'-G.o.d, isn't that beautiful?'

'Ow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooowww...'

'-Brings tears to your eyes doesn't it?'

'Ow wow wow wooooow, wow wow wow wow wow woooooowwwwwwww...'

'-Got a tissue anyone?'

'Wow wow ow WOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW...'

'-Nice rubato.'

'Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wooooooow...'

'-He could get a recording contract with a voice like that.'

'Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow woow woow woooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww!'

There was a moment's silence, then thunderous applause.

'Now' said Caroline, 'may we please have your votes?' Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at my watch-it was a quarter to five and the fete would soon finish. I felt my heart race. Where was he? 'Can we have the votes for Desmond and his cover version of the Paul McCartney?' I heard Caroline ask. There was a few seconds' silence while she counted them. Maybe he'd gone into the house. 'And now a show of hands please for Pretzel and her thrilling rendition of the Mozart...one, two...five...eight, okay...' I looked towards the garden. 'And lastly, your votes for Shep the sheep-dog, and "Danny Boy"... Oh, that's a very decisive result! So I'm delighted to announce that this year's Little Gateley Pup Idol is Shep the sheepdog. Shall we ask him to sing it again?'

'YEAAHHHH!!!!'

As Shep did his reprise I spotted Jimmy, chatting amiably to the woman running the tombola. 'Thank you so much,' I heard him say as I approached. 'We really appreciate it.' I hovered for a moment, knowing that he must have seen me on the periphery of his vision, but he pointedly kept his back turned. Then he moved on to a group of people by the refreshment tent. I could hardly interrupt.

'Yes,' I heard him say. 'It's been a wonderful afternoon, hasn't it? No, we love having it here.' I pretended to be engrossed in the bric-a-brac stall. 'So lucky with the weather, yes. And how old are your lovely kids? Four and two? Lovely ages. How sweet.' Now, as he strolled confidently towards the house, stopping every few yards to speak to someone, I discreetly pursued him, my heart racing. It was all very well confronting him, but what would I say? What words could evoke my feelings about the dreadful thing he'd once done? As he headed for the French windows I followed twenty feet behind, feeling like a stalker, the blood drumming in my ears. I'd go into the house and I'd speak to him. For the first time in sixteen years I'd call out his name.

'Miss Sweet? Excuse me? Miss Sweet?' I turned. An elderly man with a Jack Russell was standing there, smiling at me. I glanced towards the house. Jimmy had gone.

'I just wanted to say how much I like your TV programme.'

'Oh,' I said. 'Thanks very much.'

'I watched them all-and I can't wait for the new series.'

'Well, that's great.' I smiled, then turned to go.

'I just wanted to ask your advice actually.' My heart sank. 'About Skip here.'

'Er, yes. Of course. How can I help?'

'He keeps digging up the garden. It's driving me and my wife up the wall.'

'Tell you what,' I said, fumbling in my bag, and retrieving one of my business cards, 'why don't you e-mail me, and I'll reply.'

'Well it really won't take long for me to explain now, and I just wanted to catch you before the end of the fete. You see we got Skip six months ago, from Battersea actually, and we just fell for him the moment we saw him...' I stood there, an expression of polite interest superglued to my face while the man went into grinding detail about Skip's excavations of the vegetable patch, the rose-bed, and the herbaceous border. 'We do love him, but ooh, the damage he's caused.'

'You need a digging pit,' I said, slightly irritably. 'Terriers are natural diggers. That's what they're bred for, so he'll never stop. But you can make sure that he's fulfilling those natural instincts in a way that doesn't wreck your garden. I suggest you build him a pit, like a sandpit, and fill it with wood chippings, and let him dig to his heart's content in that. You could hide a few of his favourite toys in there to encourage him to use it,' I added, trying to be helpful now.

'Well, thanks very much. That's good advice. A pit,' he repeated, shaking his head. 'I'd never have thought of that.'

'Yes,' I said, nodding. 'A pit.'

I glanced to my left. Everyone was leaving the arena; the fete was almost over. People were packing up. I'd have to be quick.

'Right, well thanks very much,' said the man again.

'My pleasure,' I said. And I was about to walk away when I saw Caroline coming towards me with Trigger, smiling and waving. Blast. I couldn't look for him now.

'It's gone brilliantly,' she said. 'I think we've raised over four thousand pounds. Thanks for being such a great judge. Here's a small token of our appreciation,' she handed me a bottle of champagne. 'It's a rather nice one, actually. Vintage-1987. That was a very good year, apparently.'

'Really?' I said faintly. Not for me.

'James likes to keep a good cellar.'

'I see. Well, thank you,' I said. I had no intention of drinking it.

'And I do hope you get some new clients out of this.'

'Who knows? I was just glad to help out. It all seems to be winding down now,' I added.

'It does look like it.' People were strolling across the lawn towards the gates. 'Perhaps we'll see you again some time,' she added pleasantly. 'I'll let you know how I get on with this young man's "education",' she grinned, nodding at Trigger. She was so natural and nice. I found myself wishing that she wasn't. It made the situation somehow worse.

'Yes. Do let me know. I'd love that.'

I walked towards my car, feeling demoralized. I'd failed in what I set out to do. And I knew I'd never get another chance to confront Jimmy, calmly and quietly, in the way I might have done today. If I wrote to him at the House of Commons, he'd claim he was too busy to see me, or he'd simply ignore me. I knew Jimmy. I knew how his mind worked.

'Okay, Herman,' I sighed. 'Let's go.' I opened the driver's door and was. .h.i.t by a sudden blast of scalding air. Despite the shade from a huge chestnut, the interior was like a bread oven. We'd just have to wait. As I opened the pa.s.senger door I glanced at the house, and suddenly saw Jimmy framed in an upstairs window, standing there, looking down. He hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Disconcerted, I put Herman in the back and got in. The car was still hot, but I just wanted to leave. I'd wound down all the windows and was putting on my seatbelt, struggling with the clasp, when I was aware of a sudden shadow across the dashboard.

'h.e.l.lo, Miranda.' I looked up at Jimmy. He was blocking out the sun. 'I thought you were ignoring me,' he said. He was doing his best to sound composed, but he was slightly breathless. He'd clearly just run down the stairs.

'You thought I was ignoring you?' I said, with a serenity which surprised me. 'I had the impression it was the other way round.'

'Oh not at all,' he replied. 'But I've been very busy, what with so many people to talk to and, well, I just wanted to thank you for helping us out.'

'That's fine,' I said coolly. 'Don't mention it.' I looked into his grey eyes, trying to read the expression in them. 'And of course it's in a very good cause. I remember how keen you always were on animal issues,' I added boldly, my heart pounding.

'Hmm,' he said. 'That's right.' He leaned against the neighbouring car and folded his arms. 'And you, Miranda, you were very enthusiastic yourself,' he said pleasantly. 'Quite a fanatic in fact.'

'Oh I wouldn't say that.' Now I understood what his agenda was. He was trying to establish my att.i.tude.

'Do you ever think about those days?' he asked casually. He looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to me. This was what he really wanted to know.

'Do I ever think about those days?' I repeated slowly. He was hoping that I'd say, 'No. Never. Forgotten all about it.' 'Yes,' I said. 'Actually, I do. I've been thinking about them quite a lot lately, as it happens.'

'Really? But it was so long ago.'

'That's true. But at the same time it feels like yesterday in some ways. Doesn't it to you?'

'No.' He'd said it firmly, but I saw a flicker of anxiety. 'But you look just the same, Miranda,' he said, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters.

'You look quite different-I hardly recognized you.'

'Well,' he touched his head and grinned. 'I don't have quite so much hair. Anyway, I just wanted to say "hi" and well, thanks. So goodbye then, Miranda. It was nice to see you.' He began walking towards the house.

'Can I ask you a question, Jimmy?' I called.

He stiffened slightly. 'My name's James,' he corrected me.

'Is it? Okay, James,' I tried again. 'What I want to know is...' My mouth felt dry as dust. 'Don't you ever feel sorry for what you did?' He stared at me, then blinked a few times. 'Doesn't your conscience ever p.r.i.c.k you?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Yes you do. There's no point pretending. There really isn't. At least, not with me.'

'Oh. Well...' he put his hands in his pockets then emitted a weary sigh. 'As I say, it was a long time ago. I really think it's best...forgotten.'

'I'm afraid I don't agree.' We stared at each other for a moment and I noticed him discreetly shift his weight.

'Have you ever...mentioned it?' he asked quietly. 'To...anyone?'

'Have I ever mentioned it to anyone?' I repeated. I decided I'd make him wait for my reply. He ran his right hand through his hair and I noticed a dark, spreading stain beneath his arm. 'No,' I said finally. 'I've never told a soul.' I could almost smell his relief.

'I didn't think you would have done,' he went on softly. 'And of course that really is the best thing all round. I'd forget about it, Miranda. I really would.'

'I've always found that hard to do.'

'Well, I would,' he insisted with benign menace. 'Otherwise, well, you could land yourself in a lot of trouble. Couldn't you?'

I felt my insides coil. 'Is that a threat?'

'A threat?' He looked mildly scandalized at the suggestion. 'Of course not. It's just...' he shrugged. 'Friendly advice. You've got a nice TV career as an animal expert after all, and I'm a very busy man; and you see what happened then-'

'No. Not "what happened",' I interjected hotly. 'What you did. To the Whites.'

He shifted his weight again then looked away. 'Well, that was as a result of...' his eyes narrowed as he seemed to grope for the appropriate term, '...youthful indiscretion.'

'Is that what you call it?'

He folded his arms again and then stared at the ground. 'Well...maybe we did...misbehave.' Misbehave? 'But we were very fired up with our beliefs, weren't we?' he went on smoothly. 'And we were so young.'

'I certainly was-I was only sixteen. But it's interesting that you should view it as mere "misbehaviour".' I snorted with mirthless laughter. 'Is that really how you see it?'

There was silence for a moment.

'We all make mistakes, Miranda.'

I shook my head. 'Oh it was much, much more than that.'

His face suddenly darkened, and the corners of his mouth turned down. 'Anyway, the old git had it coming to him,' he muttered.

'Why?' He didn't reply. I stared at him non-comprehendingly. 'Why?' I repeated. 'What had he done? I never understood.'

'Oh...plenty of things. Plenty,' he repeated, his face suddenly flushing. Then he seemed to collect himself. 'But what a coincidence,' he said smoothly. 'Your meeting my wife like that.'

'Yes,' I agreed. 'It was. But I didn't make the connection immediately as of course you were called "Smith" in those days.'

'Mulholland's my mother's maiden name,' he explained. 'I changed it when I became a journalist to make it a little more...distinctive. It's not a crime, is it?'

'No. That's not a crime,' I agreed. 'You must have got a bit of a shock seeing me again.'

He gave me a tight little smile. 'I guess I did. But on the other hand it's a small world, and it did sometimes occur to me that you might pop up. Anyway,' he glanced towards the house, 'I mustn't keep you. And Caroline will be wondering where I am.' He tapped the top of the car to bring the conversation to an end. 'Nice to see you again, Miranda. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye, Jimmy,' I said as I started the engine. His smile vanished.

'James,' he said firmly. 'It's James.'

CHAPTER 4.

'That's my answer,' I said to Herman, as I drove back with the front windows wide open. 'Not the slightest shred of remorse. He's just worried in case I tell anyone. He's probably been worried about it all these years. That's why he decided to speak to me now. He'd clearly been wrestling with it, despite his outward calm, then at the last minute he decided he would. He saw me leaving, hesitated, then made the decision to chance it.' For Jimmy clearly had a lot to lose. And he knew that, even now, sixteen years on, I could let the cat out of the bag. I could go to Scotland Yard and make a statement and he'd be out of Westminster before you could say 'Big Ben'. But what good would be served by doing that, I wondered, as we drove through St Albans. Justice, of course. But who would actually benefit from it? I thought of Jimmy's wife. She seemed a genuine, kind-hearted, nice person, and I had no wish to spoil things for her. She clearly knew nothing about what her husband had done-if he'd told her she would have been appalled. She might well not have married him. I know I wouldn't if I'd learned something like that.

Now, as I pa.s.sed Potter's Bar, I wondered what Caroline did know about Jimmy's past. He'd probably just told her that he'd been a bit of a radical. That would be okay. Having gone on demonstrations in your youth, even taking part in the odd riot, is no bar to public life. Or rather, it's no bar as long as you haven't done anything criminal. But Jimmy had. I wondered, as I often had wondered, what would happen to me if I told. This, clearly, was what Jimmy was still banking on. The fact that I'd lose my career. It would be even worse now than it would have been before-because of who Jimmy had become. It would be all over the newspapers-I shuddered at the imagined headlines-and that would be curtains for me. Even if there were no prosecution, I'd be tarnished. The TV company would drop me like a shot. Who'd want to watch me on Animal Crackers, knowing I'd done something like that? It was one thing to spray graffiti on a fur-coat shop. It was quite another to... I shuddered again as I remembered. Yes... That was quite another thing. There was, of course, one person who would benefit from any disclosure. All I knew was his name. David White.

That night I hardly slept. It was so hot I had the skylight above my bed wide open. I could hear the gibbons shrieking in the zoo, and the occasional roar of a lion-maybe that's why I'd had that dream about The Wizard of Oz. Less romantically, I could hear the screaming of car alarms and the dull rumble of traffic from the Marylebone Road. My mind was in turmoil as I alternately dozed and then woke. I'd tried to bury this awful thing in my subconscious all these years, but now I wanted to unburden myself. But to whom? Certainly not to my parents. It's not something I'd ever want them to know.

Now I wondered-as I so often had done-about confiding in Daisy, but I didn't want to put our friendship at risk. As my carriage clock chimed three thirty I thought about writing to an agony aunt. Perhaps that nice woman, Beverley McDonald, on the Daily Post, with her support dog, Trevor? I'd seen her on TV a couple of times. She'd sounded sensible and sympathetic. I wondered what advice she'd give. And, as the first birds began to wake and whistle, I composed a letter to her in my mind.

Dear Beverley, I hope you can help me, because I have this dreadful problem. Sixteen years ago I was involved, albeit unwittingly, in something truly awful-something which caused a lot of damage and pain to a totally innocent person, but the thing is... I sighed, then turned over. I just couldn't do it. Even if I used a pseudonym she might, somehow, discover it was from me and feel duty-bound to tell the police. I saw my life, already troubled by my crisis with Alexander, about to be utterly ruined. I wondered if I could talk it out with a counsellor or a therapist; but I didn't have one and, again, what if they told? I sat up in bed, as Herman snoozed beside me, sighing intermittently-he even manages to look stressed in his sleep. And as the shreds of pink cloud began to striate the fading navy of the retreating night, I had another, better, idea. There were online therapists and psychiatrists-'Cyber-shrinks'. I threw off the sheet and went downstairs.

I switched on my computer, entered 'online counselling' into Google and came up with about two thousand hits. There were 'Share-Feelings' and 'Help2Cope'. There was a California-based one called 'Blue.com', which claimed to offer a 'cure' for any psychological problem 'within ten minutes'. Sceptical, I clicked to the next. This one was called 'Thought Field Therapy' and claimed to use 'advanced psycho-technologies' to resolve 'any personal issue'. These were listed alphabetically in a sort of tragicomic shopping list, from abuse, affairs and alcoholism through to snoring, transs.e.xuals and stress. Which one of them would I click on? That was easy. 'Guilt.' It had squatted on my life like a dead weight. There were other sites with pictures of the sun rising, of rainbows and of clouds lifting. They all sounded appealing-but how could I choose? Then I stumbled on an Australian website, 'NoWorries.com' for 'people who would like to talk to someone about their problems anonymously, and to do that with total confidence from home'. As I surfed the site I could hear soothing cla.s.sical music, and there were images of flickering candles and messages in bobbing bottles. Attracted to its simplicity, I logged on.

It said that I could be counselled by e-mail, telephone or face-to-face. I opted for an e-mail session of fifty minutes-the traditional psychiatrist's hour. When did I want it? I could book any time slot, so I clicked on the window marked 'Now'. I used my Hotmail address as it's more anonymous, then began to tap in my credit card number. Hang on... I hadn't been thinking straight. My credit card has my name on it. Too dangerous. With a heavy heart, I pressed 'Quit'. I went back to bed and lay there, staring through the skylight, trying to work out how I could unburden myself. And I was just wondering whether perhaps the simplest thing wouldn't be to go to the nearest Catholic church and find a priest to confess to, when the phone went.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Sorry to ring so early,' said Daisy. She sounded dismal.

'That's okay. I was just getting up. What's the matter?'