in big bold scarlet lettering above the title. Below this ran the name of the leading man, one Burt Diver, whoever he was. Next, in ever diminishing size, was that of Chita Velez. Around this last name a loop had been inked, the blue line continuing down the spread to the broad white margin at the bottom of the page. Here, inside another inked loop, Pargeter had printed:

   CHITA VELEZ IS CARMEN BUENO!

   Massey lifted his gaze and stared at nothing.

   Back in his brain a bell was tolling.

   A bell with a crack in it.

fourteen

Creighton set aside his cigarette in its jade ashtray. He coughed delicately into his fingertips, uncrossed his legs and stood. He brushed away ash from the sleeve of his midnight blue dinner jacket and strolled casually across the room to hover over Deborah’s inert form.

   He craned his head this way and that, studying his wife the way a bored à la mode fashion buyer might study the latest tired offering on the catwalk. In experimental fashion, he lifted his right foot a few inches and prodded her ribcage with the toe of his polished shoe. She made a muffled sound into the carpet. He drew back the raised foot, and using it as a lever, rolled her on to her back.

   A bubble formed at centre of her lips. He watched fascinated as it swelled to what seemed an incredible size. He bent, curious, and pinched her bulged cheeks, the bubble sucking back inside her mouth, not bursting. He lifted her head, scanned her face. Let it drop. Out cold. Oh, dear. He patted her cheek. Too much strain for the poor darling.

   He came up to full height and wafted out his dress handkerchief, used it to cleanse his hands and returned the handkerchief fussily to the show pocket of his tux.

   The sound of water filling the tub came from the open bathroom. He cocked an ear to the sound. Sighing, slightly put out, he went into the bathroom and shut off the tap and came back and stared down at Deborah again. She lay stretched to full body length, arms akimbo. He tapped a finger at pursed lips and walked casually around her lying form and returned to his starting position. He worked a knuckle to the shallow cleft in his chin.

   Then he stooped. He took a grip on her ankles and made a half circle manoeuvre, turning her ninety degrees, and proceeded to shuffled backward over the carpeted floor. Her hair and arms furled back with the dragging movement, head wobbling side to side like the rear end of a fishtailing car. He reached the bed and let her ankles drop.

   She made a moaning sound. He frowned. The towelling robe had rode up around her hips and for modesty’s sake he bent and covered her over.

   Sounds of no coherent meaning were sprouting from her lips. Keeping a watchful eye on his stirring wife, he swept away the duvet cover from off the bed, snatched out the under sheet and flapped it. He took hold of the edge of the sheet and tried to tear it. It wouldn’t tear. He used his teeth to get a start. She was coming round, her right hand making spastic drifting motions in the air.

   He tore the sheet.

fifteen

Ray Whitmore had begun to doze, his second try for a birthday dinner long aborted, when Massey called. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Got to lay it on you. Pargeter’s copped it. Got his throat cut. Not too long dead I wouldn’t think.”

   “Wha-at!”

   “Brace yourself. He’s not a pretty sight. Get things moving, get hold of Connor and tell him the score. You’ll need to force an entry. Don’t bother to ring the bell.”

   "Where will you be?"

    "Gone."

   “What d’you mean, gone?”

   “Ray, I need you to trust me on this. I’m working outside the margin. I’ve disturbed things you might as well know it. I broke the cardinal rule. I put my hands all over the evidence.”

   “Mass, you can’t do that!”

   “It’s done. I’ve got an angle on this. Don’t ask me to explain.”

   “Where are you now?”

   “Travelling,” Massey said. “Sorry to leave you with the mess, Ray. Do what you have to do, okay? You’ll find him down in his basement study. Make sure you bring the eggheads with you. Get set for a shock. I’ll be in touch later.”

   He ended the call and drove on, leaving the phone unconnected. He felt a twang of guilt loading it on Ray. But not for long. Other factors were taking precedence. A light rain had started to fall, blurring the on-coming headlights into a prism of rainbows. They seemed to watch the wheels of his mind with stealthy cunning.

   He saw things.

   Bad things.

   The pulped face of a man called Creighton Dow. Who may or may not have been that man. And who it seemed, alive or dead, straddled the thin uncertain line that borders the sane from the insane.

   Though what is sane? What is insane?

   He saw the recesses of a big ornate cathedral, a place where people go to light a candle and maybe find a little peace. Like the young curate. Who found instead a nightmare. A woman without a face. A woman Massey believed to be a Spanish servant called Carmen. But who now seemed to have been something altogether different.

   He saw again the cheap cardboard case, the laid out working shift next to it on the bed, shoes and espadrilles placed neatly on the floor below. A dripping showerhead, discarded underwear. A vulgar but expensive crocodile handbag with everyday cosmetics inside, plus a crucifix and rosary beads. A coat hanging on a hook on a door, a cheap everyday coat with a day-traveller London Underground ticket in one pocket.

   He thought of two men.

   Two men as opposite as it were possible to be.

   A thug of a policeman with flat vicious pig eyes, working his parody Australian act. With more up his sleeve than anybody could say.

   And a vain, smooth, well-educated man. A big-shot lawyer, who for whatever reason had concealed things, and had paid the ultimate price. A violent, lonely death.  

   He thought of a beautiful lady with honey blonde hair and sky blue eyes.

   Beautiful but flawed.

   Like the Mona Lisa with her mouth full of rotted teeth. Who had sold herself for money. A great deal more money than she ever dreamed of scribbling over her shorthand pad in the office pool. She had been prepared to play a hard game to get what she wanted. Maybe the most dangerous game of all.

   Finally he thought of a sad faded little would-be film star.

   An insecure young woman who was not half as brash as she tried to make out. A woman he had made love to. Not without meaning. Who had loved him in return, and not without meaning for her - he didn’t think so. A woman, for all that, who had lied to him. Lied on two counts. First, disclaiming knowledge of Carmen Bueno - or Chita Velez – when all along she must have known her intimately as a fellow actor, and then telling him she intended setting off for Holland and would contact him from there. But who had not gone and was somewhere close at hand.

   He wondered where that might be.

sixteen

She came out of a thick chloroform sleep, a moodily grey sleep, merging into consciousness, drifting in and out, trying to hold on, stay awake, not always knowing whether she was awake or not, dreaming bad and terrifying dreams.

   But now she was awake.

   She thought that she was.

   The pad over her mouth and nose was held taped in place. She could scarcely breath. Tape also covered her eyes and her arms and legs were held fast. She could only swallow the awful fumes fearing that at any time she would vomit and drown in her own sick.

   She was going to die anyway. So perhaps it didn’t matter.

   It had always been his intention, the thought stuck there. Lurking in some dark recess of his sick mind, hate and love mixing together. To one day get rid of her.

   And now that day had come.

   He had placed her in a tight closed space. The boot of a car it felt like. She was trapped there. No escape was possible. She could try to kick against the lid. But what was the use? No traffic sounds came from outside. No sounds came of any kind. She was in a secret place, a black silent void. No one was ever going to find her.

   That he was completely unhinged was beyond doubt. He had always been heading toward madness. Now all reaches of normal sane behaviour had abandoned him.

   She could only lie and wait for his return.

   Trying desperately to hang on to reality.

   Drifting.

   In her tomb.

                                                      midnight

one

Massey switched off the headlights and tip-toed his car into the hollow, drawing up behind Bowman’s Citroen. He cut the engine and focused on the trailer. Nothing stirred. Through a chink in the drawn curtains dimmed light seeped peacefully into the night. Massey didn’t like it.  It was quiet, much too quiet and Bowman wasn’t the sort to turn in early. More like he would like his noise top of the roof.  

   He thought it over for a moment and then got out and worked his way down the bank, halting as he came up to the door. The hairs at the back of his neck bristled. Three bodies found in three days, one chalked up already this night. It looked as if somebody was on a roll. What price Bowman grinning back at him with two mouths when he walked in?

   He edged along the trailer to the single small window and pressed his face to the glass pane and peered in through the chink, switching position to try from the other side. The tight angles produced little. He spied part of a striped couch, some heaped up clothes spilling from the back of chair, the leg ends of a pair of khaki drill pants. Nothing much else.

   A big articulated truck thundered by on the road above, and he used the noise as a cover to shuffle back to the door. He moved aside the mesh frame, steadying it as it rattled, the sound magnifying in the still night. He tried the latch and the door clicked open. Massey touched at his throat. Would there be some shadowy figure crouching there in the dark, a long sharp blade held aloft?  

   Using the flat plane of his fist, he prodded the door. It eased back a few inches and returned to its former position. He waited, pulse racing, and then went for it. Giving a snapping push, he stepped quickly inside, fists raised, head jerking left to right.

   The door swung back to clunk against his shoulder, nothing else. No cunning devil lay in wait to slash his throat. No Bowman either. He let his lungs deflate, wiped clammy hands down his sides and quietly set the door in place. He looked around.

   Twin lights burned dimly behind grimed plastic shades, the fuzzy shape of a big dead moth stretched out majestically in one of them.

  "Bowman?" he called out.

   No answer. 

   He mooched into the galley kitchen, grimacing at the unwashed pans and things. He left the kitchen and took a look around the living area. He noted the TV and music centre, the pile of heaped clothes on the back of the cheap armchair. He poked a finger at the clothes, raised a sweatshirt and let it drop, getting a good niff of Bowman’s BO in the process. He saw the girlie mags strewn over the couch and the matted floor. He lifted a thin cushion finding more of the same underneath.

   He picked up one of the mags and flicked pages. It was the usual tasteless smut, the dog-eared copy very well used. He checked the date. Old, several years old, in fact. He frowned at that and dropped the mag back with the others on the couch, scuffed more aside with his foot.

   He went back and opened one of the two narrow doors finding the bathroom. It was small, but in a trailer what else could it be? Massey pulled the cord light switch. There was a lavatory, a wash basin, shower cubicle, a cabinet for toiletries. He poked around in the cabinet finding the usual things, talc, shaving cream. He shook out some of the talcum powder and sniffed. Just talc, on the sweet side.

   He backed out. The second door would be the bedroom. He hesitated, then turned the handle clicking on the light and went in, getting more of Bowman’s stink.

   He took in the cot bed, the plywood wardrobe, the big cardboard box, stuff jumbled on the floor. He measured his height against the low roof and then got down on one knee and peered under the bed. More jumble, old socks and things and a number of used Marlboro cigarette cartons were scattered around.

   Within reach he found an annual-sized hardback book with a yellow dust jacket titled The World’s Most Powerful Rifles and Handguns. Massey turned pages, squatting there. Other than gaining a further slant on the working of Bowman’s off-key mind, he saw nothing of value in the glossy plates of Colts and Lugers. He pushed the book back and came upright.

   He went over to the wardrobe and hinged it open. The face that stared back at him from a smudged mirror looked pale and tensed. He ran his eyes over the clothes hanging there, moved stuff around, then closed off his reflection and looked around some more.

   And with no better idea leaping out at him, he got down and again peered under the bed. Could be he had spotted it first time, his brain coaxing the memory. But pushed well back in a far dark corner against the wall there was a canvas bundle tied with string.

   He stretched and reached the bundle out. It was thin and pliable. Photographs, he guessed by the feel of it, together with maybe a paperback book and some papers. He sat on the bed, the springs of the thin mattress making a wheezing sigh, and untied the string.

   Photographs, right enough. He slid them out. There were twelve in total, colour photographs, about 8 by 10 inches in size. There was also a brown simulated leather wallet, not a paperback as supposed, and a thin buff quarto envelope, the flap held down by a tin clip. He looked at the pictures first.

   Bowman featured in approximately half the shots: Deborah was in all of them. Tame stuff for the most part, a man and a woman tangled partly or wholly naked. Nothing explicit.

   Three of the batch aspired to a different class.

   These were of Deborah alone – save for one mock-up showing a man’s gorilla hand brandishing a vicious Bowie knife. Even these were more childish than erotic, depending on taste. They seemed to define an extension of Creighton Dow’s sado-horror perversion. Almost for sure, he would have been the man behind the camera.

   He thought about it and didn’t much like his conclusions. The photos shouted loud and clear of blackmail and Massey frowned, running hot and cold, coming swiftly to his feet. It had been an easy find, a much too easy find. You wouldn’t expect Bowman to be so careless with his nasty goods. It was as if he had been set up, as if the bundle had been left there for him to discover. And where was Bowman? His car was outside. He had to be somewhere close at hand.

   Massey stepped across and quietly opened the bedroom door.

   Nothing moved.

   The trailer was silent.

   Aware of his danger, he nevertheless went back to finish what he had started and opened the flap of the buff envelope and upended it on the bed. A folded document and a press cutting fell out. The document was old but not ancient, the creases well bedded in. He unfolded it to find a certificate of marriage, the original not a copy. Dated the 10th of September 2001, it told that one Joseph Carl Avery, 26, had married Jean Jennifer Mills, 16, at 3.30 pm at Croydon registry office. The registrar was named as John Peter Hopper, his florid signature and that of a witness, Judy McLaren, officially sealing the union.

   Hopper would have been the standard registrar going through his paces for whatever had been the going rate in 2001. As for Judy McLaren? She could be anybody or nobody. A girlfriend perhaps or maybe just somebody pulled in to make up the numbers.

   There was no mention of the bride’s people. At sixteen she would have needed permission to marry. Maybe her parents didn’t care, or maybe they had given up on their wayward daughter and were past caring. Not that it mattered now. The guts was in the identity of the young bride. Jean Jennifer Mills. No prizes for guessing who she would be.

   Joseph Carl Avery had put his occupation down as mechanic, Jean Jennifer as sales assistant, almost for certain a cover for schoolgirl. Avery had been twenty-six, currently placing him in his late thirties. Massey pictured him as a confident laddish type of the kind an immature girl might fall for. He wondered what had happened to him, if the years had knocked away some of the brash sheen. At only sixteen Jean Jennifer was a mere kid, and he nodded seeing it.

   Married young, fast, pregnant even - possible, though perhaps not likely. Either way, a bright girl. Bright and with good looks. Too bright and good-looking in the end for a going nowhere type like Avery.

   Time moves on and she starts to see things. That her husband is no pearl. That life with him is grim and set to get a lot grimmer. Along with this comes a certain realisation. She recalls what people say and have been saying about her all her life. Such a pretty girl, such lovely blue eyes, all too aware of the tendency in men to look at her in a certain kind of way, sometimes going beyond simply looking.

   She begins to see a possible escape route. Could be she meets with another man, an older more worldly-wise man than Joe Avery mechanic, and likes his vision of the future. So one day, when Joe is out skinning his knuckles, she ups and leaves. Packs her bags and blows. Joe maybe gets a note for his trouble:

   Sorry, Joe dear, but you understand. This man tells me I can go far with him, and I know you would want that for me, Joe...

   Massey turned the certificate over and stared at the blank side.

   How come Bowman has this?

   It would hardly have come from Deborah. She would have no good reason for giving it him and plenty for not. He might have found it snooping through her things, but it looked weak. She wasn’t an idiot. She would have made good and sure the certificate was in a place where it would never be found. More likely, she would have destroyed it, wiping it out of existence, not least from her own memory. There was the possibility Bowman would have collected it from Dow, but it looked even weaker. Which left just one person.

   Joseph Carl Avery.

   Had to be.

   Somewhere, somehow, Bowman’s and Avery’s paths must have crossed.

   Massey refolded the certificate. Maybe it wasn’t so incredible. Deborah had wed into the big time. Avery didn’t look the kind who kept abreast of the society world, but he just might have caught a picture or news item somewhere. Or perhaps got it pointed out to him by a helpful buddy.

   Could be he had kept track on his departed young wife, stalking her movements, maybe even clinging to the forlorn hope she would return to him one day.

   The odds said Joe was still her legal husband - Veronica was almost for sure right on that count, she had just not been looking in the right place. And to cap it all his child bride had hooked a multi-millionaire.

   What then if Joe appeared on the scene and tried to milk the situation, working his own self-pitying, tin-pot blackmail angle? Betrayal and jealousy provoke diffuse emotions, but ultimately they provoke revenge. Circumstances provided him with a neat way to line his pockets and get his own back at the same time. Even before Massey opened the wallet he knew it would belong to Joseph Carl Avery.

   Apparently, he had given up garage work and was now a rep with an American chemical company. Cooked up to give him phoney gravitas, his deadpan identity photograph stared out   solemnly from the wallet’s cellophane window. It showed a man of average appearance. His dark hair had thinned to baldness on the front pate, the brash sheen if it ever existed most decidedly gone.

   Massey found Avery’s driving licence in one of the panels, the track record showing two outdated minor speeding convictions. In addition there were also a few stamps and fifteen pounds in notes, a ten and a five, plus various bits and pieces of change and some printed calling cards. Massey dug deep into the back recess of the wallet and slid out a yellow Post-it sticker. Here Avery had biroed a telephone number and printed DEBORAH DOW. Underneath this the poor sap had written My Jean.

   Massey let the wallet concertina back.

   Why would Bowman have Avery’s wallet?

   He opened the press cutting and sniffed. The print was fresh. There was no date or legend attached to the piece, and evidently hadn’t been considered worth much as a news item.

   The terse report told of the disappearance of one Joseph Carl Avery, who had not returned to his Ealing hotel after eating dinner there on Friday night. He had paid for his room in advance according to the report and his luggage and clothes were still there. Avery was described as a sales representative, a resident of Luton, aged thirty-eight. No history of wife or family was given.

   Massey gazed into the blackness. This was dynamite. That Bowman had murdered Avery looked to be a near certainty. To then be so all-fired sure of himself as to cut out and save the press report, together with Avery’s wallet, pointed to a dangerous psychotic arrogance.

   The narrative wasn’t so hard to piece together. Deborah marries Dow and lands in clover. Or so she thinks. There is a price, but it is a price she is prepared to pay, for the time being anyway. Then Avery turns up. She must have known the chance was always there, hanging over her like the executioner’s axe. But there he is. Threatening to ruin everything.

   Enter DC Bowman.

   Whether his idea or hers, it finally made no difference. Avery still ends up being wiped off the slate. Leaving Bowman in the driving seat. Not only does he have the racy pictures to screw her with, he now has clear evidence of her marriage to Avery together with her implication in his near certain murder. No use her saying he acted alone, even if true. No court would ever swallow it. Massey grinned a bleak grin. Bowman hadn’t been quite the arrogant fool first thought.

   The press cutting most likely came from The Standard. That could be checked, the exact date established. But why rush? He was as sure as he ever would be that the Friday in question was the one last gone, and just one day before Creighton Dow’s slaying. Avery was around Dow’s age, now missing. Massey was putting two and two together and taking a quiet bet with himself as to where he could be found.

   He bundled up the evidence and went back to the living area. He stopped, his gaze shifting to the strewn girlie magazines, a nagging thought taking shape.

   It took a couple of minutes, but he was right. It was the age of the mags that triggered it. Men who go in for this sort of crap don’t as a rule hang on to old back numbers, at least not ten years or more down the line. More usually they get their kicks from the fresh offering. These by comparison were collectors items. For a certain kind of collector.

   He found her in three of the issues. The hair was different, massed up in wild waving curls, and she was a lot younger. But there could be no mistaking the bluer than blue eyes, the flawless bone structure.

   Massey had never put what he did on a pedestal. He enjoyed his work for the most part, made wry jokes about it. But he had few illusions about the business of policing. Naomi had been right to an extent about the authoritarian thing. He was aware of the closed mentality the force bred, the rigid mindset of certain types it attracted to its ranks.

   There was corruption, back-handers from the press for juicy stories, racism, on occasion brutality. But this was in another league. The magazines attested to the sewer of Bowman’s mind. He also stood revealed as something altogether different. A blackmailer and murderer. A police officer! A man sworn to protect the public and uphold the law!  

   His skin crawling with disgust, Massey collected the magazines together with the canvas bundle and made for the door.

two

The warning clank told Grant he had a visitor. Face darkening, he shut down the rock music he had been playing and twitched aside the rag curtain to see Massey’s car trying to crawl in undetected. Smart, but no chance, mate. Even Geronimo would be hard put to sneak in over the corrugated tin slats he had set in place there.

   He watched Massey get out, peer cautiously around, then start down the slope. Grant’s big hands mashed together. And moving fast, going to his tiny bedroom, he stretched flat on his belly to prise open his hide-hole under the bed. He gathered up a canvas bundle. Dipped again and came out with a big automatic handgun and two loaded clips. He shoved the automatic down the waistband of his jeans and the loaded clips one apiece in each pocket and hustled over to the square mesh window. His big body had squeezed halfway through when a spiky idea hit him between the eyes.

   He grinned and got flat down on his belly as before and pushed the canvas bundle as far as it would go up in a corner. Satisfied, he crawled out from under the bed and made his backward exited through the mesh window. Letting the flap drop, he sidled his way to the edge of the trailer, holding there still and quiet.

   There was a long impatient wait when nothing happened. Massey, he guessed, was doing some reconnoitre work. A heavyweight truck hammered past, its headlights spilling light around for a second. He clapped a hand to his kneecap. Come on, come on, you dozy prick. He heard the door rattle, and then heard Massey go inside, and a few ticks later call out his name.

   A lizard tongue ran wetly over his front teeth. He began to hum in a low, tuneless way. Time to settle a score. The grin on his face snarled into a savage rictus. He made himself count a slow twenty. The occasional headlight swirled.

   And judging the moment, Grant ran doubled over in the direction of the dark trees.

three

“Evening,” Grant called out cheerily.

  Massey froze.

   “All done snooping around?”

   Two gunshot reports split the air. Heavy bullets thudded shaking the light-framed trailer, powdered splinters spitting. Instinctively, Massey dodged from the lighted door, ducking to his knees. Grant laughed.

   "Now how far you reckon that’s gonna get you? I could have put them two shots slap dab between your eyes if I’d wanted, clean as a whistle. You much of a shooter? I’m top notch, kind of got a calling as you might say. Course, it’s important to choose the right piece, and this is one special baby. Just so you ain’t in ignorance let me tell you what you’re up against. This here’s a Wildey automatic. Know what that means? It means you’re in the soft stuff, sport. The Wildey’s a real powerful tool. A man’s gun. You don’t find too many around, on account of its size. Got too much of a kick for most punters. See, to have any luck with a Wildey you need the hand-power to match, which naturally I got. Yeah, sure as fuck suits me. Only got seven shots to the clip, but then it’s rare to need more than a couple of rounds. One slug’d take the top of your head clean off. Or so it’s said."

   Massey stared wildly into the blackness showing his fear. He had been through the drill with firearms on the police ranges, but had never encountered gunfire first hand. Never actually been fired at. How Bowman had come by the gun hardly mattered. He had it and was prepared to use it to kill.

   Headlights flashed for a second, a car, then another, humming, fading into nothing. Massey raked a glance at the trailer door. He weighed his chances of making a dive for it. Not good. Bowman would cut him down before he got half way. Worse, light from the door illuminated him all too nicely as a target. He cursed himself for not having the sense to switch it off. His neck artery pulsed.

   Crouching there, he was a sitting duck. An inner voice told him to take hold that he was surely going to die otherwise. As it was his prospects looked bleak. Bowman would be lurking out there in the dark, smugly grinning, waiting for him to try and talk his way out. And finally there was nothing else for it. He wetted his lips.

   "Bowman?" he called. "You still there?”

   It was a damned fool question, and Bowman laughed a jeering laugh. “Now where do you suppose I am, you brainless prick?”

   He was enjoying himself, spinning the game out at his leisure. All Massey could do was go on with it. Play for time. He cleared his throat

   "Bowman?" he shouted. “Listen. You listening?”

   “Yeah, I’m listening,” Bowman answered after a few seconds. He sounded bored.

   Trying to hold his voice steady, Massey called out, “You could be in trouble you know?”

   “You don’t tell me?”

   “A police officer, shooting a firearm at a fellow officer. You are into  heavy stuff there, Bowman.”

   It was weak, and Bowman answered with another shot, shaking the trailer. Massey swallowed warm bile. The bullet had been inches from his head. Sweat was breaking out all over him. He ground his teeth.

   “Is that what you want? Trouble?”

   “Well, now. Seems to me it’s you what’s got the trouble, sport.”

   Another shot. Splinters flying.

   “How you liking it down on your knees? I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. Don’t bother counting shots, by the way. I got a whole pile of ammo here.”

   Massey hadn’t given that a thought. A stream of cold perspiration ran down his back. His shirt was clinging wetly to him. He tried again.

   “Listen, Bowman,” he said. “You hear me?”

   “Yeah, I hear you. This where you tell me we can make a deal. Work it out between us, like?”

“Why not? Makes sense from your point of view. Okay, you’ve had your fun. You’ve turned me over. We can write it off as a joke. You put up your gun and we decide to forget about it. You hear what I’m saying?”

   “You mean pretend it never happened, sort of thing?”

   “That’s right. We talk it over. But you stop right now, before things get out of hand. I got backup you should know that. Don’t be a fool, Bowman. I’m giving you a way out.” Massey tried to make it sound convincing. No answer came straight back. When Bowman spoke again his voice seemed to have moved.

   “Well now, that’s right big of you, giving me a chance and all. I call that right sporting. I truly appreciate it. Only this time I think I’m gonna have to say no. That was how my old man dealt with them travelling blokes what used to come around selling brushes and stuff. See, I reckon the whole deal’s gone a mite too far down the road for us to seriously consider a peaceable powwow."

   "No, it’s up to us."

   "You reckon?"

   "Why not? We can call it how we like, can’t we?"

   Bowman laughed. "No way, sport. And from where I’m standing, it’s up to me."

   "Bowman, listen to me - "

   "You’re a real sly one. I mean the stuff you’re hanging on to for grim death them photos and things. Kind of seals it, wouldn’t you say? Hope you don’t think I just foolishly left all that shit lying around willy-nilly, like. You surely can’t rate me that stupid. I wanted you to find that little nest egg, cobber. Know why? Well, believe it or not, I’m actually a decent sort of bloke at heart. I don’t like to see another bloke’s hard endeavour go unrewarded. I’m like that. Always thinking of the other guy. I wanted you to have your minute of glory. Kind of your last one, as you might say. I admit it could be frustrating, knowing what you know’s gonna die with you. But like my old man used to say, you can’t have everything in this life.”

   “Bowman - ”

   “And don’t you be fretting on finding me a loophole. I got a solid way out figured for both of us. Pretty much definite so far as you’re concerned, gotta be said. As for the backup you mentioned. Good try, sport, but my gut tells me it ain’t so. Sure, the Seventh Cavalry will turn up all right. Sooner or later they’ll come roaring in bugles sounding. But by then I’ll be long gone.”

   “Listen to me, Bowman  - ”

   “What do you reckon to the little lady there? I guess you worked it all out pretty quick. She really is a spangler now ain’t she? And I swear to Jesus, one sweet lay. You got any prayers you want to say, now’s the time to say ‘em.” Bowman fired off a shot.

   Massey spreadeagled himself hands covering his head.

   Waiting to die.

four

Except the final skull-smashing shot never arrived. Moments of time threaded by. Massey remembered to breathe. He worked his jaw and throat back into use, bringing up saliva. More time passed. Cautiously, he lifted his head and squinted into the blackness.

   Bowman had him where he wanted but chose not to finish the job. He had murdered once. Maybe going on to murder a police officer in cold blood was going too far, even for him. So why play it out? Other than for pure misbegotten sadism, there was no good reason that Massey could see. There was also the wallet and press cutting linking him with Joe Avery’s death. He said he meant for Massey to find them, and Massey knew it was true, that he had all too conveniently swallowed the bait. Yet there they were, together with the photos of Deborah’s tawdry past. Damning evidence. Also, his meal ticket for life. No way would he leave any of that behind. Whatever else he might be, he was no fool. He would be out there scheming some plan. But whatever that was, Massey couldn’t remain nose-down analysing it forever and a day.

   Going for it, he tucked the canvas bundle tight under one arm.  A car shot past on the main road and he reacted. Rolling and gaining his feet, he ran for all he was worth away from the lighted trailer. No shots sounded. He made it to the grass bank and flatted himself. But not for long. He had made his play and had to see it through.

   Legs pumping, he scrambled up the bank to his car. Ducking low, he came up behind the boot. It was dark there and he felt safer. He waited, ears tuned, trying to pick up any sound, any nuance of change in the still dark night. He had played it wrong once and maybe he was about to compound his error a second time. Massey tried to think, and with no better idea fumbled out his mobile.

   A call was out of the question. The sound would magnify ten-fold. But he could use the phone as a decoy. It was a racing certainty Ray Whitmore and Connor had been trying to reach him. If he could pick up an aborted call, make the automatic return and heave the ringing phone away, it might just work.

   He waited, listening. Nothing moved in the darkness. He hunkered down and switched on his phone, blanketing it inside his jacket to muffle the small bright dial illumination and engaging signal. He was right. Several missed calls showed. Ray was the best bet.

   He pressed the return button, and coming immediately upright, his arm went back and he tossed the little phone in the direction of the trailer. Squatting again, keeping dead still, he heard the putt as the phone landed on earth, followed by a faint ringing, and a moment later Ray Whitmore’s equally faint disembodied voice wattled out, the puzzled urgent tone evident even from a distance. The odd little noise continued uninterrupted for a number of seconds. And then a clumping sound came from somewhere close to the trailer, a rustled movement.

   Had Bowman bought it? He had to take the chance, and holding the bundle tight in place, Massey made a dive for the car and swung inside. He turned the ignition. The engine sprang to life. He got into gear and released the handbrake.

   Next a whitish blur, a yelled shout.

   And he was being dragged out into the night.

   Massey twisted and swung a reactive punch. A hand fastened on his wrist, the grip like iron. He wrenched away and kicked out. Bowman, raging at the top of his lungs, came crowding over him. Lifted him as if he were nothing and hurled him away. He hit the ground face down and went, “Ooff!” the canvas bundle spinning from his grip.

   The car engine continued to purr, chugging fumes into the dark. Massey rolled sluggishly, completely winded. Footsteps crunched toward him. Bowman’s dark shape loomed above. He had stopped shouting now. Massey saw him as he smoothed the palms of his big hands slowly back and forth like a man preparing for some heavy duty work. He was puffing, a little out of breath, but in no hurry.

   "Thought I’d give you a chance to show what you’re made of, sport," he said in a friendly way. “You see the movie Gladiator? It’s kind of like that. Two combatants, but just the one coming out alive. Yeah, I’d say the scene in the Ampitheatre  pretty much sums up where we’re at. Only no prize as to who gets the big thumbs down in this contest. We got that pretty much settled, wouldn’t you say? Nice try with the mobile, but two can play that game. That your cobber on the air there? Sounds a bit worked up, don’t he?"

   Massey wheezed like an asthmatic. He dragged a hand across his mouth, trying to smother how far gone he was. Grant didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He stood there, confident and relaxed, sure of the outcome. Like a felled boxer following the referee’s count, Massey scuffled around and sat on his spine. He gave his head a terse shake and then cramped forward into a kneeling position.

   "That’s the ticket, sport," Bowman said. "You just take all the time you need."

   Massey’s brain raced. He had now felt Bowman’s strength and knew he was outmatched. He also knew he had to find a way to take him. Somehow. That or end up dead. Bowman wasn’t about to let him walk away. He looked for an advantage to give him an edge. He could see nothing. Only maybe Bowman’s overweening confidence. Might give him an edge, though nothing to bank on.

   Squatting knee down, his hand clawed gravel and dust. He fisted up a handful, feeling the gritty shape of small sharp stones. Well, as good as anything. Let Bowman have it in the eyes. Blind him and try to take him out. His wind was coming back. There would be no better opportunity. Take Bowman with surprise. He got set, knee in the upright like a sprinter waiting for the gun.

   Lights flashed and he moved. Pushing forward, he threw the gravel at Bowman’s overlarge silhouette.

   "Fuck! Fuck!"

   Bowman groped at his eyes as the dirt and shards pinged into him, cursing, clumping back. No second chance. Massey fisted his right hand and let go with all he had. He dropped his shoulder and leaned all his weight into the delivery, his knuckles slamming into flesh and bone. Bowman went staggering back, not falling.

   Massey followed up, hooking hard with left and right combination punches like they had taught him all those years ago in the Stepney boxing club, Bowman taking the blows like a dumb ox, giving out uggh, uggh, grunts of stubborn pain. Stepping back for added leverage, Massey swung with all his power at Bowman’s body, trying to hit as low as he could. The big man buckled, but refused to go down.

   And with a bellowing shout, he came charging like a wounded buffalo. He drove Massey in an American football tackle. Crashing him hard against the car.

   Hands fought for windpipes. Massey gouged for the eyes. Bowman twisted away. He knocked aside the clawed fingers. He grabbed a hank of Massey’s hair and bashed his head to the cold metal. Massey countered, jabbing stiff fingers hard into Bowman’s throat. Bowman let out a harsh squawk, grasping at his neck. A car zoomed above unaware of the life and death struggle.

   The two men tussled, grunting like animals, striking and clawing at each other. Bowman was coming out on top. Grabbing Massey’s lapels, he threw him across the bonnet.  And holding him with his left hand he bunched up his right fist and socked Massey hard in the jaw. Drew back and socked again. And again. Massey sagged, losing consciousness. Bowman let him roll off the car to the ground. He staggered back, gasping.

   “Underestimated you, cobber,” he said hoarse and breathless, clasping his throat. “Got in some bloody good licks there. Cut me up some. Made my fuckin’ nose bleed. Might even have busted it, shit if you didn’t. Hurt my Adam’s apple too. Gonna be sore for a while."

   He coughed a harsh choking cough, spat, and worked a hand at the tender spot.

   "But I reckon we know now who is and who isn’t a poor excuse for manhood. Yup, I reckon we got that little matter sorted.”

   Massey heard him as if miles away. Through a grey haze he saw Bowman wipe blood from his nose with a bare forearm. Watched as he coughed up more phlegm, going to the car, the interior light winking on as the door opened. Saw him stoop and turn off the ignition. Muttering, he came plodding back to where Massey lay.

   Anchoring his feet either side, Bowman bent at the waist and got a hold under the armpits. Massey made himself as heavy as he could. Bowman strained, grunting with the exertion and hefted him upright. He paused, took a gulp of air, and then turned Massey around. Briefly they were face to face. Bowman stooped, flopping Massey’s limply over his shoulders, bending low in readiness to hoist him in a fireman’s lift.

   Massey snapped up his knee!

   Bowman screamed and grabbed at his crotch. Massey hit out with all he had. Desperately. Wildly. Caught off-balance, Bowman keeled and toppled to the grass, Massey almost falling on top of him.

   Swaying giddily, he kicked at Bowman as he began to rise. Dazed, weakened, he kicked as hard as he could, aiming for the testicles. Bowman twisted his body, the kick thudding into his hip.

   “Fuck you to all hell and back!”

   Raging, he piled into Massey. Massey tried to fight back. It was no use. Bowman was beside himself with fury. This time he made sure. He battered Massey into insensibility, holding him with one hand and pounding him with the other. Keeping him upright when he started to fall, he drove his big fist again and again into Massey’s unprotected face. He let him drop and then bore down with all his weight pounding sledgehammer blows repeatedly into the unprotected body.

   Massey felt none of this.

   He was out cold.

five

Bowman pulled a rough hand across his mouth. “Some pricks never learn.” He winced and massaged his gullet. "You bloody near closed up my throat, you know that?” And he kicked Massey viciously in the ribcage, Massey responding with a moaning sigh.

   “Right,” Bowman said, getting to work. “First, we got to get you set." He spoke to Massey as if he were conscious and could hear him. "You won’t know this, cobber, but right down there, over to the left, there’s a ravine. Down that slope there. And that’s where you’re headed. Won’t  be easy. Got to turn your motor so it faces the right direction. But you know the way out I promised? Well this is it. You’ll like it down there. Nice and restful.”

   He jerked Massey upright, pausing as a bothersome thought came to him. He glanced across at the trailer and let Massey drop. "Better see to that fuckin’ mobile," he said, and went lumbering down the bank.

   Bowman found the small phone lying face-up ten feet back from the trailer, making funny buzzing noises. He held it to his ear then carried over to the trailer and bashed the phone angrily against a cornered edge and slung it far away into the trees. "Find that, you stupid pricks," he said, and scrambled back up to the unconscious Massey.

   He lifted him upright, got an arm around Massey’s chest, and dragged him up to the car and threw him inside. "Right," he said, and did some arranging. After a minute, Massey was sitting flopped behind the steering column like a man who had dropped peacefully off for a little nap.

   "Good enough," Bowman said taking a step back admiring his handiwork.

   Left alone, Massey’s head tipped limply forward setting the horn blasting. Bowman dragged him back cutting off the unwelcome noise. Making a better job of it, he folded Massey’s legs to sit him knees forward with his head lolling on his chest.

   Bowman lowered the window. He spat on his hands, coughed and gave his throat a quick comforting massage. Then he slammed shut the door and reached in through the open window and began working the steering wheel.

   Minutes later, grunting with the exertion, he had the car pointing the way he wanted. He corrected the wheels to straight and set on the handbrake. He gave it a minute to get back his breath, coughed up more muck, and started the engine. He put the gears in neutral, released the handbrake and bulled his shoulder against the window frame.

   The downward sloped helped. Steering left-handed through the open window he got the car in motion. As it rolled forward, Bowman trotted to the rear of the vehicle and pushed, needing to turn and lean back against the boot, heels digging finding purchase.

   The car picked up momentum and Bowman turned again and pushed with main strength to send it running away from him. Hitting the mounded incline that abutted the ravine, the car bumped to a halt. Bowman assumed the backward position again. Taking a grip on the bumper with both hands, he bent and straightened his knees and lifted the rear of the car, grunting, as he brought all his power to the task. The car went. Bowman made a perfect pratfall as it left him.

   He heard noises as it mangled down the slope, banging and scraping noises, followed by a final crash. He came to his feet in one swift athletic movement and shuffled to the edge of the ravine. The car was wedged nose-forward against a tree miles below. Bowman allowed a short gloat seeing an orange glow swelling around its dark outline. Then he was moving.

   Time to quit the scene. Be not there. He found the magazines and canvas bundle where Massey had dropped them and went jauntily toward the trailer.

   Stopping dead!

   Shit!

   The grin decayed on his face. What if Massey had the real goods on him, the wallet and marriage certificate, about to be burnt to a crisp?

   Bowman bellowed an obscenity and scrambled in panic through the bundle.

   The biz was there, and he loosed a pshewing breath, dragging a hand across his sweating face. “Could’ve slipped up big time,” he said.

   He wrapped up the bundle and kissed it. Wasting no more time, he slung his golden pile into the front seat of the Citroen and then chugged back down the slope to the trailer. Moving with urgency, he pulled on a sweatshirt and jerkin and jammed things into a canvas hold-all. He gave the place a last sneering look around. It was too bad about the tapes and CDs. No matter. He would buy them all again, and more. He left quickly, snapping off the lights.

   Back outside, he paused to stare in the direction of the ravine. “Come on you little beaut,” he said, willing the explosion of the petrol tank. It failed to happen and he shrugged and hurried on.

   Probably for the best. Big bang. Flames in the sky. Bring attention. All in all, slow burn was better.

   He threw the hold-all into the Citroen, gave it a few more seconds. Then he said, “Fuck it,” and swung in behind the wheel thinking he would soon be driving around in something with more style, more in keeping with his status as the rich important figure he intended to be. Basking in the prospect, he revved up and drove out on to the road, getting his foot down and a tape going at the same time.

   Elvis.

   Who else?

   The Man.

   Volume at blast level.

   Heartbreak Hotel.

   He rated the early hits best and he sang happily away with ‘The King’. His throat was still giving him hell but he gave it all he had, slapping a hand in time with the twanging beat against the steering wheel as he sped on.

six

The gates were open and he drove straight on through and continued up the drive.

   Four minutes flat. Pretty good going. He parked next to Fancy Drawers ritzy BMW, killed the engine and got out. Lights showed from the house. Good. He didn’t wait around. Still warbling in the Elvis manner, he went directly inside, swaggering, slapping a hand against his rump in time with the imagined beat. He ducked through the arch entrance and gazed around with the smug feeling of ownership. He grinned going up to old Zach Dow.

   "Move aside, you ugly old fucker," he said. He chuckled, tilted back his head and gave a “Ee-haa!” cowboy howl, the echo bouncing off the walls and ceiling. Pleased with himself, he let rip again, the screech becoming a giggling laugh as it dropped from high falsetto, listening mouth a-gape as the sound came back at him.

   “G’day to one and all,” he shouted, and followed this with a prancing ho-down dance. Banging his heels, knees lifting high, he went around and around until he spun himself off his feet, going plop down on his behind. He wobbled upright, laughing fit to burst. For the fun of it he took another turn around, more slowly this time, in the manner of a circus ringmaster.

   He stood his hands on his hips. “Now I wonder where she is?” Raising his voice, he shouted, “You playing a little game? In a playful mood, are we? What do I do, count a slow ten with my eyes closed? Okay, but don’t forget, I ain’t got all night.”

   He laughed his loud laugh, though somehow without the zesty feeling of before. All at once the fun was gone. He felt irritated, he realised, and that irritated him all the more. Where the fuck was she? He was calling the tune now. Didn’t she know that?

   Trouble was he needed a drag, yeah a nice cool smoke to ease his nerves. Ease his sore throat, compliments of fuckin’ Massey and his karate tricks. He got out his Marlboros. There were cigars around somewhere, but no beating a good ciggy.

   He stuck out his rump and snapped a match over his tightened jeans, grinning delighted as the match caught. He lighted up and tried for smoke rings. Thinking he could use a drink, he poured himself a king-sized brandy. Then got nice and comfy in a big red leather armchair, propping his feet on a Chinese cabinet dingus, swigging brandy and smoking his Marlboro.

   Yet the nervy feeling persisted. Even the ciggy didn’t taste so good. He peeled it away from his lips and grimaced. Worse still, from where he was placed he had no option but to take in all the art junk, bringing on a pained expression. “All this money and all this shit,” he said nastily. “Fuck it, I’ve had enough.”

   He jumped himself upright, barging aside the Chinese cabinet, and strode down the long room and up on to the stage. He looked around, undecided, going across finally to the big picture window to stare out. Lights were glinting attractively in the distance. They meant nothing to him. They even seemed to worsen the querulous feeling.

   Tiring of the window, he ambled over to the piano and pounded out a few meaningless notes. The Marlboro between his lips was almost spent and he crushed it smouldering into the polished wood.

   “Loada shit.”

   The framed portraits caught his attention, and for no good reason sent them crashing from the piano with a sweeping arm.

   “More shit!”

   He glowered at the mess, kicked a foot at it. He was getting more fed up and jittery than ever. “Fuck this,” he said. He downed what was left of the brandy and hurled the glass smash to a wall. He swung around and shouted out again, serious this time, “Where the fuck are you! A game’s a game, but time’s on the move and I’m in a big hurry.”

   Saying this, he lumbered off the stage and made his way to the staircase and started up.

   “You there?" he shouted, taking the steps. "You’d better be. You’d better have it waiting. And I don’t mean pussy, either.”

   He reached the top and went on around the balcony. Nobody but nobody was about to mess with him. A light showed under the maid’s door. He stopped and thought about it for a minute.

   No chicken that Carmen. Not half-bad, all the same. Good shape on her. Yeah, nice big round milkers, just the way he liked them. Nice bum, too. At the back of his mind there had been the notion of sticking it in her one day. So what was wrong with right now?  Didn’t have to take all night. Give it her hard and fast. She’d be grateful likely as not. He pushed open the door and went leering inside.

   "Anybody home?" he called out. "Come to pay you a little visit." No answer. He looked at the bed and frowned. Her stuff was set out like before but that was all. Nothing moved. No sign of the bitch, either. Was she hiding somewhere? He checked the bathroom.

   Sweet FA.

   He said shit again. He pawed at her things in the open case. He could have sort of gone for a dry fuck.

   He turned to leave, stumbling giddy. “What the fuck!” he said. That bastard Massey must have damaged him more than he’d allowed. There was a ringing in his ears and his mouth was dried right out. His tongue felt like it had been dipped in paint.

   He cursed and blundered out to the passage, thudding his way toward the master bedroom. Forget the dago maid. Forget the ringing in the ears. Bit pissed. Took the brandy too fast that’s all. This was where it was at.

   Too damned bloody right!

   Time to collect his dues.

                                              *

The drunk staggered wheeling across the road and into the path of an oncoming car, the car swerving at the last second missing him, roaring ahead ignoring the drunk’s pathetic waving arm.

   A pick-up truck swept by, disco music blatting into the night.

   No way, pal.

   The drunk soldiered on, doubled over, gait confused. He stumbled and fell and immediately got up and plunged on in his wayward fashion, as if fearing he would never move again if he stayed down.

   The car behind picked him out in its headlights. The couple inside saw him fall and get up.

   Caught in the wash of light, the drunk crooked around and stuck out an arm dragging one foot after the other as though not expecting the car to stop, but knowing he had to keep going.

   “Drunk,” the man in the car said. He shook his head. “Honestly, can you believe it? Out here!”

   But the woman saw something else. She saw trouble and told the man to go. She said go quickly, and he did putting his foot down, the drunk doing his best to wave them down.

   Make them stop.

   Screaming at them he was in trouble.

   Trying to tell them he was a policeman...

He didn’t knock. Why would he? He turned the gold knob and squeezed open the door. He worked some moisture back into his mouth. “Now let me guess,” he croaked. “You’ll be all set waiting for me. Sweetie, you had better be.”

   A sound came from inside and he grinned.

   “One more once. You eager for it again? Want to surprise me, that it? Got some fancy notion in mind? Now I wonder what you got in mind.”

   She sure was working up a head of steam. He could hear her. She was making sounds like excited hogs make and he started to get horny. He pushed the door wide and went in, screwing his eyes, adjusting to the dim light. Just a single bedside lamp was burning.

   He saw her then and gasped.

   Her eyes were saucer wide.

   She was staring at him. Terrified. Trying to speak. Tell him something,

   She couldn’t.

   A towel had been packed between her teeth and tied tight.

seven

Some primordial instinct told him there was fire.

   He smelled smoke, thick and acrid. Through smarting slits of eyes he saw a smatter of colour, orange, red, purple.

   A voice told him to forget it, to go back to sleep, eyelids drooping.

   Then a second, harder voice said:

   Sleep and you die.

   He listened to the voice. He coughed, and pain rasped at his side. He was crumpled over the steering wheel, his head squashed to the windshield. Flames were spurting from the bonnet and thick smoke all but filled the interior of the car, clogging his sinuses, stinging his nose and eyes with bitter acid.

   Get out! Get away!

   Easier said than done. The car was tipped forward at what felt like a ninety degree angle. In addition, his head ached as he had never known it to ache and his ribs had gone. Every movement was agony, even breathing.

   Yet he moved. Had to move. He screamed as he moved, the grating release of air tearing at the membranes of his throat, his mind heaving in and out of stability, vision blurring.

   He laughed an unhinged laugh. If Bowman had used the seat belt to strap him down, it would have been it. But he hadn’t, and Massey laughed again. He wasn’t about to hand it to that psycho. The thought drove him on.

   Somehow he got out.

   He didn’t know how.

   For a while he blacked out or fainted. There was a dreamlike recollection of suffocating.

   Then a blast of air.

   Falling...

...He bounced around on the old spring mattress they had found. Chrissie Hughes was with him, the kid from next door. Funny, Chrissie had been dead these past twenty odd years, drowned in a weir, and he laughed and said to him, “Hey, Chrissie, you’re supposed to be dead,” and Chrissie laughed and tried to push him off the mattress...

…He was immersed in water to groin level, the top half of him doubled over on a mud bank. He remembered Chrissie then. They had been warned many times never to swim in the weir – Bishop’s Weir it was called, though all the kids knew it as The Dingles. It had accounted for strong adult swimmers, and was far and away too formidable for two ten year olds. They had gone in anyway and Chrissie had drowned. So too would he but for that bastard inside him.

   He saw Chrissie’s lost little boy face, shocked, too frightened even to cry out as his head sucked under. Chrissie was older and bigger and the best swimmer in the gang. Yet Chrissie had been lost and he had survived. Somehow the bastard pulled him through.

   So all right then, Bastard. You’ve dropped me in enough trouble over the years. Now it’s payback time. Do your stuff and get me out of this.

   He pulled his damaged mind out of free fall, and the pain hit. He cried with the pain. He sobbed and wailed.

   It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this. He tried, for Christ sake. He did his best. Why did it have to be him? He was only flesh and blood. There was only so much you could take.

   He felt oh so sorry for himself. But he moved. His right hand sloshed through mud and slime. He splashed water at his face and crawled away. He crawled slowly like an old, old man crawling from his deathbed.

   He groaned as he made every pitiful inch, fighting his way through weeds, garbage, empty beer and Coke cans. Fatigue and nausea swept over him in waves. He vomited, more than once. He drifted in and out of odd limbo states, dreaming fantastic, horrific dreams.

   Later, in some other time zone, he was lying gasping downstream. The car still burned though to a lesser extent. It seemed like it did. He was down in a trench, and all he had to do was wait. Just wait, and in time Ray Whitmore and Connor would come for him. They would find him. Yeah, they were sure to. So the sensible thing to do was stay put.

   But what had being sensible got to do with it?

   When had he ever been sensible?

   There were things to be done. Fences in need of repairing -  why fences? It was ridiculous. There was a fence or sorts where he lived, but it was nothing to do with him. What was the song his old man used to sing? - give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above, but don’t fence me in... Who wants to be fenced in anyway? Nobody. He wasn’t responsible for fences. As a matter of act, he didn’t give a hoot about them. So? They still had to be repaired didn’t they? Some mug had to repair them. Else where would we all be?

   He let these nonsense thoughts paddle through his brain, lying there, gathering strength.

   It was going to be a tough job dragging himself out of the hollow. Tougher even than chucking the weed. Could be this would prove his toughest job ever.

   He craned his neck to squint up.

   Not as high as Everest. Christ, no. Not by a long chalk. And people have climbed up there, for the fun of it too! What was this by comparison? Nothing. Forty or fifty feet at best. A mere hop skip and jump - for a fit man.

   Well, fit or not, it had to be done.

   He gazed around wistfully at his nice snug little hollow, and the voice said, Crawl, you bastard!

   He crawled.

   He tried to forget the pain. What pain? Must belong to some other bugger. Not as high as Everest. Not a tenth, a hundredth as high. Easy work when you stopped to think about it. Grab what comes to hand. Grab a bush. Grass. Or if nothing else grab mud. Good old Mother Earth.

   Massey made it to the top of the ravine, but didn’t know it, slogging to crawl on over level ground, going close on ten hard-won feet before he realised.

   Then he sagged belly down. Wetted, muddied, and exhausted.

   A while later, he was staggering out on the road, doubled over to relieve the pain in his side, his gait uncertain like that of a drunk. Trying to wave down passing cars.

   Yelling at them to stop, that he was in trouble.

   That he was a policeman...

eight

Bowman braced himself, and recovered from his shock he strolled confidently into the room. Adopting his familiar pose, he wedged his hands on his lips and smirked, liking what he saw.

   “Well, now,” he said, leering down at her. “This the game you want to play? Got yourself all packaged up for me.”

   Deborah was mutely shaking her head, and a dim thought began to stir in his one-track brain. She was kneeling sideways to the bed trussed with strips of torn sheeting.

   He sniggered uneasily. “Now how’d you manage to get yourself done like that?”

   Her wide eyes switched frantically beyond his right shoulder, then to his face and back again. Bowman scratched at his head. She seemed to be telling him something. He was making a mulish turn, when the voice he thought he would never hear again said:

   “Hello, you big beautiful hunk.”

   “Sweet Jesus Christ!”

   He swung around in time to see Creighton Dow come gliding towards him.

   One arm drifted up.

   Too late.

   The axe split his crown like a walnut.

   And Grant Bowman left the world as he had entered it.

   Screaming!

nine

Somewhere out in the dark a cat was mewling.

   A damaged cat. A big old tattered ginger tomcat with one eye missing. A real trouper who had tommed once too often and had finally paid the price for his errant ways and crawled away to die.

   Poor old tom.

   Here’s wishes to a misspent life gone.

   Sounded familiar, old tom’s wailing.

   Why wouldn’t it?

   Not a cat at all.

   His own exhausted breathing. Air pushed in and out of furnace lungs.

   He ground on.

   The thread was holding.

   Just.

   Headlights flashed. Tarmac scraped underfoot. A light rain had begun to fall, which was good. Refreshing. The droplets spiked at his bruised cheeks, infusing them with a tingling numbness. The pain at his side had become a dulled ache. He controlled it. Mind over matter. Holding it in a mental clamp the way torture victims are said to be able to, those racked with terminal cancer.

   He focused on that.

   Human skeletons hanging on to the last gasp of pitiful life.

   It helped. He didn’t know why.

   The iron gates shimmered into view. He clumped up and grabbed hold of the stems. They felt real enough. He pressed against the cold wet metal. They gave comfort, and he hung there, rain trickling down his face.

   Then he was moving on, staggering through the gates recalling the poem, something, something, through the iron gates of life. He stumbled his lonely way all the way up the long snaking drive. The dark shape of the house loomed ahead. Some lights showing.

   He reached the shingled courtyard that fronted the house. He failed to see the parked Citroen and blundered drunkenly into it. It was a good resting place all the same and he swallowed mouthfuls of air into lungs that seemed to be on fire, lying sprawled over the sloping rear.

   He was near to collapse, but he couldn’t give way. Not yet. Bowman was inside. He took in more oxygen and lifted his head. Angled to the house, Deborah’s parked white BMW told she was there keeping Grant company.

   He scraped along the Citroen, clinging to the roof for support. Keys dangled in the ignition. With a mighty effort, he opened the door and stretched groaning for them. Whatever happened, Bowman wasn’t going to have wheels to take him anywhere.

   It vaguely occurred he would still have the BMW. Letting that pass, he slung the keys underarm in a clumsy tenpin bowing action, hearing them clunk, hitting concrete somewhere in the dark.

   It came to him then that Bowman, being a gun man, just might have a second piece stashed away in the Citroen. Anyway it was worth a try and he crammed doubled into the small car and checked through the glove compartment.

   Papers. Junk. Tapes.

   No gun.

   He squeezed out and went stumbling up the steps to the house, the car door swinging wide behind him. He pushed through the tall double doors and into the hall. Lights from the passage ahead gave him enough to see by. He staggered, caroming off walls, going in that direction. He reached the arch entrance to the big main living area and halted there, hearing a man’s voice, speaking loud. Getting nearer.

   Bowman!

ten

He was bellowing, something about having it waiting – “and not just pussy.”

   Massey flatted as best he could to the wall. A brief pause, and then Bowman strode into his line of vision. His jaw was thrust out, moving with purpose. He didn’t see Massey. He had other things on his mind. Angry words muttered from twisted lips, punching a fist into an open palm as he headed for the stairs.

   Massey watched him go up. Saw him take the stairs in giant strides, shoulders hunched, very determined. Saw him reach the landing and disappear from sight. Footsteps went away. There was a long pause. And then Massey heard a door being tried.

   Then another silence.

   A minute passed, maybe longer. For Massey hanging there in the archway, it seemed a long, long time.

   More noises came. Muttered complaints, a cursed expletive. Dulled feet moving. Another door opening further away.

   Massey followed.

   He had no plan. Had no idea what he would do. He would have no hope going against Bowman a second time. He gave no thought to that. He was on automatic pilot. Running blind.

   He part walked, part crawled up the stairway.

   He came to a stop halfway up, hearing Bowman speak. The manner was jokey. Cocksure. Massey dragged nearer.

   Bowman spoke again. Not as before. The jokey manner had suddenly disappeared. He sounded doubtful. Uneasy. He said words. Not to himself. An edge of surprise to his voice.

   Massey strained to hear.

   It seemed then that a second voice came in. A high, effeminate, sing-song kind of voice.

   “Sweet Jesus Christ!”

   Massey heard that plain enough.

   And for sure the terrible scream which followed.

   Then things were banging around. Some heavy object. Thudding. Hitting the floor. Scuffling sounds. Like removal men at work. Shifting things.

   Through it all, Bowman screamed on.

   He screamed until he could scream no longer, his last gasping pathetic cry dipping, running out of wind.

   Massey stared into hell.

   He had heard cattle in the slaughterhouse making those same noises. Despairing, agonised noises. When they knew. Realised in their dumb animal way, that life was at an end.

   And then it came.

   The death rattle.

   It gurgled in Bowman’s throat. Like greasy dishwater going down the plug hole. Sucking away to nothing.

   Then silence.

   A raging, neuralgic silence.

   Massey held his breath.

   And suddenly the sing-song voice laughed out. It was an eerie sound, neither male nor female. Massey knew it belonged to Creighton Dow.

   More sounds followed. The heavy object being dragged. Like a damp sack scraping over cement.

   Massey hauled himself up to the landing. He made a lunge away from the banister rail. He hit the wall and stumbled down the passage. Ahead of him a shaft of light cut from a part open door. Creighton Dow’s long, phantasmic shadow moved at centre.

   The laugh came again. More a contained chuckle this time. Like the kind of impish sniggering laugh kids make, when they think they have pulled off a good naughty prank.

   "Well, sweetie," Creighton Dow’s wispy voice said. "We all have to go sometime. As they say, here today, gone tomorrow. But you had a good run." Chuckling. "A good run for my money."

   A discord sounded.

   Massey squeezed at his eyes. He had heard that voice before. He was certain of it. He was close to the edge of the door now.

   What he heard next sent his brain into orbit.

   “The loco one. He is muerto, Senora.”

   A woman’s voice! Spanish accent!

   Carmen.

   Was it her?

   “But this is not to be regretted,” the woman’s voice went on. “He was never worthy of so fine a lady as yourself. He was – how you say? He was the big piece of sheet. You are well rid of him, believe me. Though it is a pity. We should perhaps have charity in our hearts. Perhaps even such a peeg as this deserves to have a prayer said over him. This is right, I think. The little prayer to send him to the hot place below.”

   She laughed.

   Did she?

   Somebody laughed.

   Not Carmen. Massey didn’t think so. Nor was it the laugh of before.

   He was as near as certain as he could be that both speech patterns had emerged from the same voice box.

   A sound came from the open door, a stretching, cracking sound. Like the sound small children make playing with balloons.

   Something clopped to the floor.

   “Now you get it?”

   Massey ground his sight into blindness. He swayed giddily, the realisation almost causing him to faint. He snapped open his eyes, blinking like a toad caught in onrushing headlights. Holding himself together, he bent forward creaking his head to peer into the room.

eleven

She had her back to him. Deborah was down on the floor, paralysed with fear. Veronica stood over her. The thin rubber mask she had discarded lay crumpled in Massey’s line of vision. He watched, numbed, as she began to pace around. She wore a man’s full rig tie and tails monkey suit strutting with her hands in her pockets.

   “Halloween trick, sure. It worked pretty well all the same, wouldn’t you say? You see we had masks fashioned out and turned up as our opposites at a Halloween party one time, Creighton and me - now where was that? Doesn’t matter. Kid’s stuff, but good for the fast shock in the dark. Good enough for you, anyway. Brother did you fall for it? Talk about hook line and sinker. Did you like my Carmen turn? Thought I’d throw it in to spice things up a tad. Though I guess we ought to use the bitch’s chosen name. Chita Velez is what she liked to be called. The self-styled Spanish vamp. All lies, of course. Everything about Chita was a lie. The closest she ever got to Spain would be a long weekend on the Costa del Sol. She was Asian, or part-Asian, something mixed up with dark meat. But she decided there was no percentage in the Karma Sutra act and came up with the Spanish character instead. It was hokey Forties Hollywood shit, modelled on this old sultry Brazillian diva Carmen Miranda, and which supplied her other alias. And to give the bitch her due, she got it off pretty good. She even boned up on Spanish so she could reel off a few convincing phrases."

   Deborah was a fly in the web. Away to the side, Bowman’s corpse lay heaped to the wall like a shovelled up dead dog. He looked horrible. His head was in ruins, one watery blue eye staring at nothing. On the floor near him was a bloodied axe.

   "Yes, a smart little trick Chita. In the end she got a mite too smart. She got greedy. I should have seen it coming. She took it into her head to shake me down. Jesus Christ, can you believe it, a whore like Chita setting out to cut me up? That’s what you get for trying to accommodate old pals on the slide. First chance they get they stick the knife in your gullet. See, we were in the same racket. You could say I took over from her, in the exact same way some no-talent little floozy has already taken over from me. Chita got too old to bounce her stuff but couldn’t accept it. None of us can when the time comes. Jealousy played a big part in it of course." Veronica grinned, recalling a memory. "At one time, you see, we had been lovers. Don’t look so shocked. It goes on all the time in our world. Mostly it’s hard to tell if you are back to front or front to back."

   She collected a pillow from where it had fallen, fluffed it and set it in position at the head of the bed.

   "We had a good thing going between us, too, once upon a time. Although I guess the core of resentment was always there, lurking in some dark corner of her third-rate mind. Chita whored her way in on the shocko scene, that being the usual route. I was different. I had Creighton’s money at back of me. Though you’d be surprised how many spoilt little daughters of the aristocracy there are eager to get moiling around with the cameras churning. Chita had been one of Creighton’s – what shall we call it? – one of his client benefactors. Not that she would have done much for him – well, you don’t need me to tell you that. He just liked to keep raunchy types like Chita around to show the world what a pistol he was. All history now, but bottom line he moved her out to move me in. You see it? All the stored up hate? She was out for revenge, no question. And as soon as she got her chance – a chance like a dope I gave her – she grabbed for it with both hands.”

   A whimpering sound came from behind the towel in Deborah’s mouth. Veronica gave her a passing glance and continued to strut around, hands in pockets.

   “She even dragged your smooth lawyer into it. I felt sorry for him as a matter of fact. He was one of these fools with a thing about hot movies, and I would guess he recognised her when he turned up here some time. Yeah, figures, I can see her looking after certain of his more, ah, unorthodox needs. See Chita ran a special line in leather and whips for just such twerps. Good added business, too - Creighton wasn’t the only one to employ a bit of nifty camerawork. You know, making the respectable gents pay the extra mileage to keep things quiet.  In his case she extended the remit. She used him as her bag man. Set it down in writing, fingering me, and sent it to him for safe keeping. Maybe she felt it would carry more weight in the hands of a heavyweight lawyer. Whatever, I had a pretty strong notion he was her holding agent. Remember Sunday, at dinner? When we got talking about my last movie? Well my last movie just so happened to be Chita’s last movie, too. It was simply a matter of adding the beans together."

   She squinted and gazed pondering.

   "I was worried there for a time, though in the end there was no need. It was easy. I fooled him. I hit him with my Chita act, and by the time he got close enough to see otherwise, it was too late. I had learned a thing or two about makeup and I could act. Creighton would never accept that. He used to get a terrific kick at parties, cornering some wined-up schmuck to ram home the point. Oh, yeah, he loved nothing better than going into his spiel, (the effeminate sing-song voice came back) ‘But you do understand, my old darling. She can’t act. Not really.’ He enjoyed hurting me like that, belittling my talent. All the better if the schmuck in question had been stupid enough to pay me a compliment. He would really go to town then. He even had me believing it myself."

   Suddenly her whole demeanour changed. Chicken skin stretched taut across her face turning it into a fearsome bony skull. She turned the skull face upward. When she spoke, her voice lifted in a thin nasal screech.

   “Well I proved you wrong! Do you hear! You were wrong, wrong, wrong! All those wasted years. All because of you! You thought yourself so oh so very clever. But you were nothing without me. Nothing!”

   Veronica made a sudden choking grab at her throat. Her eyes popped, face turning purple. Seized by a violent coughing fit, her convulsed body spun whirling across the room.

   Massey weighed his chances. The opportunity came and went. She had blundered into a sliding panel of the mirror wardrobe and lay pressed against her own reflection. The retching coughs had weakened and become distraught bleating sobs. She wiped off her eyes, regaining her composure. She pushed away from the glass panel and wandered unsteadily to stand again over Deborah. Still speaking to this mysterious other, she said:

    “And now I get the blame. Yes, stick it on Verro. Well this time it is too late. I warned you, Creighton. I told you there would be consequences. Did you honestly think you could kick me into the gutter, leave me lying there? Did you imagine I would just take it? Oh, no, brother dear. You should have stopped to think. Stopped to remember certain things."

   Her head cocked sideways, as if digesting an unheard comment. She shook her head.

   "You are going to listen, my dear, wonderful big bother. ‘Get rid of him for me, Verro. Ple-ease, I can’t take any more. I shall kill myself if you don’t.’ Is it all coming back? Or do I have to remind you of how you hid under the table, curled up like a pathetic foetus while I applied the cushion? And how when it was over, I had to put you to bed, change you because you had messed yourself. Next morning you wake serene and innocent, as if nothing had happened. You were always good when it came to shutting those troublesome, nasty things from your tiny mind. How nice it must be for you. I do the dirty work and you collect the riches and conveniently forget how you came by them. I have to flatter you, suck up to your dismal little ego. Beg for a few crumbs from the table. How cruel you were, Creighton. How thoughtlessly, horribly cruel. And so blind! Playing the bigshot movie mogul. Do you honestly suppose the directors, the writers and actors, would so much have looked at you twice but for your money? Don’t you see? The money was all they were ever interested in, you damned fool! Like this one. It wasn’t you. It was your money!”

   Her mad eyes fixed on the axe.

   She ran to it and seized it.

   “Are you watching, Creighton! This is for you!”

   The axe lifted. Deborah cowered back as Veronica advanced on her.

   Massey crowded in. He grabbed Veronica’s raised arm with his right hand pulling her back. She spun and wrenched away. He couldn’t hold her. She screamed and struck at him. The blade came down on his collarbone, snapping it clean in two. He cried out, jolting to his knees.

   She turned again to Deborah.

   Massey raked at the carpet. Hot tears of pain burned his eyes. He hung on, willing himself not to pass out. Sounds burbled from his lips, idiotic gibberish. He dragged up and made a clumsy falling dive at Deborah’s blurred outline, coming down on top of her.  

   Feeble protection, but all he could do.

   He twisted to stare up at Veronica. She towered above, legs spread, back arched. Her eyes were mad woman’s eyes. They bulged huge in her head, the white’s showing in complete circumference of the iris. She held the axe high, stretched back for maximum leverage.

   He shook his head at her.

   “No, Veronica.”                        

twelve

The axe shuddered in the air.

   She stopped.

   Her head moved in a sad slow gesture of regret, as for the first time she became aware of Massey. Her lips worked around, trying to frame words, her softened gaze locked with his. The axe swung down, becoming too heavy for her.

   “Not you. Not you,” she said, backing away.

   Massey saw her image shimmer and start to break up, a warm drowsy tide washing over him, feeling no pain.

   He bit down on his tongue.

   Mustn’t sleep.

   Not now.

   Deborah lay stiffened beneath him. He could sense her fear. Veronica continued to back slowly toward the open door. The axe dropped, thudding. Her head had fallen to the side, arms limp at her sides. Her mouth hung in a canted downward sag. Her eyes seemed to change colour, becoming glazed in that shocking hyperthyroid stare.

   A tittering, chattering noise started somewhere in her throat, the sound going eerily around the walls like mice squeaking under the floorboards. Bubbles foamed from her slack lips, spittle drooling in a long silver threat over the pointed lapels of her dinner jacket.

   She came to a stop. Her neck rolled out of control on her shoulders. The open door gaped behind her. Beyond was the passage and banister rail. And beyond the dark void dipping to the vast space below.

   Massey had been a policeman a long time and thought he had seen it all, until he witnessed what happened next.

   Veronica gazed up and around as though searching for something. Or some one. Then her lips moved and she began to talk.

   “I did,” she said. “I did prove it!”

   She was talking as before to some phantom person only she could see. She paused, reacting to a reply. Then clamped both hands to her ears.

   “Stop! I won’t listen!”

   A longer pause followed.

   She took her hands away from the side of her head and stared defiantly. “Because you are dead,” she said. “Because I killed you.  I wouldn’t stay where you put me. And now I shall have to kill you again.”

   “Oh, no, Verro.”

   The sing-song voice, coming from her lips.

   “You have it exactly the wrong way around. It is not you who is about to kill me. I am going to kill you.”

   She made a sudden despairing cry, and hissing and spitting, she raged forward in a fury of anger. Deformed hands clawed at the air, teeth and eyes gleaming, fighting the apparition in front of her. Driving it before her into the room.

   And then she was going back, pushed by some invisible force. Arms thrust stiffly out in front, palms flatted, her feet paddled backward as she tried with all her might to hold the force off.

   Massey saw it all through blurred vision.

   She thrashed breaking free, kicking and hitting at the air, gaining a temporary advantage. She wheeled around the room. “I don’t want you anymore! I don’t need you! Here! Take this! Take it!”

   She tore at her flies. Her hand went back, and she tossed the thing she was holding at the imagined figure. It sailed across the room toward Massey landing with a plop in front of him, a brown withered thing.

   It took a moment to register.

   Massey gasped.

   He was staring at Creighton Dow’s lost and decomposing penis.

   He made himself focus on Veronica.

   She was being pushed back. She struggled, heaving left to right, but couldn’t prevent herself from being propelled through the open door. She turned her head, seeing the banister rail. She cried out. And with sudden desperation, she fought back at the phantom with all her strength. Again, she became the temporary winner, gaining a couple of feet beyond the bedroom door.

   Not for long. The invisible force had her again. She struggled mightily, but the force pushing her was too strong. It ground her through the door to the passage. She went all the way back until her rump hit the banister rail. Her hips pressed against it. She started to bend.

   Massey was powerless to prevent what he knew was about to happen.

   Fighting all the way, Veronica’s head craned back until it dipped out of sight. Her body was stretched over the rail, trunk forward, arms stiff in front of her, frantically pushing back to save herself. Feet toeing the floor.

   “Together in death, Verro.”

   Her legs came up. They came up slowly, almost comically, as if to perform a slow back somersault. She hung in teetered balance for a time.

   For Massey, watching, it was a very long time.

   Then she went.

   She slid from the banister rail. He saw her head plummet. Her body and legs followed.

   There was no scream. There was no sound at all. She fell silently. Until she hit head-first with a full crack on the parquet floor thirty feet below.

   Then silence.

   Massey stared into the powdered darkness. He blinked and screwed his eyes shut and stared again. For a while all seemed normal and he half-expected Veronica to come walking back, that wry grin in place, to tell him not to be such a ninny. That it had all been a big joke.

   But it was no joke and she wasn’t coming back.

   Deborah made a faint murmuring sound. He shifted awkwardly around to her. She hadn’t fainted and murmured again.

   Then the pain came.

   It surged back at him with a vengeance. The room swirled filling with water. Things were floating around, and he knew he had reached the end and was about to black out.

   Clenching his teeth, he fumbled for the flat jack knife he always carried. The left side of him was wrecked and his right was hardly much better, his arm and fingers numbed to giant size with pins and needles.

   He found the knife and succeeded at the fourth attempt to work out the blade, using his teeth to prise it free. He groaned, moved his weight from Deborah, and managed to saw at the strips of sheeting that tied her. She unravelled herself the rest of the way, got the gag from out of her mouth.

   Massey was spent, slumped over her.

   She held his head to her breast. He mumbled as sleep blanked him:

   “Got it all wrong...”

coda

“Recorded in the early hours of Thursday morning, the date and exact time I am too far down the line with scotch to bother about. I have slept little over the past twenty-four hours, but the alcohol I have consumed sustains me. I am making an analysis of the events as I see them, which is to say with total honesty and free association of the mind, and if I ramble or contradict myself, then so be it. From the dross it is to be hoped some coherent thoughts will emerge.

   The Dow case will undoubtedly become an icon of notoriety. The popular media have already set their slimy wheels in motion. I was contacted today by the editor of a trashy but hugely popular tabloid offering me a substantial sum of money in return for my confessional. Naturally, he didn’t use such a pejorative term, more to do with my insights and recollections. The story, as he put it, was set to hit the high wire and it was only a question of time before the stampede started to produce a commercial film based upon the happenings of the past week. He was clearly very excited by it all. I shrunk from pointing out that the events go back a long way beyond the time scale he has in mind, but he is nevertheless right. It is all there. The drama. The characters, not least my own. I told him I would not be interested in taking up his offer, but doubt he was dissuaded.

   He is anxious to set up a meeting, when I am sure an even more tempting bid will be made. He is very certain I will succumb, his experience of human venality I suppose having shaped his cynicism. Perhaps he is a better psychologist than I. Only this time, I fear, he is headed for a disappointment.

   Listening to his pitch, it struck me that I was well placed to produce something in my own right. Not for financial reward I hasten to add. To profit from the ashes of my incompetence would be monstrous indeed. The money I can always find a home for.

   I have a book in mind, a popular work rather than some dry and dust academic piece. No doubt certain of my colleagues will disagree with this, preferring the purist point of view. But a work that combines a measure of forensic analysis with plain gutsy writing would surely make the greater impact and I am already warming to putting pen to paper.

   To delve into the bizarre psychosis twisting Veronica to mix her personality with her brother’s offers exhilarating possibilities. Such cases have been recorded before of course, in both serious and pop psychology offerings. Though as far as I am aware there has never been such a grotesque interaction of events.

   To hold Veronica to be a victim is trite but wholly accurate. That I failed her is starkly obvious and it would be pointless and entirely self-indulgent to mount a denial or build some phoney defense mechanism. The plain fact is Veronica sought my aid and I rejected her as a narcissistic hysteric. How could I have been so stupid? Clearly it was a cry for help.

   Have I become so high and mighty, the supreme Doctor Naomi Fischer, that I have lost touch with my emotions? Had I responded with positive regard, as my calling decrees, it is possible that some of these terrible events might not have occurred. But there it is. They have occurred, and all I can do now is learn from my grave error and build on such gains as I am able to take from it.

   Creighton was weak, vain, and neurotic. He was incomplete as a man, a shambles in truth. And yet Veronica loved him. She loved him to such an extent that she was finally driven at a young age to carry out a most horrendous act on his behalf.

   Consider:

   She murders her father. This would be a terrible thing for anyone to live with, and especially a girl not long out of puberty. The enormity of committing such an act would have been sufficient in itself to have damaged her mind into permanent disrepair.

   It is broadly agreed that the worst crime we are capable of committing is that of matricide, to kill our own mother. But the murder of one’s father cannot be far behind. Indeed, for a teenage girl, the impact on her psyche of killing her opposite sex parent, no matter how gross his behaviour would be too enormous to contemplate. She murders, yes, though not for herself, but in the cause of the weak but manipulative elder brother. He is in the grip of a tyrant and pleads with her to save him. She sacrifices herself for him, and is repaid by contempt and ridicule, and finally rejection.

   It would not surprise me to learn that Veronica suffered from idiopathic epilepsy. Such a possibility might come to light with the scrutiny of her medical records. On the other hand, it is just as likely to remain in the realms of conjecture.

   But her convulsive abnormality symptoms, the unconscious hallucinatory seizures, are undoubtedly synonymous with such a condition. Such manifestations would seem to point to a disturbance of the cortical locus, or at least present it as a likelihood.

   Another obvious possibility is that she had become dependent upon a psychedelic drug, such as LSD or Psilocybin, and which a medical examination should be capable of determining. We shall see.

   The removal and retention of the phallus is clearly significant, underpinning as it does the impulse to exchange sexual places with her brother. Logic says she was jealous of him. Or rather of herself through him.

   His marriage to Deborah, I am near enough certain, triggered her dementia. She had to become him, to seek revenge in some convoluted fashion, possibly secretly desiring his new wife in the process. In order to achieve this, the need arose to possess the one organ she lacked, becoming herself a lost object in the process.

   Why Veronica coveted the identity of an ego weaker and a more incomplete ego than her own, bearing in mind Creighton’s sexual identity remained confused until the end, I am at loss to explain.

   When her host personality was dominant she would no doubt have been quite rational, though unhinged in her rationality, if that makes any sense.

   The half-baked conspiracy she formed with the Velez woman, as I will call her, would appear to support this premise, or at least does to some extent. In truth, I am hesitant to declare a position. Upon segueing into her alter would her rational self then have known what her miscreant self was doing?

   It may be her mind sought refuge in yet another personality distortion, hovering in some kind of uncertain twilight world, her traumatised ego retreating into a profound state of denial. She had to convince herself that her brother was still actually alive, her mind suffering fugue amnesia as a consequence. Yes, the host slipping from her control and her persona alternated from one ego state to the other, each state co-existing at the same time in her dual memory bank.

   This I accept is a purely improvised diagnosis. But am I so wrong? In all of us, in normal, reasonably stable human beings, if you will, there are many forms, both latent and expressive, of what we like to think of as our personality.

   Think how our character and mood changes according to circumstances. As, for example, when we are under pressure, or when we are tired and stretched out with work. And most definitely as I am now when, to put it bluntly, I am near enough pissed.

   Think, too, of the constant struggle between the ego and super-ego. The condition only mutates and becomes abnormal of course when, as with Veronica, the submerged personality usurps full consciousness.

   I am all too aware of the complexities inherent in the field of double and multiple personality disorders. But having refreshed my knowledge of the landmark cases, I have been struck in particular by the Sizemore study and its parallels with Veronica’s condition.

   The critical factor with Christine Sizemore is that her symptoms continued, and even multiplied over a twenty year period. Applied to Veronica, if this can be said to establish a blueprint, the harsh truth I am confronted with is that she was beyond cure. Drugs might have been deployed to some gainful effect. There would also have been frontal lobectomy or severe shock therapy as treatment options. But realistically I am bound to conclude that confinement in a sedated state for the remainder of her life would have been all that was left to her.

  To explain Veronica’s pathology thus is not to excuse my failing her, and neither do I look for an excuse. I need to let my mind settle. I need to go away and examine my data, together with anything else worthy of examination. I need to consult with colleagues, especially regarding my epilepsy theory, which of course I am professionally bound to do. And yet my inner voice tells me ultimately it will be futile and we will never find the complete answer.

   Deborah is also fascinating, and worthy of study in her own right. I am told she weathered her ordeal with character. This is no surprise to me. No woman who has emerged from the background she has, who has, in effect, reinvented herself, is going to be a weakling. I would like to speak with her, though whether she would agree to this remains to be seen. No doubt, having to minister to Massey and call the police helped hold her together. There is the question of what will happen to her now. It would seem to me she has done nothing terribly wrong, only perhaps from a moral point of view. She has sinned if you like, but no more. I am no lawyer but my hunch tells me she will probably end up with Creighton’s estate, even if it turns out she was not his legal wife. I am not certain, but that is how I think it will work out. Poetic justice? Who can say?

   My single concern right now is for Massey. It would be good if I could enlist him in working with me on the book venture I am at present toying with. The prospect holds exciting possibilities, to write it in partnership, the shrink and the detective hero.

   At present, he is a sick man, but he will recover. I visited him today at the hospital where he is being treated, and he seemed pleased to see me. He even managed to crack a few jokes at my expense, asking if I had remembered to bring a drop of good scotch to help lift his spirits.

   He is a tough and breezy character and shows a great deal of emotional stability. Clearly, he is resilient, although it would be a mistake to underestimate what he has been through. First, taking a savage beating at the hands of a brutish psychopath, and then coming face to face with the shock of seeing a woman he had loved turn into a monster. For all that, I know he will mend.

   This is a selfish thing. When we met three nights ago – was it only three nights, it seems an age - I sensed something between us. Call it chemistry if you want, and perhaps it is the drink talking, but I truly experienced warm and positive feelings toward him. In any event, I intend seeing him again. I will aim to visit him every day while he is in hospital, and, yes, take him his drop of good scotch. Beyond that, events must be allowed to take their own course.

   I shall end the recording now and wait to see what the future brings.”