"Can't," said Joe. "I'm chained to the desk."

"What?" Woodbine peered down then straightened up, his face taut with anger.

"Sir," said Chivers, desperately pre-emptive. "Sixsmith was observed outside acting suspiciously and when one of your neighbours tried to effect a citizen's arrest, Sixsmith started an altercation and threw him to the ground."

"One of my neighbours? Which one?"

Tallish gent, in his thirties, thick fair hair "Lovely teeth," said Joe. "He was giving a party."

"Sounds like Julian Jowett. And you say Joe threw him? But he used to be in the SAS."

"Did he?" said Chivers. This confirms my suspicion that Sixsmith here's a lot more expert at the martial arts than he lets on ..."

"Please, Willie," said Joe, deciding it was time to get familiar, 'if I promise I won't hurt the sergeant, can I be unlocked now?"

Woodbine said, "Sergeant," and Chivers reluctantly unlocked the cuff.

"That's better," said Joe, ma.s.saging his wrist. "Though I don't think I'll ever play the spoons again."

"Joe, no jokes, not even if you know any good ones," said Woodbine. "Just tell me what you are doing here."

Joe told him, keeping it simple. Woodbine glanced interrogatively at Chivers who reluctantly confirmed that yes, there was a phone in the kitchen where Naysmith had evidently been having a snack meal; yes, it had been hanging off its hook; and yes, he would check to see if there'd been a 999 call from the Glit, and also whether Joe had been there at the time he said.

The sergeant left the room. In the silence that followed, a voice from the phone on the desk could be heard. Woodbine picked it up, said, "Soon as possible, sir," and replaced it.

"Some idiot wanting a taxi," he said. "Now, Joe, one thing you didn't say was why you were phoning Felix Naysmith."

That had been part of keeping it simple. Even with Doubting Chivers out of the room, Joe felt uneasy about producing the remarkable coincidence of Merv's mis dialled number. But Willie had shown he trusted him and in Joe's book, trust given deserved honesty returned.

"How'd you get the number, by the way?" said Woodbine casually. "From the book, was it?"

It was tempting to say, "That's right," and let it go. But he put temptation aside and began, "Well, actually..." when something in the superintendent's casual tone tugged at his inner ear. If the answer, "That's right," was satisfactory, then it wasn't a question worth asking, was it? Which, if it was, meant, "That's right," would be some sort of giveaway. Like for instance if Naysmith's number wasn 't in the book. "How did you get this number?" the lawyer had asked angrily when he realized who he was talking to. Implying, not out of the book. And he knew from Butcher that being a smarta.s.s lawyer he kept his holiday cottage number ex-directory, so he probably did the same with his home number to keep anxious clients out of his domestic s.p.a.ce. Which good neighbour Willie would know ... which meant the suspicious so-and-so was laying little traps in case Joe had something to hide.

So much for trust! OK, he didn't have anything to hide in the sense of anything worth hiding but what he did have, he'd keep hidden just for the h.e.l.l of it!

He said, "I got it from Butcher, she's a big friend of Mrs. Naysmith's," and had the pleasure of seeing Woodbine wince as he always did whenever the belligerent little brief was mentioned. He went on, "We were talking about the Nay-smiths and she said Naysmith was probably going to drive back to Lincolnshire tonight and I got to thinking later, what if he didn't? He'd be really vulnerable down here by himself and with you away, I wasn't sure it would be covered, so I rang just to make sure ..."

Lie to the cops by all means, but no harm in b.u.t.tering them up at the same time.

That was real thoughtful of you, Joe," said Woodbine. "So tell me what happened when Felix answered."

Joe told him "You're sure he said, What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" like he knew whoever it was at the door?"

"Certain," said Joe. "Look, there's something queer going on at Poll-Pott. There's this message on his answer machine ..."

He scrolled through till he got to Potter's message. As it was playing, Chivers came in, nodding surlily at the super which meant Joe's alibi panned out.

"Have you heard this, Sergeant?" asked Woodbine aggressively.

"Yes, sir. One of the first things I did when I got here," said Chivers rather to Joe's disappointment. "Just confirms what Mr. Naysmith told us when he turned up at Oldmaid Row this dinnertime. He got the message when he accessed his answer machine, like he does from time to time when he's away, and he rang the office to see if he could catch Mr. Potter. That was the call Sixsmith eavesdropped on..."

"Hang about," protested Joe. "Weren't no eavesdropping. Couldn't help hearing ..."

"OK, Joe," said Woodbine placatingly. "And the call wasn't finished when you finally left the office, right? So what did Mr. Naysmith say he and Potter discussed in the rest of the call, Sergeant?"

"Maybe we should talk outside, sir," said Chivers, looking significantly at Joe.

"OK," said Woodbine. "Joe, you wait here."

Typical, thought Joe. Cops want to know what you know before you know you know it. But their own secrets they nurse to their bosoms like Zak with Whitey.

"Where else would I go without me shoe?" he said, waggling his red-socked toes.

"So what's happened to your shoe?" asked Woodbine wearily.

Chivers said, "Took it to check out a print, sir. The garden backs on to Beacon Holt and we reckon the a.s.sailant left his car over on Swallowdale Lane and came through the wood, which was how he managed to get into the back door without Forton spotting him."

"Pity he didn't walk up the front path like most killers do," observed Joe.

"OK, Joe," reproved Woodbine. "Sergeant, did the shoe match the print?"

We all know it didn't, thought Joe, else Chivers would have had me stretched on the rack by now.

"No, sir."

Then see Mr. Sixsmith gets his shoe back. Joe, I won't be long."

"Better not be," said Joe. "I got a date."

It was a lie. Christmas had been a date-free zone for Joe. Beryl Boddington, the nearest he had to a 'steady' had taken her little boy Desmond to visit her parents in Portsmouth for the holidays. He had an open offer from Merv to 'fix him up' any time he felt like it, but an earlier experience of a Merv fix, involving a fun-loving blonde with an undisclosed and pathologically jealous sailor husband who docked a day early, had left Joe unnerved. His Aunt Mirabelle was given to declaring that if only Joe would find himself a nice girl and settle down, she would die happy. Merv had suggested, cruelly, that Joe should ask for this in writing. But Joe loved his aunt and secretly (especially when he was with Beryl) did not altogether disapprove of her ambition. And yet... and yet... he felt that there were things he wanted to do with his life that domestic bliss would put out of the question.

What they were precisely, he wasn't sure. And the fact that Beryl had never shown the slightest inclination to let their pleasantly fluid relationship solidify into something more permanent meant that he couldn't really think of himself as n.o.bly self-denying.

He turned to more profitable lines of speculation, such as, how the shoot had he contrived to deck Marble-Tooth Jowett of the SAS? It was no use. He couldn't remember a thing about the technique he'd used. If he tried to boast about it down the Glit, all he'd get was a boom of belly laughs. Still, it was nice to think that deep inside there was a Fighting Machine waiting to get out. Nicer still would be to find a detective down there.

He stared at the desk blotter. Endo Venera had done great things with blotters. What you needed was a mirror. He stood up and held it to a gla.s.s-fronted photo on the wall. The blots remained steadfastly blot-like. Perhaps things were arranged differently in America. He let his gaze pa.s.s through the gla.s.s on to the picture itself. No comfort there for a man whose heart was dangerously near his sleeve.

He was looking at a wedding group. It was Peter Potter's wedding with best man Naysmith smiling at his side. All the other increasingly familiar faces from Poll-Pott's were there too. It had been a windy day and hands were grasping at toppers and grey tails were flapping, giving an attractively unposed air to the photograph. Victor Montaigne, black whiskers spread wide by the breeze, looked as if he'd just stepped off his quarter deck, though beside him Darby Pollinger looked as calm and unruffled as if he'd been sculpted out of painted marble. Peter Potter, a smile on his face, was saying something to his bride whose long blonde tresses were being blown around her face like a second veil. But you could tell she was laughing back and her wide clear eyes alone were enough to make her look beautiful.

How did she look now, he wondered, the widow of a day? And most painful of all to contemplate was Sandra lies. He'd only seen her twice in the flesh, once when she'd attacked him and once when she'd been dead. But paradoxically it was this still image of her, gorgeous in a pink dress and smiling broadly as she clung on to her hat in a gusting breeze, that made him most aware of her as a young vibrant woman cut off in her prime.

He turned away and tried to focus on the rest of the room. There were other photographs, several of sporting teams with the two big men, Potter and Naysmith, always side by side. In fact, it was a pretty sporting kind of study, with an oar high up across one wall and a stuffed fish on another, with rods, reels and lines everywhere, plus a practice putting cup on the carpet and a bag of golf clubs standing in a corner.

Endo Venera would probably have taken the opportunity of going through the desk drawers, but Joe's thoughts were elsewhere. Why the image of a dead woman should so affect him he didn't know. None of this had anything to do with him. No one was paying him, he'd only become involved by accident and the clever thing was to follow Butcher's advice and put as much s.p.a.ce between himself and the investigation as possible.

But he felt involved. Personally and seriously. Ain't no such thing as an accident, his Aunt Mirabelle and Sigmund Freud were agreed on this at least, though they parted company on their explication of the thesis. But whether he was here because of some Higher Purpose or whether it was just another fine mess the working of his own subconscious had got him into, he knew he was definitely involved and he'd like some answers.

The door opened and Woodbine came back in. He looked a wreck.

Joe said, "I'm really sorry your holiday got messed up."

Being a hard-nosed cop, he peered at Joe in search of irony, but finding nothing there other than genuine sympathy, he sighed and said, "I'd rather have been on point duty at Market Cross during rush hour in a thunderstorm."

"And Mrs. Woodbine, is she well?"

It was as diplomatically phrased as he could manage. Joe had met Georgina Woodbine and knew from personal experience what it felt like to be within the penumbra of her wrath.

There was a moment of shared awareness, then Woodbine said, "As well as can be expected. OK, Joe. Sorry you got caught up in this lot. You can push off now. Unless you've got any ideas you'd like to run past me?"

One thing about Willie Woodbine, he didn't let pride or prejudice get in the way of pragmatism. Joe, he'd come to realize, got to places that normal CID methods couldn't reach, and the superintendent had no objection to hitching a free ride.

Time he learned to pay for his ticket, thought Joe.

"None I can think of," said Joe. "Maybe if you told me what Naysmith said they talked about on the phone, it would get me started."

"They just arranged to meet," said Woodbine unconvincingly.

"Was that all? Not much help then. All I can think of is, maybe you ought to get some protection arranged for Darby Pollinger and Victor Montaigne."

"I think Sergeant Chivers has got that one worked out," said Woodbine, implying by his intonation even Sergeant Chivers. "No problem. Mr. Montaigne's away skiing in the French Alps. And Mr. Pollinger's got the kind of house that our Crime Prevention Unit visits to pick up tips."

"But you will be wanting to talk to them?" "Very likely, Joe. Very likely. Anything else you want to say before you go?"

"Only, welcome home, Willie," said Joe Sixsmith.

Ten.

Beacon Heights had returned to its customary peace and quiet when Joe emerged.

The police vehicles were still there but no longer pulsating light or sound. The SAS neighbour's guests had all gone back to their party. There was a bedroom light on in the Woodbine house, but it snapped off as Joe watched. Presumably Georgie Woodbine had unpacked, cleaned up, and was now going to catch up on her beauty sleep.

"Spare room for you tonight, Willie," said Joe. "You OK, Whitey?"

There was no reply as he got back into the Mini, and he recalled that he'd left the Glit in such a rush he'd completely forgotten about Whitey under his stool at the bar.

"Oh shoot! I'll kill that d.i.c.k Hull if he's let him get stoned again!"

He started the car and set off down the hill.

It really was ghost-town time out here in the posh suburbs, hardly any traffic even, just him and that motorcyclist a couple of hundred yards back.

As he retraced his route into town, he noted that the guy on the bike kept pace with him. So what? If he was going downtown too, this was the route to take. But even when he left the quiet suburbs behind and got into a bit of slow traffic on the urban freeway, the guy didn't take the chance to show off the advantages of a bike in these conditions and weave his way forward through the drift, he still hung back two or three cars behind.

Funny, thought Joe, and took a turn off the freeway half a mile before his purposed exit.

The bike headlight followed.

Joe crossed a light at amber, did a sharp left, came up close behind a VW Polo which had just pulled out of a driveway, hit the brake, reversed into the same driveway and killed his lights.

Thirty seconds later, the motorbike reared past. He just had time to glimpse its red-helmeted rider, bulky in leathers, before it vanished up the street in pursuit of the distant lights of the Polo.

At least he a.s.sumed that was what it was doing. Or maybe he was just getting paranoid.

Anyway, he was glad he had an excuse to go to the Glit.

Two excuses, in fact, but one of them, Merv the Taxi, was nowhere in sight.

The other, Whitey the Alcohol, was on public display, curled up around the cash till, snoring.

The manager, d.i.c.k Hull, antic.i.p.ating Joe's indignation, said, It's OK, I got to him before he went too far. You can't blame folk, Joe. When it comes to b.u.mming drinks, he could make a Rechabite relent."

"I know," sighed Joe, who was the world's leading expert on the cat's poor-old-me-no-food-nor-drink-has-pa.s.sed-my-lips-in-twenty-four-hours act. "Merv not here?"

"Had to go and pick someone up. Said he'd be back."

"Fine. Hey, I left a Guinness on the bar when I had to rush off. What happened to it?"

For answer, Hull looked at the sleeping cat.

"Shoot. Draw me another, will you, d.i.c.k?"

He went to the phone and took out the crumpled handout. Merv's home number appeared as 59232332. He riffled through the phone book to check. Here Merv's number was given as 59323223. So G.o.d was just after all. Dyslexic Dorrie hadn't just got his name wrong, she'd misread Merv's number too.

He returned to the bar, drank his stout and pondered these things to the inspirational accompaniment of Gary singing "When I'm On I'm On'. Whitey stirred in his sleep, opened a half-hawed eye, looked at Joe, and closed it again.

Joe sighed deeply. d.i.c.k's claim that he'd got to Whitey in time was delusive. This was a very drunk cat whose delicate balance could only be disturbed at considerable risk.

"Joe, you're back. How'd it go? Did the fuzz get there in time?"

It was Merv, his expressive face combining delight at seeing Joe, concern about the emergency call, and l.u.s.tful pride in the presence on his right arm of a luscious smiling woman. She was in her forties perhaps, with natural red hair tumbling over her shoulders, dark-green eyes, a broad handsome face and a solid but shapely figure. She warmed you up just looking at her.

"Yeah. In fact they were on the spot so didn't need the call, but thanks all the same. What are you drinking? And your friend ... ?"

"Joe Sixsmith, Molly McShane. Molly. Joe."

"Joe, I've heard such a lot about you," she said, taking his hand. Hers felt soft and warm, and so did his after a little while. Her voice was unaffectedly husky with an Irish lilt in it and her gaze caressed where it touched.

"All good, I hope," he managed.

She gurgled as if he'd said something genuinely witty, then added, "And I see your kidneys are in the right place as well as your heart, I'll follow your good example."

Tint?" he said.

"Does it come in anything less?" she asked seriously. Then laughed and said, Tint'll be fine."

He got the drinks in and took them to the table where Merv had led the woman.

"You'll join us, Joe?" she said.