"Whatever you say, love."

He had to agree with her, since he wasn't there: he'd left home an hour ago to be early at a building site. She couldn't really have had such a conversation with him when he would have insisted on learning why she was suspicious, and then at the very least would have thought she was taking umbrage which in fact she was too old and used up to take. She knew better, however. If Duncan Gummer had been as obsessed with her as she'd a.s.sumed him to be, how could be have needed his mother to identify her at the supermarket? Now Claire knew he'd used his patrolling as an excuse to loiter near the house because he'd been obsessed with Laura, a thought which turned her hands into claws. She had to force them to relax before she was able to programme the alarm.

The suburb was well awake. All the surviving children were on their way to school; a few were even walking. The neighbourhood's postman for the last four months had stopped for a chat with a group of mothers being tugged at by small children. Less than a week ago Claire would have been instantly suspicious of him - of any man in the suburb and probably beyond it too - but now there was only room in her mind for one. She even managed a smile at the postman as she headed for the golf course.

The old footpath, bare as a strip of skin amid the turf, led past the first bunker, and she made herself glance in. It was unmarked, unstained. "We're going to get him," she whispered to the virgin sand, and strode along the path to the main road.

A phone box stood next to the golf course, presenting its single opaque side to a bus stop. Claire pulled the reluctant door shut after her and took out her handkerchief, which she wadded over the mouthpiece of the receiver. Having typed the digits that would prevent her call from being traced, she rang the police. As soon as a female voice, more efficient than welcoming, announced itself she said "I want to talk about the Laura Maynard case."

"Hold on, madam, I'll put you through to -"

"No, you listen." Now that she was past the most difficult utterance - describing Laura as a case - Claire was in control. "I know who did it. I saw him."

"Madam, if I can ask you just to -"

"Write this down, or if you can't do that, remember it. It's his name and address." Claire gave the information twice and immediately cut off the call, which brought her plan of action to so definite an end that she almost forgot to pocket her handkerchief before hanging the phone up. She stepped out beneath a sky which seemed enlarged and brightened, and had only to walk to the stop to be in time for an approaching bus. As she grasped the metal pole and swung herself onto the platform of the bus she was reminded how it felt to step onto a fairground ride. "All the way," she said, and rode to the office.

"Claire? I'm back."

"I was wondering where on earth you'd got to. Come and sit and have a drink. I've something I've been wanting to -"

"I'm with someone, so -"

"Who?"

"No need to sound like that. Someone you know. Detective Inspector Bairns."

"Come in too, Inspector, if you don't mind me leaving off your first bit. I don't suppose you'll have a drink."

"I won't, thanks, Mrs Maynard, not in the course of the job. Thank you for asking."

She wasn't sure she had - she was too aware of the policeman he'd made of himself. His tread was light for such a stocky fellow; the features huddled between his high forehead and potato chin were slow to betray any expression, never including a smile in her limited experience, but his eyes were constantly searching. "Do have one yourselves," he said.

"I'll get them, Claire. I can see you're ready for a refill."

"You'll have the Inspector thinking I've turned to the bottle."

"n.o.body would blame you, Mrs Maynard, or at any rate I wouldn't." Bairns lowered himself into the twin of her ma.s.sive leather armchair and glanced at Wilf. "Nothing soft either, thanks," he responded before settling his attention on Claire.

She smiled and raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, none of which brought her an answer. "So you'll have some news for me," she risked saying.

"Unfortunately, Mrs Maynard, I have to -"

Wilf came between them to hand Claire her drink on his way to the couch, and in that moment she wished she could see the policeman's eyes. "Sorry," she said for Wilf as he moved on, and had a sudden piercing sense that she might be expected to apologise for herself. "You were saying, please, go on."

"Only that regrettably we still have nothing definite."

"You haven't. Nothing at all."

"I do understand how these things seem, believe me. If we can't make an immediate arrest then as far as the victim's family is concerned the investigation may as well be taking forever."

"When you say not immediate you mean . . ."

"I appreciate it's been the best part of four months."

"No, what I'm getting at, you mean you've an idea of who it is and you're working on having a reason to show for arresting him."

"I wish I could tell you that."

"Tell me the reason. Us, not just me, obviously, but that's what you mean about telling."

"Sadly not, Mrs Maynard. I meant that so far, and I do stress it's only so far, we've had no useful leads. But you have my word we don't give up on a case like this."