"Oh yes. The redoubtable Ms Butcher. Who was responsible for getting you involved in this business in the first place, so the police inform me."

That's right. And if she'd checked her facts, I wouldn't have got involved. And I still think it was pretty irresponsible once Potter realized I was talking about Penthouse It occurred to Joe that maybe complaining about the professional standards of the murdered lawyer to his partner and probably friend was not the seemliest thing he'd ever done.

"You mean that when you explained your problem to Peter, he did not at once say there was a conflict of interest?" completed Pollinger. "I regret that, Mr. Sixsmith. What did he say?"

"Said I was wasting my time, I had no case."

"Perhaps, in fact almost certainly, that was his honest opinion and he merely wanted to save you from further inner turmoil and external expense. Let us hope so anyway. De mortuis This was one very cool guy, or very cold, Joe wasn't certain which.

He said, "So I'm right, you do represent Penthouse?"

Pollinger said, "Yes. Normally a company of their size would have developed their own legal department by now, but Harold Duhig and I have seen our businesses grow side by side over the years and know each other too well to separate. Until now."

"You got problems with him?" said Joe, ready to sympathize with anyone who was suffering at the hands of Penthouse.

"I think rather he has problems with us, Mr. Sixsmith."

Pollinger closed his eyes and seemed to enter into a kind of trancelike state which would have had his family sending for the doctor and his doctor sending for the drug squad.

Joe, being in neither state of relationship, waited for him either to recover or pitch forward on the steering wheel, but was glad when he opted for the first.

"To recap then, Mr. Sixsmith, you are not in a client relationship with anyone connected with this case?"

"You mean, am I getting paid? I told you already. No."

"In that case perhaps I could retain your services?"

"To do what?"

"Why, to help a fellow human being who may be in peril, and to advance the cause of justice, of course," said Pollinger, smiling. "I realize you do both of these for free, but the extra I would require for my money would be total confidentiality."

That's what all my clients get, this side of the law."

"Excellent. Then put this under your hat and keep it there. I regret to say that there may be some discrepancies in some of our client accounts."

"You mean, someone's been on the fiddle and that's what these killings are about?" said Joe, delighted at this confirmation of his own theory. "You spoke to Nay smith, did you?"

"Naturally. I was at the chambers when he arrived for his appointment with Peter. Poor chap. He was really shocked. They were very close, you know."

"Yes, second row," said Joe impatiently. "What did he say Potter said to him on the phone?"

"Not a lot, unfortunately. It seems that just before Christmas Peter had stumbled across an inconsistency in the movement of certain client funds. He'd mentioned it to Felix but had decided not to bother me with it till he had more information. Presumably he'd found something more and wanted Felix to double check."

"So no names?"

"Evidently not."

"Suspicions?"

Those I will keep to myself for the moment. You see, Mr. Sixsmith, if it turns out the killings and the embezzlements are connected'

"If?" interrupted Joe. "You got reason to think different?"

"When you've worked in the Law as long as I have, you don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Sixsmith. Post hoc and propter hoc are two very different things."

Joe took his word for it and said, "So someone with a grudge, maybe?"

"A possibility. But as I was saying, my accountant's investigations which have already thrown up some irregularities, will certainly lead us to the perpetrator of the financial crime. I would prefer to discover this person had nothing to do with the killings."

Yeah, you can hush up thieving but not murder, thought Joe.

"So who's lost money apart from Penthouse?" he said.

"I never said Penthouse had lost money," reproved Pollinger. In fact, until the full audit is complete, it's difficult to locate any losses precisely. The skein is tangled and the situation fluid, if you'll forgive my mix of metaphors. If as seems likely funds have been moved around so that no particular depredation could be spotted at one time, then the question of the precise locating of losses becomes complicated."

"You mean like if I nick a fiver from you, then a bit later I put a fiver in your wallet that I've nicked from someone else, whose fiver is that?"

"I wish my accountant could put things so plainly," said Pollinger, smiling.

"Maybe you should change them. How come they didn't notice something funny was going on?"

"A good question. Their pre-emptive answer is that any irregularities must have occurred since the last annual audit. If they turn out to be wrong, I shall of course be delighted to sue them. In fact, that would solve a lot of problems."

"You mean, they could be held responsible for the losses?"

"For all that have occurred since the audit, certainly."

He nodded with pleasure at the thought. Vampires, thought Joe. As long as they've got someone else's big fat vein to suck, they're happy.

"So why, if you don't know yet who's lost what, have you been visiting your old chum at Penthouse?" asked Joe.

"When two lawyers get killed and a third is attacked, rumours soon start circulating, Mr. Sixsmith. You'd be amazed at the number of calls I've already had, vibrant with sincere condolence rapidly modulating into equally sincere concern about the state of our finances. People can be so self-centred."

"So you went to Penthouse to deal with these rumours?" persisted Joe.

"No. There's another problem there," admitted Pollinger. "You see, we are of course insured against losses of this kind. All law firms need to be."

Joe worked on this for a while then began to chuckle.

"You mean it's Penthouse you're insured with? So if they've been ripped off they could find themselves paying out money to cover their own losses?"

"You have a gift for the simplistic precis," said Pollinger. "Harold Duhig is not happy."

"I bet. Piece of advice, Mr. Pollinger. Next time you go to see your friend, take a sledgehammer, 'cos getting what you're due out of Penthouse is like getting blood out of a stone!"

Surprisingly this seemed to cheer Pollinger up immensely.

"I see we are going to get on famously, Mr. Sixsmith," he said. "My curiosity was already aroused when your name kept cropping up in the accounts I received of the police investigation. Could it be pure chance, I wondered. Then when I saw you in the lift'

"I'd been described?" interjected Joe.

"In general terms," said Pollinger evasively. "But your car more unmistakably. No, your involvement here is more than pure chance."

"You don't look like a superst.i.tious man to me, Mr. Pollinger," said Joe.

"And you're right. I'm not. The chance I refer to is an accepted area of modern scientific theory. Anything can hap pen. But if it keeps on happening, then it is removed from the realm of accident and someone posits a law."

"You're losing me," said Joe.

"On the contrary, I am hiring you."

"But to do what?" demanded Joe.

To find out who has murdered two of my colleagues. Also there is a great deal of money missing. I should like to know where it has gone."

Ah, thought Joe. The money. He'd put the deaths of his colleagues first, but it sounded like a close call.

"But where do you want me to start?" he asked.

"Start? Man, you're so far in, I suspect you could hardly find your way back! You will need to talk to all our staff, of course. Mrs. Mattison, our office manager, is ideally placed to give you an overall view. I've asked her to come in tomorrow morning to help sort out this mess. I'll tell her you'll call."

"Yes, sir," said Joe. "Am I just going to talk to her or ... ?"

"You mean, is she suspect? Everyone of them is suspect, Mr. Sixsmith, till you find out different, or they get killed."

Shoot! thought Joe. This guy wasn't just icy cold, he was permafrost!

"Mr. Naysmith didn't get killed, just beaten up," he probed. "But you don't think he's a suspect, do you?"

"Felix?" said Pollinger thoughtfully. "It's my understanding you yourself alibi'd him?"

"Yeah, well, I overheard Mr. Potter talking to him on the phone and the cops confirmed the call was from Lincolnshire."

"And poor Peter got killed within minutes of your leaving him. So, unless you're a terribly unreliable witness, Mr. Sixsmith, that seems to let him off the hook. But you'll still want to interview him, I daresay. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss?"

"We haven't talked about my rates," said Joe diffidently.

"Worried about working for a man whose firm is likely to have suffered substantial losses? Quite right. Take this on account and let me know when it has run its course. Good day now. I feel better for knowing you are on the case."

Joe slid out of the rich comfort of the Merc, clutching the bundle of notes Pollinger had produced from his wallet. The Merc moved silently away. Joe opened the door of the Mini and Whitey let out an angry howl which diminished as Joe flapped the notes in his face.

"I got the only cat in the world that recognizes the smell of money!" said Joe. "Let's count this lot then head to Daph's Diner to celebrate!"

Fourteen.

Daph's Diner gets a cautious recommendation in The Lost Traveller's Guide for the depth and nutritional qualities of its hot bacon sandwiches.

With the casual indifference to expense of a man who's got eight hundred quid tucked down his Y-fronts, Joe ordered two and a pot of tea. Someone had left a copy of the Bugle at his table. He used the thick Property Market supplement as a fat-absorbent tray for Whitey's sandwich after checking he was out of the sight line of the counter. Daph, a formidable young woman with a second-cla.s.s honours degree in art history and a realistic att.i.tude to its attendant job opportunities, was unreliable in her att.i.tude to animals on the premises. Last time a customer complained, she'd thrown Joe and Whitey out, but the time before it had been the amazed customer who ended up on the pavement, closely followed by her jam doughnut.

Satisfied they were un.o.bserved, Joe took a mouthful of sandwich and read the front-page account of the attack on Felix Naysmith. There was no mention of Sixsmith Investigations. He didn't know whether to be pleased or put out.

"OK if we sit here? It's a bit crowded today," said a female voice.

"Sure," said Joe, looking up.

Recognition was simultaneous.

"It's Merv's mate, Joe, isn't it?" said Molly McShane.

"It is, it is," said Joe stimulated to a hearty mock Irishness by this life-enhancing presence. "Sit down, please. A great pleasure."

He meant it. Even against the glitzy background of the Glit she had shone. Here in the sage and serious surroundings of Daph's, she burnt like a beacon, dazzling his eyes so much he hardly noticed her companion at first. When he did, he guessed this had to be Dorrie, the dyslexic daughter. She was a younger version of Molly, though yet to burst into full flame, with a willowy figure where the elder woman's was voluptuously full, and her hair cropped short where the other's cascaded in a rich red Niagara. And if she had her mother's joyous smile, she wasn't about to show it.

There was a third member of the group, a child in a push chair To Joe, who was no judge, it looked about three and rather bonny, but maybe this was only because it was asleep.

"Joe, this is Dorrie, my daughter Doreen, that is. And my lovely little granddaughter, Feelie."

"Pleased to meet you," said Joe.

Feelie kept on sleeping and the mother grunted something which politeness required him to understand as, "Me too," but the message coming from her expressive face was, I may have to sit next to this plonker, but I don't have to enjoy it. She positioned the push chair between herself and her mother, sat down by Joe, picked up the Bugle and started reading.

Molly's mouth tightened for a moment then she said pleasantly, "Now isn't it grand to get the weight off your feet? Dorrie, my love, what is it you fancy?"

"I don't want nothing to eat," said the girl in a voice which had something of her mother's lilt with a strong admixture of local Luton. There's a sodding cat making a mess down here. Christ knows what you could catch."

"He's with me," said Joe. "We're leaving shortly. Molly, can I fetch you something from the counter before I go?"

"Joe, you're a real gent. I'll have a hot chocolate and a Danish. Dorrie, what'll you have?"

Without looking up the girl said, "Cappuccino," making it sound like a Latin oath aimed at Joe.

This att.i.tude was hard to take from someone who'd caused him considerable embarra.s.sment by getting his name wrong on the hand-out. OK, so the poor kid was dyslexic and in any case Merv's writing was like a ball of wool after Whitey had finished with it. And OK again, she didn't know she'd got it wrong, seeing as the besotted Merv hadn't felt able to tell Molly what had happened. But none of this excused rudeness. Good manners cost nothing, said Aunt Mirabelle, but bad manners can be real expensive.

So what am I going to do? thought Joe. Pepper her cappuccino?

Maybe Molly would give her a good maternal dressing down.

When he returned to the table this is exactly what seemed to be taking place, but as he picked up on the exchange he realized it was nothing to do with him.

"She's your granddaughter, for G.o.d's sake!" snapped the girl.

"Yes, and I love her. And I look after her every hour that G.o.d permits when you're at work. But this week you're off and I've got other things to do. You can't just spring this on me, Dorrie. Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Because I didn't realize earlier. Please, Ma. Just for an hour or so."

Her voice was low and pleading. She did it well and Joe could see Molly was on a hiding to nothing.

"OK, but just an hour. After that I've got to ..."