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  ‘I dare say you are,’ Cottrell said without sympathy. ‘I’d like to know when you ever think about anything else.’ He saw Quigley’s drooping look. ‘Cheer up. She knows she’s married to a copper, she doesn’t expect office hours. Buy her a box of chocolates tomorrow. That’ll sweeten her.’

  Yes, I could, Quigley thought, briefly restored to optimism. An enormous box of chocolates. Or a piece of costume jewellery, she liked that sort of thing. That little fancy-goods shop over the road, might be something there. His shoulders sagged again as he remembered the leanness of his wallet after the holiday. He put up a despairing hand and pulled at his chin.

  A couple of yards away the car owner wheeled about to face them. ‘Come here and take a look at this! Cost a fortune to put this right!’ Quigley thrust aside his visions of Sharon and his almost empty wallet and bent his attention to the inexorable call of duty.

  At the other side of the road Owen piloted Emily towards the street where his car was parked. ‘Bit of a nuisance for you, having to call in at the hospital.’ His tone implied that she seemed perfectly all right now, was there really any need to bother with doctors and X-rays?

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Got to be done,’ the sergeant said. ‘Quite looking forward to a bit more drama in fact. Not often she got the chance to be the centre of attention. And she hadn’t missed Cottrell’s reference to disabilities that might appear in the future. Might be an opportunity there for a nice little sum by way of compensation from someone or other.

  They reached the car. Owen held the door open and she lowered herself into the passenger seat. As she settled the holdall on her knee she remembered with a wash of guilt the way the bits of food had burst out all over the ground. Had Mr Yorke spotted them? Could he possibly have recognized some of the contents of his own fridge?

  ‘Bit late for feeding the birds tonight,’ she said as he slid into the seat beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t ask what birds were partial to legs of chicken and slices of cold plum pudding. He gave her a baffled look and switched on the ignition. ‘First thing in the morning, though, I’ll see they get their tit-bits,’ she added virtuously. A trifle light-headed, Owen thought, pulling the car out, perhaps it’s just as well she insists on going to the hospital.

  It was beginning to look as if it might be quite a good party after all. Jane Underwood dropped into a chair against the wall and watched her partner shoulder his way to the buffet table at the other end of the room. Kevin Lang. She repeated the name in her mind, rather liking the sound of it. He hadn’t been working very long in Milbourne, he was a trainee in the office of an estate agent; his home was in a village fifteen miles away, he was currently living in digs near the centre of the town.

  Jane had felt at ease with him from the very first moment he had smiled and asked her name. It was partly the fact that he wasn’t particularly good-looking, not utterly and frightfully ugly of course but rather plain in a wholesome, pleasant kind of way, the sort of face that made no very great demands on its owner but allowed him to be himself.

  He was weaving his way back towards her now, both hands raised high above the jostling throng, carrying a large tray on which were perilously balanced two dishes of ice cream and a couple of brimming glasses. He caught her eye and gave her a cheerful grin; he somehow managed to twirl the tray on his outspread fingers without spilling anything.

  ‘How did you learn that trick?’ she asked as he reached her.

  He set his burden down on top of a low bookcase. ‘I worked in a holiday camp for a couple of months last summer.’ He laughed. ‘Taught me how to carry food about at great speed. Probably stand me in good stead for the rest of my life.’

  It won’t last of course, she told herself, firmly rejecting hope as she selected a few sandwiches. But at least it’s nice to have him just for this evening.

  ‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’ he asked as they began to eat. He’d already worked his way through the details of her school, her job at the library, her aspirations for the future.

  She shook her head. ‘What does your father do?’ he went on, but not in a prying fashion, just with warm interest. ‘Is he a librarian?’

  ‘No, he’s in the local housing department.’

  He smiled. ‘We ought to get on well then. Interests in common.’ Only you won’t be meeting him, she said in her mind, reaching out for a salmon sandwich, I’ll take very good care you don’t cross the threshold.

  He opened his mouth and before the next words left it she knew what they would be; she raised her shoulders against them as he spoke.

  ‘Does your mother do anything? Apart from being a housewife, that is?’

  She gave him a long, level look. Here we go again, she thought. ‘She has a good job with British Foods, she’s an executive.’ She raised her glass and took a sip. ‘But she isn’t my mother. She’s my stepmother.’

  By great good fortune the casualty ward was almost deserted, the festive rush of wounds and bruises not being due to start for another couple of hours. Owen paced restlessly about the corridors while Emily was being dealt with. At long last, when he was reaching the stage of emitting huge and unashamed yawns which threatened to dislocate his jaw, she materialized suddenly a couple of yards away from him.

  ‘All finished!’ she said brightly.

  ‘And you’re quite all right? Nothing to worry about?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say that.’ Her tone implied the possibility of grave but undisclosed disorders. She felt on the whole that it might be better not to reveal too precisely the doctor’s opinion and advice. ‘You’ve been very lucky,’ he’d told her, only partly to her relief. ‘Take it easy for a day or two, see your own doctor if you feel at all worried.’ He’d given her some lotion to dab on her bruises and a couple of pills in case she couldn’t sleep.

  She whisked the bottle briefly in front of Mr Yorke without specifying its contents. ‘Gave me this, the doctor did. Told me on no account to go to work tomorrow.’ As Owen took her arm and drew her resolutely out towards the car she added on a sudden inspiration, ‘That’ll be a day’s wages I’ll be short.’ She slid him a glance. ‘You’ll tell Mrs Yorke I won’t be coming in the morning?’ He nodded. ‘And Mrs Fleming’s expecting me in the afternoon.’ She hadn’t in fact intended to go near either lady. ‘No way of letting her know.’ She paused, tilted her head back and waited till he halted and looked at her.

  ‘Will you be seeing her?’ she asked in a voice bold with significance. ‘Mrs Fleming, that is? Could you give her a message? Explain about the accident? Tell her I’m ever so sorry to let her down, but I don’t rightly know when I’ll be fit enough to go again.’ Shan’t bother going there at all, she added to herself, too much for me, let her find someone else.

  Owen passed a hand across his forehead. Had the old crone seen him at Linda’s after all? Or heard his voice? Could she be quite simply making a random and innocent suggestion? He couldn’t tell.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Fleming,’ he said easily. ‘I can make it my business to see she’s given your message. Now, do come along.’ He urged her to the car.

  When they were settled into their seats he sat for a moment with one hand about to switch on the ignition, then he removed his hand and thrust it into his breast pocket. Emily stared ahead through the windscreen, listening intently to the little sounds he made, the rustle of notes, fingering them apart, counting them.

  ‘Hard to manage, just on the pension,’ she said, ‘when there’s no wage coming in,’ and had the exquisite satisfaction of hearing an additional rustle, two rustles.

  ‘Here you are.’ He slipped the notes into her fingers. ‘I wouldn’t want you to go short.’ He gave her fingers a little squeeze. ‘No need to say anything about this to Mrs Yorke.’

  ‘Why, how very kind!’ she cried with surprise. ‘I’ve always said you were a real gentleman.’ She ferreted about in her holdall for her purse, contriving to get a squint at the money in the light from the lamps at the h
ospital entrance. Looked like five pounds, though she couldn’t be certain, might be more. ‘You can count on me,’ she said with fervour, hinting at vast unshakable loyalties.

  She stuffed the notes away; felt as if there were seven or eight. Mm . . . she thought as the car swung out into the road . . . a lot of money for Mr Yorke to part with so easy, he was never very free with his money, as far as she was concerned . . . a person might expect to buy a lot of silence for seven or eight pounds . . .

  It didn’t take them long to reach the little stone house. It had been a farm labourer’s cottage, long ago, before Milbourne had moved into the industrial age. Now it stood on the edge of the town with only a field and a small belt of trees separating it from the onward march of expansion.

  It suited Emily well enough, giving her a sense of country life. And she liked to keep herself to herself, no bother with tradesmen calling, she never had a newspaper delivered, made do with dried milk, bought her few odds and ends of groceries in town on her way home from work; once in a very long while the postman called with a letter.

  Owen bounced the car over the rutted lane, up to the door, inwardly groaning in sympathy for his poor springs but feeling he could scarcely ask Emily to get out and walk the last hundred yards.

  ‘I’ll come in and make you a cup of tea,’ he said without enthusiasm.

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Her tone was brisk, she’d had quite enough of his company for the time being. ‘Not but what I’m much obliged,’ she added hastily. ‘I’ll manage very nicely, thank you. You’ll want to be getting off home.’

  He watched her let herself into the cottage. No, he wouldn’t go home just yet, he didn’t in the least feel like encountering Zena at this moment, He frowned into the darkness. Might be as well to have a word or two with Arnold Pierson. A bit tricky, never quite certain what was going on behind that silent face. Could just drop in at the house, ask after old Walter’s health, have a little chat with Sarah . . . not that he relished that notion either, recalling the business of closing the shop.

  Pierson might still be down at the station, making his statement. If he drove back to the club for half an hour or so, that would be about right, wouldn’t do to leave it too late and find the household retiring for the night.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Cottrell offered. ‘I’ve got to drop young Quigley anyway, it isn’t much farther on to your place.’

  Arnold shook his head. ‘No thanks, I’ll walk.’ He strode off at once, out of the station. Quigley looked after him with amusement.

  ‘Rum fellow, that. Not exactly a brilliant conversationalist.’ The recurring thought of his bride and her ruined supper wiped the amusement from his tone. ‘Come on, Sarge, let’s get going.’

  As soon as the car turned the corner of the road that held his semi-detached love-nest he knew he was in for a soul-searing forty-eight hours. Every light was extinguished in that trim abode. He closed his eyes in despair. Sharon had taken herself off to bed then, had probably cried herself to sleep. In the morning she would be mute and red-eyed, levelling no spoken accusations but listening with the air of a downtrodden and brutally neglected wife to his pleading explanation. Now, suddenly, he knew he couldn’t face another statutory two days of penance.

  ‘You couldn’t lend us two or three quid, could you?’ Humiliation edged his tone. ‘Let you have it back on payday.’ This is abysmal folly, common sense warned him; she’ll have to accept the fact that you can’t always be punctual, she knew what job you had when you married her, she’s not a child, she’s a grown woman of twenty-two. Producing a present you can’t afford every time she has a fit of the sulks isn’t going to do anything except reinforce her petulant behaviour.

  But it would take nerve and energy to sweat it out and he was always tired at the end of the day; he closed his ears to that acid voice.

  Cottrell halted the car. He considered for an instant refusing the loan, handing out instead a few crisp words of advice, then he shrugged his shoulders and reached for his wallet. What did he know about it after all? An outsider, looking in through the windows at the face of matrimony. ‘Four pounds do you?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge, you’ve saved my life.’ Quigley grinned at him cheerfully and thrust the notes into his pocket. ‘See you in the morning.’ He sprang jauntily from the car, letting the door slam with unprofessional loudness. Cottrell raised his eyes to the window of the front bedroom. But no sudden welcoming light switched on.

  He shook his head slowly as he pulled away from the kerb. Women, baffling, unpredictable creatures . . . and pretty women the most infuriating of all. But what man in his senses wanted a plain wife?

  His brain flung up before him the image of a face, beautiful, fine-boned, glimpsed a couple of days ago as he was driving through the Milbourne streets. She was coming out of a restaurant at lunchtime, she’d paused in the doorway and put up a hand to tuck away a strand of hair teased by the wind, she’d glanced out at the passing cars. Her eyes had met his for an instant, she’d given him a half-smiling look. Probably hadn’t even seen him, had been thinking about something–or someone–else.

  But he had been struck by the same wild blow that had laid him low on half a dozen other occasions in his life. That’s the one, he’d thought, instantly, irrevocably, as he’d thought all those other times. Always the same face, the same figure. Tall and willowy, with the same necessary look, at once remote and potentially accessible.

  Now he gave a little snort of amusement at his own recurring folly. He had thought himself cured by middle-age, more or less resigned to the prospect of solitary living, congratulating himself from time to time on the blessings of freedom and a mind free from emotional turmoil.

  He reached the house where he rented a bedsitter and put the car away, pausing with one hand on the garage door. I am cured, he told himself with vigour, I am washed up on the shore, beyond the reach of the tossing waves.

  But as he went up the short flight of steps and let himself into the house, calling out a greeting to his landlady who put her head round the kitchen door, it wasn’t her broad and cheerful face he saw at the end of the passage but the face of his lovely dream-goddess with her faintly-smiling lips.

  Owen Yorke sat in his car which he’d parked a few yards away from the Piersons’ gate–in case he changed his mind about the wisdom of calling. Lights on both upstairs and down. He glanced about the street, half hoping that Arnold might suddenly come into view, allowing him a casual word or two out here, sparing him the awkwardness of going inside and possibly having to conduct his delicate business before the sharp eyes and ears of Sarah.

  He felt profoundly irritated, not even being certain of the exact nature of his delicate business. He could hardly come out into the open and ask Pierson if he’d been spying on him. Nor could he imply that if the fellow wanted to keep his job it would be as well not to tittle-tattle to Zena. He couldn’t get rid of Pierson without Zena having to know all about it. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

  This is ridiculous, he told himself with force. I can’t sit out here dithering all night. I’ll just go in and have a pleasant little chat with Arnold, easy enough to tell from his manner if he intends to make trouble. All my imagination most likely, I’ll be laughing at myself ten minutes from now.

  He seized the door handle and then withdrew his fingers. He’d never been able to read Pierson’s mind before, why should he find himself suddenly gifted now? In all probability he’d be no wiser at the end of his visit than he was at this moment. A memory of Emily Bond and her swift grasp at the pound notes sent his hand uncertainly towards his breast pocket.

  Money . . . had it any voice that spoke with meaning to Pierson? He was well aware that a self-made businessman could be tempted to overestimate its absolute importance to everyone . . . and yet, there were few men he knew who wouldn’t cup a palm to a generous hand.

  Twice he took out the wallet and twice he thrust it fiercely back again. The third time
he opened it and counted the remaining notes. Seven pounds might bring a delighted gleam to Emily’s eye but it wasn’t likely to have much influence on Arnold.

  Fifty-four pounds in all; he’d fallen into the habit of carrying a certain amount of money in the days of unconventional dealings after the war. Tens and fivers mostly; he restored the singles to the wallet and folded the remaining fifty, putting them for easy access into the pocket of his overcoat. The sum struck him as just about right–if the central idea had any validity. Anything less smacked of insult and anything more might invite downright blackmail.

  The word gave him pause for a moment. Was he about to commit an act of outrageous folly? No way of being absolutely sure–there never was in tricky negotiations.

  He stepped out of the car and walked briskly towards the Piersons’ gate. Sarah answered his ring at the door; he asked at once for Arnold, with an air of urgency assumed in order to avoid being led into a casual exchange with Sarah, when he could scarcely prevent the subject of the shop coming up.

  She stood aside. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  Arnold was standing by the hall table. He looked up in surprise.

  ‘I happened to be passing,’ Owen said as soon as Sarah had discreetly disappeared. ‘I thought I’d look in and see how your father is.’ He assumed the easy air of a man addressing an employee. ‘And I also wanted to thank you for rescuing my charwoman from a sudden death.’ He gave a pleasant, friendly smile; his tone held the faintest overlay of patronage.

  He slid his hand into his pocket, maintaining his frank and kindly expression. ‘Totally inadequate of course . . . but I’d like to show my appreciation . . . I’m sure Emily would wish me to express her gratitude . . . the merest token . . .’ His brain, working now in high gear, registered the beginnings of puzzlement in Arnold’s eyes. Owen drew his hand smoothly from his pocket and laid the roll of notes on the table without a downward glance, at the same time keeping up his disarming flow of reassuring utterances . . . ‘your father’s illness . . . many extra expenses just now . . . some little delicacy . . .’