"Shoot," said Joe. "Then I'm in real trouble, 'cos my witnesses are a lot less reliable than Whitey."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that for most of the time, I was here being questioned by you, Sarge. Remember?"

Chivers closed his eyes in silent pain.

"And when you were done with me, I went straight round to the Glit to wash the taste out of my mouth," said Joe, pressing his advantage.

"The lowlife that drink there are anyone's for a pint," said Chivers without real conviction.

"I'll tell Councillor Baxendale you said that, shall I? We got there the same time, and it's true, I bought him a pint."

d.i.c.kie Baxendale was chair of the council's police liaison committee.

Chivers said, "Just tell me again what you were doing at Number 7, Coach Mews."

Joe told him again, or rather told him the revised version which was that, being keen to a.s.sure Ms lies of his innocence in the matter of Potter's death, and not trusting the police to set the record straight (a good authenticating point this) he had decided to call on her personally.

"Mr. Dorken said you spoke to someone before you went in."

Mr. Dorken, the 'military gent', had turned out to be a retired fashion designer. Just showed how wrong you could be.

That was a bit of play-acting," admitted Joe, who knew the value of a plum of truth in a pudding of lies. The door opened by itself and I got worried 'cos Mr. Dorken was watching me suspiciously. Sorry."

"It's stupid enough to be true," admitted Chivers reluctantly.

DC Doberley called him out of the room for a moment. When he returned he said, "Come across any Welshmen recently, Sixsmith?"

Joe thought of Starbright Jones, decided against mentioning him, and said, "Can't think of any. Why?"

There's an odd message on Ms Iles's answer phone Funny accent, could be Welsh."

Pride almost made Joe protest, but sense prevailed.

He said, "Everybody sounds funny on tape. Can I go now, Sarge? I've got an appointment. For a job. In sport."

"Oh yes? Who with? Head scout down the football club?" Chivers sneered.

And Joe couldn't resist replying, "No. It's Zak Oto down the Plezz. Got your ticket for the opening, have you, Sarge?"

To the faithful, the Plezz with its great silver sports dome from which radiated all the other support and activity buildings in broad and tree-flanked avenues, was Luton's Taj Mahal. Literally, according to some who claimed that every local mobster who'd gone missing in the past decade had been consigned to the depths of its concrete foundations. Metaphorically there was certainly blood on its bricks. Since the idea first got floated in the overreaching eighties, fortunes had been made and lost, reputations inflated and burst, both locally and nationally. At times the government had pointed to it proudly as the very model of partnership between public money and private enterprise, at others it had provided a gleeful opposition with yet more ammo to hurl across the floor of the House. But once under way, like a juggernaut it had rolled on: and though the complexion of the local council had fluctuated in tune with the times, and work had sometimes slowed almost to a standstill, no one had had the nerve to pull the plug altogether and make Luton and its folly the mockery of the civilized world.

So now, ten years on, it was finished, and though Joe had generally been of the party who thought the whole idea was crazy, now as he drove along the main avenue, with that phlegmatic pragmatism which makes Lutonians such great survivors, he felt a glow of proprietorial pride.

He was a bit late, partly Chivers's fault, partly Whitey's. He'd rushed back to rescue the cat from the office and found him full of indignation at having been left so long. Also of pee because he was clearly going to have nothing to do with his new puce tray, so they'd had to stop at the first flowerbed as they reached the Plezz complex and despite the evident urgency, it had taken the cat the usual ten minutes of careful exploration with many false starts to find the piece of earth precisely suited to his purpose.

Being late didn't matter, however, as he clearly wasn't expected.

"I'm here to see Zak Oto," said Joe to the armed guard. In fact he wasn't armed, but he looked as if this was just because he'd left his Kalashnlkov in his ARV as he felt like tearing intruders limb from limb today.

"You and a thousand others," he said. "p.i.s.s off."

"She's expecting me," said Joe.

"She'd be wise to have an abortion then," said the guard.

"Hey, man, why so rude?" asked Joe. "OK, you've got a job to do, but maybe you should remember who's paying you and do it politely."

"Sorry," said the guard. "p.i.s.s off, sir!"

Joe regarded him almost admiringly. d.i.c.k Hull, manager of the Glit where they liked their humour subtle, should book this guy for Show Nite.

Meanwhile he stood there, like the big dog they'd told him about at school, guarding the entrance to h.e.l.l, though why anyone should have wanted to get into h.e.l.l Joe had never quite grasped. But the way to get round him was toss him something to eat.

Trouble was, Joe couldn't think of anything this guy might have an appet.i.te for except maybe his head.

"Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?"

A burly balding man in a tracksuit had come out of the door leading into the depths of the Dome. He was smiling at Joe.

"Yeah, this is me," admitted Joe.

Thought it was. Don't recognize me, do you?"

In fact the man's creased and weather-beaten face did look familiar. But there was a sense of a thinner, younger face peering out of fortyish flesh which was more, though differently, familiar.

"Jim Hardiman," said the man. "We were at school together."

It was the nose that finally did it.

"You mean Hooter Hardiman?" said Joe.

A shadow touched the smile like a crow floating across the sun.

That's right," he said. "Long time no see, eh?"

But in fact Joe had seen Hardiman several times both in the local paper and on the telly since he had come to prominence, first as Zak's trainer, then as sports director of the Plezz. He felt ashamed as a PI that he'd never made the connection between the grown man, Jim, and the schoolboy, Hooter. His excuse was that the nose which had stood out like a chilli on a cheesecake at fifteen had been absorbed and a.s.similated by forty. Also the boy had been a cla.s.s above him and they'd never had much more contact than the usual ritual bullying a schoolboy heavy feels it necessary to dish out to whoever gets in his way in order to encourage the others.

But now it was best-years-of-our-lives time.

"Heard a lot about you recently, Joe, and often meant to look you up. Have a chat about the good old times we had together."

Would take all of ten seconds, thought Joe.

He said, That would be great, Hoo ... er, Jim. But I'm here to see Zak just now. Any idea where she is?"

"Zak? She expecting you?"

That's right, Mr. Hardiman. Ms Oto told me to look out for him."

This was the gung-ho guard unexpectedly coming to his support.

Joe said, "You knew that, why all this guard-dog crud?"

Thought you were just a pushy fan, didn't I? Ms Oto didn't tell me you'd look like ... how you look."

A diplomat already, thought Joe.

Hardiman said, Thanks, Dave. Come on, Joe. Let me show you the way."

He set off into the Dome with Joe following. The place was full of workmen.

"You going to be ready on time?" said Joe, gingerly edging past WET PAINT signs.

"No sweat," said Hardiman. "Gilding the lily is all. Time for a quick word."

It wasn't a question. As he uttered the words he opened a door marked DIRECTOR OF PHYSICAL RECREATION, a t.i.tle rather larger than the office he ushered Joe into. There were lots of files and correspondence in evidence, but all neatly stacked. To Joe, who could create chaos out of two sheets of paper and an empty desk, it looked like the workplace of a busy but well-ordered man.

"Have a pew," said Hardiman, 'and tell me what this is all about."

"Can't do that, Hoo ... er, Jim," said Joe. "Private business."

"So you're here professionally?"

So it wasn't Hooter who suggested me, thought Joe as he shrugged noncommittally.

"OK. But I need to know if this is anything to do with that stupid business about that phone call."

Another shrug. It was pretty good this shrugging business. Saved a man a lot of tripping over his tongue.

"I'll take that as a yes. Listen, Joe, I appreciate you got a duty of confidentiality, but I've got duties too, and anything to do with the New Year meeting is my business. Zak told me about the call, I told her it was the price of fame, some nutter, ignore it. I thought I got through. What's happened? There been more?"

Joe varied the shrug with a little hand movement, sort of French, he felt.

"OK, so there's been more. Listen, Joe, I've got to know this. Is Zak seriously thinking about scratching because of this c.r.a.p?"

There didn't seem any harm in saying, "No, I don't think scratching's an option," till he'd said it, after which he realized it implied agreement with all that had gone before. But shoot, not even a Frenchman could shrug forever.

Thank G.o.d for that. But if she's so worried, why hire you? Why not talk to me again, or go to the police?"

Back to the shrug.

"I'll tell you why," said Hardiman after a moment's pause for thought. "The girl's worried someone close to her may be involved. And if that's right, if it's someone in her family, Zak wouldn't want that to get public. She's a loyal girl."

Wasn't so loyal to you, thought Joe.

He said, "Why should she think someone in her family could be out to harm her? Thought she was the apple of their eye."

"I take it you haven't met her sister?" said Hardiman. "Zak might be the apple of her parents' eyes, but she's the pip up sister Mary's nose."

With a mental sigh, Joe abandoned all shrugs and pretence. This sounded too important to miss.

He said, "What's the set-up? Young sister having all the talent, getting all the attention?"

"Half right," said Hardiman. "But Mary was talented too, very talented. Squash was her game, and she was good. I've known her a long time. She used to work out at the gym where I took my athletes for weight training. From thirteen, fourteen on she had just one idea in her mind. She was going to be the world's Number One Woman, and nothing was going to get in her way. And I think she might have made it too if it hadn't been for the accident."

"Hey, I think I remember something of that in the Bugle," said Joe. "Car smash, wasn't it?"

That's right. She was driving her parents to see Zak run. They were shaken and bruised, nothing more, but Mary got her knee mangled. End of hopes."

Joe said, "You tell that story like there's a lot more to it, Jim."

"Sensitive soul, aren't you?" said Hardiman. "Listen, I'm into confidentiality too. Was a time when Zak used to tell me everything. There are things I figure you ought to know because of this situation you've got yourself into. But I don't want Zak knowing it comes from me, you understand me, Joe?"

Back to the playground, Hooter's voice soft, but his eyes oh so hard and menacing.

"Just tell me what you want to tell me, Jim," said Joe mildly.

Hardiman looked like this wasn't the cued response, then said, "OK. Way I got it from Zak was that in her parents' eyes she was the star who needed cosseting, Mary was the toughie could look after herself. Easy to see why. Mary was completely single minded, didn't care what kind of impression she made. While Zak, well, you've met her. Can't help liking her, can you?"

"No," agreed Joe. "So what happened?"

"OK, this night, Mary was late picking up her parents -her dad's car was in dock, which was why she was doing the driving. Reason she was late was she'd been playing in a club compet.i.tion and the woman she beat was the Great Britain Number 2, and there'd been a journalist there who'd wanted to interview her afterwards. None of her family there though. So she'd got home full of this, only to be yelled at 'cos she was late taking them to see Zak run. Henry, that's her dad, was nagging away at her, can't you go faster, that sort of thing. So she jumped a light. Which was when it happened. And when Zak got to see her in hospital, first thing she said was, now you'll be satisfied, last time I'll have an excuse being late for seeing you run. Laying it all on Zak."

"How'd Zak take it?"

"Like the trooper she is. When Mary got out of hospital it was Zak kept her up to scratch with her physio. I think Mary would have been happy to walk with a stick the rest of her life so's no one would forget. As it was she seemed set to laze around at home looking miserable till Zak got her a job with her agent."

That's this guy Endor, isn't it? Read about him too. Local, isn't he?"

"Not really. Flash house out near Biggleswade, but he's a professional c.o.c.kney, on the make, on the up," said Hardi-man without much sign of affection.

Blames him for Zak going to the States and changing trainers? wondered Joe.

"But, to be fair, he seems to be doing OK by the girl," Hardiman went on, as if realizing he'd let his feelings show. "He spotted Zak was going to need an agent before she'd got around to thinking of it for herself. But she's no fool. Once she heard his proposal, she sat down and re-evaluated things. I think she signed up on a short-term contract, and part of the deal was that Endor gave Mary a job without it looking like a fix."

"Must've been pretty obvious," said Joe. "And some folk might think it was rubbing Mary's nose in it, putting her where she'd see the figures clicking up every day telling her how well her sister was doing."

His aim was to provoke and it worked.

"That shows you know d.i.c.k about Zak," snarled Hardiman.

"While you know her inside out?"

"I know her better than most. You've got to get close to someone you're training. Sometimes you can get too close."

"What's that mean?"