'Why not?' said Brendan. 'I've got people watching over me.'

Cal nodded, not quite comprehending. Then he turned to Suzanna.

'Want to see the champions?' he said, and they stepped outside. The day was already balmy.

There's something off about Dad,' said Cal, as he led the way down the clogged path to the loft. 'Two days ago he was practically suicidal.'

'Maybe the bad times have just run their course,' she said.

'Maybe,' he replied, as he opened the loft door. As he did so, a train roared by, making the earth tremble.

'Nine-twenty-five to Penzance,' Cal said, as he led her inside.

'Doesn't it disturb the birds?' she asked. 'Being so close to the tracks?'

'They got used to it when they were still in their shells,' he replied, and went to greet the pigeons.

She watched him talking to them, paddling his fingers against the wire mesh. He was a strange one, no doubt of that; but no stranger than she, probably. What surprised her was the casual way they dealt with the imponderables which had suddenly entered their lives. They stood, she sensed, on a threshold; in the realm beyond a little strangeness might be a necessity.

Cal suddenly turned from the cage.

'Gikhrist,' he said, with a fierce grin. 'I just remembered. They talked about a guy called Gilchrist.'

'Who did?'

'When I was on the wall. The removal men. God, yes! I looked at the birds and it all came back. I was on the wall and they were talking about selling the carpet to someone called Gilchrist.'

'That's our man then.'

Cal was back in the house in moments.

'I don't have any cake -' Brendan said as his son made for the telephone in the hallway. 'What's the panic?'

'It's nothing much,' said Suzanna.

Brendan poured her a cup of coffee, while Cal rifled through the directory. 'You're not a local lass, are you?' Brendan said.

'I live in London.'

'Never liked London,' he commented. 'Soulless place.'

'I've got a studio in Muswell Hill. You'd like it.' When Brendan looked puzzled at this, she added: 'I make pottery.'

'I've found it,' said Cal, directory in hand. 'K. W. Gilchrist,' he read, 'Second-Hand Retailer.'

'What's all this about?' said Brendan.

'I'll give them a call,' Cal said.

'It's Sunday,' said Suzanna.

'Lot of these places are open Sunday morning.' he replied, and returned to the hallway.

'Are you buying something?' Brendan said.

'In a manner of speaking,' Suzanna replied.

Cal dialled the number. The receiver at the other end was picked up promptly. A woman said:

'Gilchrist's?'

'Hello,' said Cal. 'I'd like to speak to Mr Gilchrist please.'

There was a beat's silence, then the woman said:

'Mr Gilchrist's dead.'

Jesus, Shadwell was fast, Cal thought.

But the telephonist hadn't finished:

'He's been dead eight years,' she said. Her voice had less colour than the speaking clock. 'What's your enquiry concerning?'

'A carpet,' said Cal.

'You want to buy a carpet?'

'No. Not exactly. I think a carpet was brought to your saleroom by mistake -'

'By mistake?'

'That's right. And I have to have it back. Urgently.'

'I'm afraid you'll have to speak to Mr Wilde about that.'

'Could you put me through to Mr Wilde then, please?'

'He's in the Isle of Wight.'

'When will he be back?'

Thursday morning. You'll have to ring back then.'

'Surely that must be -'

He stopped, realizing the line was dead.

'Damn,' he said. He looked up too see Suzanna standing at the kitchen door. 'Nobody there to talk to.' He sighed. 'Where does that leave us?'