CHAPTER ONE

Peter Laker was brooding over the inequalities of fate, which had granted his former girl friend a glittering success in movies and brought his own acting career to an end. She had telephoned recently after a long period of silence. But just as he had been about to enquire after her daughter from a previous liaison, she put down the phone, saying that she had an important engagement.

He continued to untie bundles of newspapers in his shop in Muswell Hill until suddenly he noticed on the front page of a tabloid newspaper the features of his former boss, the publisher, Algernon Wentworth, whose sea-stained clothing had been found on a lonely stretch of beach in Mid Wales. The publisher and businessman had disappeared some three months previously while on a visit to the United States.

At the time of his disappearance, daughter- the romantic novelist- Victoria Worth, had told a journalist that she still hoped that her father was alive. Staring at the plump, bespectacled features of his former boss, Peter felt instinctively that the dramatic event would somehow impact on his own life.

*

A few miles away, Detective Inspector Henry Dickens, in his living room at home, was studying a report on the subject of the missing publisher. He was not pleased with the investigation he had been given; it promised a great deal of dull, routine, painstaking work, with little prospect of a successful outcome. He had grumbled to his superintendent: <Why can't the police at Llanwyth do the bloody job.' Since doubt existed about whether a crime had actually been committed, the local police had passed the buck to the Metropolitan Police, arguing that because the missing man was a well-known Londoner it was their responsibility to clear up the mystery .

Dickens was tall, burly, with even features, his sandy hair greying at the temples. A combination of his name and an obsession with his novelist namesake had earned him the unwelcome sobriquet Fictitious Dickens. He lived with his wife Ingrid in a large semi-detached house in Crouch End. It possessed a handsome bay window and a large garden full of fruit trees. Ingrid, a small pretty lady with fluffy greying-blond hair, taught at a local primary school. They had no children. She sometimes complained about the excessive amount of time he spent in the converted loft of their house, where model trains ran at his bidding through cuttings, points and tunnels. Everything in this ideal world moved in majestic, predestined harmony, in contrast to the bewildering chaos Dickens met outside. Chief Superintendent Alex Barker, asking him to look into the matter said with a grin, as he handed him a copy of The Times: <This is right up your street, Dickens. You can call it: The Strange Case of The Missing Publisher.'

He had outlined an article, which read: <Algernon Robert Wentworth, who is presumed to have died in highly suspicious circumstances, disappeared earlier this year during a visit to America. He was born in 1934, was educated at Winchester and was at Oxford when his father died. Instead of completing his degree, he used his inheritance to buy into an educational publishing firm. He added a highly successful fiction list to his firm's output and rapidly developed an infallible nose for choosing obscure authors destined to become household names. He bought out the other partners in his firm and when his flair for picking best sellers temporarily deserted him, started the Top Marks Correspondence School, which he ran as a profitable adjunct to his publishing house. He also briefly dabbled in politics, standing as a Labour candidate in a Tory stronghold and polling a creditable twenty-nine per cent of the vote. He once wrote a novel­ The Stolen Years. It was savaged by the reviewers, but was said by some to have tackled the theme of the conscientious objector in war-time with great honesty. He always said he regretted not going back to university, but felt that it was more important to repair the family fortunes. In this he appears to have been highly successful. He encouraged young writers and gave away a great deal of his considerable fortune to worthy causes. His daughter is the novelist, Victoria Worth.'

It was obviously going to be extremely difficult to determine Wentworth's fate. His clothing, consisting of jacket, shirt, trousers, waistcoat and shoes appeared to have been submerged in sea water for a long time. The best hope lay in a recovery of the body. But it would take a stroke of good luck for this to happen.

Apparently, Algernon Wentworth had gone to New York State, intending to write his memoirs in a hotel in the Adirondack mountains. It was not known if, how and when he had returned to the United Kingdom. A fake suicide could not be ruled out, although it seemed unlikely, because in that case he would, presumably, have left his clothes on the other side of the Atlantic.

Dickens looked at his watch. It was time to take Ingrid her early morning cup of tea.

Later, as his sergeant weaved alarmingly through heavy traffic, on his way to interview Wentworth's daughter in Chelsea, Inspector Dickens thought about a conversation that had taken place with his wife that morning. She had suggested that they should both take early retirement. <We could live by the seaside and bird-watch...Life would be one long holiday.'

<I think I'll wait until I get promoted.'

<Stop kidding yourself, Henry­ you'll be passed over again and you'll end up too old to enjoy your retirement. Remember Charlie Smithson.' Smithson had died soon after retirement, it was generally agreed from a combination of frustration and boredom.

<I won't be bored. I'm going to build an entirely new model railway when I retire. Incidentally, they've found some clothes belonging to Algernon Wentworth, the publisher, by the Welsh sea shore. The body is still missing. I'm looking into it.'

<They give you all the most difficult cases.'

This was true. Recently, he seemed to be given jobs which nobody else wanted.

<Steady on,' Dickens said, as his sergeant jammed on the brakes at some traffic lights. <This isn't a bank robbery.' The young sergeant grinned across at him good-humouredly. You're growing old, Dickens told himself. It was hard to see himself through the eyes of Sergeant Coles, who was twenty or more years younger than himself. If he had lost his enthusiasm for police work, he reflected gloomily, perhaps it was because the experience he had gathered during long years of service no longer seemed to be appreciated. The new breed of policemen could effortlessly call up on the computer every case analogous with the one currently under investigation. His own ghost inside the computer, he thought resentfully, would be helping to solve cases a hundred years hence. Perhaps his wife was right. They should retire soon and buy a place in the country­ a bungalow with a large loft to accommodate an extended model railway.

Victoria Worth greeted him on the steps of her townhouse. She was wearing a brilliant blue-and-gold track suit. He recognised her elfin, dreamy face from the photographs on the covers of her books. She had explained to him during their telephone conversation that she had used a pen name when she published her first novel, in case it should turn out a failure. As it happened the book had sold extraordinarily well much to the surprise of her father. She was quite convinced that Algernon Wentworth had not taken his own life. Her melancholy expression as she stood on the steps evoked Dickens's instant sympathy.

He bowed his head courteously as he reached the top step on which she was standing and introduced her to Sergeant Coles.

She invited them both into a cool, dark hall, enlivened by colourful scenes from the South Seas. Real Gauguins? It was possible­ her late father was reputed to have been worth millions.

The small study at the back of the house into which she ushered him contained a brown leather-topped desk and two small armchairs. A typewriter, a box of paper and a notebook stood on the desk. The walls were lined with neatly-stacked bookshelves. Through the window behind the desk he could see a paved conservatory shaded by luxuriant potted plants.

<You don't use a word processor?' he asked curiously.

<No. I find it hampers my flow of thought. My secretary uses one. Do sit down, Inspector.'

He found the slightly crooked smile she gave him utterly charming.

She asked them if they would like coffee. They both accepted.

Coles refused Victoria's offer to get him a chair and remained standing at the back of the room, listening intently to what was going on. Dickens squeezed himself into the narrow chair that stood in front of Victoria's desk

<Where shall we start?' she asked. <My father, as you know, disappeared earlier this year while staying at a hotel in the state of New York. He checked out of the hotel and that was the last anyone saw of him. After he had been missing a few weeks I engaged a private detective agency to find him, but he seemed to have disappeared without trace.'

<Do you have the report from the detective agency?'

<Yes. I'll give it to you before you leave.'

<Who would benefit under his will?'

<I share the estate with my mother. Probate has not yet been declared because we can't be sure he's dead. My mother, incidentally, has been in a nursing home for the past ten years, suffering from early senile dementia. I had hoped­ that is until the recent discovery of his clothes­ that my father might still be alive.'

<Had he any enemies?'

<I can't think of any.'

<Did he have business interests aside from publishing?'

<Just a correspondence school located in the same building. He was considering closing it down at the time he disappeared­ there's a lot of competition. It looks as though I shall soon have to make the decision myself. But I hate putting people out of work.'

<All this must distract you from your writing.'

<Yes, it's a heavy responsibility.'

<My wife enjoyed your last novel.' In fact, Ingrid had found it disappointing, but he felt bound to offer praise. <I gather from your father's obituary that he was keen to encourage new writing talent.'

<It was one of his major preoccupations. A department of the correspondence school was formed precisely for that purpose.'

<Did it produce any budding authors?'

<No, but we have had a few hopefuls, including one which we discovered later had been submitted under a false name by a member of our own staff.'

<Your father must have been proud of your success,' the inspector commented.

<I think he was. Although I only write romantic pot-boilers,'

A pretty black girl wearing yellow jeans and a pink tee-shirt entered the room. She smiled shyly at the inspector.

Victoria called out to her: <Three coffees please, Avril. Do you take milk and sugar, Inspector?'

<Milk and a sweetener, please. My sergeant likes his black with sugar. Ms. Wentworth, can you think of any reason why your father should have returned to this country without informing you?'

<No. That aspect of it is completely baffling.'

<He wasn't being threatened by anybody?'

<Not as far as I know.'

<Who ran the business when he was away?'

<A man called Ackroyd ran the correspondence school. Jonathan Creighton ran the School For Novelists and I helped out there occasionally. Robert Clayton was temporarily in charge of the publishing house. But when my father failed to return, he asked me to help out. He is first and foremost an accountant and lacks the expertise to select our publishing list. My father's judgment was unfailingly good. He rarely made a mistake.'

<How long had he intended to stay away from England?'

<Three months. He left at the end of May, intending to return at the end of August. He was writing his autobiography.'

<Did he use a secretary?'

<No, he wrote in longhand, intending to build up the framework for the book. He would have completed it with his secretary when he returned home.'

<Were his notes ever found?'

Victoria shook her head.

<No, when we reported his disappearance to the police over here, their opposite numbers in New York state made enquiries from Lou Berkoff, the proprietor of the hotel where he was staying. There was nothing left in his room.'

The black girl returned with three blue bone china cups of coffee.

Victoria sipped delicately, gazing at him with eyes that matched the china.

She said after a while: <How would you rate your chance of catching his murderers?'

Dickens stared at her, his face expressionless. He said in measured tones: <We don't yet know if he was murdered. We can't even be certain that he is dead. Are you all right, Ms. Wentworth?'

Victoria had covered her face with long white hands. After a while she said: <Yes.' And making a determined attempt to compose herself, replied: <It's all right, Inspector...It's just that all sorts of horrible thoughts came into my mind when you said that. But why should his clothes be found on a Welsh beach, if he were still alive?'

<We don't know yet. But things have a habit of falling into place. Ms. Wentworth, it would help to facilitate this investigation if I could inspect the files and records of your father's businesses.'

<Of course. I shall tell Mr. Clayton, the chief accountant, and Mrs. Kaye, my father's secretary, that you will be calling and I'll instruct them to help you in every way.'

As he was about to leave, she extracted a red folder from a drawer in her desk and handed it to him. It was labelled: Ajax Detective Agency: Report on the Disappearance of British Publisher, Algernon Wentworth.

Dickens and Coles left and got into the police car. Victoria paused and waved before closing the front door.

Dickens said to his sergeant: <A very nice young woman that.'

Coles said: <Do you think she killed her old man?'

He replied with a touch of asperity: <Most unlikely I should think.'

Coles drove off with a squeal of tyres that momentarily disturbed the inspector's pleasant recollection of his conversation with the lady novelist.

CHAPTER TWO

The photograph of the missing man in the newspaper reminded Peter Laker of the publisher's novelist daughter, who wrote under the name Victoria Worth. Vivid memories of his period of employment at the Top Marks Correspondence School, a subsidiary of Wentworth's publishing house, came back to him. The work had been dull, poorly-paid and offered few prospects. But he had been glad to take the job after a long and demoralising spell when he had been unable to find work as an actor. The correspondence school, someone had said, was a dumping ground for failures. His remark had made him acutely aware that he was himself a cast off from the acting profession.

Some of his fellow tutors appeared to enjoy the work of marking papers; others like himself found it barely tolerable and felt they must be making payment for past sins.

He recalled an angry altercation­ one of many that took place between an accountancy tutor, Richard Haworth, who had served a prison term for fraudulent conversion, and Sanjay Barani, a former general practitioner who had been struck off the medical register. Barani, who earned a living marking biology and chemistry papers, had been sticking a new plaster on a finger wounded that morning in an encounter with a can opener. Haworth had whispered to him gleefully: <That's condign punishment for feeling up your lady patients.'

Barani hissed back: <You should spare a thought for all those poor devils you swindled out of their hard-earned savings.'

A menacing glance from James Ackroyd, the chief tutor, cowed them into silence.

Ackroyd was then diverted by a buzzing bluebottle. His clumsy attempts to kill it with a rolled-up newspaper provided the tutors with some relief from the tedium of their work. After despatching it, he shovelled the corpse into a waste-bin, registered a pale smile of triumph and carried on distributing the batch of papers awaiting marking that had just arrived in the post.

Peter remembered, too, Finbar Murray, who had fought for, and won special permission to smoke, in spite of a general ban, claiming that the herbal mixture he smoked in his pipe helped to clear his blocked sinuses. This ruling had been challenged unsuccessfully by Barani, always eager to leap to the defence of sound medical principles.

He recalled the splendid soprano voice of Vera Fernleigh, a statuesque. A former opera singer, she often delighted her colleagues when Ackroyd was out of the room by singing popular arias.

Captain Cyril Harlesden, who had been grounded through a tragic accident and now marked civil pilots' examinations had once pointed out to Peter that the incorrectly-drawn meteorological chart he was currently marking indicated somewhat unlikely winds of two-thousand miles an hour. A subsonic jet flying into such a headwind, he added with relish would travel backwards at the speed of Concorde.

Joseph Goldberg­ economics­ who sat immediately in front of Harlesden, perpetually worried and tugged at his thinning hair, tortured by his thoughts about the long-standing affair his wife was having with a soul musician.

It was George Hamble, a dwarf, his onetime neighbour and a philosophy tutor, who had helped Peter to obtain the job in the correspondence school. George, known as <Dwindle,' because he frequently complained that he was <dwindling away,' had a jaunty air and dressed flamboyantly to compensate for his small size. Encountering him one day in the corridor of the converted mansion where they both lived, Peter had complained that he was <rusting from too much resting.' Dwindle had then pointed out that someone was required at the correspondence school to write a series of lessons on The History Of The English Theatre. Eager to earn some money, Peter had telephoned to offer his services.

Algernon Wentworth was plump, nearly bald, moon-faced. His eyes shrewd and alert behind pebble-spectacles, bore into Peter, as he barked belligerently: <What makes you think you can do the job?'

<I'm a professional actor, sir. Naturally the subject interests me.'

<Can you write clear, grammatical English?'

<Yes.'

<Precious few can these days. Okay. Have a go. Nothing fancy, nothing technical­ a history to be used by theatre buffs­ the sort who like to show off their knowledge of the theatre. Bring me a sample lesson. If it's up to snuff, I'll contract you for a course of fourteen lessons to be delivered at the rate of one a week. Try the London Library for your research and the theatre museum.' The sum of money he offered was just sufficient to tempt Peter to take on the assignment.

On his way out to the lift, his curiosity had been aroused by a sign on a glass door that read THE SCHOOL FOR NOVELISTS.

Three months later he was still out of work. Wentworth then offered him a job as a full-time tutor. The theatre course was subsequently extended to twenty-four lessons and provided a useful supplement to his salary. He marked English papers, as well as the course on the History of the English Theatre, which had been well advertised and proved very popular­ Wentworth had a flair for anticipating public demand. Later, Peter had been intrigued to learn that the correspondence school made huge profits from the high percentage of fall-outs.

He lost touch with his former girl friend. His agent no longer bothered to answer his telephone calls. Thoroughly disillusioned, he resigned himself to working for the rest of his life in what Dwindle referred to as <Wentworth's educational factory'.

Travelling in the lift one day, he found himself in the company of Jonathan Creighton, a best-selling crime-writer who acted as part-time tutor for students taking the course of studies called The School For Novelists. Wentworth, apparently, had high hopes that his writing school would one day uncover a dazzling new literary talent. He asked Creighton just before the lift doors opened: <Has Wentworth ever published anything written by one of his students?' Creighton answered: <Not yet. But we live in hopes. At least Algernon Wentworth does. He still hopes that one day I'll find a Graham Greene or a D.H.Lawrence or whatever.'

He told Dwindle about this conversation in a nearby pub at lunch time, and added: 'By the way, didn't you say your wife was writing a novel?'

Dwindle moved his finger thoughtfully around an iridescent spot of beer on the shining mahogany of the bar counter. The tonsure in his greying curly hair had recently grown larger. He said abstractedly: <I think she's having a platonic affair with one of her pupils.' His wife, Maureen, taught history in a comprehensive school.

Peter commented: <PLatonic affairs are nothing to worry about. My former girl friend had a thing about Strindberg. She used to say she'd marry him on the spot, if he were still alive.'

Dwindle answered solemnly: <It's okay. We have an open marriage. I warned Maureen when I married her that I got so many offers I could never guarantee to be faithful.'

<You lucky devil, Dwindle!'

'The offers are mainly from women over six-feet six inches tall,' Dwindle continued, impassively. <They think that if I give them a child it will grow to a normal size, whereas if they have one by an average-sized man it will grow abnormally tall. But I have very little luck with shorter women. What happened between you and Elizabeth?'

Peter, smiling at Dwindle's humour, replied: <We've split. She's doing fantastically well in her career whereas mine has gone down the tubes.'

<Just a run of bad luck.'

Peter shook his head.

<If I ever leave here, it will be to sell newspapers over the counter in my father's shop.'

<Well, at least you'll be your own boss,' Dwindle remarked,. He slid expertly off the tall stool, saying: <Time to get back to the educational factory.'

A few months later Peter's father died. He took over the family business. Shortly afterwards his mother retired to live in Devonshire on an allowance he gave her from the shop's profits.

CHAPTER THREE

Peter rang Victoria Worth to offer his condolences as soon as the newspapers were ready for delivery.

She responded: <Thanks, Peter. I have been mentally preparing myself for this day. It has been such a long time since he disappeared. Incidentally, did you ever complete that novel?'

Peter replied: <No. I never seem to have the time.'

<Anyway, thanks for telephoning. Perhaps you would care to come to my place for coffee one evening. There is something I'd like to discuss with you.'

He gladly accepted the invitation­ he liked Victoria. While working for the correspondence school, he had written the first few chapters of a mystery thriller in the style of Jonathan Creighton. Using a fake serial code number allotted to students and a pseudonym, he had submitted it together with an outline of the plot to The School For Novelists. It was duly returned, corrected for a few misspellings, but with a note awarding it high praise. An accompanying letter asked him to call in on Victoria Worth at the correspondence school some time when it was convenient. He decided that it would be prudent to write owning up to the deception.

A few days later he was summoned to The School For Novelists office. Victoria was sitting at the desk Creighton usually occupied, dressed in a navy-blue trouser suit with a cream silk shirt. She was slim, in her middle thirties, with a pale complexion. Her oval, sensitive face reminded him of a painting by Botticelli. Pale auburn hair hung in graceful wings around her long, intensely white throat. In spite of her reproving look she looked touchingly wistful.

<Why did you do it?' she asked sharply.

<It was just a joke, really. I get so many of your answer papers sent by mistake to my desk that I thought I'd have a go myself.'

Her expression softened.

She said: <Well, you'll be pleased to know that Jonathan Creighton and I thought it quite promising. Jonathan couldn't remember whether or not he had written it himself! You'd be surprised how often students just copy passages out of published books. God knows why. Anyway, you captured his style so well that we thought you might possibly like to produce a full-length work. Have you written anything else?'

<I wrote a play once about Horatio Nelson. It was never performed.'

<Would you consider finishing the script you submitted?'

<Is there any chance of it being published?'

Victoria said with judicious expression: <Possibly. But you would have to work very hard at it. It would be very ironic if it turned out that the literary genius my father has been looking for all these years was working for him under his very nose!' She smiled at him in an almost motherly way. <Anyway, do your best. I'll help you, if I can. But novel writing like any craft has to be worked at assiduously. Turn out a few more chapters and show them to me. I'll try to give you some guidance.'

Peter toiled away many evenings and weekends, but got hopelessly bogged down. Victoria occasionally chided him for lack of persistence and told him to keep trying. However, when his father died, he abandoned the task with relief and decided that his talents would be better employed in the family business.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pausing before the ornate bronze front doors of the building which housed Wentworth Press, Inspector Henry Dickens remembered the words of his English master at school: <Come on, Charles­ live up to your lierary reputation and turn us out a decent essay for once'. His name had always been something of an embarrassment to him. He had once imagined that his nickname in the Force, "Fictitious Dickens", had adversely affected his professional career. But now as he entered the lift, he pretended to himself that he was the famous novelist about to deliver his latest manuscript o his publishers.

The Top Marks Correspondence School was located on the third floor, its parent company, Wentworth Press, on the fourth. On arrival, he was directed by a pretty young Asian girl sitting at a U-shaped reception desk to a door marked Chief Executive. The walls of the large, square office he entered were lined with Wentworth Press publications.

<Anabelle Kaye is expecting you,' a secretary told him with a shy smile and indicated a door leading to the publisher's private office.

Dickens gained the impression that he had entered a schoolboy's den. There was a garish red Arsenal football poster on one wall next to a fan-shaped collage of paperback book covers. The wall opposite was decorated with caricatures of Wentworth and photographs of some of his best-selling authors. A centrepiece photograph on a large bookcase showed Wentworth in evening dress among a group of publishing notables attending a literary prize-giving. There was a massive bag of golf clubs in one corner of the office.

Anabelle Kaye, Wentworth's secretary sat in front of a large window at what had formerly been her boss's desk. She was a large, imposing woman in her early fifties with an unhealthily mauve complexion. Her blond hair was streaked with grey She sat very erect, a tattered typescript in her hands.

After introducing himself, Dickens declared sympathetically: <Mr. Wentworth's disappearance must have made life very difficult for you.'

She nodded and motioned towards an elderly, scuffed leather armchair. As he sat down, she said: <A lot of people don't realise that publishing is such a personal business. I have to try and guess all the time what Mr. Wentworth would do next and advise his daughter accordingly. We don't always find it possible to agree.' She then added lugubriously: <Do you think it is possible he may still be alive?'

<We can't be sure until we have made further progress with our enquiries.'

<We all feared the worst when he failed to come home from America.'

<Can you tell me something about him. Where did he live? Did he have any hobbies? I'd just like to get a general impression.'

Inspector Dickens was already familiar with much of the information she gave him. Wentworth's wife, Adelaide, was permanently resident in a nursing home. There was one daughter from the marriage­ a son had died in infancy. Her boss, who lived alone in a flat in Dolphin Square, had been a member of the Garrick club, Groucho's and Wentworth golf club. He often claimed jocularly that they had named the latter after its most incompetent member. He had a consuming interest, amounting almost to an obsession, with the fiction department.

Had there been anything noticeably different about his behaviour at the time he went away, he asked

<No. He was very cheerful and looking forward to writing his memoirs. He was confident they would sell well. He has been in the public eye for a very long time.'

A short, stocky, bald man with a pale complexion, dark, tragic eyes and wearing a well-cut double-breasted navy blue suit entered the room and sidled across the floor with a peculiar motion until he stood by Annabel Kaye's side. He reminded Dickens of an undertaker.

<Ronald Clayton', he announced, with a melancholy air. <Financial director. Ms. Victoria Worth said that you might wish to see me.'

Dickens nodded.

<Did Mr. Wentworth have any financial worries?'

Clayton shook his head emphatically.

<No. He has run this company succesfully for nearly forty years. He is­ or perhaps I should say was­ a very wealthy man.'

Anabelle Kaye intervened: <I'll leave now, if you don't mind, Inspector, unless you wish to ask me any more questions.'

He shook his head.

When she had gone, he asked Clayton: <Does the correspondence school make money?'

<It has been less successful recently than in the past But it is still marginally in profit.'

<And the School For Novelists?'

<That is a loss-maker. Mr. Wentworth always hoped it would bring in fresh talent. But so far it has failed to live up to his expectations.'

<When was the last time you heard from Mr. Wentworth?'

<Three weeks after he went away­ towards the end of June­ he telephoned from his hotel in New York state to discuss the latest monthly sales and so on.'

<And were they satisfactory?'

<Yes­ apart, that is, from the writing school.'

<Did he have any enemies?'

<Rivals perhaps; enemies, no. He was much respected, not only for his outstanding ability as a publisher, but also because he had kept this relatively small company firmly in his own hands.'

<Did he have any girl friends?'

<I have simply no idea. Our relationship has always been strictly on a business footing.'

<Was he liked by his staff?'

<As much as any boss can be liked.'

<Can I meet them?'

<All of them?'

<Yes.'

<About fifteen work away from here in our warehouse at St. Albans.'

<Today, at least, I should like to meet the ones who work here.'

Clayton said doubtfully: <I suppose that can be arranged.'

Dickens glanced at the title of the typescript that Anabelle Kaye had been reading: The Gibbet and The Cross. The author had playfully pencilled in a line drawing of a hanged man.

Clayton continued; <How much time would you want to spend with them?'

<No more than a minute on each one. I just want to form some general impressions. How many staff are there, by the way?'

<We have a total of fifty-five employees at present­ that includes Mrs. Kaye and myself. There are twenty-five tutors currently working in the correspondence school and fifteen administrative staff who work on this floor. The rest, including our sales staff, are located at St. Albans. Things are a bit disorganised in the office there at the moment­ we had a small fire. It happened some time ago, but the insurance company was very slow authorising redecoration.'

During the series of brief meetings with the staff that followed, it became clear to Dickens that many of them were deeply worried about the possibility of redundancies, fearing a take-over by another publishing house.

He interviewed the accounts staff and the publicity manager first. Clayton then led him downstairs to the correspondence school, where the tutors, seated in three parallel rows of desks, eyed him curiously.

Afterwards, he inspected the separate office of The School For Novelists. Clayton, while leading him back upstairs, explained that Victoria Wentworth and Jonathan Creighton ran this small subsidiary of the correspondence school and took it in turns to open the mail and mark the papers. The room, fifteen by twenty feet, was cluttered with filing cabinets. It was used as an overflow for storage purposes as well as its named purpose. A single battered wooden desk stood in the middle of the room. Glancing at the filing cabinets, he noticed that one of them was marked Promising Typescripts. He asked <Have any of the students written a successful novel?'

Clayton shrugged.

<Not yet.'

<Why is that do you think?'

Clayton seemed surprised at the question.

He answered: <Mainly because very few combine a talent for writing with the capacity for hard work. The people who take these writing courses are capable of learning the basic writing skills, but never seem to produce anything original.'

<Isn't the school misleading its students, if they stand so little chance of being successful?'

<No, it's made clear from the outset that the chances of getting a novel published are very small. Quite a few of the students have achieved limited success in writing for magazines, radio and television. Basically, though, the course concentrates on novel writing because Mr. Wentworth had always been very keen to nurture new talent for his publishing house.'

<I would have thought you would get the odd promising manuscript.'

<Occasionally we do. One of our former staff members once produced an interesting exercise. He entered it under a false name, pretending to be a student.'

<May I see it?'

<I don't think it would be of much relevance to your enquiry.'

<I must be the judge of that.'

With some reluctance, Clayton extracted a file. Handing it to Dickens, he grumbled: <We shall need it back for our records.'

Dickens wrote a receipt, gave it to Clayton and put the file in his briefcase. Victoria Wentworth's mention of the deceit practised on the correspondence school by a member of its staff had aroused his interest.

He glanced at a paper lying on the desk. It was headed: <The Literary Apprentice's Creed,' and went on: <Your first consideration must be to save the reader's valuable time. Tell your story in as few words as possible. You must strive to achieve the right emotional effect. But just as every note is significant in music, so every word you write must create its correct resonance in the reader's mind...'

Dickens remembered that the publisher had himself once written a novel which had signally failed to take the world by storm. It occurred to him cynically that perhaps Wentworth should have taken one of his own courses.

He left the building and decided, in the absence of any other clues, to follow his usual plan of teasing out one arbitrarily chosen strand. <All roads lead to the centre of the maze, so it doesn't matter where you start,' was one of his favourite sayings.

CHAPTER FIVE

Peter Laker sniffed appreciatively the distinctive smell of leather upholstery as he got into his brand new top-of-the range Ford and drove towards Chelsea. He congratulated himself on having at long last acquired some of the elusive trappings of prosperity. He supposed Victoria wanted to see him to discuss the thriller he had started writing but had never completed.

She opened the front door, dressed in a long beige cardigan worn over a white polo-necked blouse and a tweed skirt. He noticed faint smudges of worry under her eyes.

<Come in, Peter. It's so nice to see you after all this time.'

<You look great,' he pronounced, inhaling fragrant perfume as he followed her through the hall. <Sorry to hear about your father.'

Her small living-room, elegantly furnished in a style that matched the Georgian house, reminded him of Jane Austen. He wondered whether she would have approved of the raunchy descriptions of love-making in Victoria's novels.

Lowering himself into a fragile-looking chair, he accepted a dry sherry. He found discomfited by her amused expression as he glanced at her shapely legs. He tried hard to assume an air of indifference. She sat opposite him on a pink and white striped chaise-longe and enquired: <How are you getting on with your newsagent's shop?'

<It's OK. Very hard work.'

<You ought to do some writing. You have considerable potential.'

<Thank you. But writing fiction wouldn't provide anything like the kind of income I enjoy now.'

<It might eventually. Anyway, life isn't just about money.'

<How many years would it take before I could earn a decent income?'

She wrinkled her brow.

<Impossible to say. But if you were genuinely interested, we could, after you have produced one saleable book, offer you a three-book contract.'

Immensely gratified by the compliment paid to him, Peter tried hard to look unimpressed.

She continued: <You could, of course, finish the book you submitted to us.'

<I'm too tired. I work very hard these days.'

<Couldn't you sell the business?'

<My father worked in it for over forty years. I'd feel badly about letting it go.'

<Doesn't the idea of becoming a professional writer appeal to you?'

<The school tells its students not to rely on writing for a livelihood.'

<You've certainly taken the message to heart,' she said with a smile. Sipping her sherry, she continued thoughtfully: <Is there any possibility of you marking some of the papers at the S. N. Jonathan Creighton is starting some lengthy masterwork and won't be able to work for us for a couple of years. It would help greatly if you could fill in for him.'

<The advertisements in the newspapers say that the exercises are marked by experienced, published novelists?'

She replied with a reproachful smile: <I should oversee your work, so our claim would remain valid.'

Peter suddenly remembering his father's favourite axiom: <If you don't feed your business, it will cease to feed you,' shook his head and said decisively: <Sorry, Victoria. I really don't have the time.'

Looking disappointed, Victoria said: <Okay, it can't be helped. If ever you do finish your book, I hope you'll give us the first option.'

<Was it really that good?'

<Yes, I particularly liked the clever way you counter-pointed the dramatic effects in the playhouse with the rest of the narrative. You have sufficient talent to write an excellent novel. The only thing lacking is dedication.'

<I once dedicated myself to acting, but it didn't prevent me from becoming a failure.'

Victoria responded spiritedly: <You didn't fail. Doing something that is creative is its own reward.'

<Fine words won't pay for a new car.'

Victoria replied earnestly: <No, but writing fine words can give a great deal of pleasure to a great number of people.' She frowned and then said softly: <In your book, the body of the actor who plays Iago in the modern version of Othello is found by the sea shore and the police suspect murder. The police subsequently discover that it has been dumped from an airplane.' Victoria gave what seemed to Peter to be a contrived shudder and continued: <It's certainly strange, is it not, that something similar seems to have happened to my father.'

<It certainly is.'

<Why do you think his clothes were removed?'

<Perhaps whoever murdered him was trying to make identification difficult.'

Victoria nodded, thoughtfully.

She left the room and returned shortly carrying a tray of coffee and cakes. Peter asked her curiously: <Did you invite me here just to discuss that coincidence?'

She handed him a cup of coffee.

<No, I wanted to persuade you to finish the novel.'

<I'm sorry I've had to disappoint you. By the way, how is the correspondence school doing?'

<Not too well. I'm finding the whole performance of looking after my father's business interests very wearisome.'

<Is it possible that someone stole your father's clothes while he was in America and dumped them by the sea shore and that he's still alive?'

<It doesn't sound likely," Victoria remarked with a doubtful grimace.'

<Perhaps Jonathan Creighton could come up with some ideas. He specialises in crime writing.'

Victoria shrugged.

<He's in the Dordogne at present.'

Soon afterwards, Peter finished his coffee and took his leave.

Standing on the step outside, hugging herself to keep warm, Victoria told him with a rueful expression: <You must be the only unpublished writer in this country to turn down an offer of publication.'

<A million pounds might change my mind,' Peter replied, cheerfully.

On the way home his thoughts returned to his recent telephone conversation with Elizabeth Pardieu, who seemed to have telephoned him simply out of idle curiosity. He felt sad. Whatever feelings she had had for him in the past had obviously got lost in the brash, hard-nosed world of movie-making. It seemed improbable that he would ever hear from her again.

CHAPTER SIX

Peter Laker experienced a surge of anxiety when he learned that the police inspector had taken away the file containing his story from the School For Novelists. What had been intended as a humorous prank seemed to have had a bearing on a tragic event. He worried in case he was under suspicion, and he worried in case he had unwittingly brought about the death of a man he liked and respected. Scrutinising his own copy of the typescript, he marvelled at the resemblance between events conjured out of his imagination and the facts surrounding Wentworth's disappearance. He comforted himself with the thought that the method he had described for the disposal of a body was not all that original­ several similar cases had been reported in newspapers in recent years.

Mrs. Grieveson, one of his assistants, interrupted his reverie: <The Carnival Publishing salesman wants to know if you would like to place an order for the new horsey magazine. He said he'd call back this afternoon.'

Peter nodded.

<O.K. Joan. Place a trial order when he comes back. I'm going upstairs now to load some files into the computer.'

He had just sat down at the keyboard when the telephone rang. It was Liz Pardieu. She apologised in a husky voice: <Hello, Peter. I'm sorry I had so little time to speak to you the other night.' Trying hard to sound casual, he said: <That's O.K. How's everything going?'

<So so. I wondered if we might have dinner some time.'

<Great!'

<How about tomorrow night?'

<Fine. Where are you? Do you still have your flat in Sussex Gardens?'

<No, I gave it up.'

<And Jennifer? How is she?'

<She's with my mother in Yorkshire. She sends her love.'

Peter recollected a sweet-faced, snub-nosed child with blond hair similar in colour and texture to her mother's, for whom he had once felt a strong affection. She had been two-years old when he had first met Elizabeth. He still resented the way she had been snatched out of his life.

<How about coming here? I'll cook you a meal.'

<I hope your cooking has improved.'

<I've been getting plenty of practice.'

She accepted his invitation and he told her how to find the shop. A perverse desire to bring her down to his own level had made him decide to entertain her at home­ he could well have afforded to ply her with food and drink in an expensive restaurant. Nevertheless, as soon as he put the phone down, he started worrying in case she should change her mind. Her voice had stirred up all kinds of mixed emotions. Gazing at the graphs on the computer screen, he found it difficult to concentrate. He asked himself why he had got involved with her in the first place. Their natures were very different. He liked tidiness and order, she was impulsive and reckless. She went on wild spending sprees; he tried to hoard money prudently. In fact, looking back on his life he found it surprising that he had chosen acting as a career. The long hours spent memorising lines, the hectic rehearsals, the tussles with unsympathetic agents and the frequent spells of unemployment all now seemed like a disagreeable dream. It was obvious to him now that choosing to go to drama school had been an act of youthful rebellion going against the grain of his essentially cautious nature.

*

<Amazing,' Dickens murmured to himself.

<What are you talking about?' Ingrid enquired,

Dickens was sitting in an armchair in his sitting-room, reading Peter Laker's typescript. It was written in a gripping, lively manner. So much so that once or twice he forgot that he was trying to test the theory that its author might have committed, or had somehow become involved in, the crime he described in such gory detail. The synopsis outlined a turbulent story of jealousy, both in the theatre and in real life, which consumed the lives of the chief protagonists­ a black actor, William Basalt, who played Othello, a white actor, Graham Harkness who played Iago, and Desdemona Brown, an actress who had always longed to play the eponymous role. It was set in Atlanta, where the theatre company was presenting their version of the Shakespearian play. Sultry heat and thunderstorms provided a background to the story of the passion and lust of rivals in love. After violent quarrels had broken out in real life between the two men, Graham Harkness was stabbed to death. Desdemona then felt duty bound to save Basalt, who had killed Harkness out of jealousy. Basalt had a private pilot's licence; they hired a light aircraft, flew the body to the Bay of Georgia and dropped it in the sea.

<This story was part of an exercise for the novel-writing course run by Wentworth's correspondence school,' Dickens told his wife. <By an odd coincidence it, too, has a body disposed of at sea. I'm wondering if the guy who wrote it might be the guilty party. If not, perhaps he put the idea into the mind of someone else who worked in the school.'

<It says Edmund Kean on the cover,' Ingrid remarked.

<That was his fanciful nom de plume. Laker now runs a newsagent's shop in Muswell Hill. I think I'll pay him a visit tomorrow.'

Dickens shut his eyes, leaned back in his chair and reviewed the circumstances of the case. Wentworth appeared to have lived mainly for his work. His private life by all accounts had been dull and unremarkable. Going systematically through his business contacts Dickens had not discovered any disagreement which might have led to his murder. Victoria Wentworth, his daughter, had a motive for killing her father­ she was in line to inherit half of his estate. But she earned a great deal of money herself, so this made her an unlikely candidate.

It was possible that an employee, or ex-employee, of the publishing house, or the Top Marks Correspondence School, had harboured a grudge against Wentworth. It seemed to make sense to question Laker, whose story had foretold the event. His use of an assumed name when submitting his manuscript might be accounted suspicious.

An image of Victoria Worth entered the inspector's mind, as he sat with his eyes closed. For a brief moment he imagined taking part with her in one of the sultry sex scenes she described so well. Then he shook his head vigorously and returned to examining the facts of the case.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Maureen Hamble lay on the double bed in an exaggerated pose intended to bring her husband, George Hamble, to a frenzy of sexual excitement. Raising one leg and lazily kicking off one of her pink satin mules, she enquired archly: <Do I look like one of Toulouse Lautrec's whores?' Her Saturday morning invitation to love-making failed however on this occasion to produce the customary response. Dwindle, pulling on his trousers, replied a little irritably: <Cover yourself up, there's a good girl.'

<You don't desire me this morning, King and Master?'

<I'm too tired.'

Maureen suddenly remembered that her husband was recovering from a bout of flu. As she stood up and struggled into a green negligee, she almost looked pregnant. Dwindle, who had never been able to shake off his conviction that it would be wrong for them to reproduce, now felt a pang of regret.

Later, as they were taking breakfast in their small kitchen on the second floor, overlooking the elderly apple trees and small patch of lawn that constituted the communal garden, Dwindle read out a passage from The Times: <A police spokeswoman declared that the clothes found on the Welsh beach near Llanwyth belonging to the missing publisher, Algernon Wentworth, are currently undergoing further forensic tests.'

<Poor old Algy,' Dwindle said with genuine regret. <He wasn't a bad chap.'

<He didn't pay very well.'

<It's a competitive business­ he couldn't afford to. But it was very decent of him to publish my little volume of biography.'

<Why was it decent of him? It was a purely commercial decision,' Maureen said.

<But he lost money on it. When are you going to finish your book?'

Maureen gave a regretful sigh. She had helped her husband with his researches, had proof-read and typed his manuscript. But this was the first time for months that he had mentioned the historical romance on which she had been engaged during the past six years.

<I don't think I shall ever finish it.'

<Oh, but you must.'

<Why?' she asked challengingly.

Dwindle, however, didn't answer. He had immersed himself once more in the newspaper.

<Why must I?' Maureen repeated with loud emphasis.

Dwindle raised his head, looking slightly ruffled. <You should finish it because it will worry you if you don't.'

<That doesn't sound a particularly good reason.'

<The best reason in the world. When it is finally published, your colleagues will be knocked over with admiration and envy.'

<I write purely for my own fulfilment, George.'

<You'd be even more fulfilled if it earned some money.'

Maureen started to butter another piece of toast. She said reprovingly: <George, why do you refer to your book as <little'? You should be the last person in this world to take size as a measure of importance.'

<For God's sake, woman. Don't start on that tack again.'

Scared of his wrath, which could be demonic at times, Maureen waited a while before affirming quietly: <Your book was not a little work. It got jolly good reviews.'

<It didn't make any waves. I might just as well have not bothered.'

<Nothing seems to give you any satisfaction.'

<I'm a realist.'

<You're a pessimist. What's the point of being a philosopher if the only conclusion it drives you to is that nothing is worthwhile?'

<Philosophy doesn't need a point; it is concerned with objective truth.'

<Then it's completely worthless.'

<Okay. I apologise for the worthlessness of philosophy. Incidentally, my skin feels like tissue paper after that flu. Has your latest heart throb, Paul Gerdin, enthralled you with his essays recently.'

<I was terribly disappointed in his last effort. It was just a rehash. But he has a highly original mind, when he cares to use it.'

<I suppose he's tall and handsome.'

<What possible difference does that make?'

Dwindle gave a slightly hysterical cackle.

<What difference does it make! It makes a world of difference. If I was normal sized, I wouldn't have to skulk in the background, teaching by post.'

<That,' Maureen replied firmly, <is of your own choosing. You could have had several other jobs.'

<Yes, well...' Dwindle's voice tailed off. He had chosen to work in a correspondence school because he had felt unable to control a class of pupils. <I've made my bed and I must lie in it, I suppose. Incidentally, a policeman called yesterday in connection with Wentworth's disappearance. He interviewed most of the tutors. He asked me for my general impressions of Algy. Did he seem the type to commit suicide? Was there an aspect of him that differed from the public figure? All that sort of stuff.'

<What did you say?'

<I told him that like most human beings, Algy Wentworth was a complete enigma. I asked him if he had been engaged in drug smuggling, arms trafficking or running a prostitution racket.'

<How could you possibly say such a thing!'

<I was only pulling his leg. Mind you, it could be true.' He added impishly: <We all have our unknown sides­ you would never know, for example, about the mistress I visit on Mondays and Wednesday evenings when you're at night classes.'

<I wish you had a mistress, George. It would do you the world of good.'

<I want only you, chérie. Anyway, I'm much too beautiful to spend my substance on other women.'

<Yes, you are beautiful, George,' Maureen replied with a smile and held out her arms just as the telephone rang.

Maureen handed it to her husband and whispered: <It's Peter Laker.'

Dwindle took the telephone and said: <Hello. Peter. How are you?'

"I'm a little puzzled, to tell the truth. Clayton just rang and said the police called in yesterday and took away a manuscript I submitted for a joke under a false name to the writing school. Incidentally, I saw Victoria Worth yesterday and we were discussing the coincidence between my story and what seems to have happened to Algernon Wentworth. I'm ringing to ask you if you wouldn't mind keeping your ears open, just in case I have become the chief suspect!'

<Why would they suspect you? Of course­ I've got it­ you have a strong motive.'

<What do you mean?' Alarm entered Peter Laker's voice.

<Your shop sells more newspapers when a nice juicy murder occurs.'

Peter gave a relieved laugh at the other end of the line.

Dwindle repeated the conversation to Maureen after he had put down the phone. He was intrigued by this latest item of news and was looking forward to discussing it, and the latest theories about their missing boss, with his colleagues when he returned to work.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Peter Laker closed his shop five minutes earlier than usual. He ignored a customer tapping furiously on the glass door with a coin, and ran upstairs to his flat. He selected a bottle of white Australian burgundy from his stock of wine and after setting two china candlesticks on the dining room table, cut up a melon, added slices of orange, and placed two servings of ready-prepared Chicken Kiev in the micro-wave.

Slightly ashamed of the feverish zeal he was displaying, he tried to assure himself that he had only invited his former girl friend to dinner out of curiosity. Anyway, it was understandable in the circumstances that he should be on tenterhooks, considering that she was the only girl with whom he had ever cohabited. He didn't feel in the least bit jealous of her brilliant success, but wished he could boast of something that would prove he was not a complete failure. He decided not to ask about her dazzling life style and the celebrities with whom she had been in daily contact. When the doorbell rang, he hastened down the steps at the side of the shop and found Elizabeth standing by the front-door studying the postcard ads in the adjacent window. She was wearing a fashionable leather jacket trimmed with imitation fur. He kissed her face and breathed in an intoxicating aura of expensive perfume. Taking her by the hand, he led her up to his flat. <You look wonderful,' he told her. Nevertheless, detecting in her a slight air of anxiety, he wondered if she was feeling some slight degree of guilt at the way she had neglected him.

He placed her jacket in the hall cupboard, directed her to a rather worn brown moquette settee in the living-room and said apologetically: <One of these days I'll find time to get some new furniture.'

<You have a nice home,' she commented politely, glancing around.

He prepared her favourite drink, a dry vodka martini, splashed some soda into a whiskey for himself, and sat beside her.

<You must think I'm an idiot for giving up acting. But I decided I was just banging my head against a brick wall.'

<You had a run of rotten luck,' Elizabeth said, consolingly.

<After you moved out, nothing seemed to come my way. But the job in the correspondence school kept me going until my father died and I took over the business...I gather rather more exciting things happened to you.'

<Four films,' Elizabeth declared. And added with a deprecatory shrug, <Three of them flops.'

She emptied her glass in a defiant manner. He refilled it and asked <What are you doing now?'

<I've had dozens of auditions for radio and television commercials recently, but not one has come to anything. As a matter of fact­' she paused and gazed at him steadily­ <I also seem to have suddenly hit rock bottom.'

Resisting an impulse to clasp her in his arms, he said: <Gosh, Elizabeth. You're fabulously good-looking and extremely talented. I simply can't understand it.'

She gave him a brilliant smile.

<The competition is too fierce­ that's all it amounts to. I don't blame you for getting out.'

<It's a cruel profession!' he exclaimed."

<How is your shop doing?'

<It keeps myself and my mother. She now lives near Torquay.'

He sipped his whiskey and gazed at Elizabeth. Her high rounded cheekbones, small tilted nose, large expressive amber eyes and richly sensuous lips sent waves of desire through him. Her blond hair was swept up in an old-fashioned style he had always liked. Tiny corn-coloured tendrils drew his attention to an exquisitely soft white neck which he would have liked to kiss. He enquired hastily: <How's Jennifer. Does she attend school up in Yorkshire.'

<Of course. I visit her quite often. But the rail fare is exorbitant. I'm broke at the moment.'

<What happened to all that money you earned?'

Elizabeth didn't answer. <Do I look all right?' she enquired after a pause.

<Of course, you do, darling. You look a billion dollars.'

<Well, the fact is,' she said with a self-mocking pout that seemed to make light of her situation, <at the moment I'm working in a wine bar. I'm behind in my rent in my bedsit in Bayswater and I owe my mother money for looking after Jennifer. I'm sorry I didn't get in touch with you sooner. Remember, we always said that when success comes you've got to grab it with both hands. Well, I did what we agreed to do, but it all suddenly slipped away.'

<That's really tough,' Peter said.

After a pause, Elizabeth exclaimed appealingly: <Peter, darling, the place I'm living in now is absolutely dreadful. Is there any possibility of staying here for a while?'

To give himself time to think, he got up and said: <I'll get you another drink.'

He had often rehearsed a scene in which he said magnanimously: <Yes, my darling, come back. No apologies, no conditions. Just come back...' But an ingrained cautiousness asserted itself, influenced to some extent by rancour at the way she had neglected him. If she came back, he would have to take financial responsibility for her and her daughter. And if success again came her way, the probability was that she would leave him­ it was hard to imagine her ever settling down to the disciplined habits of running a business. By then she might have established a claim to the flat and the business his father had built up after so many years of hard work.

He poured out another dry Martini and went into the kitchen to switch on the micro-wave. On returning, he said cheerfully <Let's have something to eat. There's melon cocktail for starters.'

Elizabeth accompanied him into the small dining-room. As she sat down, Peter noticed how the black mini-skirt she was wearing showed off to advantage her sturdy, shapely legs.

He told her about the Algernon Wentworth case during the meal, adding with a certain pride that a police inspector working on the case had taken away a manuscript which Victoria Worth had singled out for praise.

<It must have been marvellous!'

<It wasn't bad,' he answered modestly. <The amazing thing, though, is that the police seem to think Wentworth's body was disposed of in exactly the same way as I outlined in my story.'

<I met Algernon Wentworth once.'

<Really!'

<He was in a party of businessmen invited by the producer when we were shooting a scene. He wanted them to invest in the movie.'

<What were you doing at the time?' Peter enquired.

<I was stark naked in a bath,' Elizabeth replied, with a reminiscent smile. <Some fearful rubber monster kept crashing through the bathroom window. I remember I got paid extra because they wanted to use that sequence in another film.'

Peter commented. <I had no idea he was into movies as well.'

<Have you any idea who might have killed him?'

Peter shook his head.

<Who knows... Oh, Christ! I forgot to light the candles.'

He stood up and went into the kitchen to get some matches.

The telephone rang as he was sorting through a drawer. He answered it, switched off the micro-wave and returned shortly to the dining-room, matches in hand. After lighting the candles, he sat down again and announced thoughtfully: <I am being interviewed by a police inspector tomorrow in connection with Algernon Wentworth's disappearance.'

Elizabeth remarked: <But it must be ages since you worked for him.'

<He says he's just looking for background information.'

After the meal, she placed the dishes in the dishwasher and then snuggled up to him on the settee in front of the coal fire.

<Do you remember that time at Lowestoft I fluffed my lines and the prompter had gone to the loo,' she asked.

<You were lucky to have lines,' he responded cheerfully. <I just had a walk-on part.'

Elizabeth, her mouth turned down fretfully, then announced that she was totally disillusioned with acting and wanted to settle down to a peaceful, domestic life. Her fingers reached up and gently explored his face. Peter kissed her gently.

He whispered: <Darling, your career will soon take off again.'

<I'm finished with acting. I know I treated you badly, but I'd like nothing better than to stay here with you.'

<You were happy enough without me when you were riding high.'

<I thought of you practically all the time. I intended when I became really successful to help you with your career.'

<Liar,' he growled goodhumouredly.

<No, really, Pete. You've no idea what it's like when everything seems to be going for you. There's not a moment of the day in which to think clearly and honestly. I often thought of telephoning you. But I always seemed to be travelling some place­ I was in Morocco, Hollywood, Spain...'

<There are telephones in those places.'

<Oh, darling, don't be hard on me.'

He was about to kiss her again, when caution prompted him to say: <Darling Liz, I don't think we should get together. Not just yet.'

<Why not?'

She gazed up at him, her mouth appealingly open.

<There's this Wentworth murder case. I seem to be implicated in an odd way.'

<All you have to do is make a statement to the police.'

<I know. But let's just leave it a while, until I know where I stand.'

He was aware of the flimsiness of his excuse.

Leaving her later at her rooming-house in Bayswater, he slipped a hundred pounds into the pocket of her leather jacket and whispered: <Just to help you out. I'll be in touch with you soon.'

Driving home he rammed his knuckles hard against the dashboard of the car. Of course she had neglected him outrageously when her career had taken off in such a spectacular fashion. But­ the thought struck him hard­ if he loved her, he should have forgiven her. After all, aren't we all entitled to be a little opportunistic and self-regarding sometimes? They had spent nearly two glorious years together. Didn't he owe her something more than a measly hundred pounds? Ashamed of his meanness of spirit, he promised himself that he would soon get in touch with her again.

CHAPTER NINE

<Exactly as happened in your story,' Inspector Dickens said cheerfully, <Strange coincidence, isn't it.' They were sitting at a pinewood kitchen table in Peter Laker's flat, with mugs of coffee in front of them. The inspector seemed to be giving the impression that he regarded Peter as an important ally. <It would almost seem,' he continued, <as though you succeeded in putting the idea into someone's head.'

Peter couldn't help feeling anxious. In television drama where someone was wrongly convicted it often started off with an apparently amiable discussion with a friendly detective.

He said: <There is one significant difference. In my story the body was found on the beach fully clothed.'

<Nevertheless, I have to look into the possibility that someone read what you had written and decided, with some variations, to put your idea into practice.'

<Do you think the body will turn up?'

<We don't need a body to secure a conviction. We have already established with reasonable certainty that a murder has been committed. Who among your former colleagues might have read your manuscript?'

<Virtually anybody­ the filing cabinets weren't locked.'

The inspector gazed intently at Peter and said: 'I found it quite interesting. Do you enjoy writing?'

<Yes. But I'm far too busy to do any these days.'

<Everyone seems to want to write a novel these days,' Dickens said, reflectively. <God knows why. Perhaps they're like people who have a compulsion to carve their initials on a tree­ they need to prove that they have actually been here in this world. Bloody daft, when you think about it. Incidentally­' Dickens rubbed his face, as though making sure he had shaved that morning­ <Wentworth was separated from his wife, I understand.'

<I heard she's in a nursing home.'

<Did any of your colleagues express ill feeling towards him?'

<People complained that he was stingy. But he was considerate when any of his staff were in trouble.'

<Can you give me an example?'

Peter thought for a moment.

<When Joseph Goldberg's wife ran off with another guy, Wentworth gave him leave of absence to get things sorted out. And he was very decent when he found out that I had pretended to be a student and submitted the story under a pseudonym. After giving me a bollocking for wasting the firm's time, he advised me to complete the novel.'

<And did you?'

Peter shook his head. <It was too much like hard work.'

The inspector produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase and placed it on the table in front of him. <This is a list of employees of Wentworth Press, including the correspondence school tutors. Would you mind saying what you know about them?'

<Why don't you ask someone currently employed by the company?'

<I'm just hazarding a guess that someone read your story while you were working there and decided to kill his boss and dispose of his body, using the method you described. So let's just see if we can identify someone working alongside you at that time who might have wanted Wentworth out of the way.'

<It was just a story.'

<There's probably a little bit of truth in every piece of fiction...I want you to give me a brief description of all the people who might possibly have looked through the filing cabinet and read it.'

Dickens produced an empty pipe from his side pocket and drew on it several times noisily. He refused Peter's offer to supply tobacco from the shop downstairs, declaring with a grimace that he was in the throes of giving up smoking.

Memories of his time in the correspondence school came flooding back to Peter, as he supplied Inspector Dickens with brief character studies of his former colleagues.

CHAPTER TEN

Dickens said to his wife that evening after dinner: <It's a bloody nuisance. They've taken my sergeant off this case and I'm having to work on it by myself.'

<Why did they do that?'

<Shortage of manpower. Incidentally, I think that it is quite on the cards that one of the tutors in the correspondence school killed Wentworth.'

Looking up from her knitting, Ingrid replied mildly: <What makes you suspect them?'

<It's just a hunch, really. They seem a rum lot. And a funny thing­ someone who used to work there wrote a story which describes a very similar incident.'

<Do you remember, darling, I once tried to learn Russian through a correspondence course?'

<It is just possible, of course,' Dickens went on, ignoring her remark, <that a business rival was responsible.'

<He was very rich, wasn't he­ the man you're talking about?'

<Yes. He made quite a pile from publishing. The Top Marks Correspondence School itself, I gather, isn't all that profitable.'

<The Russian course wasn't very good...Are you sure he didn't take his own life?'

Dickens said impatiently : <Why should an elderly man returning from a working vacation in America, take off all his clothes and walk into Cardigan Bay? I've had a long chat with his daughter, Victoria, the novelist. She says he didn't seem in any way depressed when she spoke to him on the telephone. She's had to run her father's publishing business in his absence and it leaves her precious little time to get on with her writing.'

<What is she like?'

<A charming lady.'

<I like her stories, even if they are a little risqué at times... The people seem so real. What is it like inside a publisher's office?'

<Like most other businesses­ organised chaos.'

<Do you think one of his authors might have had a grudge against him?'

<There's no evidence to suggest that. Incidentally, Wentworth Press publish Jonathan Creighton, the crime writer.'

<He would have a pretty good idea how to murder someone, wouldn't he.'

<Do you think crime writers are more likely than others to commit crimes?'

Ingrid, immersed in her knitting pattern, did not reply. After a while, piqued by her silence, Henry Dickens growled: <I'm going upstairs to give the trains a bit of a run.'

*

Watching the tiny locomotives tugging their carriages through fields, villages and mountains covered with miniature forests, the inspector felt comfortably in charge of his totally predictable world. In marked contrast to the chaos outside, everything up here was programmed down to the last detail. He changed the points by remote control, arranging that in ninety seconds, as registered by the clock over the model station in the foreground, two trains going in opposite directions would pass through a narrow defile between the hills. As they drew together, the noise issuing through the recently-installed sound system would build up into a dramatic crescendo of rushing sound. The speakers gave a splendid touch of authenticity to his railway system. He suddenly remembered that the previous week, as the trains met between the hills, his brain had lighted on an ingenious solution to a crossword clue which had been puzzling him. Frustrated in his present investigation, he wondered if he could repeat the miracle. He slowly turned down the rheostats controlling the overhead floodlights, causing darkness to fall on the landscape. The lights in the carriages came on as they swayed through the hills and vales of Dickens-shire­ the name he whimsically called his private county. He watched with satisfaction the dull red glow of the burning coals in the furnaces of the steam trains, as once again they approached the gap. Shutting his eyes, he listened to the familiar clickety-clack, clickety-clack on the sound track. At the precise moment when the increased volume of noise told him that the trains were passing each other in the defile he opened his eyes.

But no magical solution occurred to him this time. The clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack remorselessly repeating itself in his brain eventually turned into the words: <cherchez la femme­ cherchez la femme­ cherchez la femme'... But he totally rejected the idea that Victoria Worth could have killed her own father. He told himself that police work must have grossly coarsened his sensibilities for such a possibility to pass through his mind.

His attention returned to the tiny locomotives clattering round the tracks. Against the background of the miniature scenery he had made himself to exacting standards, the trains seemed absolutely real. He had often thought that the mental processes involved in his hobby were similar to those employed in fiction. All that was required was the making of a slight mental adjustment, corresponding to the focussing of a pair of binoculars, and a whole new, exciting world sprang into existence.

Sometimes he went on an imaginary journey through the hills and vales of Dickens-shire, conversing with famous detectives of his boyhood. Sherlock confesses to him between puffs of his pipe how he had been tempted to overcharge his clients because of his desperate need of funds to support his drug habit. Only the stern warnings of Dr. Watson had kept these self-destructive impulses at bay. Lord Peter Whimsey, when not engaged in detective work, admits privately that he had numerous affairs with young women, quite unbeknown to his creator, Dorothy Sayers.

Dickens only indulged in these fantasies when his own detective work wasn't going particularly well. Monsieur Hercule Poirot reveals that he preferred to take on foreign assignments in order to get away from an old flame who keeps trying to win him back with disastrously bad cooking. In common with Henry Dickens he, too, had been accused of letting his imagination run away with him and failing to adhere to normal police methods. In fact, it was this weakness for speculative fancy that finally led him to quit the police force in Belgium and take on the more lucrative work of private investigation.

It came home to Dickens at that moment that his nickname, Fictitious Dickens, had probably affected his reputation for performing accurate, unbiased police work and had irretrievably damaged his hopes for promotion.

He picked up one of Victoria's books he had brought up into the loft and read: ?The marmoreal limbs of the lovers commingled in the fading tropical twilight. As she welcomed him into her body a rising tide of pleasure surged through her loins. They both smiled as, in the midst of perfect bliss, their souls united with the same strength and passion as their physical frames. A light breeze ruffled the bird-of-paradise flowers around them. The rhythmic motion which gained irresistible sway over their bodies produced a sudden explosive burst of multi-coloured fireworks that banished into outer darkness the threat of bankruptcy and ruin that had been hanging over them in recent weeks. Recollection of those moments of ecstasy would hold them together in the difficult days that lay ahead..."

Adjusting his mental focus again, this time to imagine himself and the authoress playing the chief roles in the fetching scene he had just read, Dickens gave vent to a long, wistful sigh.

He switched off the power to the model railway and started to think again about the clothes discovered on the sea shore. The eccentricities displayed by some of the tutors in the correspondence school had convinced him that this was the department of the missing publisher's business organisation on which he should concentrate his attention.

He began entering notes in an exercise book.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next day Dickens sat in his office studying Peter Laker's comments on the staff at the correspondence school. He was beginning to wonder if Laker had exaggerated their foibles and eccentricities in order to divert suspicion from himself. It was a dog's dinner of a case­ which, of course, was why it had been given to him­ it particularly infuriated him that they had deprived him of his sergeant. There was no body­ merely sea-wracked clothing which carried with it the suggestion that a death had occurred. The only way forward as far as he could see was to try to find someone with a grudge against Wentworth.

He told himself gloomily: ex-colleagues attending your funeral will say Dickens was an obtuse idiot who could never see the wood for the trees. Dickens was someone who had difficulty in separating fact from fancy. He had left no mark in this world. It was as though he had never been. Even his hobbies were pointless. As soon as he was dead and buried his nephews and nieces would dismantle and sell his precious model railway. About his only claim to distinction was that by chance he was named after an illustrious nineteenth-century novelist. A recollection of Victoria's charming, slightly lopsided smile suddenly came into his mind. She was the one consoling feature in a case that promised a diet of worry and frustration. He began to concentrate again on his notes.

Clayton, the company secretary, was according to Laker a tight-fisted functionary, fond of countering arguments for more money from the staff with threats of redundancy. He issued frequent directives about switching off lights, saving on stationery and paper clips.

Ackroyd, the foreman tutor, was more concerned with keeping up the output of answer papers than maintaining the quality of the teaching. He strictly rationed time spent answering queries on the telephone.

Joseph Goldberg came from a devout Jewish family who had not approved of his marrying outside the faith. His wife had taken a lover and this had plunged him into deep depression.

Vera Fernleigh was the possessor of a mellifluous operatic soprano voice and a law degree from Cambridge. She had stopped professional singing after an unhappy love affair with a leading baritone. She had once confessed to Peter that her life was a vicious circle­ she put on weight because she was unhappy and then became intensely unhappy because she was fat and unloved. She had vowed never to sing professionally again until her former lover came back to her. When this happened she believed she would be miraculously transformed from an obese mountain into a sylph-like diva.

George Hamble, known as Dwindle, often said the riddle of the universe would be solved when he discovered the reason why he had been born so small. His favourite advice to his pupils was to follow the rule of William of Occam and pare down unnecessary detail. He had once come close to being sacked for his acerbic comments when marking papers. He was moody, but could be excellent company when he had had a few drinks.

Dickens put an asterisk against Dwindle's name.

Laker had gone on to tell him with evident relish of the feud between Barani and Haworth. Each was convinced that the other's crime was more heinous than his own. Dickens listened carefully. Doctors could be dab hands at committing murder. However, Barani had no obvious motive for killing Wentworth­ in fact he had more than once said how lucky he was that Wentworth had provided him with his job. He hoped one day to be reinstated on the medical register.

At this stage, Laker had commented to Dickens: <They sound an odd crew, don't they.'

Dickens had given a non-committal reply.

Laker had gone on to mention, and it sounded as though he resented it, that Wentworth had once come onto a movie set while his former girl friend had been taking part in a nude scene.

<So what,' Dickens commented.

<I just thought you might be interested.'

<It's hardly relevant. Now what about this Harlesden chap?'

Cyril Harlesden was an ex-airline pilot who had lost his job after miraculously surviving an aircraft accident. He had flown into a hill top. He and his co-pilot and one passenger had survived the crash. Harlesden had received psychiatric treatment after a long spell recovering from his physical injuries. Laker quoted him as saying that God owed him an apology for turning him into a mass murderer. He was engaged in writing a book about his experience.

Perhaps Laker was right­ quite a few of the tutors in the correspondence school seemed deranged enough to commit murder. Peter Laker himself, a man with obvious talents but who appeared incapable of using them, could not escape coming under suspicion.

It occurred to Dickens that one day he would write about all these interesting people in his memoirs. The most fascinating of them all was undoubtedly Wentworth's daughter, Victoria. Her pale creamy skin, soft auburn hair and mocking smile kept breaking into his thoughts. He half fancied that he was falling in love with her. Not, of course, that he would ever leave Ingrid.

It was time to call again at the offices of Wentworth Press. When he arrived Victoria was sitting at the desk in the School For Novelists' office. She seemed surprised to see him. <Hello, Inspector Dickens. What can we do for you this morning?<

<Ms. Worth,' he said briskly, <I should like to have another little chat, if you can spare the time. You might like to know, by the way, that forensic say there were no signs of violence on your father's clothes.'

<Does that mean that he wasn't murdered.'

Inspector Dickens replied: <Not necessarily. There are ways of killing without shedding blood.'

<Poisoning?'

<Any number of methods.'

Victoria, looking distressed, said: <What can I do to help?'

<I've been in contact with the Ajax Detection Agency- they were unable to enlarge on the information they provided in the folder you gave me. I also telephoned the Windsor hotel where your father was staying. Berkoff, the manager, says your father checked out on the 21st of July without giving a forwarding address. I asked for a list of telephone calls he made while staying there. Among them was a call to a hotel in Abergan. Did he know anyone there?'

<My father kept in touch with thousands of people all over the world. He was a man of many interests­ political, social, literary, educational and so on.'

<Abergan is only fifteen or so miles from where his clothes were found.'

<He may have been checking up on information for his memoirs. He was evacuated there as a child during the Second World War.'

Dickens looked disappointed.

Victoria said: <Would you like to come to my office. We can talk more comfortably there.'

The inspector shook his head. An embarrassed expression crossed his broad face. Fanning himself with his hat, he said: <Ms. Worth. I wonder if you would mind coming out to lunch with me. An interview conducted in a relaxed atmosphere can sometimes achieve more than a formal meeting.'

She answered, looking faintly puzzled: <There really is very little to add to what I have already told you.'

<I think it would help,' he replied stolidly.

She sighed and said resignedly: <Very well, inspector. when would you suggest?'

<Today?'

<No­ I could possibly manage tomorrow.'

The inspector grinned boyishly.

<Very well. Say one o'clock at­' He named an expensive West End restaurant.

Dickens then asked if he might talk to Ronald Clayton again. During the interview Clayton mentioned that his boss had lunched in Soho one day with James Sabatini, President of Pacific Productions. As a result he had decided, against his, Clayton's, advice, to invest some money in a movie. Clayton's advice had in the end proved sound­ Wentworth had admitted he had never fully recovered his investment. However, later on Sabatini paid Wentworth a very high price for the film rights of a book, the copyright of which was held by Wentworth Press, so in the end the company had profited by what had seemed to be a badly chosen investment.

<Sounds as if your boss was a shrewd man.'

<He was,' Clayton agreed.

<Did he ever talk about his experience in the movie business?'

<A little. His interest was mainly financial, but he was intrigued by the whole world of film-making.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the vague hope of finding something the local police had missed, Inspector Dickens drove on his day off to the rugged and remote stretch of the Dyfed coastline where the publisher's clothes had been found. Ingrid accompanied him. It was half-term at her school and she wanted to take the opportunity of renewing her acquaintance with friends in a district where she had holidayed several times in her youth.

Dickens left his wife in the nearby town of Abergan and then drove to the tiny village of Llanwyth where the clothes had been found. He walked aimlessly along the deserted strand, trying to guess in what circumstances the publisher's clothes might have appeared on this lonely, unfrequented beach.

He asked himself why had Wentworth's murderers -supposing he had been murdered - neglected to remove the Saville Row label when they stripped him of his clothes? The most likely answer was incompetence. There was plenty of that commodity around both in police and criminal circles. It was only by making fewer mistakes than the criminals that the police ever prevailed in the constant fight against crime. Dickens was painfully aware that he had made plenty of errors in his day. He now had a powerful desire to enjoy a striking success that would obliterate past failures, enhance his reputation and make him eligible for promotion.

The local police had been briefed on the theory that the body and clothes had been dropped from an aircraft. Several local residents claimed to have heard aircraft passing overhead during the period in question. But the reports were far too vague to be helpful.

A local police sergeant remarked to Dickens contemptuously: <I don't see what all the fuss is about. A London publisher gets drowned, so what! If it had been rags and tatters instead of high-class suiting I don't suppose Scotland Yard would have bothered at all.'

<You called us in to help you,' Dickens pointed out.

<Oh, that was my boss. I can tell you I wouldn't have.'

Dickens nodded in polite agreement.

He had a pint of beer in a pub­ the only one in Llanwyth­ before continuing to Abergan to pick up his wife.

Ingrid declared on the way home that she wouldn't mind living in this part of Wales when they retired. She left their name and address with a firm of estate agents. <It's a lovely place,' she declared enthusiastically. So many other holiday places have been geriatrified.'

<What does that mean?'

<Too many old people there.'

<So what about us? Won't we be old when we retire?'

<No, we'll be forever young. That's why I want us to retire soon.'

<I don't intend to retire for at least another five years,' Dickens replied, stubbornly.

<Why go on working when we could both live comfortably on our pensions?'

He didn't answer. He was following a train of thought based on the fact that so many of the promising manuscripts he had seen in The School For Novelists files seemed to come from the Celtic regions of Scotland, Ireland and Wales.

* * *

Memo from Det. Insp. Dickens

To: Detective Chief Superintendent Barker

Re: Wentworth case, forensic reports no traces of blood or other body fluids on the clothing found on the beach.

None of the airlines have any record of Wentworth travelling on an eastbound flight during the period in question. Which leaves, of course, the possibility that he returned to Britain under a false name. Difficult to understand why he should do so, because there's no whiff of wrongdoing in either his business or personal affairs. Income tax and corporation tax and VAT are all above board.

I have not so far discovered anyone, apart from his daughter who inherits half the estate, with a motive for killing him. She's a romantic novelist and unlikely to be a parricide. Publishing was Wentworth's main interest but he also owned a subsidiary business in the same building­ The Top Marks Correspondence School. His private life appeared to have been respectable to the point of dullness. I have examined his flat, which so far has yielded no clues. But I shall take another look.

Regarding Wentworth's business affairs, the publishers' trade magazine, The Bookseller, reports that an American publishing corporation was considering making an offer for Wentworth Press just before Wentworth disappeared. Members of his publishing staff might have thought their jobs under threat as a result of this approach, but if anyone killed him just to save his job it must count as a first. I'm following some tenuous leads among the tutors in the correspondence school.

As for the suicide theory, Wentworth had no serious medical problems and plenty of money. His wife suffers from dementia­ she has been in a nursing home for the past ten years. But he seems to have adapted well to the situation. Wentworth's daughter has taken charge of his business since his disappearance. She is a very capable, strong-minded young woman. Victoria Worth knew pretty well everyone with whom her father mixed. She earns a lot of money in her own right and would be under no temptation to come into an early inheritance. In fact, she begrudges the time she has to spend handling her father's business affairs.

I have asked Air Traffic Control whether any flight plans were filed during the period in question that might have permitted a private aircraft from Denham airfield to fly out to sea near the beach where Wentworth's clothes were found. I am still awaiting their computer printout.

*

Inspector Dickens allowed his mind to drift to his lunch with Victoria earlier that day. In the restaurant they both ordered paté for starters. Victoria chose trout with a side salad for the main course. The inspector selected pheasant and then changed his order to braised chicken. When the wine waiter came, Victoria asked for carbonated water, he ordered half a pint of lager.

During the meal Victoria informed him of the latest developments in the publishing house. He could not help but admire the efficient manner with which she coped with the complex task she had taken over from her father. She had recently sacked the publicity manager and appointed his deputy, she told Dickens with a half-apologetic smile, and had been engaged in a fierce battle with printing firms over prices, when they had sought to take advantage of her father's absence.

Afterwards, when the dessert arrived, the inspector leaned forward and announced jovially: <As a novelist you might be interested to know that I was named after one of Charles Dicken's sons.'

<Really, which one?'

<Henry.'

<He was a lawyer, I believe.'

<Was he? That's interesting. Since it looks as though I shall be seeing you quite often during the course of this enquiry, call me Henry. There's no need to be excessively formal.'

Victoria, straight-faced, replied: <Very well­ Henry. You may call me Victoria.'

<A lovely name,' Dickens pronounced enthusiastically and added: <It perfectly suits you.'

Victoria took a spoonful of raspberry mousse, and after a slight pause, commented with a slight wrinkling of her brow: <What makes you say that?'

The inspector pulled an empty pipe out of his side pocket, stared at it fixedly for a moment and replaced it in his pocket. Then leaning forward and gazing at her with slightly protuberant grey eyes, he said earnestly: <I just think it suits a capable, talented and beautiful woman such as yourself. I'm full of admiration for the way you've coped with this situation. Aside from that, I can tell from your books that you are an exceptionally understanding and sympathetic person. When I was put on this case, I simply hadn't expected to meet someone like you... I'll tell you candidly I was knocked for six when you greeted me on the front steps of your house.'

He drank a mouthful of lager and coughed till he was red in the face. Making a considerable effort to recover his composure, he smiled foolishly at Victoria and then toyed with the rum baba on his plate. Victoria wasn't all that surprised at his outburst­ she had been paid extravagant compliments many times before. The difference this time was they were being paid by a policeman on official duty. She judged him to be in his middle to late forties­ much older than her. She was not entirely displeased by his blundering advances. It had occurred to her that he would provide interesting material for her next novel.

Wagging a slender finger at him reprovingly, she said with a smile: <Henry Dickens, you are exhibiting the deplorable signs of a married man making a last desperate bolt for freedom.'

He replied awkwardly: <Don't think too badly of me. My wife is a model of domestic and every other kind of virtue. She's considerate and kind­ a school-teacher. But since I saw you the other day standing on the steps of your house in Chelsea I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. You make me feel like a young boy again. I've heard of it happening to other people, but I never believed it could possibly happen to me. You really can't have any inkling of the effect you've had on me.'

He pulled out a large handkerchief, mopped his brow, then beamed at her challengingly.

She enquired mischievously: <Would it be too unkind to suggest that you've been reading too many of my romantic novels?'

Dickens glanced around the crowded restaurant and then, with a pained expression, whispered hoarsely: <I'm not playing games, you know. I just can't get you out of my mind.'

He pushed the rum baba away with an irritable gesture.

Victoria reached across the table and covering his large hand with hers, said in a low, cajoling voice: <I'm enormously flattered, Henry, I really am. But wasn't the whole object of this lunch to try to draw some conclusions about what has happened to my father? Let's go over the facts soberly and carefully. We can discuss the other, much more difficult, question you have just raised some other time. Okay?'

She smiled at him sympathetically.

The inspector nodded solemnly and pulled out his notebook containing details of the employees of Wentworth's companies. He showed it to her and asked her if any of them might have had a motive for killing her father. She studied it for a while and shook her head.

He went on: <I've searched your father's flat in Dolphin Square. We found nothing very interesting. I'm wondering if you would mind meeting me there just to see if we missed anything.'

<Very well, inspector.'

<Henry­ please...'

<Sorry, Henry.< She shook her head in mock reproof. <When would you suggest?'

<How about this evening­ say about eight o'clock.'

Victoria nodded her head, slowly and thoughtfully.

The inspector whispered after paying the bill. <You can't imagine how thrilled I am to be seeing you again so soon.'

As he helped her on with her coat, Victoria enquired: <What is your wife's name?'

<Ingrid.'

<Let's be clear about one thing­ Ingrid has nothing to fear as far as our relationship is concerned.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Shivering in his raincoat on a cold November day, Peter Laker entered the Cock and Pheasant pub. He was greeted by a welcome rush of warm air and a pungent smell of cooking. The lounge was crowded. Dwindle was sitting up in his usual place at the bar, a half pint of lager in front of him. Peter stood behind him for a few minutes, waiting for an adjacent seat to become vacant.

When it became avilable, he asked Dwindle cheerfully, <How are things going?' <Not too bad,' Dwindle replied. He had been aware of Peter standing behind him, but had been too preoccupied to acknowledge his presence.

<And Maureen?' Peter enquired.

<For the past six years she's been writing a novel about the court of King Charles the Second. I told her she's missed out on the sexy bits and now she says she'll have to do a complete rewrite.

Dwindle gave a splutter of laughter.

Peter said: <You're a cruel devil, Dwindle.' Catching the barmaid's eye, he ordered half a pint of lager and a pie and chips.

<How are things in the old firm?' Peter enquired.

<Rumours are flying that it might close down. Otherwise much the same. How did you get on with the police? I'm surprised they haven't clapped you in jail.'

<I had a chat with a police inspector about Top Marks and the people who work in it. He seemed very intrigued by the similarity between my story and the appearance of Wentworth's clothing on the sea shore.'

<Pure coincidence.'

<Of course. But in the meantime I've got something else on my mind.'

Dwindle raised his bushy grey eyebrows, questioningly.

<Are you looking to get your old job back?'

<No thank you,' Peter replied vehemently, and then remembering that Dwindle had to work in the correspondence school for the rest of his life, added hastily <Not that it was so bad. It's just that Elizabeth came to dinner at my place the other day. Her career has taken a downturn. She wants to move in with me.'

<You're not sure you want her back?'

<How did you guess?'

<You'd better give it a miss.' Dwindle said, after taking a deep draught of lager. He added: <If you've got doubts, it's a sure sign that it wouldn't work out.'

Peter said morosely: <You're probably right,' and began to eat rather unenthusiastically the food that had just been placed in front of him.

<Did the policeman enjoy your story?'

<What? Oh, that. Damned if I know.'

<You're not the only one who's been writing novels. Cyril Harlesden recently asked Victoria for an opinion on one he'd written.'

<I didn't know they were acquainted.'

<Cyril once took her for a spin in an aircraft.'

<What was his book all about?'

<Pilot error, I believe.'

<Is she going to publish it?'

<She told him it would need a great deal of revision. It looks like a race between Maureen and Cyril to see who can finish their books first.' Dwindle gave a chuckle and added: <You should have finished yours. If Victoria praised it, it must have been good. You lack stamina, that's your trouble.'

They ate for a while in silence.

Peter suddenly asked: <What would you do if the Correspondence School was closed down.'

<Shoot myself.'

<Seriously.'

<I'm too old to find another job. The only thing I could do would be to write my autobiography. I'm thinking of calling it <Small Man, Big World.'

<Why do you always go on about being small, Dwindle?'

Dwindle replied, with pretended seriousness: <It's my hobby, Peter. No one has any right to deprive a man of his hobby.'

*

As Peter examined the tills that evening, he became aware that the takings were less than he had hoped. Checking his figures against those of the previous year, he was shocked to find that the downturn was even worse than he had thought. Another newsagent's shop that had recently opened nearby stayed open for much longer hours and had begun to make inroads in his turnover. Hiring extra staff did not seem the answer. For the first time he faced the alarming possibility of being forced out of business.

That morning a letter had arrived from Inspector Dickens informing him that he had photo-copied his manuscript and had returned the original to Clayton. Glancing through his own copy of the story, Peter remembered Victoria's flattering comments. The narrative seemed to have pace and flow, but up until now he had felt no great urge to finish it. He remembered a piece of advice offered by the writing school: <Practise increasing your concentration by spending longer on your work. Persevere even when inspiration fails.'

Since taking over the shop he had given up any thought of writing as a career. But in desperation he now began to write another chapter. The shop had kept his parents in comparative comfort for forty years but there was no guarantee it would do the same for him. He assured himself that with Victoria's advice and encouragement writing a popular novel might help to supplement his earnings.

He became more cheerful as he scribbled in an exercise book. At two in the morning, when he had completed half a chapter, he keyed it painstakingly into the computer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Waiting for Victoria to arrive, Dickens chatted with the uniformed hall porter in the foyer of the mansion block where her father had lived. The lean, grey-haired man confided that Wentworth had been a gentleman of the old-fashioned kind, always courteous and thoughtful. He had once given him a parcel of books. <Only paperbacks, mind,' he added.

<Did he have any lady friends?'

<He sometimes gave dinner parties. I never counted the guests as they left, if you get my meaning. Adelaide, his wife, was a nice lady, too. Pity she was taken ill.'

Victoria, wearing a brown duffle coat, arrived in a taxi. She looked solemn as they entered the narrow lift. Dickens pressed the button for the third floor, and said: <I'm sorry it was necessary to bring you here. But it's just possible that I missed something.'

Looking down at Victoria's small, elfin face tucked away in the shadow of her hood, he half-regretted the clumsy confession he had blurted out during lunch.

Algernon Wentworth's apartment had a neglected air. The green flock wall paper was dark and greasy, the furniture old and heavy. But there were, some fine eighteenth-century oil paintings on the walls, including one a Hogarth.

The main bedroom contained a large canopied bed, two old-fashioned mahogany wardrobes, a matching dressing table with a triptych mirror and three rose pink tub armchairs. On his previous visit Dickens had noted that a number of Mrs. Wentworth's dresses were still in her wardrobe, which suggested that Wentworth believed that one day his wife would recover sufficiently to be allowed home.

He enquired: <Why did your mother have to go into a home?'

<Her memory was deteriorating. It would have been very difficult to look after her here. My father couldn't possibly have coped with nurses and doctors flitting in and out all the time.'

<Sorry I have to keep asking questions. I am just trying to get a rounded picture of your father and the life he led. Where did he keep his private correspondence? My sergeant and I weren't able to find any when we were here last.'

<He probably took it with him to America. He would have needed it to write his autobiography.'

<And it wasn't recovered from the hotel where he was staying.'

<No. He took everything away, apparently, including family photograph albums.'

<Do you think he had anything to hide?'

Victoria replied spiritedly, obviously resenting the question: <My father was a man of complete and absolute integrity,' Placing his hand on her shoulder, Inspector Dickens said: <You must forgive me if I sound brutal. The letters and photograph albums must be somewhere. He doesn't sound like the kind of man who would cheerfully discard all the details of his past life.'

Victoria moved away from him and sat on one of the tub chairs.

<They could still be somewhere in America.'

<I suppose that's possible.'

<Do you think he's still alive?'

<There's always hope, <Inspector Dickens replied, pursing his lips. <I should like to take another look at your father's study.'

Victoria led him into an adjoining room. It contained a nineteenth-century mahogany pedestal desk, a button-backed leather chair and two large filing cabinets. Dickens had investigated the desk drawers and the filing cabinets on his previous visit. The search had revealed bank statements, cheque books, business correspondence, and copious notes on books which Wentworth had considered publishing. Dickens had been amused by an entry in an old business diary which said in relation to Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood <What a fool I was to let that one get away!'

Sitting at the desk, he said: <I suppose missing a best-seller can be very frustrating for a publisher.'

She replied simply: <Yes,' obviously unwilling to be drawn on the theme. Dickens continued rummaging through the drawers of the desk.

<Did your father have any girl friends?' Dickens asked suddenly.

<Not as far as I know. He wasn't that kind of man.'

<Anyone can give way to temptation.'

Victoria replied mockingly: <Yes, even a police officer on duty.' <I asked you to come here just in case we had missed something,' Dickens protested, unconvincingly.

<Well, you have missed something.'

<What's that?' Dickens asked in surprise.

<There is a secret drawer in that desk. Not that Daddy ever kept anything of any value in it.' Victoria reached inside the top drawer and pressing a hidden lever, revealed an ingenious hidden recess. The recess was empty, apart from a lock of blond hair.

<Who did that belong to?' Dickens enquired.

<It's a lock of my hair when I was a baby,' Victoria said, with an elaborate shrug. <It's ridiculous, isn't it, keeping it all this time.'

Dickens replaced the lock of hair in the compartment. He paused and then said: <I should like to put another question to you.'

<Go ahead.'

<What was your relationship with Cyril Harlesden?'

<What has that to do with my father's disappearance?'

Dickens frowned.

<I'm sorry I have to ask personal questions, but that's part of my job. Did you ever go out on a date with him?'

Victoria pulled down the hood of her duffle coat and shook out her hair.

With a challenging smile, she replied: <Yes, I did.'

<Did you ever fly with him?'

<Yes. Some time ago he hired an aircraft at Denham airfield and took me along as his passenger. He did some aerobatics. It was frightening, but a marvellous experience.'

<Does he fly regularly?'

<Yes, just to keep his private pilot's licence going. He lost his professional pilot's licence as a result of a dreadful accident. He's writing a novel about it.'

The inspector stood up.

<Did you know a man called Sabatini?'

<The film producer? Yes. He asked my father to invest in one of his films.'

<What other connections with the film business did your father have?'

<None that I am aware of.'

The inspector suddenly gave a boyish smile. He said: <Good. That finishes my official business. Now we can be friends again.'

Victoria shrugged and said: <I'll see if there's any tea or coffee in the kitchen.'

Dickens accompanied her into the kitchen. When Victoria announced that the cupboards were empty, he suggested they go to a restaurant for a coffee.

<We can have coffee at my place, if you like.'

Dickens replied, delightedly: <Fine. I'll drive you there.'

On their way to Chelsea Dickens said earnestly: <The reason I'm coming all this way for a cup of coffee is because I want to know more about you.'

<Why?'

<He replied solemnly. <Do I have to spell it out? You have touched a chord in my being that I didn't know existed...I've even thought of asking to be taken off the case because I find you so attractive.' <I must remind you that you did say that you wouldn't like to hurt your wife.'

Dickens gave a deep sigh and said: <I'm heading for fifty and I have never had an extra marital fling.' After a pause, he added: <Even so, if a woman suddenly makes a man glow with happiness he has a positive duty to tell her, even if there is no hope of anything ever coming of it.'

Victoria put her gloved hand on his arm.

<Of course, Henry. But you must still act responsibly. What you have said is very gratifying but we must agree to be just friends.'

<I'd much rather be your lover.' He said, gazing at her with steady yearning.

<Inspector,' Victoria said reprovingly, <Be careful or I'll have to send you home.'

Dickens replied with brusque heartiness: <Forget everything I've said. I shall be very grateful for a good cup of coffee­ instant, filtered, espresso­ anything you like.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The injuries that Captain Cyril Harlesden had sustained in the air crash were mental as well as physical. Unable to cope with the symptoms of his depressive illness, his wife had divorced him. She now lived with their two children in a cottage in a Gloucester village. He rented a bed-sit in a north London suburb. He was short and stocky and saturnine; his craggy brow was overhung by a lock of greying-black hair. He still loved flying and believed against all the odds that one day his professional pilot's licence would be restored.

The court of enquiry had found him guilty of failing to check his safety height before commencing his descent into a Spanish airport. By some tortuous reasoning he had managed to persuade himself that the real cause of the crash was a navigational error on the part of the co-pilot. The official enquiry accepted that the co-pilot had entered an incorrect position on the navigational log but nevertheless blamed Harlesden for failing to positively check his position by electronic means. He found the burden of guilt for having caused the death of seventy-nine people intolerable and had not protected himself by means of elaborate self-deception. His attempts to evade personal responsibility also included a bizarre belief that the accident had been preordained.

Once a month he hired an aircraft at Denham airport for a couple of hours and flew over an area set aside for aerobatics. Occasionally, he landed at a private airfield in Gloucester and called in briefly to see his children.

Today, as he threw the aircraft into a tight roll, he remembered how excited Victoria had been when she flew with him. She had declined to repeat the experience, but he cherished fond recollections of a brief affair which for a short while had poured balm on his troubled spirit. They had remained friends and Victoria had given him the benefit of her professional opinion on the large, unwieldy manuscript he had presented to her. Her verdict was that while accurately portraying the strains and tensions of professional flying, it lacked an interesting story line.

Looking down at the layer of dazzlingly white strato-cumulus directly beneath him, Cyril Harlesden wondered whether to complete a re-write. There was no guarantee that it would ever be published. He decided he had better things to do with his life.

Inspecting the sky around and below him to make sure there were no other aircraft around, he raised the nose of the Cesna higher and higher. The airspeed rapidly fell off and as the aircraft stalled, he went into a right-hand spin. The clouds below revolved in a whirling, white kaleidoscopic display, producing in him an intense euphoria. He could stop the spin, or plunge into the hills that lay beneath the clouds, igniting a magnificent funeral pyre. The newspapers would announce that Cyril Harlesden's conscience had forced him to expiate his crime of killing innocent passengers.

'Like hell!,' he cried to himself, as the clouds spun round below him. He refused to give his critics the satisfaction of saying that his fate was well deserved. Why should he allow them that satisfaction when Providence had clearly intended the accident to happen.

As the layer of woolly white strato-cumulus below approached, he pushed the stick forward, kicked hard left rudder, opened up the engine and restored flying speed. Climbing up again through the tufts of opalescent cloud towards the brilliant blue sky, Harlesden recalled his interview with Detective Inspector Dickens. The stupid man had asked him if he had ever flown to Cardigan Bay, reminding him that evidence of his flight would soon be supplied by Air Traffic Control.

<In that case, Inspector,' he had replied, <why bother to ask me?'

Because it will save valuable time.'

<Are you trying to suggest that I killed Algernon Wentworth?'

<We have no reason to suspect you. But we have to consider the possibility that some other person, or persons, may have asked you to dispose of a bundle at sea? You need not even have been acquainted with its contents. If that were the case it is possible that no charges would be preferred against you.'

<I didn't drop anything,' he had answered flatly.

The inspector beamed at him goodhumouredly. <That's all we need to know. Even negative information helps our enquiry.'

Harlesden had then said out of a perverse desire to prick the man's complacency: <It is possible to ignore a flight plan that has been filed and fly off in another direction. So I recommend that you don't strike me off your list of suspects quite yet.'

The inspector smiled again, and said: <I shall use my own judgment in that regard, Mr. Harlesden.'

<Captain Harlesden.'

<Sorry, Captain. I should like to read your book when it is published.'

<I may decide not to publish it.'

Cyril Harlesden smiled at his recollection of the baffled expression on the face of the policeman and suddenly felt impelled to mention that there was a murder in the plot of his novel.

<Is that so?' Dickens had answered. <I wonder why people are so keen to write about murders.'

Harlesden had replied. 'Fictitious murders are a somewhat unsatisfactory substitute for the real thing.'

<Unfortunately, I have to deal with the real world. '

Harlesden was not entirely displeased with the result of the interview. After all, he told himself, when you have been accused of murdering of scores of people, what difference does one more make.

He checked the altimeter and inspected the bowl of blue sky all around him. Satisfied that it was all clear, he threw the Cesna into another vertiginous spin.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There was a rumour that the Top Marks Correspondence School might close down. Dwindle was seriously worried. Wentworth often reminded his staff that the business faced severe competition from other correspondence schools and from the Open University. But no one had taken his warnings seriously. Now it was being said that his daughter was on the brink of taking the fatal step which would deprive them all of their jobs. Dwindle could only see Wentworth's disappearance as a tragedy with ominous implications for his own future. He was personally convinced that Wentworth had been murdered, Irrationally, he cursed Wentworth for having allowed himself to become a victim. Lying in bed at night he was haunted by visions of Wentworth's bloated body bobbing around in the Irish Sea.

Harlesden had once boasted to him that he had slept with Victoria. This led Dwindle to suspect that Wentworth had raised objections to the liaison. Harlesden might then have murdered , in association with his daughter, and disposed of the body by dumping him from a hired airplane. This theory was ridiculed by his wife, who declared that Harlesden had enough on his mind worrying about all the people killed in his fatal air crash without adding further victims to the list. In any case the days were long past when fathers interfered in their daughters' love affairs.

Dwindle was convinced that he would never find another job if he lost this one. Looking around the tutors' room it occurred to him that if Harlesden wasn't guilty then almost certainly another one of his colleagues was. The frequent appearances of the police inspector in charge of the case confirmed his belief.

Dwindle's original decision to study philosophy had been motivated by an idealistic desire to solve the mystery of human suffering. It hadn't taken long for him to discover that no satisfactory answer was ever likely to be found to the age-long problem. Now he regarded philosophy as merely an arid set of conundrums, no more worthy of study than riddles or crossword puzzles. He had begun to drink a great deal of beer, believing that beer would kill him at a rather slower rate than spirits. This out of consideration for his wife Maureen.

Early in December, Inspector Dickens came into the over-heated tutors' room and stood with his brown trilby hat in his hands gazing perplexedly over the three long rows of heads bent over their tasks. Ackroyd was out of the room. Dwindle called out; <Have you come to arrest all of us?'

Dickens smiled, mopped his brow and replied: <You certainly look a regular shower of villains.'

<What can we do for you?' Dwindle enquired.

<I called into see Victoria Wentworth. But she's not upstairs, so I thought I'd just come down here and see if anybody might have any theories concerning the Welsh Connection.'

<The Welsh Connection?'

Noting that all the tutors were listening intently to the conversation, Dickens said in a slightly louder tone, <I'm interested in finding out why the clothes of Mr. Wentworth should have been found on a Welsh beach. Does anybody know if he had friends, relatives or business interests there.'

Silence.

Dickens called out <Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you.'

He was about to go, when Dwindle slid off his chair and waddled over to him. Looking up at the inspector's perspiring face, he whispered mischievously: <Have you thought of wading through some of Wentworth's detective mysteries and crime thrillers. They might provide you with some inspiration.' <Thanks for the suggestion,' Dickens said, looking down at him with a slightly abstracted air.

<Are you still hoping the body might turn up?'

<It would help a great deal.'

<Do you think he stripped off all his clothes and waded into the water?'

<His body would probably have been recovered by now.'

<I suppose you have looked at motives?'

<Naturally.'

<Publishers, you know, can be very unpopular. Authors hate them for not spending enough promoting their works. The public hate them, because they're rich and wield so much power. And their employees hate them because they don't pay them enough money.'

<That hardly narrows down the number of suspects,' the inspector answered with a smile.

<How about a jealous lover?' A ripple of mirth ran round the tutors' room. Dwindle's suggestion amused the inspector. He said: <Would you like to enlarge on that?'

Dwindle shook his head vigorously, smiled and returned to his desk.

Inspector Dickens paced up and down at the back of the room and left shortly afterwards.

For some reason Dwindle felt gratified at having been seen conferring with the detective.

Ackroyd returned and began checking each tutor's output. Clayton had just warned him that a decision about closing down the correspondence school was imminent. 'It would make more sense,' he had replied to eliminate the loss-making School of Novelists first.'

Clayton had told him: <I have discussed it with Victoria, but she seems to have exactly the same views on it as her late father.'

Ackroyd fumed: <How can a romantic lady novelist be trusted to make sensible business decisions.'

Victoria appeared just at that moment. He gave her an ingratiating smile, hoping he hadn't been overheard.

Later, Ackroyd paced up and down the line of tutors, like a subaltern urging his troops into battle, telling them that only increased productivity could save the Top Marks Correspondence School from bankruptcy.

*

Instead of going straight home that night, Dwindle caught a bus to Muswell Hill. Peter Laker was surprised to see him just as he was about to close the shop.

<What brings you here, George?' he enquired.

<I thought I'd increase your profits by buying an evening paper,' Dwindle said jocularly.

<Any news of the Wentworth affair?' Peter enquired, handing him a copy of the Evening Standard.

<There's a strong rumour that Victoria's going to close the Top Marks Correspondence School down,' Dwindle declared. <Tell her that if she does I shall make a spectacular leap from the top of the building.'

<Come upstairs and have a bite to eat,' Peter suggested.

<No thanks. Maureen is preparing something at home.'

<Join me in a beer, then.'

<Thanks, I will. I bet this shop is a regular gold mine?'

<It provides me with an honest crust.'

<You must be earning more than you were at Top Marks.'

<I should hope so.'

He led Dwindle up the narrow stairway at the side of the shop.

When Dwindle was settled in an armchair with a glass of lager, Peter, sitting facing him, said: <Since you seem terribly worried about redundancy, why don't you ask Clayton or Ackroyd, or someone in the know?'

<Aren't you on visiting terms with Victoria.'

<I've been to her place once. I may get in touch with her again ­ I've decided to try and finish that book.'

<Good man,' Dwindle said, encouragingly. <Have you got Elizabeth out of your system?'

Peter Laker pulled a face.

<No. I have rung her a couple of times, but she never seems to be in. She may be up north visiting her daughter.'

<Why don't you find yourself a new girl friend?'

Peter gave a helpless shrug. <When you've been living with a woman, you feel linked to her in a kind of way. It's totally illogical.'

Dwindle, sank deeper into the armchair, sipped his lager for a while and then said; <If she comes to live with you again, she'll be forever flitting in and out of your life. You'll never have any peace.'

<I know.'

<And your book? You reckon you're going to be able to finish it?'

<It's coming along slowly. I need a second string to my bow. The takings in the shop are falling off.'

Dwindle shook his head sagely.

<Writing novels can never be a second string. Ask Victoria.'

<She's the one who's been encouraging me to finish the book.'

<She has to, Peter. Publishers have to whip thousands of potential novelists into action just to get a few money-spinners onto the bookstalls.'

<She isn't like that.'

<Phooey!< Dwindle looked scornful. <She's got you working on your novel because it's in her interests to do so.'

<The last thing I would say of Victoria is that she's mercenary.'

<But she has a duty to ensure that Wentworth Press makes a profit. She's also a novelist and happens to think that writing is the only activity that's worthy of consideration. Her whole life would collapse without it. All those sleepless nights, trying to conjure characters out of nowhere have distorted her sense of values. Publishing new novels to her is more important than paying off the national debt. Do you understand what I am saying? She and her father started the School For Novelists in order to discover more writing talent. And, do you know something...'

Dwindle drew his short legs under him in a jerky movement.

<What?'

<I believe it possible that she killed her father.'

Peter gave a short, sceptical laugh.

<What on earth makes you think that?'

<She had a very strong motive,' Dwindle said, carefully enunciating his words. <Apart from inheriting his wealth, Victoria probably resents having been forced to work so hard at literature. She was pushed beyond her capacity. Having no other children, all Wentworth's ambitions centred on her. But then, instead of turning out great novels, what does she do? A Mills and Boon act. Very lucrative but not exactly what he wanted of his daughter. Having been given such a narrow, concentrated upbringing, she probably held it against her dad and this gave her a strong motive for killing him.'

Peter laughed. <You really don't expect me to swallow that load of bullshit.'

Dwindle shrugged and said: <It makes as much sense as any other theory. After all, isn't your story about someone who kills out of sheer jealousy.'

<Victoria wasn't jealous of her father.'

<No, but I have another theory­ he may have become jealous of one of her lovers. Lover-boy may then have killed him and sought Victoria's assistance in disposing of the body.'

<And who might that lover-boy have been?'

<I'll leave you to guess.'

Peter considered the matter for a moment and then dismissing the idea, said: <You didn't come all this way just to tell me your theories.'

<No, my particular worry is that if Victoria went to jail, there would be no one to run Wentworth's businesses. The correspondence school is losing money and may be closed down soon. When that happens I'm as good as dead.'

Dwindle looked as though he was about to burst into tears.

<Don't worry, old chap. It may never happen,' Peter said, consolingly.

Dwindle finished his lager and flourished the empty glass in front of Peter's face. Peter poured him out another one. He said slainte, drank it quickly and left shortly afterwards.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As he approached the reception desk at the Wentworth Press offices again, Dickens remembered uneasily his wife's question: <Are you going to interview that lady novelist again?'

He had replied with exaggerated heartiness. <Of course. She's giving me useful information about some of my suspects.' This was the third time in the past two days that Ingrid had questioned him about Victoria Worth.

Jonathan Creighton, the crime writer and tutor, currently living in France, had now come within his list of possible suspects. Dickens had once had read one of his mystery thrillers called Murder In The P.M., about a prime minister who declared that a political opponent who had viciously lampooned him deserved to be shot. The prime minister's wish for his opponent's death eventually came to be granted. It was on a deeper level than most detective stories. Impressed by the author's grasp of psychology as well as his powers of invention, he decided to question Victoria about him. If he found sufficient grounds, he would apply for permission to interview him in France, although Barker, in the present state of the Met's finances, was unlikely to grant his request.

His visit to Victoria's house for coffee had been a little disappointing. She had plied him with questions about his upbringing and his boyhood firmly rejected his clumsy advances. Unable to get her out of his mind, he decided to call on her office again, making Creighton his excuse this time.

Victoria was working in The School For Novelists' office, her head bent over some papers on the desk. He tapped lightly on the glass door and entering the office, said diffidently: <Could you spare a moment, please?'

Victoria, brushing her hair aside with one hand, said wearily: <Really, Inspector, I have my work to do. What can I do for you this time?'

I read a book by your colleague, Jonathan Creighton, yesterday. Can you tell me something about him?'

Victoria said blandly: <Let me see. He's a male caucasian, aged forty-three, married with two children, presently living in an old water mill in the Dordogne for which he is paying a rent of four thousand five hundred francs a month. He has written seven novels, two of which have had sales in excess of a quarter of a million. He plays cricket in his spare time and claims to have once scored half a century. What else would you like to know?'

<Was he on good terms with your father?'

<As far as I know, yes.< Victoria chewed at her red ballpoint. <Jonathan took his work here very seriously. He wanted to help my father discover and foster fresh talent.'

<Why did he suddenly leave the country?'

<He didn't leave suddenly. He had been working on an outline of a novel and wanted to finish it as quickly as possible. He saw this water mill advertised for renting in The Times and decided to take his family down there.'

<Why didn't he write it in London?'

<Inspector, writers like most people need money. We paid him a pittance for hiswork here and he felt he could work better in the peace and quiet of this little Dordogne village.'

<Call me Henry,' Dickens pleaded.

Victoria said, mockingly: Inspector! I mustn't do that. You are here on duty.'

<Yes, Victoria­ Ms. Wentworth,' Dickens replied, embarrassed. <Point taken. I must now ask you if Creighton ever clashed with your father­ over money, for instance. You said that he wasn't paid much.'

<I don't think the money aspect of his work here was important. He liked teaching and was reasonably satisfied with the deal he had struck with my father. The significant facts about their relationship are that my father published his books and spent a great deal advertising and promoting them.'

<Are you in touch with him?'

<Yes, we correspond. His agent rings occasionally.'

<As soon as he is back in town, would you please let me know.'

<Yes.'

The inspector, moving closer to the desk, whispered: <I have tickets for Don Giovanni at the Colliseum on Saturday. Ingrid's father has been taken ill and she has to go up to visit him in Middlesborough. It would be a shame to waste them. I wonder would you care to come along?'

<I didn't know you were an opera buff, Inspector.'

Dickens shuffled his feet uneasily.

<I'm not. Ingrid is.'

<Very well. Thanks for the invitation.' Victoria thought for a moment. I'll come on two conditions. That we don't discuss, or even mention, my father's disappearance and that we do it only this once. Inspector Dickens beaming with pleasure, patted her on the shoulder and promised: <I won't breathe a word about the case.'

When he had gone, Victoria looked at her watch and sighed. He would not have been her first, second or even third, choice as a companion. But a visit to the opera would enliven a dull weekend and give her an opportunity to observe him more closely. She had decided to make him a character in her next book. The gauche actions of an elderly lover trying to commit an act of adultery would make an interesting subject for a novel.

Looking down again at the paper she had been marking, she saw that she had written in red ink: <You fail lamentably to enter into the minds of your characters' and was discomfited by a sudden realisation that this happened also to be one of her own shortcomings. She couldn't quite decide whether the inspector's chief interest was in getting her into bed or finding out whether she had murdered her father. Going to the opera with him offered the prospect of finding out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Vera Fernleigh sat two places behind Dwindle. They rarely spoke to each other. Someone had once told her that he was ill-tempered and preferred to be left alone. She was also aware of the intimidating effect her sheer bulk might have on him and feared his awesome powers of invective­ on one occasion she had heard him make a fierce verbal onslaught on Ronnie Mars. Mars, a physics tutor known as the Gay Bar, had innocently provoked the outburst by placing his hand in a friendly manner on Dwindle's shoulder. Today, however, impressed by the way Dwindle had chatted to the police inspector, Vera Fernleigh tip-toed to his desk, when the chief tutor had left the room, and asked him what he thought of the Algernon Wentworth affair. Standing close to him, she noticed that his bulbous nose was broken and wondered if it had happened in an accident. In fact, it was the result of an unofficial boxing match. George Hamble in his youth had often provoked and subsequently fought larger boys. Dwindle seemed to welcome her approach. <It was murder most foul,' he confidently pronounced. Overwhelmed by her ample bosom and musky scent as she bent over him, he grinned and added: <Perhaps they'll employ you as chief prosecutor when they've caught the villain.'

<Why does that policeman keep coming back?' she enquired. 'Does he really think one of us might have killed him?'

<Perhaps and with good cause.' Dwindle replied. <We all hated Wentworth for not paying us enough when he was alive. It's only now that there's danger of the school closing down that we appreciate his qualities.'

<Victoria will keep the show on the road,' Vera said, confidently, shaking her abundant honey-coloured hair, causing Dwindle to brush away a strand which was tickling his face. <Anyway, I certainly hope the inspector doesn't suspect me.'

Dwindle said in his rather deep voice <If everyone of us who wished Wentworth dead at some time or another were to be indicted we'd all be in court.' <I hope it doesn't come out that I had a row with him a few months ago.'

Dwindle enquired with sudden interest. <What was that all about?'

<I asked if he would consider publishing some stories about opera. He told me to go ahead and let him see some samples. I wrote a few pages about the love affairs of some famous opera singers. But it turned out to be a dreadful misunderstanding. Apparently, he thought I was going to write the story lines of well-known operas.'

<The one you had in mind would have been much more interesting.'

<Yes, but­ I must go­ I think he was scared of libel suits.'

<Did you try another publisher?'

Instead of answering, Vera Fernleigh, seeing Ackroyd enter the room, scurried back to her own desk,

Dwindle placed the paper he had just corrected on the pile of marked papers and sighed. Then he recalled that Vera Fernleigh had also flown in Harlesden's airplane. He remembered Harlesden joking that she was so heavy that he had difficulty in getting it airborne and that she had screamed in upper C when he looped the loop.

Dwindle enjoyed a sudden vision of himself rolling around with Vera in an enormous four-poster bed with large white pillows. The mental picture disappeared, as he realised that she had a genuine grievance against Wentworth, and this made it possible for her to have been involved in a plot with Harlesden. Intending to draw her out on the subject, he invited her to join him for lunch at the Cock and Pheasant. Flattered by her success in breaking down his aloofness, she agreed.

Dwindle was surprised when they visited the pub that she showed little tolerance to alcohol. After drinking one small sherry her face became pink and she began to speak with almost embarrassing honesty about love affairs among opera singers and, in particular, her passionate affair with Enrico Pascolo, the famous baritone.

Dwindle ordered another beer­ breaking his usual rule of limiting himself to one pint at lunch-time. He forgot to quiz Vera about her flight with Harlesden and instead enjoyed her racy gossip. She had a remarkably pretty face and a peach-like complexion. He became so fascinated by her stories that he became oblivious of the contrast between her vast bulk and his own tiny size. Her accounts, entirely lacking in malice, provided a fascinating glimpse of talented people devoted to their craft, but often tempted by their glamorous life styles to indulge in tempestuous love affairs.

He asked Vera, as she paused for breath: <Why don't you go back into opera? You have a marvellous voice.'

<It would upset me too much when I encountered Enrico. Opera is such a small world.'

<But that was seven years ago. You are a mature woman now and should be able to laugh off what happened.'

Vera stared at him, her gaze wobbling a little from the effects of the single sherry.

<I took a solemn vow­ I can't go back on it now.'

<God is an understanding fellow. He wouldn't want you to neglect that magnificent voice you have. Find yourself an agent­ if that's the right way to go about it­ and sing again.'

<It's too late,' she said tragically.

<Nothing's too late while you're still alive.'

<No, I have a little boy­ and I can't take a chance.'

<Enrico's?'

<Yes.'

<Doesn't he insist on seeing his son occasionally?'

<He doesn't know.'

Vera burst into tears.

Dwindle suddenly found himself comforting and patting with his short arms a young woman not much more than half his age and three times his size and weight. With some difficulty he managed to persuade her to leave the pub, and they made their way back to the tutors' room. Vera, when she was settled back at her desk, whispered as he left her: <You were very kind, George. We must have lunch together again sometime.'

Resuming his work, Dwindle decided that Vera was too nice to be an accomplice in a murder. He had enjoyed her company and looked forward to amusing Maureen by telling her that he had experienced a further confirmation of his favourite theory that very tall women, for compelling biological reasons, find short men irresistibly attractive. And - but he wouldn't say it - vice versa.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ingrid had complained recently about the excessive amount of time her husband was spending up in the loft playing with his electric trains. He xcused himself on the grounds that he needed solitude in which to think about the extremely perplexing case on which he was engaged. Ingrid by now had already guessed that he was very taken with Victoria. A colleague at the school where she taught comforted her by saying that a glamorous young lady novelist would be most unlikely to fall for a married, middle-aged policeman. Ingrid, a little piqued by this unflattering estimate of her husband, tried to divert him from his obsession with alluring descriptions of the life they could lead if he took early retirement. He growled: <I won't retire while there's still a chance of promotion.'

He called for Victoria, wearing a new suit, a camel-hair overcoat and a brown trilby.

'You look super!' he exclaimed enthusiastically, as she came down the steps of her Chelsea house dressed in an emerald green gown with a low, square-cut neckline, a black cape carelessly slung over her shoulders. The slim white column of her throat brilliantly contrasted with the black pearls her father had given her after successfully publishing her first book.

Dickens opened the passenger door of his Vauxhall Cavalier for her and muttered unconvincingly as she got in, <Hard luck on Ingrid that she's missing this performance. She'd been so looking forward to it.' He had told his wife that he was obliged to attend a late night social function in order to keep an eye on a suspect. Having paid double the official price for the theatre tickets, he was determined to make a success of the evening.

<I hope your wife finds her father better,' Victoria murmured.

Slowing down in traffic, Dickens felt a surge of pride as he glanced across at his passenger. It seemed to him a fitting irony that, having been saddled all his life with a literary name, he was now escorting one of Britain's best-known lady novelists to the opera. Recalling some of the more erotic passages in her books, he told himself she must be an extremely passionate woman. It was hard to imagine Ingrid doing some of the things in bed she described so eloquently. All that talk of retirement was typical of Ingrid's low key approach to life. He wasn't quite ready yet to give up on life. He said conversationally: <I suppose you've met a few Don Giovannis in your time.'

<Of course.' In fact, she had had few lovers, because seemed frightened of being compared with the succession of swashbuckling heroes who romped through her books, effortlessly breaking down all resistance.

Dickens declared heartily: <Well, I might just as well let you know that I don't exactly come into that category.'

<I suppose police officers have to have high standards.'

<Oh, I've known plenty of Don Juans in the Force,' he assured her earnestly, <knocking off every woman that came their way, including their colleagues' wives. I've had my opportunities, mind you, but I've always managed to resist temptation. Until now,' he added with an impish grin, turning his face towards her.

He raced ahead of a stalled line of traffic and continued: <When I met you everything in my life changed. I feel like a boulder that has been in one place for thousands of years, and is now tumbling downwards with irresistible force.'

He looked across to see what impression his words had made. She seemed mildly amused.

He added: <I suppose it does sound a bit daft. But I can't help myself.'

<It's all right, Henry, she replied soothingly. <It's pleasant hearing someone talk romantic nonsense in real life.'

<I meant every word of it,' he protested.

She gave him an indulgent smile.

After a pause, he glanced at her again and said: <Did you accept my invitation just to find out what a police inspector would be like off duty.'

<Of course not,' Victoria replied emphatically. <I came out with you because you seem a very trustworthy person. One visit to the opera isn't going to harm anybody.'

<That's right,' Henry Dickens acknowledged somewhat reluctantly, and remained silent until he had parked the car.

During the opera he sat very upright, listening attentively and applauding enthusiastically. It was the first time he had seen Don Giovanni. He complained as they were leaving the theatre that the Commendatore's appearance at the end was implausible.

Victoria replied: <If you can accept that characters in the opera are singing instead of talking, why can't you accept a ghostly presence on the stage?'

He replied, shaking his head: <Perhaps because I don't go to the opera often enough. Anyway, I hope I don't suffer the same fate as Don Giovanni.'

<You need have no worries on that score, Henry. You can go home to your wife with a clear conscience.'

She declined his invitation to go to a club. Opening the front door after he had driven her home, she turned and thanked him.

<My pleasure,' he muttered, standing awkwardly for a moment on the top step. Then with a sudden inspiration, he asked: <Do you mind if I come in and take a look at your Gauguins?'

<Of course not.'

<Are they genuine?' he asked, having scrutinised them carefully.

She shook her head.

<Daddy keeps the real ones in a vault and gave me the hand-painted copies. They're very skilfully done, aren't they.'

<I've never before mixed with people who own the real thing.'

Victoria said with an indulgent smile: <Allow me to let you into a little secret. We don't own them­ the company does and they are frequently in hock to the bank when Daddy has a big advertising splurge. Do go into the living room. Would you like a drink?'

<A whiskey straight, please.'

Removing his hat and coat, he sat and looked around, absorbing the atmosphere of restrained good taste and congratulating himself on having had this charming, talented girl all to himself for a whole evening. Fortune for once seemed to be shining on him; tonight he felt he had come into his inheritance as the notional great-great grandson of the illustrious novelist with whom he had always felt an affinity. He had read all his namesake's books and harboured a private ambition to write a novel.

Victoria bent over him, offering him a whiskey on a small cut-glass tray. He paused before taking it to admire the black pearls.

<Lovely necklace!' he said. Raising his sandy eyebrows humorously, he added, <And a delightful background for them.'

Victoria smiled as she retreated to the drinks cabinet, to prepare a dry Martini for herself.

<What do you make of magic realism?' he suddenly enquired, hoping to impress her with some literary small talk.

<Phooey,' Victoria remarked, sitting down beside him with her drink. <I prefer a straight, honest, old-fashioned narrative and so do my readers.'

<Sounds sensible to me,' Henry Dickens said, approvingly. <My wife loves the way you write. And to tell the truth I rather enjoy it myself. I don't go for thrillers­ I've seen enough violence to last me a lifetime. It's a pleasure to settle down and read something civilised.'

<Thank you, Henry,' Victoria replied. <Have you had any dangerous experiences during the course of your work?'

<A few. A young lad put a bullet in my arm once. I still bear the scar.'

Silence.

The inspector had finished his drink. Victoria poured him out another­ larger one­ this time and generously refilled her own glass.

Dickens suddenly said: <You won't forget to tell me if you hear from Creighton. We may want to question him.'

<No, I promise.'

<I read one of his books. His plots are very complicated.'

The public don't seem to mind.'

<I gather you worked with him. What did you think of him?'

<He's Mr. Nice Guy. A family man.'

<Did he ever make a pass at you?'

<Good heavens, no. Why do you ask?'

<Just jealousy.'

Victoria shook her head, slightly taken aback. She thought perhaps she might be a little drunk.

<You're not supposed to say things like that.'

<Why shouldn't I?'

<You promised we would not discuss the case and I have already made it clear that I will not go out with you again.'

<One can always hope.'

<Henry, quite apart from anything else, it would be totally inappropriate. I happen to be the daughter of the man whose murder you are investigating?'

<I'll have to look that up in police regulations...Anyway, your dad may still be alive.'

<Do you really think it's possible!'

<Yes.' Dickens gave her a long, measured look. And after a pause, said: <But it is probably safer to assume that he is dead.' <I suppose so,' Victoria answered, sadly.

<However, let's assume that he is alive,' the inspector went on more cheerfully. <If there has been no murder it is perfectly proper for me to make a pass at you.'

<There are two objections to that remark, Inspector: one is the fact that you have a wife, and the other is that I certainly wouldn't welcome it.'

<All the characters in your novels seem to have affairs.'

<If you read my books properly you would notice that everyone who breaks the rules gets his or her comeuppance.'

<You can punish me afterwards,' the inspector said solemnly. <It will be bloody well worth it.'

Victoria replied firmly: <No, we are going to remain just good friends.'

<Because you don't like me?'

<You're a very nice man, Inspector Dickens. <Much too nice to have your career and marriage ruined by entering into a hasty, ill-considered affair.'

<My namesake, the great novelist, had an affair. If it was OK for him, then it's OK for me.'

<He was rich and famous.'

<Which describes you exactly,' Dickens said, with an air of triumph.'

Victoria replied: <Not really.' She added reflectively <Mind you, one can hardly blame poor old Charles Dickens. He had to work excessively hard to support his large family. In fact his financial circumstances forced him to undertake the strenuous round of dramatic readings which eventually killed him.'

<It was his wife who deserved sympathy. If my wife had had ten children, I'd probably be at home looking after them instead of trying to get a famous lady novelist into bed.'

<You're not likely to be very successful.'

< I'm a very persistent character.'

He poured himself out another large whiskey at the drinks cabinet, then lumbered over to the chair in which Victoria was sitting. Leaning over her until their faces were nearly touching, he whispered earnestly: <Don't get the wrong ideas. It's not the famous novelist I want to make love to. It's you, everything about you, the quintessential you­ what you write, what you do and what you are. I get a hard on just reading some of the things you write.'

Victoria shrank away from him.

<Henry, don't get carried away by all that romantic claptrap. It's just a poor substitute for reality.'

Smiling nervously and gripping the sides of her chair, she continued: <I'll let you into a secret. I'm actually quite a neurotic person. Daddy just had to have a novelist in the family. Literature was thrust down my throat continually from the age of five. My mother tried to give me a normal childhood, but she was overruled. I think the worry of it contributed to her mental decline. So I did just as Daddy wanted and became a successful novelist. But even when I was successful he wasn't satisfied. He wanted me to write deadly serious stuff which it's just not in me to write. I had disappointed him, even though I made him a lot of money. That's when he started the School For Novelists. I had let him down, so he felt he had to go on searching for literary talent elsewhere. To tell the truth, Henry, I'm convinced I'd have had a much better life if I had been the daughter of someone entirely illiterate.

Dickens said, shaking his head sorrowfully, <You poor old thing. <I'll pour you out another drink.'

He took her glass and mixed another dry Martini. Handing it to her, he said incredulously: <Do you mean to tell me that you really don't like being a successful novelist!'

<Of course I like it, Henry. But I'm like a horse bred for one special purpose. I have to keep on writing, because that's why I was brought into this world. But I often honestly wish I had come from a more normal background.'

<You amaze me!' the inspector said and drank the rest of his glass of whiskey in one gulp. It was a well matured, mellow malt whiskey and he poured himself out another one. After a short pause, he went on: <Let me tell you something, Victoria. You've got it made and you don't even appreciate it. All those lovely plots and stories rolling around in your head, all those lovely royalties floating into your bank balance. My God, I wish I had been Charlie.'

<The Prince of Wales?' Victoria enquired, deliberately misunderstanding him.

<No, Charles Dickens, my adopted ancestor.'

<Unfortunately,< Victoria replied dreamily, <I am, or perhaps I should say was, the daughter of a publisher. It's impossible to escape one's fate however much one tries.'

Dickens again replenished his glass at the drinks cabinet. Returning, he stood behind a chair facing towards Victoria, and recited with a declamatory gesture: <?There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby, a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love."'

He looked a shade embarrassed, as Victoria clapped her hands delightedly, then sat down and quickly swallowed the remains of the Scotch.

<Very good,' Victoria declared, admiringly. <You have a histrionic talent just like your adopted ancestor.'

<We learned it at school. Do you think I could give readings?'

<Yes, but you would first have to grow a straggly beard like your supposed ancestor.'

<That particular passage particularly applies to Ingrid and me,' Dickens said solemnly. <We just sort of paired off from force of habit.'

<Nothing wrong with that, Henry,' Victoria said firmly. <Faute de mieux is a ruling principle in most arrangements and especially marriages'

<I keep forgetting that you specialise in the business of romance and marriage. Still, in your novels the characters all have passionate affairs before they find their true love and settle down.'

<I didn't invent the rules, Henry. They've been laid down for thousands of years.'

Dickens said in a humble voice: <Well, I wish you'd bend them a bit for me. I'm madly in love with you, do you know that?'

Victoria got up, swaying a little as she moved towards him. She planted a token kiss on his lips and then returned back to her chair.

<That peck,< she said primly, was just a reward for your excellent Dickensian performance.'

<Would you marry me and bear me ten children?'

<I'd rather be the little actress he kept on the side.'

< In that case, you can be an actress and give me a dramatic reading.'

<Would you really like one?'

<I'd like nothing better'

Victoria walked unsteadily to her study. She held onto her desk, feeling a little dizzy, and removed her latest manuscript from a drawer. Catching a glimpse of her image in a mirror, she decided it wasn't suitable for the part she was about to play. She studied her reflection for a moment, reached behind her neck, removed the pearls and disarranged her hair with her hands. Bending down, she took off her shoes. Then, with a self-satisfied giggle, she returned to the sitting room holding the script. Standing in front of Dickens,, she stared at the manuscript commenced reading:

<Viola­ are you listening, Henry?'

<I'm all ears,'

<Viola is a beautiful gypsy girl who has been given an education by a generous benefactor. She has been working in the City­ lucky girl. She has fallen in love with a priggish young stockbroker, who has just confessed candidly that he will only marry someone who can match his fortune.

<Viola addresses him with all the scorn she can muster: ?Tom Pritchard, I didn't ask you to marry me. I just wanted you to make love to me naturally and spontaneously, so that for a few precious minutes you could forget that hard, mercenary streak which working in the City has given you.'

<Tom replied, a little superciliously: ?But I can't Viola. The trouble is I do find you attractive­ too damned attractive. If I slept with you I'd get horribly stuck on you and would have to marry you or live with you. But just at this moment I mustn't have any distraction whatsoever from making money. I have devised a programme for my life which has to have complete and absolute priority. I intend to stick to it.'

<He stood very stiffly upright, as he said this, his rather large eyes blinking rapidly.

<Viola eyed him challengingly. With tantalising slowness, she unfastened the buttons on her blouse. Suddenly opening it, exposing her young, exquisitely sculptured, ivory-white breasts, she breathed, in a husky voice: 'Tom Pritchard. I dare you to lay hands on me. Just prove to me that you don't value money more than you value life itself.'

Tom gave a shuddering sigh. <Oh, God, woman!' Drawn irresistibly forward, he took her in his arms and kissed her savagely. Slowly, they sank onto the Aubusson carpet...'

Victoria placed the manuscript on a table.

<There! That's the kind of pulp I have to write. I'm a slave of my readers. I have to write what they demand.'

Henry Dickens said mildly: <That was nice, passionate stuff. And it's a great theme you've got there­ the struggle between money and love. It always gets 'em. But I wish you'd treat me the same way as Viola treated Tom whatsisname.'

<Do you want me to expose my ivory breasts?' Victoria said reprovingly. <Inspector, I'm surprised at you!'

<You can give me a kiss first.'

He walked over towards her, raised her from the chair by her elbows and kissed her firmly on the lips.

Victoria, placing her hand at the back of his head, responded, pressing his lips onto hers.

She had made a decision.

When they parted, she led him into her bedroom, removed his jacket and undid his belt. She then went into the bathroom. Joining him shortly afterwards, she said mockingly, posing naked with her arms akimbo,: <There you are, Henry, my darling­ ivory breasts. But don't forget that hunting for ivory is strictly illegal.' Henry's expression became almost childlike. With her long legs and slender figure, she seemed to him like someone who had stepped down from a magnificent art nouveau painting. Very moved by an event he had not thought possible, he found himself weeping.

Victoria crouched over him, comforting and rocking him in his distress. <Oh, come now, Mr. Tough Police Inspector. We don't have to make love. We're both stoned out of our minds.'

<Victoria, my goddess, you are the realisation of a dream I've had all my life. That's why I'm crying.'

Victoria stroked his face gently and kissed him until desire overcame then both.

She tried to absorb him into her literary imagination, observing as he made love to her that he had a brown mole on his right shoulder, another near his navel and a bullet scar on his right forearm; the mat of hair across his chest extended upwards almost to his adam's apple, his waist was thickening and there was some varicosity on his powerful hairy calves, from his many years pounding the beat. However, unable to maintain this dispassionate assessment for long, she suddenly gave a series of stricken screams and furiously thumped his chest.

<Tonight, Henry,' she assured him just before they fell asleep, <Dickens's little actress had a lovely time.'

He replied cheerfully: <And do you know something, sweetheart, you're much nicer in bed than any of your heroines.'

Ingrid sleepily opened her eyes when he returned home at six o'clock the following morning. He complained, as he was removing his socks, that he had wasted a whole night checking on someone who had turned out to be a perfectly respectable businessman. <But that's police work for you,' he added with a regretful sigh, as he got into bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

<The press have been on at us again about the Wentworth case,' Barker said to Inspector Dickens a few days later. <What can you give them?'

<I can't say I've made much progress.'

Barker said, frowing: <It's a regular Chinese puzzle this one. Anyway, throw 'em a few scraps. It's best to cooperate. You never know when you're going to need the blighters.'

<O.K. I'll draft something and show you what I've written.'

The statement read: <There have been no further developments in the case of Algernon Wentworth, the missing publisher whose clothes were found on a Welsh beach. However, enquiries are being made which it is hoped will yield results at a later stage. It is highly likely that his body was dumped in the sea from an airplane. Records of aircraft movements in the area where the clothes were found during the period in question are being closely studied.'

That'll do, Detective Inspector Dickens thought. It was blandly uninformative­ nobody could accuse him this time, as sometimes happened, of being verbose­ and it would keep the press boys quiet for another week or two.

He was still dazed by his singular success with Victoria Worth. His happiness overrode a faint sense of guilt, which he subdued by assuring himself that it had improved his relations with Ingrid. He hadn't seen Victoria for several days, but she had telephoned his office when he was out and left a message asking him to call on her some time.

The episode gave him new confidence that he would achieve a successful outcome of the Wentworth case. He deliberately refrained from thinking about his new relationship with Victoria­ it was sufficient to bask in his present happiness. It amused him to think that this was the first time in his life his famous name had worked for him instead of against him. Reciting that introductory paragraph from Nicholas Nickleby had done the trick. By some miracle it had endeared him to her and led her into bed. He felt now like one of the masterful, all-conquering heroes in Victoria's romantic stories.

Later that morning, he studied a computer print-out from Air Traffic Control of all the flights from Denham airfield that had taken place during the time between Wentworth's departure from his hotel in New York state and the discovery of his clothing on the beach. Two private flights during that period had been piloted by Cyril Harlesden. In both cases there was a woman passenger on board. The first - with Vera Fernleigh - had taken place the day following Wentworth's departure from the hotel in New York State. A check of the timetables showed that even if Wentworth had immediately boarded a flight to England he would still have been in the air eastbound while Harlesden and Fernleigh were flying. That ruled them out. A second flight with Victoria on board had taken place a month later. In this case, the airline time-tables showed that it was possible that he could have been murdered shortly after his arrival in the United Kingdom and his body thrown out of the light aircraft flown by Harlesden. It seemed improbable, however, that if Wentworth had decided to return to England he would have failed to notify his daughter or the staff of his publishing house of his impending arrival. The painful thought then struck Dickens he might have to face up to the possibility that Victoria had seduced him with the object of deflecting his enquiry away from herself. He must cross-examine her. If it confirmed his worst suspicions, he would have ask to be taken off the case. He suddenly found himself in a cold sweat of fear.

He decided on his way to High Holborn it would be wise to get the interviews with Vera Fernleigh and Captain Cyril Harlesden over first. Although she wasn't implicated, he t still wished to interview her, in order to get her to talk about some of the other tutors.

By now the staff at Wentworth Press were well used to his frequent visits. He informed Anabelle Kaye on his arrival of his wish to talk to several more members of the staff. She told him that the writing school's office was presently available, adding that Victoria would be using it later on.

Awaiting Vera Fernleigh, when he had summoned her by telephone, Dickens sat at the wooden desk, brooding uneasily. If in Victoria was guilty of complicity in the murder of her father, he would have to take the agonising decision of ordering her arrest. On the other hand, he could warn her that she was under suspicion and allow her to escape. Did he love her sufficiently to jeopardise his marriage and his career? He imagined a judge remarking on the folly that had overtaken a senior police officer with a hitherto unblemished record. The suspicion grew steadily in his mind that she had slept with him as a means of escaping prosecution. He tried desperately to think that there might be other reasons. But he was under no illusion­ he was a very ordinary middle-aged policeman approaching retirement age, not the kind a famous novelist might fall for. He realised that he had behaved extremely rashly.

A woman of Wagnerian proportions with abundant honey-coloured hair and an imposing bosom entered the office and announced herself as Vera Fernleigh.

He glanced at the notes he had taken when interviewing Peter Laker. <Ms. Fernleigh­ do sit down. I'm just trying to clear up one or two points. I believe you flew with Captain Harlesden in a light airplane.'

Vera Fernleigh blushed.

<Nothing illegal about that I trust?'

He smiled encouragingly.

<No, of course not. Did you enjoy it?'

<I was terrified, if you want to know. But it was an interesting experience.'

<Did you discuss your boss, Mr. Wentworth, at all when you were with Captain Harlesden?'

<I honestly don't remember.'

<When did you find out that he was missing?'

<I can't remember exactly. The story had filtered down from Wentworth Press upstairs.'

<Were you satisfied with the salary Mr. Wentworth paid you?'

<Who is ever satisfied with one's salary! But I manage perfectly well on it.'

<I believe you were an opera singer.'

Vera's eyes opened wide in surprise.

<How did you know that?'

<One of the tutors said he had heard you burst into song and that you have a beautiful voice.'

<I don't see that it is relevant to your enquiry.'

<It isn't in the least, Ms. Fernleigh. It so happened that I was at the opera the other day. Don Giovanni. I have an enormous respect for divas. It's a pity you gave it up. You could have been rich and famous.'

<It is a very hard life both physically and emotionally. Marking law papers is much more peaceful.'

<Yes, I suppose so.' Dickens gave a sympathetic sigh. He went on: <I suppose Captain Harlesden also finds his present mode of life a good deal less exciting than his former profession of airline pilot.'

Vera Fernleigh looked surprised.

<I'm sure he does. But what has that got to do with anything?'

<Just generalising. You obviously knew him well. Did he­ did anybody on the staff­ harbour animosity towards Wentworth?'

<There were what you might call the normal gripes. Not enough to cause anyone to murder him, if that's what you mean.'

Dickens glanced down at his notes again.

<I believe Barani and Haworth were often at odds.'

<What of it?'

<Did they to your knowledge ever get into an argument with Wentworth?'

Vera Fernleigh took a deep breath.

In a trembling voice, she said: <Are you asking me to throw suspicion on my colleagues? That's damnably unfair. As far as I am aware everybody who works in the tutors' department is entirely innocent. I refuse to say anything more.'

Dickens said apologetically: <I'm sorry if I seem harsh. But I need to build up a general picture of what was going on while your boss was still here. Just one last word. You knew Peter Laker, I believe.'

<Yes?<

<Was it generally known that he had written a story about a body being dumped from an airplane?'

Vera Fernleigh frowned, producing lines on her fine white brow. <I had heard something about it. That's as far as I'm prepared to go.'

Dickens said ruminatively: <That's all, then, Ms. Fernleigh. One of these days perhaps I'll hear you sing at Covent Garden. Would you please ask Captain Harlesden to come in.'

At the door, Vera Fernleigh drew herself up to her full height, her plump shoulders quivered with indignation, as she turned and directed at him an expression of unspeakable contempt.

A few minutes later Harlesden came in, his jaw stuck out belligerently. It was obvious that Vera Fernleigh had spoken to him. Dickens asked disarmingly: <Any progress with your novel?'

Harlesden scowled: <What relevance does that have?'

<None. But forward to reading it one day.'

<I do not intend to publish it'

<I am sorry to hear that. I'm sure you could write some very interesting stories about Aviation. I just have one question to ask you, Captain. I must stress that I am in a position to check whether you are answering correctly. Did Mr. Wentworth know that you had a brief affair with his daughter?'

Harlesden replied angrily: <What the hell has that got to do with you!'

Dicken shrugged.

<You needn't answer, if you don't wish to. In the meantime, I can tell you that we have checked with Air Traffic Control concerning the flight you made with Victoria.'

<Harlesden said scornfully <So what?'

<It's perfectly possible that having killed Wentworth during an argument, you then disposed of his body in the Irish sea.'

<Have you asked Victoria?' Harlesden enquired with a sneer.

Dickens ignored his question and said imperturbably. <That is all I have to say for the moment, Captain Harlesden.'

Harlesden strode towards the door with military precision. On reaching it, he turned round and said <You're very ignorant about aviation, Inspector. If you had taken the trouble to check, you would have noted that I didn't carry enough fuel from Denham airfield to fly to the coast and back.'

Dickens treated Harlesden's last remark with a certain scepticism. Even if that were true, it would still have been possible for him to have refuelled en route at another airfield. He began to worry again about Victoria. If she went on trial, defence counsel would certainly exploit the fact that he had slept with her. He was wondering how he would set about ascertaining whether Harlesden's aircraft had in fact made a refuelling stop when Victoria came in, carrying a bulky folder. She smiled at him, placed the folder on the desk and after glancing at the glass door, to ensure no one could see them from the corridor, came over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

Subduing a powerful impulse to embrace her, he said: <Sit down, Victoria. I've just been talking to Captain Harlesden about a flight you made with him from Denham.'

Victoria shrugged and said: <Don't take any notice of that man. He is quite mad. Whatever there was between us­ and it wasn't very much, believe me­ has been over for months.'

<That's not really what I am worried about, Victoria,' Dickens said with a pained expression. <In the course of my duties I have had to do many unpleasant things. But this is the worst I've ever had to do. ' He looked at her sternly for a moment and then said: <Did Harlesden throw your father's body into the sea from an airplane when you flew with him?'

Victoria gave a light laugh. She remarked: <You really don't know much about me, do you.'

She started to open the folder she was carrying. Some of the papers inside slid onto the floor. She picked them up one by one, replaced them on the desk and then sat bolt upright on the chair opposite him. With a defiant expression, she said in a low, controlled voice: <The answer to your question, Inspector, is No.' She added in a low whisper: <Just because I mentioned to you in private that my father and I had differences gives you no right to suppose that I killed him and contrived to get rid of his body! It's hateful of you to arrive at such a wicked conclusion.'

Dickens, his face puckering up with embarrassment, said: <For God's sake, Victoria. This has nothing to do with the other night­ which, incidentally, was the nicest thing that has ever happened to me. I think ­I know damn well­ you didn't kill your dad, but since somebody obviously cast your father's body into the sea and you flew with Harlesden it was my duty to ask that particular question.'

Victoria's expression softened a little. She fingered the top paper on the desk. On it Dickens could read some words which had been underlined: <Flawed Characters<. He was badly flawed himself, he thought bitterly, having slept with a young woman who might now be a prime suspect in the very crime he was investigating.

<Yes, Henry,' Victoria said, <I can see your dilemma. But you know jolly well that I am not a murderess.'

<I didn't say you were. I had to ask if you and Harlesden had disposed of your father's body. He might, for example, have been killed by Harlesden accidentally during an argument about you. I have to explore every possible combination of possibilities. Surely you can appreciate that.'

With a wan smile, Victoria said: <That's all right, Henry. But if you think that I slept with you to avoid coming under suspicion you have formed a grievously wrong impression of me.'

<I didn't think anything of the sort,' Dickens protested.<

<Then why did you think I slept with you?' Victoria asked with wide-eyed innocence.

<Dare I say it's because you love me a little?'

<That might be going a little too far,' Victoria said teasingly. <Let's just say you were at the right place at the right time, when I was feeling a little sorry for myself.' 'Is that all it meant to you?' Dickens asked in a disappointed tone.

Victoria studied him reflectively for a moment, her head on one side.

<Wouldn't it be better for all concerned if I said yes to that question? I don't want to wreck your marriage. And I certainly don't want anyone to think that I had tried to influence you improperly in the course of your duties.' She added in a whisper: <Let's pretend that Saturday night never happened. You will then be able to go on investigating my father's disappearance impartially and without any more worry concerning me.'

Dickens said with slow emphasis: <As a matter of fact I don't give a damn what anybody thinks. I still love you. And if that came out during the course of the investigation it wouldn't worry me. When can I see you again?'

Victoria cast a glance at the glass partition in the door and said, shaking her head: <Not for a week or so. I've been invited down to stay with Jonathan Creighton in the Dordogne. I'll see you when I come back, but it would be sensible for us in the circumstances not to be seen together. Now do you have any more questions to ask me?'

Dickens pursed his lips and then whispered: <Only this: do I mean anything to you?'

Victoria replied with an enigmatic smile: <You're quite a guy, Henry. I like and admire you. But I can't make any promises about seeing you again, other, that is, than when you feel obliged to interview me about my father.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Peter Laker could not help feeling resentful towards the owners of the recently-opened shop just along the road. The increased competition was making heavy inroads into his profits. He had fondly imagined that the business he had inherited would provide him with an income for life. But if sales continued to decline at the present rate it was certain that he would be forced to close down. Drastic action was necessary. Apart from staying open until midnight every night, there was little he could do to increase the shop's taking. In desperation he started to work on his novel in the evenings, but became agonisingly aware that he was not maintaining the standard of the opening chapters he had shown Victoria.

He now bitterly regretted rejecting Elizabeth's offer to live with him again. She constantly invaded his dreams, filling his mind with images of their former life together. The only information he was able to obtain regarding here whereabouts suggested that she had gone to live up north. The theatrical agent they had once shared had had no contact with her for some time.

Victoria Worth he learned was on holiday in France. He badly needed her help and encouragement. In his worried frame of mind, he began to make stupid mistakes. A customer to whom he handed the wrong newspaper commented acidly: <If you can't read the headline, mate, you shouldn't be in business.'

The customer was right. He wasn't concentrating. Perhaps he hadn't really made up his mind whether he was an actor, a correspondence school teacher, a shopkeeper or a thriller writer.

He humbly apologised.

After closing the shop that evening, he telephoned Dwindle and asked if he could come along to see him.

<Is there something wrong?' Dwindle enquired.

<Just about everything. But I suppose you'll tell me it's all in the mind.'

<Come along, anyway, and pour out your troubles.'

It felt strange entering the building in which he and Elizabeth had once lived. He climbed the wide stairs and rang the bell on the front door of Dwindle's flat. An entry-video had been installed since his last visit. Dwindle's voice called: <Come in, stranger.'

The front door led into a spacious living room containing starkly functional furniture. The dining table, a circle of smoked glass, was suspended on a slender central rod. The chairs around it were S-shaped made from some golden metal. The walls were covered by book-laden white shelves, which extended to form a desk on which sat a personal computer covered by a dust sheet Dwindle was sprawled in a wide, coral leather armchair in front of a coal fire that emitted smoke into a bronze metal cone leading up to a flue made of the same material. He put down his book and pointed towards a chair.

<Where's Maureen?' Peter enquired.

Dwindle replied, with a straight face: <She's in the bedroom, practising bodice-ripping for her book.'

<How is it going?' Peter enquired, alert with professional interest.

<She has written the same scene it must be one-hundred and fifty times. . Bosoms come tumbling, falling, flopping, popping out, legs thrash, wave, flail. The heroine's legs were performing semaphore, would you believe, in one draft! Her difficulty in writing about sex has, I reckon, put back the date of publication by several years.'

Dwindle giggled.

<Maureen is quite capable of writing an intelligent and exciting historical novel without being pornographic.'

<Yes, but I insist on her pleasing her main reader­ a dirty-minded, beer-swilling little man who wants to be titillated. I hope it'll prove to be a best-seller so she can take me on a world cruise. What can I do for you, besides offering you a lager?'

Holding the glass of lager a few minutes later, Peter said: <I have two problems: You remember Elizabeth came to my flat for dinner­ now I've lost her again. She's gone off somewhere without leaving an address. The other thing is I'm trying to finish the novel I started writing and it's not progressing very well.'

<Why bother?'

Peter told him all about his business problems.

<Can't you cut back on expenses?'

He explained patiently to Dwindle that he was facing huge increases of both rent and business rates. That modern oracle, the spreadsheet on his computer, had whispered to him the dire message that only increased turnover or higher profit margins could save him. The profit margins were fixed. His turnover was steadily decreasing. He mentioned with some bitterness the prodigiously hard-working family in the newsagents just down the road.

Dwindle thought for a moment. Then he said: <You have two alternatives. You can sell the business while it's still viable, or you can buy them out.'

<Phew!' Peter exclaimed, in surprise. <You should have been a businessman, Dwindle. That sounds good advice. Mind you, they might not be willing to sell, and in any case it's doubtful if the bank will lend me the money.'

<In that case you'll have to sell out while the going's good. As for your novel, I would advise you that thrillers are a drug on the market at the moment. I know Victoria gave you her stamp of approval, but there's no firm guarantee that she'll ever publish it. And if she doesn't, you'll have to start doing the rounds of other publishers, which probably means keeping the Post Office in business.'

<I guess you're right, George,' Peter said sadly. <But Victoria really did seem keen on it, and she's supposed to be an exceptionally good judge.'

Dwindle took a deep swig of his lager and then said with heavy emphasis: <Perhaps she praised it to divert attention from her own guilt. She might have copied the method in your book for disposing of her father's body in collusion with Harlesden.'

<Are you seriously suggesting that Victoria was an accessory to her father's murder!'

<She did fly with Harlesden.'

<That's a load of speculative rubbish, George, and you know it. Anyway, just to get matters straight, she recently offered me the chance to do some spare-time marking for The School For Novelists. She would hardly do that if she hadn't formed a reasonably high opinion of my ability.'

Dwindle smiled and said: <You can't rule anything out in a murder investigation. As for marking papers, she knows you're proficient in marking English papers and doesn't want the expense of taking on a full-time tutor. It certainly doesn't imply that you can earn a living as a novelist. G.B.Shaw used to say: ?Those who can do, those who can't teach."'

Feeling disgruntled, Peter sat brooding silently. He drew away from the fire, which was throwing out too much heat.

Dwindle got down from his chair and disappeared, returning shortly with some more cans of lager. Climbing back into his armchair, he said: <Maureen sends her apologies. The muse has just told her how to describe a raunchy love scene. Back to Victoria. I am now going to turn devil's advocate and explain why she could not have done the dirty deed.'

<Go on,' Peter said gloomily. He remembered now how he had often been irritated by Dwindle's unpredictable thought processes.

Dwindle said solemnly: <It was your story which started this saga of Algernon Wentworth's disappearance, so you must take the blame for what has happened. Both Vera Fernleigh and Victoria flew with Harlesden. But I believe we can eliminate Vera simply on the grounds of her sheer size. The notion that she and Harlesden would be capable of going through the performance of stowing a body in a light airplane is simply ridiculous. But it would be perfectly possible in purely physical terms to imagine Victoria sharing the limited space in the aircraft with a corpse and then shoving dear old dad overboard. However, she wouldn't have either the strength or the stomach for it, and I truly believe it would go utterly against the grain of her nature. What we have to consider, though,' Dwindle said, dramatically lowering his voice, <is the real possibility that she paid someone else to do the dirty work for her.'

<Thanks very much,' Peter replied sarcastically, <for putting the responsibility for what happened on my shoulders. There would be no detective stories, if it was seriously thought that they encouraged people to emulate the villains. I agree with you that it is highly unlikely that either Vera or Victoria could have done it. However, since it does seem almost certain that Algy Wentworth was dumped in the Irish Sea, the question remains: whose the guilty party?'

Dwindle sank back deeply into his armchair. A sudden spurt of flames in the grate reddened his face. After thoughtfully sipping his lager, he looked up and said: <Inspector Dickens keeps finding excuses to come into the tutors' room. It's obvious he suspects one of us.'

<Nonsense!' Peter said curtly.

<I've spent my whole working life there and I know that it attracts mavericks like me. We are much more likely to commit murder than the regular run of mankind.' <Just because people prefer distant teaching to teaching in classrooms doesn't mean that they're murderers.'

<Outcasts have a tendency to become outlaws. Take me, for example...'

<You are a perfectly upright citizen, George, and you know it!'

<Let me tell you that during my forty-eight years on this planet I have systematically, in my imagination, murdered everyone taller than me. And with ample justification. Everybody these days claims to be against racism. But where, oh where, do you find someone who is not a size-ist?'

<What about me, George?' Peter enquired. Dwindle laughed. <You just like the novelty of having a dwarf philosopher as confidant and mentor.'

Peter grimaced and said: <No, George. It's a pleasure to know someone who manages to be so cheerful, in spite of being disadvantaged. It gives me encouragement to try and overcome my own trivial problems. Which is precisely why I came to see you tonight.'

<I'm not cheerful. My spirits expand occasionally under the influence of a few pints of beer, which allows me to feel a human being for a short while. Now let's get back to the main issue. Where were we? Ah, yes, we've eliminated Vera Fernleigh and Victoria Worth. What we are looking for is someone with a powerful motive for killing Wentworth.' <A financial motive, perhaps?' Peter ventured..

<Not necessarily. Look for someone with a twisted mind, who read your story and said: that sounds like a perfect fool-proof method of getting rid of someone I don't like.'

Peter stared into the glowing coals. Then he said gently: <I didn't come here to solve a murder case. That's up to the police. I came to ask your advice.' <I gave you advice about Elizabeth last time I saw you. You should have taken it. As for your difficulty in completing your novel­ '

He was interrupted by the appearance of Maureen Hamble. She was eighteen inches taller than her husband, a tubby, pretty woman with a sweet, gentle expression. Peter wondered why she had married such a little man and then realised that he was betraying precisely the prejudice of which Dwindle had just been complaining. Dwindle called out to her: <Darling, just the person Peter wants to see. He's suffering from writer's block.'

Peter rose from his chair to greet her.

<Sit down,' she ordered.

He said: <I understand from George that you are having difficulty with the sex scenes in your book.'

Maureen laughed and drew up a chair.

<Don't believe anything George tells you. A kiss is about all anyone gets in my book. But I find the best, and indeed the only way, to fight writer's block is to just keep writing, even if one is writing garbage. Write enough of it and some of it turns into gold. I gather you've seen Elizabeth recently.'

Peter said dolefully: <Yes, but I've lost track of her again.'

<Oh, dear.'

She proceeded to advise in a motherly way how to repair his shattered romance. She ended by saying :You've both had your ups and downs. Stick together like George and me you'll eventually achieve success and happiness.'

Dwindle, looking embarrassed, winked hugely at Peter, who left shortly afterwards.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Victoria had returned from France the previous day and was sitting in the chief executive's office of Wentworth Press studying a rather puzzling book cover. It pictured a white rhino floating upside down on some fluffy clouds, through which the title of the book­ Public Perceptions­ came through in rainbow colouring. She complained to Annabel that the picture seemed to have little relevance to the contents. Annabel Kaye took the cover and examined it carefully, turning it round in her rather large hands, as Victoria observed her intently.

Annabel Kaye said <Hmm.'

<It doesn't seem to make much sense.'

<I happen to know that it does.' Annabel remarked, complacently.

<Go on. Enlighten me,' Victoria murmured with an encouraging smile.

<The idea is that the potential purchaser examining the cover will be tempted to turn the book upside down, in order to recognise the animal. Having been encouraged to touch the book, he will open it out of curiosity and discover the goodies inside. It's a practical example of how perceptions can be manipulated, which is the theme of the book. This example is referred to in the text, incidentally.'

<But why a rhino? Why not a bicycle or a refrigerator?'

<Wildlife is hugely popular these days.'

<Umm, yes. True. Should we accept it?'

<I think so. I'll send a copy to the author.'

<With an explanation?'

<It was the author's own idea.'

Victoria was examining another book, when Inspector Dickens telephoned. He said: <Ms. Wentworth, I thought I should let you know that I have an appointment to see your mother this afternoon.'

<But why!< Victoria exclaimed, in dismay. <I don't want her to know what has happened.'

<Doesn't she ever enquire about your father?'

<We told her he had extended his stay in America. She forgets everything very quickly.'

<Don't worry, I won't say anything that will disturb that notion. She won't even know that I'm from the police.'

<How can interviewing my mother possibly advance your enquiry.'

<I do assure you that background information in this sort of case can be extremely valuable. Would it put your mind at rest, if I had a chat with you before visiting her? I could meet you for lunch at the same place as we met last time?'

Victoria replied, reluctantly: <Very well, Inspector. Say one-thirty?'

Dickens emitted a sigh of satisfaction.

Victoria returned to her work, feeling as though she had been outwitted once again. She assured herself that the night she had spent with Dickens had told her all she needed to know for the purposes of her novel. Their liaison had gone just as far as she wanted it to go. She felt sorry for him. But felt slightly piqued, because he seemed to have got the better of her by playing on her sympathies and getting her drunk. In her novel she would make the point that where cunning and deviousness were concerned, policemen could run rings around most people. But she would get rid of him soon. The proposed visit to her mother would give her precisely the excuse she needed to put an end to the relationship.

Dickens, when he saw her enter the foyer of the restaurant, ambled across and placing his large hands on her slim shoulders, announced in an embarrassingly loud voice: <I missed you, Victoria­ I was counting the days until you got back.'

<Shush!' She replied, reprovingly. <We don't want the whole world to know.' <I don't care, my darling.'

He's mad, Victoria thought with alarm. But as he steered her towards the table he had booked, it occurred to her that the gauche manner in which he was behaving might provide her with the nub of a much better novel than the one she was planning to write. <Plumb the depths of human behaviour' her father had enjoined her and he had been bitterly disappointed when she had failed to do so. Now it struck her that she was being presented with a glimpse of the kind of ill-fated passion that could make her next book deeper and more powerful than the ones she had written so far. Perhaps in Henry Dickens she could describe a hero of truly comic and tragic proportions­ the kind she had found difficult to realise in her previous novels.

<Did you miss me?' Dickens asked solemnly, as he unwound his table napkin.

Perhaps a little,' Victoria said cautiously. <But I was kept very busy trying to entertain Creighton's kids, helping him with his book and trying to plan the outline of my own book.'

<What is it about?'

<I would rather not discuss it at the moment. Are there any new developments regarding my father?'

Dickens looked glum.

<No. I'm sorry I had to quiz you so fiercely.' He leaned forward across the table and whispered conspiratorially: <But now I have eliminated you from the enquiry we can go forward.'

<What do you mean?' Victoria looked mystified.

He whispered: <I have some leave coming­ I thought we might get away for a couple of days together. There are some terrific away-breaks available up in the Lake District.'

<Henry, I'm far too busy to contemplate anything like that.'

<But I really want to get to know you. he real you. I'm not the kind for one-night stands,< he replied earnestly.

<Nor am I.' Victoria said gravely. <And that is why I have decided not to contribute to the break-up your marriage. I truly like you, Henry. But I must tell the truth: there are certain things about you that jar on me. Why, for example, are you so insistent on seeing my mother, a poor old demented lady who couldn't possibly say anything that would advance your investigation.'

The waiter placed starters in front of them.

Dickens looked downcast. When the waiter had gone, he whispered: <When you find you can't make any progress in a case, you have to cast your net a little wider.'

<What information can my mother possibly have. She has been in the Evecot Nursing Home for the past ten years.'

<Your father's disappearance may have some relation to events that happened more than ten years ago.'

<It's doubtful if she would be capable of remembering them.'

<That's a chance I have to take.'

<It will only upset her peace of mind. I can see no justification for it whatsoever.'

<There is just the chance that it might reveal something of importance.'

<Inspector Dickens,' Victoria said heatedly, <you are supposed to serve the public not persecute old ladies.'

Looking extremely miserable, Dickens went on: <I promise faithfully that I will not cause your mother the least distress. In fact I intend to represent myself as a health inspector examining the facilities of the nursing home. We shall just indulge in a little harmless chat.' <You're bound to discuss my father.'

<You have no need to worry. We'll talk about the weather perhaps. ' Then with his grey eyes roving over her features, he continued, 'I might discuss her courtship. I find women of all ages like to talk about such things...'

He caught the eye of the wine waiter.

By the time Victoria had enjoyed a sumptuous meal and large quantities of Chateau de Fleurie, her resistance to Dicken's proposal had weakened. She was amused and touched when he told her that her writing had touched a deep chord in his being. He told her was confident that eventually she would win all the most prestigious literary prizes. His bulging eyes fixed hypnotically on her, he whispered that it must be almost unprecedented for someone possessing such exceptional talent to be blessed also with such irresistible physical allure.

Victoria mildly rebuked him and drank yet more wine. Marvelling at the cunning spell he was trying to weave over her, she forgot her original intention to break off their relationship.

He urged her again to consider going with him on a week-end break. She replied that it wouldn't be wise while he was still involved in the case.

<Very well,' he replied resignedly <we'll have another night out at the opera soon.' <Perhaps.'

<I'll be in touch as soon as I have interviewed your mother.'

<I'm sure you will,' she replied with a wryly amused smile.

<I'll handle it with the utmost delicacy,' he assured her, as he opened the door of the taxi that was taking her back to High Holborn.

She returned to the office, increasingly conscious that she had again been outmanoeuvred and was alarmed at not having realised that Dickens's bluff exterior hid an astute intelligence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Wentworth had chosen for his ailing wife a nursing home situated near Horsham in Sussex, set in fifteen acres of wooded grounds, which had once been the home of a famous publishing family. Perhaps it was this association which had influenced Algernon Wentworth in his choice. There were twenty elderly long-term residents. Barker had at first opposed Dickens's suggestion that he should masquerade as a health inspector. It had proved difficult to convince him that the visit might prove worthwhile. <That old lady!' he scoffed­ <won't even know what time of day it is.'

Dickens had replied: <She obviously knows more about Wentworth than anybody else. It's a long shot but it's just possible that she'll remember someone who had a grudge against him.'

<If she's been in the nursing home for ten years, she won't have a clue what's been going on. It's recent information that we need.'

<I might have got some really useful recent information in France or America...' <Wentworth isn't important enough to waste police funds on those kind of junkets.'

<A trip to Sussex won't break the bank.' Barker eventually agreed to pay the mileage allowance, allowing him to drive down in his own car. Dickens could see some point in Barker's argument. He was sure, however, that something hidden in Wentworth's past would provide a clue to his murder, suicide or disappearance­ whichever was the appropriate description. He had drawn a total blank with all other lines of enquiry.

He telephoned and obtained the permission of the matron to question Mrs. Wentworth, after explaining that he would represent himself as an official from the Department of Health and Social Security.

As he drove he reviewed his list of suspects. Harlesden still stood out sharply in his mind. The man was embittered­ perhaps even unhinged­ by his horrific experience. He seemed capable of killing. And yet nothing could persuade him that Victoria could have been an accomplice. Was he allowing his personal feelings to intrude? The answer, of course, was yes. But thankfully, the question of conflict between love and duty didn't arise, because on a recent visit the owners of the Denham flying club from which the aircraft had been hired had assured him that it would have been next to impossible for anyone to transport a large bundle into one of their aircraft without being seen. The possibility that the aircraft had been refuelled en route to the Welsh coast had also been excluded. Of course, Dickens pondered, the body could have been dumped in the sea from a boat. But this would have required a good deal of planning and several days absence from London on the part of one of the tutors. One member of the staff who could have done this, and whom he had not as yet eliminated, was Jonathan Creighton. He went over the other suspects:

Dwindle was a frightened little misanthrope and appeared to have had no motive to kill his boss.

Barani, the former doctor, who had broken his Hippocratic oath, was also an embittered man.

Haworth had served a term in jail for fraudulent conversion. But fraudsters did not make good murderers as a rule.

Peter Laker didn't seem to have any motive for harming Wentworth. But his story about the disposal of a body might well be a cover for a crime he had committed himself.

Jonathan Creighton, the part-time member of the staff who possessed exceptional qualifications for planning a murder, was in France and perhaps had fled there to escape questioning.

There was Victoria, of course... But it could not possibly be Victoria...

The fact was, he thought gloomily, he was at a dead end and this visit to the nursing home represented a last attempt to obtain some useful information before having to make an abject confession of failure.

He cheered up as he left the motorway and travelled through a series of minor roads. A light powdering of snow had softened the landscape and this soothed his sense of frustration. But he experienced a momentary twinge of conscience when he remembered how much money he had expended on Victoria the previous day. Ingrid always refused to dine out, saying she wanted to accumulate money so there would be no need to economise after they retired. Her ambition was to build up a big retirement nest-egg. Retirement, in his view, was something suffocatingly close to death. He wanted to live to the fullest extent while he was still vigorous. That marvellous experience the other night with Victoria proved that he was still a force to be reckoned with. In any case promotion at his age was still a possibility. It was a pity that Victoria had refused to come away on a week-end trip with him. But he would launch an all-out campaign to capture her affections. Bad luck on Ingrid -- he had never dreamed that he would be unfaithful to her. But it had been Ingrid's own fault­ she was too interested in piling up money for a hypothetical future, losing interest in everything else, including making love.

He came to a road-sign pointing to a narrow road leading up a wooded slope towards Evecot Mansion and experienced a slight skid as he turned off the major road a little too sharply. A warning he told himself. His eye then caught sight of a red robin hopping on a branch of a fir tree. That seemed a sign of good luck.

Ahead, through an avenue of leafless beech trees, there appeared a large dignified manor-type house with several tall chimneys, its white snow-covered roof standing out against green hills.

He parked his car by a low brick wall next to a parking sign and marched up a yellow flagstone path on which there were slippery patches of marbled ice. He rang a bell by the side of the studded oak front door.

A young girl in a turquoise uniform opened the door. He announced himself and she directed him to a small room to the left of the front door. Mrs. Goodrun, the matron to whom he had spoken on the telephone, shortly entered the room. She was a plump woman of fifty or so with braided chestnut hair, her round face fixed into an all-purpose smile.

<Inspector Dickens?'

<Yes, Ma'am.'

<You've come to see Mrs. Adelaide Wentworth. It would upset her terribly, if she knew that her husband is dead. They were very devoted to each other. I suppose she'll have to know some time. Such a nice gentleman, Mr. Wentworth. Very generous and he treated his wife with every care and consideration. His instructions were always never to let her go short of anything.'

<And what does she usually require?' Dickens enquired.

Mrs. Wentworth has very modest tastes. Her main requirement is books. Reading is her hobby. We do our best to ensure that her needs are satisfied.'

<I understood that she is suffering from loss of memory.'

<Yes, poor woman. She lives in a world of the past­ she's terribly fond of historical romances and has very little idea of what's going on at the present time. That's typical of the way the illness progresses.'

<Does she watch television?'

<Occasionally, but she doesn't really appreciate it.'

<Neither do I for that matter,' Dickens said with a smile. <I won't stay long. Introduce me as Mr. Dickens.'

<Yes, by all means. Come this way.'

Just before the matron knocked on the door to signal their entrance, she whispered: <There is a call bell next to the mantelpiece. Press it when you want to leave.'

The large sitting-room-cum-bedroom was fitted with a densely-piled flowered carpet. It contained a single bed, a chintz-covered settee and two armchairs. Mrs. Wentworth was sitting in one of them with her back towards him, looking out of the window. As she turned round and rose from her chair, h could see the resemblance to Victoria. Mrs. Wentworth's eyes were watery and sunken. She seemed frail as she left her chair and walked slowly towards him, looking slightly dazed.

The matron announced <This is Mr. Dickens, dear. He's from the Department of Health and Social Security. He just wants to make sure we're doing our job properly.' She withdrew.

<Not Charles Dickens,' Mrs Wentworth remarked.

<No, Ma'am,' Dickens replied, <Henry'.

<Then you must be his son. Do you write novels as well?'

Dickens, his heart sinking, wondered if she was was apparently under the impression that she was living in the nineteenth -century. Then he noticed that she was smiling.

She went on: <I still read his books occasionally. There's so much trash written these days. Modern authors use such foul language and insist on breaking all the accepted rules.'

Immensely relieved to find that Adelaide Wentworth appeared to be fully lucid after all, Dickens said: <I thoroughly agree. But your daughter is an exception­ she doesn't go in for all the new-fangled stuff.'

<Victoria?'

<Yes, your daughter Victoria.'

<Why are you here, Mr. Dickens?' She suddenly said suspiciously. Nobody from the Department of Health and Security has visited me before.'

<It's a new system,' Dickens explained. We are inspecting all private nursing homes to make sure that they comply with our requirements.'

<What requirements?'

<It would take hours to enumerate them. Our main concern is that you should be happy here.'

< I'm not ill-treated, if that's what you mean. Anyway, what is happiness. Some find it in religion. Some find it in good works, or in attending to their families. I find it in poetry, literature and music. I have a hi fi­ she pointed to a unit with loudspeakers­ which my husband bought me last year. Would you care to listen to it. It has a lovely tone?'

<No, thank you. I really haven't the time. How is your husband by the way?'

Mrs. Wentworth dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. <He went to America and never came back.'

<Perhaps he'll return when he has finished whatever he was doing over there.'

<I don't think so. I think he's found a woman there and has decided to stay.'

<Why do you say that?'

<I just suspect as much.'

<I'm sure he loves you.'

<He did when we were first married. But people change. We never really got on. Do you know why?'

<You may tell me, if you wish,' Dickens said cautiously. <But I'm not here to pry into your private life.'

<There's no privacy in a nursing home, Mr. Dickens,' Mrs. Wentworth gave a despairing kind of laugh. <Everything is known about you from the food you eat to your bowel movements. I don't mind telling you why I didn't get on with my husband. He is a lunatic.'

<Perhaps that's going a little too far,' Dickens said gently. <He is a very successful publisher.'

<But he lives in a world of fiction himself. He tried to write fiction but didn't succeed­ apart from one trite little novel which the critics lambasted. From then on he was determined to become the next best thing­ the discoverer and creator of literary genius. He even tried unsuccessfully to bully me into writing a novel just because I have a second-class degree in English Lit. from Manchester university. To please him when we were first married I wrote the outline of a novel about a publisher. He recognised himself immediately and became very angry. However, he did include it in a book of short stories. He's not a man who will waste anything. What I could never forgive him for­' She paused for a moment and then said: <It doesn't really matter what I was going to say­ I'm only telling you this because you're Charles Dickens.'

<Henry,' Dickens corrected her gravely.

<On, yes. I forgot. Henry.'

<Please tell me what you could not forgive him for.'

<Why should it matter to you?'

<Anything that bothers a resident of a nursing home licensed by the Department is of importance to me.'

<I'm so forgetful. I'm scarcely living now. Don't ever let yourself be put into a nursing home, Mr. Dickens. You become a nobody -- just something you dose with medicine. The forgetful are soon forgotten. Isn't that a nice aphorism. As I was saying, I shall never forgive my husband for causing me to become estranged from my daughter. I have a daughter, Victoria, you know.'

<Does she visit you?'

<Not very often.'

<How did your husband create this rift between you and your daughter?'

<He forced her to become like himself. She was a clever girl­ she could have been anything she wanted to be­ a barrister, an actress, a businesswoman, a mother who would perhaps have given me grandchildren. But Algernon insisted that she had sufficient literary talent to become a George Elliot or an Emily Bronte. And he bullied her until she broke down and ran away from home. Eventually, there was a reconciliation­ she came back to the house with a manuscript. Something she had written while she was away. I saw it lying outside his bedroom door. Of course I knew that if he published it she would be hag-ridden ever afterwards­ always burdened by some new piece of fiction which she would have to have running through her mind. It would separate her from the real world, in which people live ordinary lives, do ordinary jobs, reproduce and live and die. So I threw away the manuscript, and when they asked me where it was I said I had forgotten. Algy said that if I was as forgetful as that I must be out of my mind and had me put in this nursing home. In trying to save my daughter's sanity I paid for it with my own.'

She then added: <Would you like an orange, Charles.'

<Henry,' he corrected her again.

<Henry­ yes I forgot. You're his son.'

There was a basket of fruit on a table next to the settee. Mrs. Wentworth took a plum, munched it contentedly for a several minutes, then delicately enfolded the stone in a paper handkerchief and threw it into a wastepaper basket.

<I have heard of your daughter,' Dickens ventured. <She is Victoria Worth, the novelist isn't she.'

<That's right,' Adelaide Wentworth replied brightly. <And as I frequently reminded my husband nothing she has written is worth very much. Slushy romances with a great deal of explicit sex­ that's her speciality. My husband has made a lot of money publishing her, which is how he is able to afford to keep me in idle luxury here.'

<It's a sad story,' Dickens commented.

<Not as sad as Miss Favisham's story. Do you remember your story?'

<Not mine. Charles Dickens.'

Mrs. Wentworth came closer to Dickens, and looking around the room fearfully, whispered: <Dreaming the right dreams­ that's the secret of happiness. But putting them down on paper dissolves them and leaves you empty. Dickens gave all his stories away and as a result had nothing left with which to nourish himself.'

Puzzled by her remark, Inspector Dickens nevertheless gallantly replied: <What you have just said is profoundly true, Mrs. Wentworth.'

Adelaide Wentworth said gaily: <You see, I knew all the time that you were not Charles Dickens. I was just having a little game with you.'

Dickens replied: <Of course, I appreciate your little stratagem.'

<I know another thing, Mr. Dickens: You are definitely not a health inspector.'

<What am I, then?'

<You are a psychiatrist.'

Smiling and shaking his head, Dickens said: <One more thing, Mrs. Wentworth. Did your husband have any enemies?'

<Why do you ask?'

<Just out of curiosity.'

<Hundreds. He couldn't help crowing when his books were carrying off prizes and running into multiple editions. He's a boastful man, quite good at making enemies. He even succeeded in making one out of me.'

Adelaide Wentworth began suddenly to cry disconsolately into her handkerchief.

Inspector Dickens remembered the bell button by the mantelpiece and pressed it. The matron came into the room. She smiled knowingly at the inspector and said: <We're having another one of our little crying fits, are we, Adelaide darling. Let's fix that with a nice cup of Ovaltine.'

Dickens returned to London, feeling that he had accomplished very little.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

<Do you like messing about with boats, Mr. Creighton?' Dickens enquired, innocently.

Creighton laughed. <Can't stand them. I get sea sick every time I cross the Channel. I assure you of one thing, Inspector, I would be quite incapable of dropping Algy Wentworth's body into the billowy waves.'

Dickens felt embarrassed because Creighton had so easily read his thoughts. He had woefully underestimated the man. Victoria had invited them both home for a light supper while Creighton was in London on a brief business visit, fulfilling the promise she had made to Dickens. Since everyone associated with Wentworth Press was being questioned, she supposed that Creighton would not mind being similarly quizzed. She had advised him beforehand that she was on friendly terms with the inspector.

She busied herself, pouring out more drinks.

The crime writer and the crime investigator found common ground, when Dickens praised Creighton's novel, Death In The P.M.

<Glad you liked it,' Jonathan responded. <The point is clearly made in your book that the men behind the crime often go scot free.'

<Yes, the Prime Minister's wishes are carried out, while he is able to claim, hand on heart, that his conscience is clear.'

Victoria brought some smoked-salmon canapés. As she poured out coffee, she said: <Jonathan, tell Inspector Dickens your theory about what happened to my father.'

Jonathan laughed. <I suggested to Victoria that he might have been murdered by the association of crime writers as a punishment for being dilatory with his payment of royalties.'

Dickens laughed and then asked: <What do you make of the fact that Peter Laker's story anticipated what appears to have happened?'

Creighton replied thoughtfully: <I used to be critical of Thomas Hardy, because so many coincidences seem to occur in his novels. But they happen all the time in real life. Some authors fight shy of using them, but I use them when I think fit. Coincidences are sometimes regarded as a sign of the working of mysterious Providence. And who's to say they are not! For that reason, perhaps, provided you don't overdo it, the judicious use of coincidences can actually enhance a story. You may remember I put one in Death In The P.M. The clerk in the Defence Ministry sees the prime minister going into the Carlton Club with another member which gives him the false notion that he had connived with him in killing the journalist.'

Dickens asked Victoria if it was possible that one of her father's business competitors wanted him out of the way.

Victoria replied musingly: <Publishing is a fairly genteel occupation. It doesn't sound likely.' She added with a wry smile. <The abolition of the Net Book Agreement caused a certain amount of ill feeling. But I don't think it brought about a murder.'

Creighton interjected: <I suppose you have explored all Wentworth's business relationships, Inspector.'

<As many as I have been able to discover.'

<Of course, he may have just undressed and walked into the water.'

Victoria intervened: <But what was he doing in Wales when he was supposed to be in America?'

<Perhaps he had something to hide,' Creighton conjectured.

Victoria replied primly <Hardly likely. My father led a completely open life.'

Dickens remembered the unflattering picture Victoria's mother had painted of Wentworth. We all, he thought, present different pictures of ourselves to different people. And things can change. Look at me, a devoted husband who suddenly and without warning, kicks over the traces.

A ring at the door indicated that Creighton's taxi had arrived.

<Smart chap.' Dickens remarked when Creighton had left and Victoria returned to the sitting-room. He gave a reminiscent laugh and added: <When I asked him if he was fond of messing about in boats, he guessed immediately what I was getting at.'

<How could you possibly suspect Jonathan!'

<I have to work on the basis that everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise. There's nothing personal about it.'

<How much longer will you be kept on this enquiry?'

<I don't really know. A few more weeks perhaps.'

<What happens if you don't succeed in solving it?'

<I'll be given another job to do. It will be left on the file, in case something turns up later.'

<I hate the uncertainty,' Victoria said, shaking her head. <I don't suppose my mother was any help. How is she, by the way?'

<I found her on the whole perfectly logical.'

<Yes, she can be like that for days at a time and then she suddenly loses her memory. Sometimes she forgets the names of the staff she is in daily contact with ­ they must find it very disconcerting. She doesn't always recognise me.'

<She mentioned she had once destroyed the typescript of a story you had written.'

<She didn't destroy it. She dumped it at the back of a wardrobe. I found it a few years later and wished she had burned it. It was terrible!'

<How do you really feel about your father?'

Victoria sat on the chaise-longue and stared into the distance. She said musingly: <I both loved and hated him. That's not at all unusual.'

<Your mother said he bullied you into becoming a novelist.'

<I doubt if it's possible for someone to be bullied into becoming a novelist. It would be truer to say that he encouraged me to go into what after all might be described as part of the family business. He badly wanted a son to follow after him, so he chose for me what he considered was a suitable role. But he was too ambitious for me­ I hold that against him. He had this powerful, unreasonable fixation about discovering a novelist who would be associated with his publishing company and his name in the same way as Sylvia Beach will always be associated with James Joyce. Making literary history mattered even more to him than making money, which, incidentally, he was very good at. He was still immensely interested in finding new talent when he died.'

<We still don't know for certain whether he's dead,' Dickens murmured.

<I, for one, am certain,' Victoria said, sitting up very straight, her lips compressed tightly. I can't and I shan't mourn him anymore.'

<I shall do everything in my power to help you get over it,' Dickens said.

<What can you do?' Victoria enquired with a wry smile.

<I can love you,' he said simply.

Inspector Dickens stared at her with dogged devotion, in the manner of someone admiring a beautiful, rather delicate sculpture.

She said quietly: <Come and sit beside me, Henry.'

Henry did her bidding. As he sat down, she slipped her small hand between his massive thighs and held her face upwards. Pleasantly surprised, he bent down and kissed her.

After savouring her lips, he carried her into her bedroom and undressed her with great care, his slightly bulging eyes staring at her reverently. Lying motionless on the bed, Victoria watched with amusement his clumsy, almost frantic, efforts to get undressed. When Dickens was asleep, she got up and tapped some words into her typewriter. A year later, when her novel was published, one of her critics said of it: <Victoria Worth has surpassed all her previous descriptions of the sexual act. She writes with comic, licentious abandon. Buttocks thrust, wiggle and waggle. Various parts of the anatomy are caressed, palpated, sucked, nibbled and squeezed. In all fairness, though, it must be said that she has drawn an entirely credible picture of an elderly lover consumed with lust and love.'

The novel­ The Lovesick Policeman­ about a middle-aged detective was a best seller.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

<There's something I want to ask you, Ronald.'

Ackroyd had just left the room, so Dwindle took the opportunity of questioning Ronald Mars about features of the physical universe that were puzzling him. He had apologised for his previous outburst, saying contritely: <I'm sorry I lost my temper that time. But being on the short side, I tend to over-compensate whenever my masculinity is called into question.'

Ronald Mars had answered with a tolerant smile: <Set your mind at rest­ I don't fancy shorties. What's your problem?' Gay Bar now answered absently, glancing down at the exercise paper he was marking.

<It's a matter of ethics.'

<Gay Bar replied with a doubtful grimace. <I wouldn't recognise an ethic if it stood up and clouted me.'

Dwindle went on: <Still, you may be able to help me solve a question that's been bothering me for some time. I read somewhere that it is perfectly possible for a sub-atomic particle to be in two different places at the same time. Is that true?'

<Yes and no.'

<Surely, that statement is either true or it is not true.'

<There are certain as yet unexplained ambiguities in Quantum Physics.'

<In that case,< Dwindle continued eagerly: <is it possible for a real person and his ghost occupy a house at the same time?'

<What do you mean by a ghost?' Mars looked puzzled.

<I mean when a electron appears to be in two different places at the same time, one of them must be the ghost of the other.'

<Clones perhaps you mean.'

<OK, clones. In other words, can a person also be in two places at once, in the same way as electrons can?'

<That phenomenon only applies to the sub-atomic world. Frankly, I'm a little puzzled as to the point of your question?'

<I'm trying to create an analogy. When someone is killed, is it possible to argue similarly that another self survives because sub-atomic physics shows that it is possible for an electron to be in two places at once?'

<You can't compare sub-atomic particles with people.'

<I'm not that much bigger than a sub-atomic particle,' Dwindle replied, puckishly.

Ronnie Mars, smiling, shook his head and returned to marking the papers on his desk,

Dwindle invited Mars to join him during the lunch break and eagerly quizzed him again in the pub about modern physics. Was it possible to exist on several planes of Time? If the answer was yes, did this imply that he, Dwindle, had a prior existence before he was born.

Mars, somewhat puzzled by Dwindle's persistent questioning, replied: <The Judeo-Christian view is that, since you only have one life on Earth, you have to make the best of it. Bhuddism seems to have accommodated these ambiguities into a different system of thought. It's a matter of temperament which system you chose.'

Dwindle, with a thoughtful expression, ordered yet another pint of beer. Mars shook his head disapprovingly. Noticing this, Dwindle responded with a cheerful chuckle: <It's OK, Ronnie, there are definitely two me's­ the drunken me and the sober me. I'd better make sure that Ackroyd sees only the sober me.'

When Mars looked at his watch, Dwindle slid off his stool and lurched out of the pub, leaving his sandwich on the plate uneaten. Mars picked it up and ate it as they walked back with him.

On the way, Dwindle reminded him that Dr. Johnson had once challenged Bishop Berkely's assertion that everything was in the mind by saying: <Plainly, it's a nonsense. When I stub my toe against a stone thus, it hurts.

<Look at it this way, Ronnie, he continued, I was a small boy once. And before that I was a baby even smaller still. Where's the baby that I once was? We're supposed to have a soul running like a thread throughout our lives. But I can't remember suckling at my mother's breast. If Bishop Berkely was right and everything is in the mind, then because it is no longer in my mind I never sucked at my mother's breast. Other people might claim to have witnessed the event, but when they cease to exist, so, according to Berkeley, does my experience of breast suckling. It suggests that the Self is like a worm which can be chopped up into little pieces which do not necessarily bear any relationship to each other. If there is no continuity, it follows that when the memory no longer exists, nothing is left. Similarly­ and this is where the two differing views find common ground­ Dr. Samuel Johnson insists that only physical sensation can prove that something exists. When your mind ceases to exist and physical sensation ceases to exist as well you're really absolutely dead. Anyway, it seems that I consist of multiple discrete me's­ the baby, the boy, the man and any number of me's that existed in between. There can't be any connecting link in the form of a soul, since, if I am scarcely capable of remembering my previous me's even in this life, how can I possibly remember anything from a previous life. However, there is one redeeming feature in all of this: it follows that if I commit suicide, I am only killing one of an infinite number of me's, most of whom have been, or are about to be, forgotten, so all must be both forgiven and forgotten!'

Ronald Mars said absently : <I think Dr. Johnson was simply maintaining the commonsense view that the objective world is the important one.'

<Yes, but he validated his argument by reference to sensation­ the sensation of pain. There is no sensation after death, so it follows that there is no afterlife in which one can be judged. Of course, one should think very carefully before removing oneself from this life, because'­ Dwindle looked preternaturally solemn­ <it is, after all, a big plunge into the unknown.'

Mars, convinced that Dwindle was very drunk, muttered: <You're right there, Dwindle. If you are contemplating suicide, think about it for the next sixty years or so and then you won't make too much of a mistake.'

He looked at his watch and urged Dwindle to hurry. Just before sitting down at his desk, he whispered: <If you carry on drinking like that at lunch-time, Dwindle, you're going to get yourself sacked.'

Dwindle smiled a foolish smile, twitched his bushy eyebrows and settled down again to marking papers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

How I caressed you,

Oh, how I miss you...

How I loved your arms about me.

Billed as Sue Cuddly, Elizabeth Pardieu was earning a living singing in a Newcastle nightclub. She possessed a thin, reedy, not unpleasing voice. At an appropriate moment she allowed one of her shoulder straps to slip down, producing a quiet round of applause from the audience and an expectant hush. This was not quite the noisy, rumbustious routine the mainly male audience was accustomed to, but Harry Harrison, the owner was keen to introduce what he called <a classier kind of strip tease'. His declared aim was to attract a champagne audience rather than a beer audience. <Can you sing?' he had asked, when she offered her services as an entertainer. Elizabeth said she could, confident that good phrasing and technique could disguise the deficiencies in her voice. He had then told her in a kindly voice that what he really needed was a stripper. She immediately volunteered to combine both roles. It wasn't the kind of job that she would want to boast about, but at least it would pay for her lodgings and at her next interview she would be able to claim that she had been working recently.

Bending forward from the hips exposing more cleavage, she allowed the other shoulder strap to slide down. The audience applauded again. She felt quite a pleasant sense of being in command, as she went onto the next verse:

Waves of emotion,

Tides of the ocean,

Swell when I think about you...

The band was supposed to provide an ironic blast on the trumpets at this point, but instead went hopelessly off key. She paused and automatically looked towards the bar, where Harry Harrison usually stood nonchalantly smoking a cigar. His piggy eyes roved appreciatively over her. He hadn't noticed the band's mistake, nor for that matter had anyone else. Lust was rapidly gaining in dominance over musical appreciation she thought cynically, and continued until she stood in her panties. After which, giving a little Marilyn Monroe gasp, she clasped both hands over her breasts and escaped behind the rear curtains.

As well as performing, she helped behind the bar, having taken the job out of sheer desperation. Harrison, who claimed to be fifty-three, but was probably older, had told her that he was crazy about her and wanted to marry her.

Anxious to keep her low-grade booking a secret, she had instructed her landlady in Bayswater to tell anyone who phoned that she was up north visiting her mother. Discouraged by her recent failure to get work, she was beginning to accept that at thirty-three, after years of hard work, her career as an actress was inevitably coming to an end.

She had rather despised Peter Laker for deserting the acting profession. She thought it showed a deplorable lack of spirit, but now his decision seemed to make good sense. Tired and disillusioned herself, she was prepared to settle for the same fate. She comforted herself with the thought that, even if perhaps he had not welcomed her back enthusiastically, at least there were signs that he still cared for her. Harry Harrison came into her dressing room, looking pleased. <You were great tonight,' he told her. He was about to tell her that he was ready employ her as a straight singer, but nervous of losing customers, he changed his mind and declared with an expansive gesture that she need not serve in the bar anymore.

Thanks, Harry. That's very nice of you. I'm a lousy barmaid anyway­ I splash too much whiskey into the water.'

<You're right. I'll be saving money.' He placed a podgy hand on her shoulder. <I just want to say I'm really proud to have you in my night club. I think you'll be a great star one of these days.'

<Thanks, Harry.'

<Can I drive you home?'

<No, it's only a little way. I'll walk.'

<Lemme drive you. Alan will keep an eye on the place.'

Alan was his younger brother, who had served a sentence for drug offences, and was now employed as a bouncer.

<No mawling, Harry.'

<God's truth, I wouldn't touch you, honey.'

She had demonstrated a sturdy capacity for self defence when he had tried it on before.

<Okay.'

He accompanied her out to his Jaguar in the car park and held the door of the passenger seat open for her. Strident music was issuing from the flat-roofed building decorated with neon-lit palm trees that housed the night club. A powerful mixture of after-shave and cigar smoke came to her as he started the engine. In spite of his pudgy build, he had a pleasant, open profile and she wondered momentarily if he was serious when he said he wanted to marry her. He said conversationally: <Did I tell you that Alan knew some of the biggest mobsters when he was in the States? He got in with the wrong crowd. I'm glad I can look after him. It ain't much of a job but he's a quick learner. He'll do all right.'

Elizabeth murmured <Yes, he's always very polite to everybody.' She then mentioned Algernon Wentworth and said: <He was a respectable publisher. Do you think he might unwittingly have got involved with the Mafia?'

<Yeah, I read about it in the papers.' He made an accelerating left-hand turn that caused a protesting screech from the tyres. Straightening up, he said <Coulda been. Coulda been. Did he publish books about the Mob? They don't like that. Not unless you get their permission first.'

His comment intrigued her. Next time she was in London she would tell Peter all about Harrison's idea. It would provide an excuse to get in touch with him again. Not that she herself gave the theory that much credence.

<Give us a kiss, lass,' Harrison demanded as he pulled in the drive of her landlady's house.

She pecked him lightly on the cheek and ran up the garden path to her lodgings.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

<I think it's about time to close the Wentworth file, the enemy haven't been bothering us recently,' Detective Chief Superintendent Barker said, handing the folder back to Dickens. Barker for some reason had recently started referring to other police forces as <the enemy'.

<Just give it another week, sir,' Dickens pleaded. <I think I have a promising lead.'

Barker thought for a moment. <Okay. I'll give you one more week to see if you can come up with something concrete. An appropriate word that,' he added. Wentworth's body was probably wrapped in concrete before it was dropped in the sea.'

The <promising lead'­ Dickens didn't merit that description. His excuse for continuing with the baffling case rested on a chance remark made by George Hamble, the dwarf, who continued to display a lively curiosity concerning the investigation. He had mentioned to Dickens one day that Murray, an electrical engineer from Dublin, had once written to Wentworth concerning a book he was writing about Irish myths. Wentworth had offered him a post as a tutor in electrical engineering while he worked on the book. Dwindle had added: <The book is still unfinished. Wentworth's educational factory has a disastrous effect on aspiring authors.'

<It must have shown some promise to have gained Wentworth's interest.'

<I think he was just stringing him along. He was short at the time of someone to mark electrical engineering papers

<Why should that bother you?'

Dwindle replied with a deprecating shrug: <It just seems a waste of talent. He showed me an article he had once written for a newspaper about the Irish game of hurling. It was brilliant. He'd have made a great sports reporter.'

Dickens asked the chief tutor if he could interview Murray the following day. The possibility of an IRA connection had begun to exercise his mind.

Murray came into the School For Novelists office, wearing an emerald green sweater and black shiny trousers. He was small, wiry, aged about thirty, with an untidy mop of black hair and large staring brown eyes. He held a pipe in his hand and said: <You don't mind if I smoke this stuff­ it's famously good for the sinuses?'

<No. Do sit down. First of all, what was your opinion of Mr. Wentworth?'

<A grand chap. I was very taken by his offer to publish my book when it's finished.'

<Did you try an Irish publisher?'

<I did. They didn't like the idea of giving myths a modern twist. They're too conservative by half over there. Anyway, I was flattered by Wentworth's interest, but I've still only the half of it written. It may never be published now that he's dead.'

<You're sure he's dead?'

<It looks look as though it's odds on he's been eaten by the fishes.'

Dickens nodded, noncommittally.

<Have you spoken to his daughter about your book?'

<No, I didn't want to intrude on her grief. By the way, you haven't asked me where I was on the night of et cetera ...'

Dickens smiled and said: <That's all right, Mr. Murray.' A desultory chat about Ireland had followed.

When Murray had gone, Dickens went to a green metal filing-cabinet and began methodically to go through the files.

*

He had arranged to meet Victoria at two o'clock that afternoon. She arrived late, carrying a leather briefcase. With a tired smile, she enquired: <Anything new, Inspector?'

He whispered in a hurt tone: <Call me Henry.'

She replied wearily: <You are here in your capacity of a policeman. For God's sake act like one.'

Dickens's face reddened. He stood for a moment silently, and then said: <Have you noticed the high proportion in your Promising Manuscript files that come from Scotland, Ireland and Wales?'

<Yes, the Celts write much better English than the Anglo-Saxons. My father once made the same comment.'

<In one of your father's old business notebooks he records his annoyance at having turned down Dylan Thomas's Under Milkwood.'

<Publishers always kick themselves when a bestseller gets away.'

<Will you publish Finbar Murray's book when he finishes it?'

<Finbar Murray?'

<One of your tutors­ an electrical engineer from Dublin. Your father gave him a job on the understanding that he would eventually publish his book on Irish myths.'

Victoria looked puzzled.

<I vaguely remember hearing about it. Has he finished it?'

<Apparently not. He appears to think there's no point, in view of your father's disappearance.'

<Oh, but he should finish it.'

<Shall I tell him that?' Dickens enquired.

Before she had time to answer, he put his hands on her shoulders and whispered urgently: <It's ages since I've seen you. Can I come and see you tonight?'

Victoria gently removed his hands. She studied the locks on her briefcase for a few seconds then looking up, whispered earnestly: <Henry, I simply don't have time for a love affair. I'm working on my next, and possibly my most important, novel and I am also trying to cope with tremendous problems running my father's business. You must try to understand.'

<Can't you get someone else to run the business for you?'

<I wish to God that I could. I hate it­ it's tearing me to pieces. I have just had a report from the auditors advising me to close down the correspondence school and concentrate on the core publishing business. That means firing employees who have worked for us for years. So you see I have far too much on my mind at the moment. We'll stay good friends. I must go now. Ackroyd is waiting to see me in my office.'

She pecked him on the cheek and walked out of the office.

Dickens felt a surge of despair mixed with anger, as he stood by the door and watched her walking along the corridor. He should have realised that the affair couldn't last, he told himself. She was young, talented, beautiful and rich. He was just a middle-aged, middle-ranking policeman, soon to be pensioned off. The fact that she had gone to bed with him was something to be cherished. But he must be realistic and accept that the affair had ended.

He gave a deep sigh, went to the filing cabinet and started rummaging through the files. In the Promising Manuscripts section he started to examine all the manuscripts which came from the Celtic parts of the British Isles. He smiled at an amusing feminist fantasy written by a Welsh woman who signed herself in a sprawling flourish with what looked like the letters M-G-N. He went out into the corridor and made his way to the tutors' room, intending to tell Finbar Murray that he should contact Victoria regarding his book. Dwindle, his face flushed, was standing on his desk, addressing his colleagues. The room, normally quiet and peaceful, was in an uproar. <We are all heartily sick of this stupid feud. Sanjay Barani, you were obviously incapable of keeping your hands off your lady patients. And, Haworth, you are equally incapable of keeping your sticky fingers off other people's money. But try to get it into your heads­ you're both feckless and rotten to exactly the same degree!'

Haworth, a burly, bald man in his shirtsleeves, his face blotchy with psoriasis, stood up and shouted angrily: <Who told you to interfere, dwarf!'

Barani, placing both sets of knuckles on his desk, angrily replied: <How dare you call him a dwarf, Haworth! You are the dwarf­ a moral dwarf!'

<And you are a snivelling, licentious disgrace to your profession, who exploited his female patients for his own libidinous ends.'

<Haworth, no woman would ever look at you with a face like that. That, and the fact that you can't get it up, are what make you so sickeningly self-righteous. You rob old people of their hard-earned savings and have the blasted cheek to talk about my sins. No one can trust you with money. We should all spit on you.'

Dwindle, his face red, jumped up and down on his desk, waving his arms with delight. He seemed drunk.

Haworth retorted: <Just say that once more and I'll flay you alive. Rape is a sight worse than making miscalculations with a balance sheet. I ask everyone here today to witness that I never pocketed a penny of my clients' money.'

<It all went in legal fees, trying to save your hide. But they lost their money just the same.'

<Rapist dog,' roared Haworth angrily.

<Corrupt pig,' shouted Barani.

<You're both equally rotten,' Dwindle called out, laughing hysterically.

The contestants stared up at him in awe, as if this tiny gesticulating man had suddenly come to represent the figure of divine justice.

Dwindle, went on: <If you'd both shut up, we'd forgive you. Barani, you're just a randy old bugger with no respect for the opposite sex. Haworth, you're just a greedy bastard who didn't care a toss about other people's hard-won savings. But you've both been adequately punished elsewhere. All we ask is that you stop your infernal quarrelling.'

<What about murder?' Joseph Goldberg called out.

A bloodcurdling scream rang out at that moment.

All attention focussed on Vera Fernleigh, who suddenly sang the first few bars of One Fine Day. When she stopped, Dwindle looking bewildered, enquired from Goldberg: <What about murder?'

He clambered down from his desk.

Goldberg shouted: <You go on about the way these poor guys quarrel, but none of us knows who murdered Wentworth.'

<Do you know something we don't, Goldberg?'

<No,' Goldberg confessed, <but maybe the inspector does.' He pointed towards Dickens standing silently at the back of the room.

<How about it, Inspector,' Dwindle called out cheerfully. <Any new developments?'

<We are making progress in our enquiry,' Dickens said, stolidly.

Ackroyd appeared at the door. Grim-faced, he pushed past Dickens and strode to the top of the room. Facing the rows of tutors, he said: <I have some very sad news for you, gentlemen. Victoria Worth has decided to close down both the Top Marks Correspondence School and the School For Novelists.'

<How much notice are we being given?' someone called out.

<One month,' Ackroyd replied.

A heated debate followed. The question of redundancy payments was raised. Dwindle slumped forwards on his desk, his face buried in his arms. Dickens tiptoed up to his desk, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered: <It's not as bad as it seems.'

His face full of misery, Dwindle looked up and said resentfully: <It's all right for you. They don't make policemen redundant.'

<We sometimes have to take early retirement. Which amounts to the same thing.'

<There's always a niche for a retired policeman.'

<There will be a niche for a clever chap like you.'

Dwindle shook his head and said tragically: <No, I'm dead in the water. Finished. Caput.'

Ackroyd, with an air of authority, said: <Gentlemen, all the students will be given the balance of their unfinished exercises plus the standard answers and a return of part of their fees. Until the month's notice has been completed, we owe it to them to continue marking with our usual high standard of efficiency.'

Dickens whispered to Dwindle: <I have to go now. Something will turn up for you.'

<My toes, you mean- they'll certainly turn up after I'm dead,' Dwindle replied, his face working with grief.

As Dickens left the building, he thought how difficult it must have been for Victoria to reach this momentous decision. He was sorry for the tutors. Observing the announcement and its results had been a strange experience. He felt as though the drama had been put on especially for his benefit.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Detective Superintendent Barker, looking sombre, announced to Dickens that he had decided to close the Wentworth case. The <enemy'­ the Welsh police­ who had foisted the problem on them in the first place seemed to have forgotten about it; the press had lost interest; it was time to turn their attention to other, more urgent, matters. Dickens protested, but to no avail. He tried to console himself for his failure by remembering how few resources had been directed to the case and he had been deprived of his sergeant. It had long been recognised that it was inefficient to have one man operating on his own. Nevertheless, he had hoped that solving this particular case might redeem what seemed in retrospect to have been a dull and undistinguished career. Shortly afterwards he was offered an administrative post that didn't much appeal to him­ keeping stock of firearms and other police property. Ingrid urged him to take early retirement. They both handed in their resignations on the same day.

On his last day at work, he was seated at his when a telephone call came though from Peter Laker, wanting to know if Dickens could assist in finding a missing person.

<A relative?' Dickens enquired.

<No, a former girl friend. Could you could possibly help me find her.'

<How did she go missing?'

<I just seemed to lose touch with her.'

<That would hardly be a proper use of police resources. Why don't you ask a private agency to help you? Try Yellow Pages.'

<Okay, Inspector. By the way, did you ever find out what happened to Algernon Wentworth?'

<I'm afraid not.'

<I suppose you heard that the Top Marks Correspondence School has closed down.'

<Yes, I was there when it was announced.'

<I went to see Dwindle the other day­ actually, it was he who suggested I ring you. He's very bitter about being made redundant. He blames the closure on Victoria Worth. He says she welshed on all her father's long-serving employees.'

<That's hardly fair. Anyway, I wish you luck in finding your girl friend.'

As he replaced the receiver, the word <welshed' reminded Dickens of some details of cottages in Dyfed that had arrived the previous day. Ingrid had suggested they might suit their retirement plans.

The following night he was engaged in running his trains in the loft, when he heard a high-pitched scream. Racing down the loft-ladder, he found Ingrid lying on the floor in the sitting-room, an overturned kitchen chair by her side.

<What happened?' Dickens called out in alarm.

<Help me up. Oh, no don't!­ It's agonising!' She tried to stand up, moaned loudly and lay back on the carpet.

<Your leg?'

<My ankle. I think it's broken. You'd better call an ambulance.'

He noticed that a picture on the wall she had been handling was hanging askew. He covered Ingrid with a blanket and telephoned the local hospital.

Ingrid explained, as they waited in the casualty department, that she had been in the act of replacing an Egon Schiele print to which she had taken a dislike. He felt annoyed but said nothing: the print in question had grown on him lately, because the model Schiele had painted bore a marked resemblance to Victoria. He told himself it was a just punishment for his infidelity.

The X-ray department confirmed a broken ankle. Ingrid's ankle was set, but the doctors then attributed the dizziness she had suffered to high blood pressure and she was detained in hospital for further tests. When he came the following day, she said: 'I forgot to tell you in all the excitement over my broken ankle that I put the house up for sale. I'll get to see those cottages if I have to crawl there!'

The For Sale sign in the front garden gave the house a forlorn appearance. Inside it was eerily silent. He straightened the print of the Egon Schiele nude, feeling guilty as he again noticed the likeness to Victoria. He told himself that he should have no regrets. The affair had made him younger and more alive, more tolerant. Even Ingrid had benefited from the episode, because the breakup of the affair had played a part in persuading him to agree to take early retirement.

He cooked a meal in the micro-wave, settled in an armchair and read the estate agent's descriptions of the Welsh cottages. <In a state of dilapidation, these unusual cottages built in the nineteenth century, have the benefit of an acre of adjoining land and enjoy a commanding view of the sea.'

In the hospital ward the following morning, he handed Ingrid some pink roses and stowed the dressing gown, bed jacket and nightdresses she had requested in the bedside cupboard

<How are you coping?' she asked.

<Okay, darling. No buyers for the house yet.'

<It's early days. Never mind, I should be home in a few days. You'll have to organise a wheelchair.'

<Don't worry,' he replied. <Just obey the doctors and nurses.' <Perhaps that lady novelist will keep you company while I'm away,' Ingrid said teasingly. <We had a Victoria in our class when I was at school. We used to call her Vicky.'

Dickens adjusted her pillow.

Ingrid said musingly: <Would you like to have a look at those cottages while I'm stuck here. They sound very reasonable. It would be a shame to miss them.'

<Let's wait until you come out of hospital.'

<You could go tomorrow morning. It would give me something to look forward to, if you were doing something positive about them.'

After a show of reluctance, Dickens agreed to go.

That evening, he switched on the power to the model railway, and as the trains circumnavigated the tracks wondered why Dwindle had been so critical of Victoria. She obviously had little choice when it came to closing down the correspondence school- a business could not go on indefinitely sustaining losses. Feeling the need to talk to someone about her, he climbed down the loft-ladder and telephoned Dwindle.

<George Hamble, it's Dickens­ formerly Inspector Dickens of the Metropolitan police. Do you remember we chatted on several occasions about your missing boss?'

<Of course.'

<I was talking to Peter Laker a couple of days ago. He wanted police help in finding his missing girl friend. But, of course, I couldn't oblige. Incidentally, he says you blame Victoria Worth for closing down the correspondence school. Don't you think that's rather unfair.'

<Why on earth should it worry you?'

<I got to know her rather well during the enquiry and I also came to respect your opinions when we had our little chats about the Wentworth case. I feel sure she would not have taken the decision to close the school down lightly. She's a very responsible, and dare I say, a very kind and humane kind of person.'

<I'm glad you think so, but you don't happen to have been put out of work.'

<True. It must be deeply worrying. You have my sympathy.'

<I would guess,' Dwindle said slowly and deliberately, <the main reason you called me is because you have a soft spot for Victoria and wanted to talk about her.'

<That's beside the point. She didn't let you down deliberately. She really had no choice.'

<We all let each other down in the end one way or the other, Inspector. You, for example, have let everyone down by failing to find out who killed Wentworth.'

<I did my level best.'

<It's a pity, mind you, that he went gallivanting off to America in the first place. He should have spent more time running his business. He could, and should, have shut down The School For Novelists first­ a bloody waste of money if ever there was one. It drained away all the profits we were making. None of the so-called literary geniuses he was bent on discovering ever came to anything.'

<Did you ever look at the files?'

<Yes, we all did occasionally. There was a lad from Yorkshire who wrote about tramping the Yorkshire Dales. The whole script consisted of a discussion between his right and his left boot about the merits of various scenic parts of Yorkshire. Absolutely daft. Some woman invented a whole new genre of romantic science fiction with pen pals communicating between different galaxies. And there was a lady who wrote a load of old cobblers about trees coming to life and having sexual intercourse with girls in a Welsh village.' <I vaguely remember reading that one myself. <I'm off to Wales tomorrow as a matter of fact to inspect some cottages.'

<Whereabouts?'

<Abergan.'

Dwindle said after a prolonged pause: <Would you mind if I came with?'

<What for?'

<I'm thoroughly depressed. I'd like to get out of London for a day. I might even get some ideas about what happened to poor old Wentworth.'

<You're welcome to come with if you like, Mr. Hamble. But I doubt if you'll be able to add anything useful to our sum of knowledge. All the known facts have been exhaustively analysed by the police.'

<You're probably right. Could you possibly drop me off somewhere near Llanwyth. Incidentally, call me Dwindle­ everybody else does.'

Dickens warming to the prospect of company during the journey, said: '<Okay, Dwindle. I'll pick you up at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.'

Later that evening. the sound of Victoria's voice when she telephoned, made Dickens's heart race.

<Henry, how are you?'

<Not so good­ my wife has broken her ankle. What can I do for you?' In spite of himself his voice suddenly became harsh.

<I'm very sorry, Henry. I hope your wife will get well soon... Peter Laker has told me that George Hamble blames me for shutting down the correspondence school.'

<So?'

<I want you to know that it was a decision that I didn't take lightly. I had to close it down in order to save the rest of the business.'

<No need to mention it. I've just been talking to Dwindle as a matter of fact.'

<I couldn't go against the accountants' advice. But I don't want you to think that I've been completely heartless.'

<You sound as if you have a guilty conscience.'

<I had no choice in the matter. On the other hand, Henry, you deserve an apology. I know I treated you badly. But I'm glad that I didn't break up your marriage.'

Dickens replied gruffly: <Well, you have made me suffer, but I shouldn't have allowed myself to fall in love with you. How, incidentally, would you have explained yourself if it had been my wife who answered the telephone?'

I intended to say that I was just ringing to thank you for all your efforts to find out what happened to my father.'

There was a long pause and then Victoria said with a slight break in her voice: <I was told you have retired. I wish you and Ingrid a very happy retirement.'

<Thanks. Victoria...' He cleared his throat. <Do you think we could meet some time?'

<I think not. Goodbye, Henry, and good luck.'

Dickens was nevertheless pleased that Victoria had telephoned. Her concern for him seemed in some way to justify the emotional turmoil he had been through.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Henry Dickens was shaving. Two days had passed since he had taken early retirement. His face in the mirror wore a thoroughly discontented look. Supposedly free of all worry, he did not feel free, although he and his wife had sufficient funds to supply all their basic needs. But the prospect of indulging in the healthy, relaxing pastimes that Ingrid had so tirelessly advocated during the past few years failed to arouse his enthusiasm. Golf, bird-watching and gardening could be pleasant, but they lacked the inspiration of work­ real work, the kind for which one got paid. In the past, when he had been relaxing with his model trains, his mind had invariably been occupied by his current investigation. Solutions sometimes offered themselves spontaneously as the trains went round their tracks, although this had not happened in the Wentworth case. Now, without any problem to exercise his mind, even playing with his model railway seemed a barren activity.

On the way to Highgate to pick up Dwindle he remembered that when Peter Laker had telephoned for help in finding his missing girl friend he had suggested to him that he should consult a private enquiry agency. It occurred to him now that he had all the qualifications for setting up such an agency himself. There were always people with problems the police couldn't deal with. Some of the work would, no doubt, be sordid­ husbands spying on their wives and vice versa­ but somebody had to do it. There might even be tasks he could undertake for the police which they could not handle themselves. However, he dismissed the idea almost as soon as it entered his mind.

Dwindle came out of the doorway of the converted mansion in which he owned a flat, as Dickens drew up outside. He was wearing a tweed hat with a coloured feather stuck in the brim, a leather blouson and mushroom cords.

<Ready for your day at the seaside?' Dickens enquired, jocularly.

Dwindle replied: <Yes,' in a subdued voice.

Neither man spoke, as Dickens drove through heavy traffic. Shortly after joining the M4 motorway, Dickens broke the silence by saying: <Do you think that Wentworth might have been kidnapped by the IRA? Dwindle hunched up in the passenger seat, replied: 'He wasn't a political figure, so I doubt it.' Dickens, glaring at an articulated transporter that had suddenly cut into his lane, said: <When I have settled down in the country, I don't think I'll even bother to read the newspapers. so, Dwindle, what exactly is it you propose to do today?'

<I just want to go and see the beach at Llanwyth where Wentworth's clothes were found.'

<Do you have any theories?'

<I'd rather not disclose them at this stage.'

<Okay. Okay. But tell me this: even if you did manage to discover something, what difference would it possibly make now?'

<Perhaps I could the newspapers would buy the story from me.'

Dickens was surprised at this answer from a former philosophy teacher, whose mind usually seemed on higher things.

<Does your wife approve of this excursion?'

<No, she said I should be looking for another job. But I don't want another job­ I want the one I had.'

Dwindle spoke like a fractious child convinced he has been treated unfairly. <There was absolutely no reason why Top Marks should have been closed down. Algy Wentworth knew how to keep the customers happy. It was probably disbanded just because Victoria was in a hurry to get back to writing those rubbishy romances of hers.'

<I think they are very good, of their kind,' Dickens replied with dignified emphasis.

He overtook the transporter, which he had just noted was laden with cars similar to the Vauxhall Vectra he was driving.

A few minutes later, Dwindle enquired: <What made you decide to retire?'

<My wife has been keen for us h to retire for some time.'

<What will you do with yourself all day?'

<I might write a book called Dickens's Last Case.' He turned his head and smiled at Dwindle to show that he wasn't serious.

<Will I figure in it?'

<I'll put you in if you like.'

<It wouldn't be the first time I've been fictionalised. In the novel my wife is writing she has represented me as a dwarf at the court of Louis the Fourteenth of France.'

<That's a little unkind.'

Dwindle gave a roar of laughter,

<?all me little, call me small,

I'm not really a dwarf at all!

When abuse at me is hurled

I say I'm the smallest giant in

the world. I'm a sad victim of society's obsession with uniformity. But I I was humbled recently when I discovered that I'm not as free from prejudice as I thought I was. For a long time I had been embarrassed by the presence of a very obviously homosexual colleague­ Ronnie Mars- and he was equally embarrassed by my diminutive size. It was years before we spoke to each other. Incidentally, the reason I didn't mind chatting with you, Inspector, is that you stood up straight when you spoke to me. Bending down smacks of condescension.'

<Call me Henry, Dwindle. I'm no longer an inspector. Incidentally, has it never struck you that people can be desperately self-conscious because they are too tall?'

<I suppose you're right.'

<How did you get on at the Court of Louis whatsisname?<

<There were considerable compensations for court dwarfs at that time.' Dwindle gave a reminiscent giggle. <Maureen has me in and out of bed with most of the court ladies, hiding under the bedclothes when anyone came in.'

<Sounds like a bestseller,' Dickens commented.

<I doubt if she'll ever finish it. She tucks it away in a drawer for months at a time.'

<Why don't you write your own novel?'

Dwindle shook his head.

<I'm not interested in fiction. No novelist can invent anything as strange as the truth.'

<Why not write about a book philosophy, then?'

<Philosophy is just another form of fiction.'

<You sound very disillusioned.'

<My clockwork has nearly wound down.'

<What exactly do you mean by that?'

<Just what it implies.'

<I read somewhere that we have moved away from the idea of the world as a clockwork mechanism.'

<It was just a personal metaphor.'

<You know, Dwindle, you'll never achieve your goal if you die. Perseverance is the best and only guarantee of eventual success.'

<You gave up on the Wentworth case.'

<That was my boss's decision.'

<Well, it's all over now. I'm still puzzled as to why poor old Algy should have flown into the United kingdom in secret and then gone down to that lonely beach to die?'

<I don't suppose we'll ever find out now.'

<It did occur to me that he might have returned to the United Kingdom with some secret publishing deal in mind.'

<What possible reason could there be for secrecy.'

<He might have been eager to get hold of the rights ahead of other publishers.'

Dickens remembered at that point the Welsh authoress whose fantasy about tree-men had earned a place in the Promising Manuscript file. She had used a Post Office box number in Abergan. He recalled that Wentworth had telephoned a hotel in Abergan from his hotel in New York. There had seemed no reason at the time to believe that there was any connection between these two unrelated facts. Not that it mattered now that he was retired. However, the possibility, remote though it seemed, that Dwindle might stumble across some clue that had eluded him he found disturbing.

He remembered glancing through the Welsh pastoral saga called The Tree-men of Wales. The men in this fantasy world written by Megan, or was it Morgan?­ she had signed herself with the letters M-G-N­ were feckless drunkards who incurred the wrath of a formidable Welsh lady scientist and were finally driven into exile. Crowning herself Queen of Wales, the lady replaced the men with lusty trees which she had genetically crossbred with men. Living trees supported the roofs of all the houses and buildings; they kept sprouting through the ground, sometimes bursting through the skirts of Welsh ladies, who gave voice to quaint outbursts in Welsh to express their delight. The subsequent birth of the genetically-engineered cross-bred trees and human beings was celebrated with poetry readings at an Eisteddfod accompanied by singing by Welsh choirs and the symbolical crowning of a tree-God.

Dickens was surprised that such a whimsical and fantastical tale should have been singled out for praise. Dwindle stared fixedly at the road ahead, his lower lip thrust out belligerently.

Dickens's thoughts turned to Victoria. Of course, he clearly recognised that it had been naive of him to suppose that the affair could last­ the saying there's no fool like an old fool particularly applied in his case. Then he remembered that Ingrid was lying in a hospital bed with a broken ankle as a result of trying to remove the Egon Shiele nude and felt a pang of guilt.

<Is there such a thing as sin?' he asked Dwindle suddenly.

<Sin is what keeps the world turning round,' Dwindle replied solemnly.<

<I thought money did that.'

<Sin and virtue are the mainsprings of the universe. Take away sin and you have boring old Heaven. Take away goodness and you have an even more boring Hell. It's the tension between good and evil which keeps us all running.'

<What's your idea of Hell?' Dickens enquired.

<Being born too small.'

<And Heaven?'

<I often have a heavenly vision of a world in which people are free to adopt whatever physical forms take their fancy. Naturally, I should choose to be tall and handsome.'

<That appears to be a rather limited view of Heaven,' Dickens replied impatiently

<You would say that, wouldn't you.'

<Start thinking tall, Dwindle,' Dickens commanded cheerfully.

Dwindle said reflectively after a long pause: <You may find this difficult to believe, but the Top Marks School was Heaven to me. I didn't know just how well off I was when I was working in what I used to call disparagingly Wentworth's educational factory.'

<With your qualifications you'll soon get another job.'

<I'll apply to the court of Louis Fourteenth?' Dwindle replied.

A service sign appeared ahead. Dickens pulled in. After they had both eaten a Ploughman's Lunch in the restaurant, where Dwindle bought several cans of lager, Dickens filled up with petrol at the service station. He declined Dwindle's offer to pay for the petrol and sucked furiously at his empty pipe, as they resumed their journey.

<Can't you afford tobacco?' Dwindle enquired, pulling his knees right up under his chin.

<I've given up smoking. But old habits die hard.'

<Living is the hardest of all habits to break.'

<That's no way to talk,' Dickens said reprovingly. <You have a lot going for you.'

Dwindle, replied: <If as the sages say, death is the greatest joy, why should anybody deprive me of it?'

<Oh, come off it Dwindle! You may be feeling miserable now, but you'll eventually adapt. Everyone does. Redundancy has been the lot of millions of people.'

<My clockwork is steadily winding down.'

<For Christ's sake­ what would your wife think if she heard you talking like that!'

<She's a great girl. But she can't help me.' After a pause Dwindle said suddenly: <By the way, it was very obvious to everyone at Top Marks that you fancied Victoria Worth?'

<I admire her,' Dickens replied stiffly.

Still suffering from the pain of rejection, he nevertheless found it comforting to talk about her. He was slightly disappointed when Dwindle changed the subject and remarked that the weather looked fair ahead.

<These cottages I'm going to look at are about five miles north of Abergan. I'll drop you off first at Llanwyth and meet you in the village pub there later on this evening. Don't get too drunk.'

There was a sudden and unexpected spurt of rain from a band of high cloud. Dickens switched on the windscreen wipers.

He went on: <I'll be very surprised if you find anything new. But let me know if you do.'

<What difference does it make to you now that you're retired?'

<I'm still curious to know what happened.'

Dwindle said with sudden gaiety: <In Jonathan Creighton's crime stories the police always make a hash of it. Then along comes Richard Steel, the six-feet three inches tall gumshoe, and he invariably sees what everyone else has overlooked. This time perhaps a four-foot gumshoe will surprise everybody!'

<You have one thing in common with Richard Steel', Dickens remarked acidly: <you both drink too much.'

He was thinking how foolish he would appear in Victoria's eyes if Dwindle were suddenly to clear up a mystery that had completely baffled him.

Remembering that a telephone call from New York had been made to a hotel in Abergan, he decided to make an enquiry about it on his way through the town.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Dwindle's feet sank into the soft sand at the place on the beach at Llanwyth where Wentworth's clothes had been found. He had arranged to meet Dickens in the pub in the village later that evening. The time was three o'clock. It was surprisingly warm for an afternoon in late March.

He loosened his blouson. The beach, fringed by sedge grass, was empty and stretched ahead for miles. The blue waters of the Irish Sea glistening in the sunlight reminded Dwindle that an ancestor of his had come from Ireland. There were plenty of legends in Ireland about the Little People. He wondered whether the origins of these stories lay in a strain of dwarfism among the Irish. Most legends had some foundation in fact. If that were the case, and he was descended from Ireland's Little People, it was a pity his ancestors had not conferred on him their supposed magical powers.

The bright sunlight and salt-laden air helped him to throw off the heavy sense of defeat and frustration he had felt since being made redundant. He began to walk briskly. He had as yet no credible theory to explain Wentworth's disappearance. His chief motivation in cadging a lift from Dickens had been to get away from London and the sense of hopelessness induced in him by a life without the routine of work. Now that he was here, where it was presumed Wentworth had met his death, he hoped he would be able to come to terms with the event which had so disastrously affected his life.

His mind had been occupied a great deal recently with the question of causality. The much vaunted Chaos Theory intrigued him. Catastrophes on a huge scale happened without regard to the puny activities of human beings­ their causation lay elsewhere, far removed from their own lives. Free Will, it followed, was a bad joke invented to enhance the power and influence of priests. Anyway, it was a mathematical certainty that one day the earth, which all too frequently suffered earthquakes, hurricanes and tidal waves, would be annihilated by a single giant meteorite. Everything would then vanish, and in the absence of sentient beings, so would the concept of Free Will. From which he drew the conclusion that no artificial code of morality could deny him his right to escape from his present misery by killing himself.

<Be a merry widow after the briefest period of mourning,' he would write in his farewell message to his wife. <It's much better than being an unhappy wife.' Maureen persistently refused to take his hints of suicide seriously. She joked: <What poison would you prefer this morning, George?' Or, <Can I drive you to a suitable high cliff?' He resolved not to allow her banter to put him off.

In his youth he had been a devout Christian, he had even thought at one time of becoming a priest. But a dwarf priest could only be a figure of fun­ a dwarf philosopher seemed more fitting. He had been grievously disappointed to find that he lacked the ability to nurse new philosophical concepts into being. He recognised that even the <total annihilation of the globe' postulate he was fond of invoking was invalid, in the sense that it created a void in which rationality could no longer function and ignored the possibility that human beings might use their free will to invent survival techniques. The only message he had derived from philosophy was that he was doomed to die and would end up in a cosmic dustbin.

He picked up a piece of seaweed and inhaled its tangy substance. The kelp had once been alive, rippling and waving in the currents under the sea. Perhaps it had possessed some sort of primitive consciousness. Being the dead object of a man's thoughts on dry land presumably gave it much greater importance and significance than it had enjoyed as a living substance on the floor of the ocean. Perhaps after his own death his heap of bones might one day provoke original musings. Dwindle found the thought both attractive and funny. Serving some useful purpose when he was dead was a definite advance on nihilism. Perhaps, by improving on that idea, he might eventually find an even jollier hypothesis­ one that would establish that Heaven was only a few logical steps away. Unfortunately, those steps in reasoning appeared to be too high for him­ or, indeed, for any other human being­ to climb.

He looked around to make sure he was unobserved, then skipped and jumped along the beach, shouting and singing like a maniac. When he came across a flat bed of rock protruding two feet above the level of the sand, he brushed some grains of sand off its striated surface, sat down on the edge and pulled the tab on his last can of lager. Putting it to his lips, he gave a gasp of pleasure. As the cool liquid trickled down his throat, he reminded himself of G.K. Chesterton's words: <Beer does more than Milton can to justify the ways of God to Man.'

He tried to recall the features of Wentworth his former boss. A cunning, jovial round face with thick pebble-glasses and a thinning patch of silvery-gray hair. He had both admired and envied Algernon Wentworth, who possessed the kind of cleverness that he, Dwindle, totally lacked. He knew exactly what the public wanted and gave it to them in good measure. In return he earned vast sums of money­ amounts of money that he and Maureen could only dream about. He published educational text books that didn't date, beautifully-illustrated travel books which found their way onto countless coffee tables and novels, a higher proportion of which were successfully printed and reprinted in paperback than those of his larger competitors. While he had occupied the chief executive's seat the distant learning school had flourished, providing courses for many different fields of knowledge, including even some dotty ones for which he sensed a demand among the public. Wentworth had been a showman as well as a shrewd businessman, with a tremendous ability for motivating his staff. His one weakness had been his willingness to run the School For Novelists as a loss.

Why had he persisted in that particular folly? Because with all his money and power, he was aware that he lacked what he admired most of all­ literary talent. To compensate, he had tried to discover someone who did possess it. Dwindle could sympathise with this weakness. No George Hamble school of philosophy had arisen to astonish the world. He had been capable only of teaching and disseminating the well-worn theories of others. One small spark of original thought would have satisfied him and might even have made being born small seem worthwhile. Nothing else could or would.

Dwindle's thoughts again reverted to the closure of the correspondence school. His resentment towards Victoria was softened somewhat now by his realisation that she lacked the motivation and skills required to run her father's businesses.

It had become common knowledge in the tutors' room that Inspector Dickens had taken her out. Poor old flat-footed Dickens! It seemed a shame that, totally defeated in his attempts to solve the mystery of Wentworth's death, he had decided to cut short his career.

Dwindle began to walk slowly back to the point from which he had entered the beach. A solitary screeching sea gull hanging high above his head seemed to be telling him that with sufficient concentrated thought it should be possible for him to solve the puzzle of his boss's disappearance. <Dwindle, you're smarter than that blundering idiot, Inspector­ former Inspector­ Dickens. If you apply your mind to it with sufficient concentration you can succeed where the Metropolitan Police failed.'

He bent down to pick up an iridescent shell and put it in his pocket. Only perfectly-formed objects such as this one became collectors' items. Only perfectly-formed souls would enter Heaven. A <soul', however, was an object that could be defined only by saying what it wasn't. It wasn't simply memory, because human memory was short-lived and erratic. What, then, other than memory, ran like a string of beads through Dwindle as a baby, Dwindle as a man, Dwindle as a corpse? What was this quiddity that survived death? An essence­ a perfume that only the Deity could distinguish from billions of other essences? And could he, Dwindle, change or alter his essence by his thoughts or deeds, so that he would be recognised by the Deity?

About the only unique feature separating him from millions of other people was his training in analysing problems deeply and rigorously. That constituted his 'Dwindleness' so to speak. Perhaps his essence could be somehow made more acceptable by some useful detective work in finding out what had happened to Algernon Wentworth. It would, at the very least, help him to escape from his present sense of frustration and worthlessness before he made his final escape.

The sea had delivered up Wentworth's clothes -surely a message to the world intended to convey that Wentworth was dead. The appearance of the clothes obviously amounted to an elaborate bluff intended to hide the fact that he was still alive. The only problem was that in most cases of faked death an incentive existed in the form of a benefit such as payment on life assurance. Wentworth was so rich he would hardly need to resort to such a desperate act of trickery.

Dwindle started running again, a beatific smile on his face, his feet pounding into the soft sands. It had just occurred to him that it was a death­ Wentworth's­ which had brought about the love affair between Dickens and Victoria. Perhaps, conversely, a love affair could bring about a death. He now felt certain that Algernon Wentworth had fallen in love and his girl friend had lured him to this desolate spot, where he had been stripped and his body and his clothes thrown into the sea. Only the clothes had been washed ashore. All that was now necessary was to find the girl friend.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Dickens flourished the estate agent's details in front of the eyes of the eager, fresh-faced young man who had come out of Abergan to meet him. Pointing to the sagging roofs of the semi-detached cottages, he declared scornfully: <This says: ?In need of repair"­ bloody hell­ they're practically derelict!' The crook-backed cottages on a windswept bluff just outside a village five miles north of Abergan had been built to house agricultural workers in the previous century and looked every minute of their age. The young man replied with a tolerant air: <It's the land that's valuable. Just look at those roof tiles! Genuine quarry slates­ worth a fortune today. And I can assure you that building costs are very reasonable in these parts.'

Dickens had observed some compensating features. The cottages stood on over an acre of land­ sufficient to satisfy Ingrid's passion for gardening. A well-marked dirt track­ almost a road­ gave access to the sea less than a mile away. He walked back and stared up at the moss-stained stone walls, trying to conjure up a vision of a brand-new building on the site. The nearby village contained a post office and a grocery store. They could do their main shopping in Abergan, which was only five miles away. Ingrid would busy herself in the garden, while he constructed new trains in the loft.

<I'll report to my wife before making a decision,< he said briskly. <I'll ring you tomorrow afternoon.'

Instead of returning to Llanwyth, where he was to meet Dwindle, Dickens drove to Abergan. Dwindle's idea that he would attempt to solve the mystery of his former boss's disappearance in one short afternoon seemed utterly absurd. But in the unlikely event that he did succeed it would mock all his own efforts and would certainly lower him in Victoria's eyes. She had played down the significance of the trans-Atlantic telephone call Wentworth had made to the Majestic hotel in Abergan. The hotel manager at his request had supplied him with details of the guests staying there on the day the telephone call had been made. None of them, it turned out, had any connection with Wentworth, although it was just possible that the recipient of the telephone call had entered the hotel in order to take the call at a prearranged time.

The only other lead was The Tree-men manuscript in the School For Novelists. Its authoress, he remembered, had signed it <M-G-N', which might possibly be an abbreviated form of either Megan or Morgan, both of them Welsh names.

Arriving in Abergan, he said to the clerk sitting behind the reception desk of the Majestic hotel: <I'm looking for a lady called Megan or Morgan who occasionally comes into this hotel. What are the chances of finding her?'

The man grinned: <Not too good, I should think, sir. They're both very common names.'

Dickens nodded and left.

He took a stroll around the town while he pondered the problem. A hundred yards along the road he came across a shop front with the name Peter Morgan­ Pharmacy. On impulse, he entered and enquired from a white-coated girl behind the counter whether Mr. Peter Morgan was available.'

<Peter Morgan went to Australia. He and his wife separated. The shop is under new management.'

<Why hasn't the name been changed?'

The girl laughed.

<Because Jimmy Morgan, the new owner, says he'd rather be called Peter than spend good money altering the name.'

<Do you happen to know the name of the wife of the previous owner?'

<I just knew her as Mrs. Morgan. I only saw her once or twice.'

<Have you any idea where she is?'

<Anywhere but Australia I should think. She couldn't stand her husband, although I always thought he was a nice enough fellow.'

<What did she look like?<

The girl puckered her forehead.

<Not a bad looker. Blond hair. A litle plump. Around forty.'

Dickens remembered the lock of hair in the secret compartment of Wentworth's desk which Victoria had said was a sentimental souvenir of her babyhood. Its colour he now distinctly remembered had been blond­ a kind of ash blond. Victoria's hair was auburn. But this didn't prove anything­ her hair could have once been blond and might now be dyed auburn.

Beginning to feel a little more hopeful about tracing the authoress who had fantasized about Welsh tree-men, he drove to the local newspaper offices, speculating that Megan or Morgan might at some time have tried to get her work published in the local newspaper. He enquired from the Abergan Gazette if they had ever published anything by a woman who signed herself M-G-N. The girl keyed into the computer and shook her head. Dickens thanked her and left.

He sat in his car and decided he was on a fool's errand. Morgans and Megans seemed to be as numerous as the daffodils bobbing in people's front gardens. The nickname Fictitious Dickens he had been saddled with during his career in the police force gave an impression­ a false one he believed­ that he had a weakness for indulging in extravagant hypotheses. But he was certainly doing that now. And he was inflicting unnecessary punishment on himself by persisting with an enquiry which had given him nothing but frustration and embarrassment. The fear that Dwindle, a complete amateur, might succeed where he had failed, encouraged him to continue his present lie of enquiry. Feeling hungry, he motored around the town and found a fish restaurant on the promenade. The tables were covered with yellow gingham tablecloths. Perspiring waitresses in black uniforms bustled around bearing massive platters full of fish in batter and healthy helpings of chips. He found a table overlooking the almost empty sea front and sat waiting to be served. A splash of white from a passing sea gull smeared the glass as he looked out. lucky that, he assured himself. A pleasant young girl with glossy black hair down to her waist and a pink complexion asked for his order. The plastic tag on her apron said: Megan.

<I'll have plaice and chips, Megan, with a side salad. I'm looking for someone with the same name as you. Do you know of any local writers who go by that name?<

Megan, looked puzzled, shook her head and departed with a peculiar sideways dancing motion to place his order.

Megan or Morgan, Morgan or Megan, he repeated to himself, as he ate plaice and chips. All one could deduce from the manuscript about the Tree-men was that the authoress hated men who got drunk and appeared to have some kind of fetish about trees. After the meal he made his way to the local library.

It was about to close. Leaning on the counter, gazing into the lady librarian's amber eyes, he whispered: <This is urgent police business. I'm looking for a lady living hereabouts called Megan or Morgan who writes stories about trees.'

<Have a quick look at the reference section. But please do hurry. I have to collect my little girl from a neighbour.'

He quickly scanned through the register of local residents. There were, as he had feared, an enormous number of Morgans. It would take months to interview them all.

He thanked the girl, who by now was standing by the front door with a key in her hand. She replied: <Why don't you enquire at Darach just down the coast?'

<What's so special about Darach?'

<There are lots of painters and poets and literary folk there.'

<Whereabouts is it?'

<About twenty-five miles south of here.'

<Thanks very much.'

Returning to his car, he got the map out of the glove compartment. Darach was ten miles or so past Llanwyth. There would doubtless be dozens­ if not hundreds­ of Morgans or Megans in that village as well. Even if he succeeded in locating the lady in question, there was little chance that she would be the person Wentworth had telephoned from New York.

He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Dwindle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was dusk by the time Dickens arrived at the Falkland's Arms in Llanwyth. The pub had been named by its owner, an ex-soldier who had fought in that campaign. Customers­ all male­ were gathered around the saloon bar. A glowing coal fire was burning in the hearth. Dwindle was sitting alone in a small alcove with a pint of beer in front of him on a small iron-work table. His face lit up when he saw Dickens. He offered to buy him a drink.

<No, thanks. I'll only have the one. I'll get it myself.'

Dickens ordered a scotch at the bar from the proprietor, a burly man with heavily tattooed arms and a waxed moustache in the manner of the late Salvador Dali. When he returned, Dwindle asked if the cottages had come up to expectation.

Dickens replied: <They're in pretty poor shape. But it might be worth spending money on them. They're on an excellent site. Did you get any new ideas while you were wandering around the beach?'

<I came to the conclusion that Wentworth was kidnapped,' Dwindle said solemnly. <by a gang intending to ask for a hefty ransom. However, he struggled so much they were forced to kill him.'

<Why did they strip off his clothing?'

<To prevent identification. They didn't know it would be washed back on shore.'

<We looked into the kidnapping theory,' Dickens said, a little impatiently, <and turned it down. If the gang had killed him, we would probably have got wind of it. Kidnapping is unpopular among the criminal fraternity.'

<I'm just guessing wildly,' Dwindle said, sipping his beer. He went on: <I wouldn't be in the least surprised, though, to find that there is a woman involved.'

<Aha, that's more like it,' Dickens said cheerfully. <Incidentally, someone from around these parts signing herself M-G-N wrote a story for the School For Novelists­ a kind of science fiction fantasy admired by both Victoria and Jonathan Creighton. I made some enquiries to see if she was a contributor to the local newspaper while I was in Abergan, but I drew a blank.'

<Didn't the correspondence school have her address?'

<No, she used a box number. I presume M-G-N stood for Megan or possibly Morgan.'

<Her wish for anonymity is not all that unusual. Quite lot of students are shy about revealing their identity. You would think that education needed a plain wrapping, like pornography. Anyway, what possible motive could she have had for killing Wentworth?'

<He might have promised to publish her work and then reneged on his promise. Something like that.'

<Unlikely. She must have stopped working on the course, because if I remember correctly there was a reminder letter in her file. When people give up, students are persuaded to continue by means of follow-up letters. I could never see the rationale behind that particular policy.'

Dickens replied: <The only line I've got is that there is a colony of artists and writers in a small town called Darach about twenty miles further down the coast from here. Do you think it might be worthwhile to go there on the off chance?'

<I'd like another beer first.'

<Go ahead.'

At the bar, when Dwindle ordered a pint of beer, the proprietor said politely. <You're new in these parts. But I remember your friend calling in here once.'

<He's a retired policeman from London. He was investigating the death of the publisher­ Algernon Wentworth.'

<Funny business that,' the proprietor said ruminatively. <We don't like that sort of thing going on around here. Did they ever find his body?'

<No. By the way, did you ever have a lady in here by the name of Megan or Morgan.'

The proprietor laughed.

<There are more Morgans and Megans in these parts than there are bloody sheep.'

Dwindle rejoined Dickens. He drank his beer rapidly and they both left the pub.

As Dickens drove off, Dwindle said cheerfully: <It has been well worth coming. I've had some interesting thoughts. While I was walking along the beach a piece of seaweed took my attention. I said to myself: <Dwindle, if s-s-someone picks it up and gains from it a completely new insight into the universe, then that piece of seaweed automatically becomes a precious object. Everything in this crazy world has its uses. Even misfortune, by forcing people to reappraise themselves, can serve a useful purpose. And even after death we remain useful, because as well as nourishing the good earth with our remains, we improve people's minds by reminding them that it will be their turn next!'

Dwindle gave a cackle of laughter to show cynical disbelief in his own thesis. He then added: <When I decided to come with you, my intention was to help you solve the mystery of Algy Wentworth's disappearance. I haven't managed to come up with any new theory, but I'm certain of one thing: he didn't commit suicide. That old villain, Algernon Wentworth, wouldn't have wanted to pass out of this world without fuss or ceremony. He would want a funeral cortege at least a mile long.'

<So what happened to him?' Dickens enquired.

<My guess is that he got involved with a woman and she did away with him either by herself or in conspiracy with someone else.'

<Why should she do that?'

<Who knows? She may, of course, have killed him accidentally. The supposition that there was a woman involved might well explain why he travelled back to the United Kingdom incognito.'

<It simply doesn't sound like the actions of the kind of man his daughter described to me.'

<Daughters don't always understand their own fathers.'

<He was a respectable businessman. His one great obsession was his publishing house.'

<Who knows what goes on in another person's mind!' Dwindle commented. <There are going on for six billion people on this globe totally unable to read each other's thoughts. The attraction of publishing I imagine is that it helps to ameliorate this terrible isolation.'

Dickens answered, as a series of hedgerows flashed past in his headlights, <But there is one other occupation which has a superior, fascination and that is writing.'

Dwindle murmured thoughtfully: <Publisher-man and writer-woman may have got together with awesome consequences. Do you think it possible he had an affair with this student of the School For Novelists and that she, or perhaps a rival lover, killed him?'

<If he was having an affair, why should he be secretive about it? A man of his wealth and substance could well afford to flaunt a mistress.'

<Perhaps, he didn't want his wife and daughter to know. Anyway, it might be worth looking around Darach tomorrow before we go home.'

Dickens found himself humming a tune. It was pleasant for once to be working on an investigation and not have Barker breathing down his neck. Fictitious Dickens was free at last to follow his own fancies and speculations.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The village of Darach consisted of crooked houses set along winding, hilly, narrow streets. It was raining hard when Dickens and Dwindle arrived. They had left it rather late to find board and lodging. Dickens pulled up outside a pub intending to make enquiries, but a steady exodus of customers indicated that it was closing time. A passer-by directed them to a guest house. But a sign in a window next to the front door said the owners had gone to Spain for the winter. Resuming their journey along the coast, they caught a glimpse through some trees of an illuminated sign advertising the Mayflower hotel. The proprietor, a tall man with silver hair, a military bearing and an impeccable English accent welcomed them. As he signed the register, Dickens enquired: <Do you happen know any of the local writers and artists?'

<A few. We exhibit paintings in the dining-room occasionally and sometimes we're chosen as a venue for discussion groups.'

<Have you heard of a lady writer called Megan or Morgan?' Dwindle interjected hopefully. The proprietor shook his head.

<We're fairly popular with musicians here as well. A Rock Band­ Skylarks­ has its headquarters here. Not that it's my style. They gave a concert last year in a field which attracted people from all over the world. In the summer the town is full of visitors looking to buy paintings. Personally, I can't stand this modern stuff. But we have two artists whose work has been selected for the Summer Exhibition of the Royal Academy.'

Dwindle requested two bottles of lager.

<Certainly, sir. How about you?' He turned to Dickens, who replied: <No, thanks. Would you show us to our rooms.'

The proprietor conducted them up a flight of stairs. The bedrooms were small, but clean and comfortable and had en suite bathrooms. Dickens, alone in his room, looked at his watch. It was too late to call Ingrid. He sat on the bed and reviewed the events of the day.

He had little doubt that the main purpose of his visit had been achieved. The cottages, once rebuilt, would suit them admirably. The sale of their London home would cover the cost of providing a spacious and comfortable residence near the sea, with money to spare. The Wentworth case would soon be a distant memory. Dwindle's ambition to solve it, to satisfy some perverse whim, was most unlikely to be fulfilled. Every aspect of the publisher's disappearance had been thoroughly investigated by the Metropolitan Police. The supposition that he had been lured to his death by a student from The School For Novelists seemed highly fanciful to say the least.

While he was brushing his teeth, he recalled the impromptu Charles Dickens recitation he had given which had led to Victoria going to bed with him­ the only benefit possession of that famous name had ever conferred on him. He would cherish the memory for the rest of his life. As for closing the correspondence school, it should be clear to any right-minded person that Victoria had acted correctly. Dwindle was drinking too much; in fact some of his fatuous observations made him sound dangerously unbalanced. He would announce his intention to return to London immediately after breakfast.

He went to sleep as steady rain rattled against the windowpanes. In the small hours he was woken by the repeated banging of a branch of a tree against the wall outside his room. He lay there for a while in the darkness, remembering a vivid. The nude figure in the Schiele painting had been swaying alluringly in front of him, tempting him beyond endurance. He reminded himself with a pang of guilt that he should have been dreaming of Ingrid, his steadfast companion through all the vicissitudes of his police career.

The expression on Victoria's face when she had opened the secret drawer while he had been sitting at Wentworth's desk came back to him again. Perhaps she had been about to hint at something that did not reflect favourably on her father. But there was no point anymore in worrying about it. His days as a policeman were over.

He sank back into dreamless sleep and was awakened by watery sunlight filtering through the curtains the following morning.

*

He attacked with gusto his breakfast of succulent fried kidneys and tomatoes on toast. A profound sense of inner peace induced by this meal persuaded him against his better judgement to yield to Dwindle's eloquent plea to make one further enquiry in Darach before leaving. Earlier, when he telephoned the hospital, Ingrid urged him to bid for the cottages, in spite of their derelict condition. The location suited her perfectly. She insisted she would start turning the wild and overgrown acre into a garden while the rebuilding was still going on. He had to remind her that she would have to wait for her ankle to mend.

The storms had passed over, leaving behind bright blustery weather. Outside, the wet grass under the trees glistened in the sunshine. Dwindle, sitting on the other side of the table, was hungrily devouring mouthfuls of toast. Dickens was relieved when he wiped an unsightly pattern of crumbs that had gathered around his mouth.

<How do you propose to find the missing lady, then?' Dickens enquired, tolerantly.

<You're the policeman­ you should know how to go about it.'

<Ex-policeman,' Dickens corrected him good-humouredly. <I propose we start by asking the local trades people. Perhaps after that, we'll try the pubs and then the church.'

<Fine,' Dwindle assented. <It's eight-thirty. How long have I got?'

<We'll stay until one o'clock,' Dickens replied. <If you're not ready by then you'll have to go home by train.'

<We shall see,' Dwindle replied with a grim look. He had remembered reading the outline of The Tree-Men of Wales in the files of The School For Novelists. It consisted of some twenty or so typewritten pages containing a huge number of corrections, some of which were difficult to decipher. Dwindle had been impressed by the author's wild poetic fancies. There were long descriptive passages about trees, which suggested that she was having a kind of love affair with them. Her writing exhibited a considerable knowledge of dendrology and the part played by trees in folk lore and she had obviously researched well. Reading a portion of her story had reawakened his own interest in trees, a tribute to the quality of her writing. The opening words remained in his memory, because the authoress's ribald, earthy humour greatly appealed to him.

Looking out at the trees outside his bedroom window that morning, he thought to himself that it would be a painful business if they had to turn her over to the police.

He said as much to Dickens as they drove into Darach. Dickens replied: <If you don't intend to hand her over to the police, we might as well go home. Mind you, I don't exactly relish the idea of having to wait around a court room to give evidence.'

Dwindle said: <We do at least know something of the lady's preferences. We know that she likes trees, which might suggest that she lives in or near a forest.'

Dickens remarked cuttingly. <One could argue with equal force that she lives in a concrete jungle and feels compelled to write about the trees which are missing in her life.'

Dwindle remained silent for the rest of the journey.

Dickens found a parking space by a war memorial in the centre of Darach. With Dwindle scurrying by his side, he marched into the local post office and announced to the elderly woman behind the counter: <I'm looking for a lady writer who goes by the name of Megan or Morgan.'

The old woman looked at him questioningly through quaint, old-fashioned spectacles.

He was about to repeat his statement when the woman pointed to her ears.

<No matter, Ma'am.'

He turned on his heel and strode out of the post office. Dwindle, however, remained behind.

Dickens got into his car and waited for Dwindle, drumming impatiently with his fingers on the steering- wheel. Some minutes later, Dwindle returned, carrying a piece of paper in his hand. He looked pleased with himself. He said reprovingly: <You should at least have waited until the old girl put on her hearing aid.'

Dickens, indicating the sheet of paper Dwindle was holding, enquired peremptorily <What have you got there?'

<This,' said Dwindle, triumphantly: <is a little map which shows us how to get to Holywood Heights, where at least half a dozen of the local celebrities live, including the rock group, Skylarks.'

<So what is significant about that?'

<It is a wooded hill top looking down on the village. We passed it last night coming here from Llanwyth along the coastal road.'

<That doesn't necessarily bring us any nearer the Tree-lady.'

Dwindle replied with immense satisfaction: <This is where I beg to differ. One of the residents of that district is well-known in the village for her very accomplished paintings of trees. Practically everything she produces has to do with trees­ sylvan glades, arboreal scenes of all kinds.'

Dickens said impatiently: <We are looking for a writer not a painter.'

<Writers have been known to paint, you know. And painters, conversely, have been known to write. Noel Coward, DH Lawrence, Winston Churchill...They all dabbled and daubed. Didn't you ever dabble in your spare time?'

<I'm still not convinced it's worthwhile going there.'

<Perhaps this will convince you, then,< Dwindle said, gently: <The lady's name is Megan Morgan.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Peter Laker was surprised when a letter arrived from his former agent asking him if he would like to audition for a part in a TV serial. After giving the matter some thought, he decided he could no longer face the roller-coaster nature of his former profession. He telephoned Aristo Brown to tell him of his decision and was surprised when Aristo told him that it was Elizabeth Pardieu who had suggested him for the part during a recent visit to his office. He had not been able to find work for her. But she had left a contact telephone number in Yorkshire. Peter was inordinately pleased. It seemed obvious that she wanted him to get in touch with her again.

He was sorry now that he had rebuffed her offer to come back and live with him, although he was still worried about taking on the extra responsibility of keeping her and her child. The family business, in spite of all his efforts, showed no signs of recovery. But he realised he was still in love with her and desperately wanted her back. After several days of indecision he decided to go up north to try to find her. Even if the business continued to decline, he still entertained the hope that he might one day supplement his income by writing.

He telephoned Victoria and told her he had reached the final chapter of his novel.

<I am very busy at present, Peter,' she told him. <Put it in the post and I'll have a look at it when I get a moment to spare.'

<Thanks. By the way, you remember the police inspector who was investigating your father's disappearance. He and Dwindle are off to Wales today. Dwindle wanted to make a pilgrimage to the beach where your father's clothing was found. Dickens intends to inspect a retirement property close by.'

<What on earth is Dwindle up to?'

<He is obsessed with your father's disappearance. He reckons it ruined his life.'

<Poor man. He was an excellent tutor. But I'm sure he'll get another job soon.'

<Jobs aren't all that easy to find. I finished writing the novel precisely because I may shortly have to find an alternative occupation.'

<Well don't build your hopes too high, Peter. Competition is very fierce. Send me your script and I'll give you an honest opinion.'

He was a little disappointed by her lukewarm reaction, but comforted himself with the thought that there were dozens of other publishers. How could he possibly fail when a highly successful authoress had heaped lavish praise on his work.

He telephoned the number Aristo had given him and learned from Elizabeth's mother that she was singing in a night club somewhere near Newcastle. She was vague about the name of the night club; it had something to do with a coconut grove. He felt sure he could find her from that description. He asked Mrs. Grieveson to take charge of the shop at the weekend, confiding to her that he intended to drive to Newcastle in search of his former actress girl friend, who was now a night club singer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Dickens stopped the car at a point indicated on the hand-drawn map the postmistress had given Dwindle. The ground descended steeply on the left-hand side of the road towards a dark granite cliff overhanging the sea; up on their right was a forested hill, through which a track was discernible, winding its way between a dense mass of trees towards the summit.

<This looks like it,' Dwindle said.

Dickens glanced at his watch and said brusquely: <Let's make it quick. I have to get back to visit my missus in hospital.'

He did a U-turn and parked the car on the grass verge. Looking up through the trees, he pronounced himself unwilling to take his car on such rough terrain. They set off on foot. After a while, he said in a condescending tone to Dwindle: <So what exactly are you hoping to find?'

Dwindle thoughtfully drummed on his bottom lip with two fingers of his left hand. He replied: <A lady who is interested in trees.'

<And when you have found her, what then?'

<We shall question her first about The Tree-Men of Wales and then about a certain missing publisher.'

<And if she is not forthcoming?'

Dwindle snapped impatiently: <You should be used to handling this kind of situation.'

<It's never easy getting the truth out of people.'

<Oh, come off it, Dickens. Just imagine you're still officially on the case.' And he added, mischievously: <Think how pleased Victoria will be when she learns that you've located her dad's killer.'

<I'm not worried about Victoria?'

<Are you sure?' He gazed up at Dickens, grinning hugely.

Dickens gave a noncommittal grunt.

It was soon apparent that they could have made the journey by car. The track, cut through thick woods and high clumps of rhododendrons, was a steep but negotiable, single-lane road with occasional cut-outs to enable motorists to make way for oncoming traffic. However, it became a matter of pride with both of them to continue without complaint. Dickens, feeling the strain on his calves, could not help feeling a little resentful at Dwindle's seemingly tireless progress beside him.

<How is your clockwork, Dwindle?' he enquired, jovially.

<Still running down.'

<Try and think positively. If we find this lady, you'll be able to sell the story to the newspapers and make your fortune.'

Dwindle didn't answer. He, too, was beginning to find the going difficult. He wiped his brow, as a house with a large balcony appeared through the trees. Dogs barked menacingly from behind a high fence.

<Carry on,' Dwindle said. <The lady in the post office said the lady who paints trees lives at the top of the hill.'

A few hundred yards further on the sound of rhythmic drum beats and rippling glissandi played on an electronic keyboard reached their ears. A large bungalow surrounded by a high clipped beech hedge came into view. Dwindle suggested that this might be the home of The Skylarks. He told Dickens that he had once attended one of their concerts.'

<The property looks pretty expensive around here' Dickens commented.

<It costs money to look down on one's neighbours.'

<Shrewd comment, Dwindle.' Dickens made the mistake of adding: <You should have been a policeman.'

Dwindle replied with some acerbity: <Why the hell shouldn't there be dwarf policemen.'

Dickens replied tolerantly: <Dwindle, old chap, we are dealt a hand of cards at birth and have to manage with whatever ones we are given. You're a bit smaller than the average. So what! You were given, by way of compensation, the advantage of a superior brain.'

<Superior to whose?'

<Mine, for a start,' Dickens declared, generously.

<The important question is: am I intelligent enough to home in on Wentworth's murderer?'

<I'm not yet convinced that he's dead,' Dickens replied. <I worked on this case for months and can't see why the woman who wrote all that drivel should have wanted to kill Wentworth. Aspiring authors don't usually kill publishers­ they're the only people who put bread and butter in their mouths. But if by any remote chance it turns out that Megan Morgan is the killer, I'll award you top marks for your perspicacity.'

<Don't mention fucking Top Marks to me!' Dwindle exclaimed vehemently.

They passed two large Victorian houses, each in its own forest clearing, their roofs surmounted by tall chimneys.

A red squirrel shinned up one of the fir trees in front of them.

<Don't see many of those nowadays,' Dwindle commented, pointing to it. <The greys have taken over.'

Dickens didn't answer. He was re-capturing once again the thrill of being on engaged police duty. Dwindle, in spite of his occasional fits of bad temper, seemed brighter, and was a more stimulating companion, than Sergeant Coles. The idea again flashed through his mind of opening a private detective agency.

<Why did you elect to study philosophy?' Dickens enquired.

<One of the reasons was that I wanted to know why the cards of life are distributed so unevenly. Of course it was bound to be a fruitless quest. Philosophy eventually brings total disillusionment to all who enter its portals.'

<Only if you take it too seriously.'

Dwindle responded angrily. <How else can a man take his profession but seriously!'

<Right. But you must have known philosophy was never going to come up with all the answers. Life is a total mystery­ always has been, always will be.'

<Yes. But a philosopher lives in the hope that he will eventually strip away a small part of that mystery. That is what keeps him going. Unfortunately, I didn't succeed in advancing my subject at all. I was a total failure­ a dwarf among men of high intellectual calibre.'

<Never mind, Dwindle. We are both failures in our way. My failure to crack this case really disheartened me. And it will make me look really small, if your hunch is right and we find out that in fact Megan Morgan killed Wentworth.'

They marched on in silence for a while, and then Dwindle said broodingly: <I once wrote a little book about Wittgenstein. He was the man who shook Bertrand Russell's faith in his own brand of philosophy by questioning the use of formal logic as an instrument of analysis. Both words and mathematics fail us, when we try to arrive at the truth. As Plato indicated, what we see in this world is an illusion­ a bit like stage scenery. Behind it somewhere there is another reality­ Super Reality. But we can only find it when we are dead.'

<There you are Dwindle. You have just proved there's life after death.'

<Rubbish!' he snapped back. <Just look up the definition of <dead' in a dictionary.'

They continued their climb.

Dickens turned to look back through a gap in the trees at the white-flecked, dark-blue Irish sea below. The alarming perspective made him feel giddy. He turned rapidly about and resumed climbing. If Dwindle's speculation turned out to be correct, and they were hot on the trail of Wentworth's murdereress, they were putting themselves in danger. What was the point in getting shot, he asked himself, now that his service in the police force was finished? He had sustained lead pellets in his right forearm many years before, when a young lad with an airgun had thought, mistakenly, that he had come to arrest his mother. He decided to be very circumspect when it came to questioning the lady painter, in case Dwindle's theory was correct.

Emerging from the forest, they came across a large, gracefully-proportioned Georgian house on the crest of the hill with three tall sash windows on either side of a porticoed entrance. Wisteria covered the spaces between the windows. A large conservatory had been added to one end of the house; it overlooked a garden containing a well-kept lawn with extensive flower beds displaying patterns of tulips and daffodils. Some ponies were cropping the grass in an adjoining field. Beyond the main building there were stables and outhouses.

Dickens and Dwindle walked round a white pole which barred access by motor vehicles and entered a horse-shoe shaped driveway. A BMW with darkened windows stood in the drive. Three geese appeared, strutting self-importantly towards them.

Dickens said to Dwindle.: <I'll do the talking.'

<What do you propose to say?'

<Leave it to me.'

<There's plenty of space in which to bury Wentworth's body around here,' Dwindle commented, casting his eyes around at the adjoining fields.

As they mounted a series of shallow steps leading towards the front door, Dickens drew Dwindle's attention to some paintings standing on easels in the conservatory.

A pleasant, sturdy blond woman with an Edwardian hair style answered the bell. She wore a cerise boiler suit with applique at the top and on her thighs. Her large, blue eyes stared challengingly at Dickens.

<Megan Morgan?' Dickens enquired politely.

<Yes.'

<My name is Dickens. This is Mr. Hamble. We were told in the village that you're exceptionally good at painting trees. Mr. Hamble and I own a gallery in London. We wondered whether it would be possible for us to examine your work?'

Dwindle, was staring up at Mrs. Morgan, his face expressionless.

She answered: <I just happen to have a few for sale. Do come in.'

She led them through a spacious blue-and-white tiled hall and along a narrow corridor which led into the spacious conservatory. Between the easels plants grew up to the domed glass roof. Leaning up against the side walls were numerous framed and unframed paintings. They consisted mainly of sylvan settings, with occasional studies of single trees. Dickens stopped before a painting of a Lebanon cedar and pronounced it excellent.

<I painted that in Kew Gardens.'

When they had finished studying the paintings, she asked if they would care to join her in a cup of coffee. They followed her into an airy, spacious sitting room. She left them and returned shortly, bearing an enamelled tray containing mugs of coffee.

Dickens, occupying a comfortable chintz-covered armchair, cast his eyes around the room. The furnishings consisted of a settee and three armchairs standing on a square Persian rug. A grandfather clock in one corner announced the hour in a series of deep, resonant chimes. The ghostly sound for some reason reminded Dickens of an occasion when after a particularly vicious murder in Hendon he and his colleagues had gone round the neighbourhood advising women not to open their doors until they had identified the caller.

Almost as though she had guessed his thoughts, Mrs. Morgan left the room and returned shortly, holding a large German shepherd on a leash. This is Rex­ Down, boy. Now that I'm living alone, he looks after me.'

<You lost your husband recently?' Dickens enquired, solicitously.

<Not in the sense you mean. I'm in the throes of a rather messy divorce.'

Dickens said solemnly: <I have a confession to make, Mrs. Morgan. We misled you when we said we were art dealers.'

Mrs. Morgan looked down at the floor. She said nothing at first, but then sipped her coffee. The hand holding her mug was trembling, as after a while, she enquired with a worried expression: <What is it that you want?'

Dickens said: <Did you know Algernon Wentworth.'

She remained silent.

Dwindle then asked: <Were ever you a student of The School For Novelists?'

She confessed in a small voice: <Yes.'

The dog growled.

Mrs. Morgan, reached for a handkerchief in her bag and answered: <Are you from the police?'

Dickens shook his head firmly and reassuringly.

<No, Ma'am. I'm sorry we gained entrance on false pretenses. We have, in fact. been asked by a member of Mr. Wentworth's family to try to ascertain what happened to him.'

<Supposing I refuse to say anything?'

<In that case we shall have to call in the police. First of all, though, I should like you to tell me when you last saw Mr. Wentworth alive?'

<Are you sure that he is dead?'

<It seems highly probable. I shall repeat the question: when did you last see him alive.'

<About six weeks ago.'

<Was he living here with you?'

<Yes, we were collaborating on a book. He had come here secretly from New York State.'

<Why secretly?'

<He he didn't want any publicity until the launching of a book he proposed publishing. He was helping me write it. He insisted that it would boost the sales if its publication coincided with what he called his dramatic return from the dead.'

<How long had you known Mr. Wentworth?'

<He came to see me last year before going to America. When he came back, he warned me against telling anyone that he was staying with me, in case it spoiled his plans for publicising my book. Later on, though, he admitted that he was worried about the consequences of some business deal he had made in the United States. He would never give me any details.'

<Had he been threatened?'

<I don't know. But he was very nervous. He only went out at night and never ventured into any public place. He had sworn me to secrecy regarding his presence here.'

<Why did you put up with it?'

<Because I was very fond of him. He got in touch with me in the first place after seeing an outline for a novel that I had submitted to The School For Novelists He promised that he would make it a best-seller. I believed him at first, but later I began to suspect that he was using me for his own purposes and just wanted to continue living with me in secret.'

<How did his clothes come to be on the beach at Llanwyth?' Dwindle enquired.

Mrs. Morgan looked embarrassed. She said after a moment's thought: <How do I know you are not from my husband's lawyers?'

Dwindle and Dickens looked at each other.

<You'll have to take us on trust,' Dickens said sternly.

<Why should I do that?' An obstinate expression appeared on Mrs. Morgan's face. <Unless you can offer me some proof on that score, I shall say nothing more. In fact, she said with rising anger, <I think the time has come for you to leave.'

The dog growled again. Dickens and Dwindle looked at each other.

<It's very difficult to prove that you're not something,' Dickens said almost resentfully.

Dwindle drawing his legs further up into the chair, intervened suddenly: <Are you familiar with the following words, Mrs. Morgan?' And as she turned towards him, he went on: <?Irrevocably rooted were these new children of Wales in the soil of their native land. They no longer went off gallivanting to foreign parts. Permanently anchored in one place, the tree-men could no longer engage in peripatetic sexual adventures, as their forefathers had done from time immemorial. Which suited the women down to the ground­ literally. Because the new order provided the firmest possible foundation for family life. Soon, the new tree-men, as well as supporting the timbered roofs of the houses, became adept at performing all the household chores with their tactile, prehensile twigs. Sometimes, of course, a girl's fancy would be taken by a handsome sprig of a tree. Firmly tethered to the ground, he would be incapable of resisting her advances. Paradise had at last entered the lives of the women in the New Womens' Republic Of Wales. This idyllic state of affairs lasted for several centuries, until one day a foolish maiden removed a forbidden fruit from one of the trees."'

Mrs. Morgan stared at him, looking very surprised.

<Those are the introductory words of my novel.'

A slow smile spread over Dwindle's face. <I'm a former tutor at the correspondence school. I happened one day to see what you had written and I was so impressed that your words remained in my memory. Would you accept this as proof that we are not connected in any way with your husband's lawyers.'

Mrs. Morgan nodded. <That is amazing. You must have a marvellous memory.' She nodded vigorously. < Yes, I'm satisfied now.'

<Good. Then please answer our questions, Mrs. Morgan. Your answers may be vital in our search for Algernon Wentworth. How did his clothes come to be on the beach at Llanwyth?'

Mrs. Morgan nervously entwined a handkerchief around slim and neatly manicured hands.

<Towards the end of last summer, we drove onto the beach in my car. There was no one around and so we stripped off our clothes and went in for a swim. Algy wanted to make love in the water, but it wasn't very satisfactory, so we returned to the car and made love there. He was in an ebullient mood. Afterwards, he told me to dress, which I did. He was still naked. I said: <What about you?' and he said jocularly: <Drive on, Meg. Let's give them something to talk about.' At first I thought he was joking, but he became angry and said: <Go on, woman,. drive...drive...drive.' Later on that evening, when I suggested that we should go back for his clothes, he said he wanted people to think he was dead so that when my book was published he would miraculously reappear and this would provide marvellous publicity. I know nothing about the things publishers get up to and believed him. It was only recently, when he became almost paranoid about not being seen, that I began to question him about the situation. He told me that his life was in danger. He had received threats from someone in America who wanted something returned that he did not possess. From then on he stayed in the house all day and would only go out to walk the dog after dark. About a month ago, he took Rex for a walk. After half an hour Rex came back scratching at the door. Algy wasn't with him. I went out to look for him, but I haven't seen him to this day.'

<Did you ask him what it was these people wanted?' Dickens asked.

<I did, but he wouldn't tell me. He said it might put my life in danger if he gave me the precise details.'

<Why didn't you call in the police?'

Dickens spoke in such a hectoring tone that she burst into tears. Dwindle gave him a withering look.

After making a considerable effort to compose herself, Mrs. Morgan said: <I didn't want to breach the confidence he had shown in me. If he had come back and I had notified the police in the meantime, he would never have forgiven me. I just didn't know what to do. He always insisted that the success of my book depended on my keeping his secret. I may have to give up this house when the divorce settlement comes through, because it is held on trust on behalf of my husband and his descendants. I have no income apart from the small allowance my husband makes me. He's in Australia and as a result the divorce proceedings are progressing at a very slow pace. Perhaps I should have reported Algy missing, but...' She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

<Mrs. Morgan' Dickens said, more gently this time: <Do you mind telling me if Mr. Wentworth telephoned you when he was in New York?'

<Yes, we had arranged before he went away that he would telephone me at the Majestic Hotel in Abergan.'

<Why not here?'

<Because of my divorce, I wasn't sure at that stage if I would be allowed to stay in the house.'

Dickens gazed for a moment at Mrs. Morgan's hair.

<Did Mr. Wentworth ever cut off a lock of your hair?'

Mrs. Morgan seemed surprised at the question.

<Yes, how did you know.'

<We found it at his home.'

Mrs. Morgan gave an embarrassed laugh. <Yes, he used to admire my hair. You could say he had a fetish about it.'

After a pause, Dickens said: <Do you mind if my colleague and I have a private discussion?'

<No, carry on. I'll go and put the cups in the dishwasher.'

Dickens said: <It's all right. You stay here, Mrs. Morgan. We'll take a breath of fresh air outside just for a moment.'

He looked down at Dwindle as they stood on the entrance steps and said in a measured tone: <I must give you credit, Dwindle, for finding the lady. But what do we do now? Hand the whole thing over to the police?'

Dwindle replied: <I suggest that the only good reason for notifying the police is if you think she killed him.'

Dickens shook his head.

<She had everything to lose and nothing to gain. He was going to make her a rich woman.' He added musingly: <If that was his intention and he's still alive, that could still happen. I'm going to ask her something.'

They returned to the sitting-room and Dickens addressed Mrs. Morgan: <We have decided to leave it to you to decide whether to inform the police. But first can you corroborate your story in any way?'

Mrs. Morgan thought for a moment and then said: <I have received two cards. They are signed B, which stands for Bulgy­ my pet name for him.'

She showed them two postcards. One had a picture of Blackpool Tower. The other was plain. Both were signed B and bore Manchester postmarks. Dwindle, having once received a personal letter from Wentworth, immediately recognised his handwriting.

He commented: <His daughter, Victoria, will be very relieved to learn that he is still alive.'

Mrs. Morgan said: <Algy often spoke of his daughter. He hated causing her all that needless worry.'

<We'll brief her on what has happened.' Dickens said. <We'll leave now, Mrs. Morgan, and we'll be in touch with you in due course.'

Both men remained silent, as they headed down the steep road that led to the parked car.

Dwindle eventually broke the silence, saying: <At least we have discovered something useful. Not that it helps me. I'm still redundant and unemployable.'

<Nonsense' Dickens replied. <Do you intend to sell the story to the newspapers?'

Dwindle shook his head.

<I hadn't really intended to. Anyway, it would put Wentworth's life at risk.'

<Good man, Dwindle,' Dickens said, approvingly. <Let's drive back to the hotel, pack our bags and get back to London. We'll discuss what to do next during the journey.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Dickens hummed cheerfully, as he packed his toiletries and pyjamas into a suitcase in preparation for their return to London. He had enjoyed a quick lunch in the hotel restaurant, while Dwindle, who had said he wasn't hungry, had gone to his room. Dickens now felt less guilty about his failure to solve the last case of his police career. After all, the <enemy,' as Barker referred to the local police in Dyfed, had not managed to trace Wentworth even when had been living under their very noses. It now seemed almost certain that Wentworth had fallen foul of somebody and had gone into hiding. Of course, one had to consider the possibility that he had invented the threat to his life as an excuse to get away from Mrs. Morgan­ men sometimes tired of their mistresses. He might even have changed his mind about the Tree-men of Wales. It was easy to imagine him engulfing her with praise for her literary work and deciding later that it was over-rated. The only way to discover the truth would be to find Algernon Wentworth alive and put these questions to him. But someone else must do that­ it was no longer his problem.

He telephoned Ingrid in the hospital, to tell her he would shortly be returning to London. She assured him that she was all right. The doctors had told her that she might have to take pills in future to lower her blood pressure. The cast on her ankle was quite comfortable.

He then telephoned Victoria. She was in her car on her way to the Wentworth Press office in High Holborn. <Good and bad news,' he warned her. <Your father may still be alive. He was shacked up secretly with one of your correspondence school students, a Mrs. Megan Morgan, in a place between Llanwyth and Darach. We know he was alive up until six weeks ago and then he disappeared. We think he may have been threatened by someone he met when he was in New York.'

<Well, thank you very much, Henry. That's great news! You're a wonderful man. It was good of you to go to all this trouble after you have retired. '

Dickens replied: <For you, Victoria, I'd do anything. But I have to admit that much of the credit belongs to Dwindle.'

<Where are you speaking from?'

<I'm in an hotel near Darach. I shall be leaving for London soon.'

<Will the police re-open the case, in the light of what you have discovered?' <I'm not sure we should tell the police. Your father, it seems, is convinced that his life is in danger. He wanted everyone to think he was dead for his own safety.'

<It's a very unsatisfactory state of affairs...Tell me something.'

<Yes.'

<Is it possible for you to make an effort to trace him? I would pay you handsomely to do so.'

<I couldn't take money from you, Victoria.'

<It wouldn't be from me. Wentworth Press is anxious to get its chief executive back safe and sound.'

Dickens paused.

<I'll think about your proposal. In the meantime I'll have another word on the telephone with Megan Morgan, the lady who has been hiding him... Oh, by the way, I still love you, Victoria.'

<Pretend it never happened, Henry. You have much better things to do with your life.'

Dickens then rang Mrs. Morgan. She agreed to keep silent about Wentworth's stay with her and said she would continue to work on her book, in the hope that her publisher-lover would eventually return to her.

Victoria's offer to pay him to find her father set Dickens thinking. In spite of the plans he had long nurtured to expand the model railway, he was still worried about how he was going to fill up the long hours of retirement. Victoria's words, <You have better things to do with your life,' made him eager to find a new and worthwhile challenge.

He knocked on Dwindle's door. There was no answer. He turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

A chill wind blew in strongly from the open window. Dwindle was sitting on the window ledge, his hands on the sill. A loop of flex round his neck was attached to a branch of a tree outside the window. An electric fire appeared to be dangling in mid-air. Just as Dickens entered the room, he launched himself forward. Dickens raced ahead and caught his collar just in time. He felt a massive strain on his arm muscles, as he took his full weight. Hanging in his grasp, Dwindle kicked and struggled, squealing like a frightened rabbit. The smell of brilliantine in his greying hair reached Dickens, as with an enormous effort, he hoisted him back onto the sill. A spluttering sound issued from Dwindle's throat. Dickens heaved him by his collar back into the room, where he collapsed struggling on the floor, his face red and disfigured with anger.

<What the hell do you think you are doing, man? Have you no thought for anybody else!' Dickens rebuked him.

Striving to catch his breath, Dwindle staggered to his feet He clutched at his throat, on which a pink weal had appeared. His eyes bulging with temper and fear. Dickens picked him up bodily and threw him onto the bed.

<Stay there,' he commanded. <I'm going to order a stiff drink.'

He was about to order two double whiskeys on the telephone, when Dwindle in a hoarse, subdued voice, said: 'Make mine a beer.'

There was an envelope addressed to My Darling Maureen on the dressing-table. Another note scribbled on a sheet of hotel notepaper was addressed to Inspector Dickens (Rtd). He picked it up. It read: <Have gone to seek Super Reality. Will no doubt meet you there in due course. Dwindle.'

He screwed up both missives and threw them into the waste bin.

<We all end up eventually, Dwindle, in the waste-bin. There's no point in going sooner than you have to.'

Dwindle massaging his neck, said, scowling: <It won't make the slightest difference, Dickens. I'll have another go soon.'

Dickens adjured him, solemnly. <Always wait for the good news before you decide to leave this world, Dwindle. because once you've jumped your chances of hearing any have gone absolutely.'

<At least I won't have to listen to any more of your incredibly inane remarks.'

<Supposing I told you I had good news for you.'

Dwindle grimaced sourly.

It took him a little while for him to grasp the significance of Victoria Wentworth's offer to pay Dickens to find her father. A little longer to digest Dickens's offer of a partnership in a detective agency. Dickens pointed out they would be offering a useful service and creating employment for themselves in the process. They had shown that they could work well together, When Dwindle objected that he had no experience, Dickens declared that he had already made a promising start by finding the Tree-lady.

Not until they were halfway to London did Dwindle begin to accept that Dickens was serious in his offer. He brightened up as the idea gradually sank into his mind. He enquired, as Dickens drove into the forecourt of a petrol service station: <How does <The D and D Agency' grab you? We could have a camera lens as a logo.'

Dickens smiled and said: <That'll do nicely.'

However, Dwindle's doubts returned as they approached London and he said <I don't see how experience in marking philosophy papers can possibly help in running a private enquiry agency.'

Dickens said in a kindly voice: <That's up to you, Dwindle. You found the authoress, now you have to find her publisher.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

'What's the next job?' Dwindle enquired. He was squatting on a desk in a small office just off Leather Lane in the City of London. They had taken the office on a short lease at a nominal rent in a building which was shortly to be torn down.

'Did you put our ads in the directories?' Dickens asked, in a preoccupied manner. He was standing up, reading an American magazine called Movie and Video News that he had picked up from the seat of the Underground train on his way to the office.

'Yes,' Dwindle replied impatiently: 'but they won't appear till next year. I've spent right up to our agreed budget on advertising in various magazines. But where do we start?'

'At the beginning,' Dickens said unhelpfully, looking around.

The contents of their new office consisted of an empty filing cabinet, the desk on which Dwindle was presently sitting crosslegged, and a bookcase containing books on criminology and police procedures which Dickens had brought from his home in Crouch End, in the hope that they might impress clients. A computer, as yet unplugged, stood on a large tea chest containing mugs, tea-making equipment and some tea towels and hand towels donated by Maureen. Two flat-packed, self-assembly office chairs were to be delivered later that morning.

'?Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?"' Dickens suddenly quoted from the magazine he was reading. He went on: 'Remember Jonathan Creighton, who taught at The School For Novelists? It says here his book, Death In The  P M, is to be made into a film.'

'Can't wait to see it,' Dwindle sneered.

'It's quite a good yarn­ a variant on the theme of Thomas Becket.'

'And how is that going to help us find Algy Wentworth?'

Dickens put the magazine on top of the filing cabinet. 'I don't know why anyone should want to kill him, unless, like Thomas Becket, he'd been foolish enough to offend someone very powerful.'

Dwindle was looked at him with a quizzical expression and said 'Hmm.'

'What's the "Hmm" for,' Dickens enquired.

Dwindle replied cheerfully: 'You may have hit the nail on the head. But your theory will lead precisely nowhere unless we can identify that person.'

'I shall probably have to go to New York to find out,' Dickens said, broodingly, 'and that will take a huge chunk out of our fee.'

'One of us will have to go, not necessarily you,' Dwindle said in a tone of measured reproof. 'But we don't have to start squandering money yet. We can use the computer to scan through the list of all business directors connected with movies and publishing, the areas in which Wentworth was interested. We can then use the telephone to narrow the list further. At least, then, when one of us goes to New York, he'll be armed with the appropriate information.'

'Do you know how to hack with a computer?' Dickens asked, obviously impressed by Dwindle's expertise in this area.

'Browsing through international data bases isn't hacking,' Dwindle corrected him, with some asperity. 'But let's go through this again. You're reasonably sure that it is through his United States connections that Wentworth walked into trouble.'

'That's the best theory we have at the moment. Incidentally, we'll have to be extremely careful with our money. Clayton said he won't advance any more unless we can show some positive signs of progress... And as a business we shall need to keep proper accounts.'

'Only if we stay in business more than a year,' Dwindle reminded him. 'And that is beginning to look problematical.'

Dickens smiled. 'Okay. Let's get our priorities right. How about a cup of tea. The kettle is in the tea chest, Dwindle.'

'I'm not your tea boy,' Dwindle grumbled. Nevertheless, he clambered down from the desk, removed the computer and rummaged around inside the tea chest until he had found the necessary equipment.

'No tea bags,' he reported grumpily soon afterwards, and went in search of some.

While he was away, Dickens thought about their new venture. He was pleased that Dwindle had joined him. He had told Dwindle's wife about Dwindle's suicide attempt, and because of this she had encouraged Dwindle to take on this new role, believing that it would raise his spirits. Dwindle had matched Dickens's contribution to the start-up costs of the new business, using his redundancy payment from the correspondence school.

Dickens had experienced rather more difficulty in persuading Ingrid to accept the idea. Her chief complaint was that he would be away from home too much. Dickens, however, overcame her objections by promising to work only three days a week. She was mollified when he went ahead and purchased the cottages on which she had set her heart.

Dickens's mind returned to the problem. What kind of villainy had Wentworth got himself mixed up in? Depravity has a fairly limited menu. It was difficult to imagine a publisher whose sole claim to notoriety lay in publishing his daughter's erotic novels getting involved in drugs, gun-running or prostitution?

'So what do you think, Dickens?' Dwindle enquired pertly, as they stood drinking mugs of tea.

'Wentworth put some money into a film company once,' Dickens said musingly. 'They made soft-porn films. I know this because Peter Laker once complained that Wentworth was one of a group of businessmen who had watched his actress girl friend taking a bath.'

'Nakedness isn't necessarily pornographic,' Dwindle said dryly.

Dickens refused to be drawn into a polemical argument. He still worried about Dwindle's fitness for the kind of work on which they would be engaged. But he was confident that his sharp mind would be an immense asset. He had been particularly impressed at how Dwindle had gained Megan Morgan's confidence by quoting verbatim from her book. It had taken him weeks while he was at school to learn the opening paragraph of Nicholas Nickelby, but Dwindle had apparently memorised the opening words of The Tree-men in a few moments.

Every ounce of their combined powers of thought and energy would be needed to survive in the harsh world of detective work. He was gambling that Dwindle would come up with ideas that would make up for their woeful lack of capital and business experience. He had already demonstrated a useful familiarity with information technology, and had shown himself capable of word processing at a formidable speed, thus obviating the need to pay a secretary. The challenge they were now facing was to find Wentworth before the money Clayton had paid them ran out. He had cannily refused to pay a daily fee; instead he had provided a lump sum which must last until he decided whether it would be worth making a further outlay.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

'Film producers,' Dwindle said, 'are renowned for the extreme lengths to which they will go in order to raise finance for their projects.'

The computer was plugged in and linked into the world wide web.

Dickens had baulked at first at the cost of Broadband but Dwindle had persuaded him that it would eventually save money. The chairs had arrived and had been assembled. There was a small office stool, on which Dickens was perched uncomfortably, and a larger seat with arms which Dwindle had commandeered. He was sitting on it, his spectacles on his bulbous nose, examining notes on the relative merits of search engines. Dickens had bought the executive chair for himself, but had reluctantly decided to allow Dwindle to keep it because sitting behind the desk his diminutive size would be less noticeable.

'So, you're suggesting that Wentworth made contact with Sabatini when he was in New York State writing his memoirs.'

Dwindle replied 'Yes. It's possible that Wentworth was then dragged into a business deal that he later came to regret.'

'What kind of a business deal?'

'He might, for example, have persuaded Arturo Sabatini that Megan Morgan's book would make a good movie.'

'Arturo?'

'That's his first name. I looked him up in the New York list of registered companies. He is fifty-seven, has a wife and two daughters and considerable oil interests.'

'So why should he want to kill Wentworth?'

'That,' Dwindle said, portentously, 'is where we must start using our imagination. You quoted Jonathan Creighton's book yesterday, in which a journalist is put on a hit list simply because the prime minister has expressed antagonism towards him. Let us suppose that a rich and powerful man in America resented something Wentworth said or did and ordered him to be killed. This might explain why he went into hiding.'

'He could have asked us for police protection.'

'He may have decided that the only way to be completely safe was to go into hiding.' Dwindle added. 'Anyway, it gave him a jolly good excuse to go and live with the voluptuous Megan Morgan.'

'Okay. Where do we go from here?' Dickens asked, fretfully. He was beginning to wish he had remained faithful to his original intention of spending his retirement watching model trains go round their tracks.

'Back to where it all started. Did you harbour suspicions about any of my colleagues in the correspondence school?'

'I suspected Laker at first for obvious reasons. But the fact that he had written a similar story turned out to be pure coincidence. Harlesden I wasn't sure about, but his trips from Denham airfield turned out to be completely innocent.'

'Did you check whether he had flown from any other airfields?'

'No.'

'Have you any idea how much it costs to hire even the smallest aircraft?'

Dickens paused before answering; 'Quite a lot I imagine.'

'Absolutely right. We used to speculate sometimes on how Harlesden could afford to fly on his comparatively small salary. We supposed he was doing it out of his savings, but with a wife and children to keep it must have been difficult. Supposing I got in touch with him­ without revealing that I am a private detective, of course­ and asked him about his flying activities.'

Dickens nodded assent.

Dwindle telephoned Harlesden's bedsit and excitedly waved his hand at Dickens as Harlesden answered.

'Dwindle speaking, Cyril. Just to compare notes. Have you got another job yet? That sounds hopeful. Yes, I'm onto something. Listen. A friend of mine wants a parcel delivered to someone on the continent. I've no idea what's in it, but he's prepared to pay a good price. Would it be possible for you to hire an aircraft?' He paused and then said: 'No, it's all above board, as far as I can tell. Okay. I'll be in touch.'

Dwindle's face had gone puce.

He looked at Dickens.

'Yes, he's in the market for a delivery by air. It sounds as though he might have done something similar in the past.'

Dickens replied dryly. 'That is pure speculation.'

'Is it possible to check whether he has flown to the continent in a hired aircraft recently?'

'A friend of mine in the Yard might be able get that information for us.'

Entering Scotland Yard to make the necessary request, Dickens met by chance a detective inspector known as 'Filthy Fred, so called because he was in charge of the department which dealt with obscene material. Detective Inspector Fred Sloman was fair-haired, solemn-faced, rather on the short side for a policeman.

'How's retirement treating you?' he asked Dickens.

'Pretty good,' Dickens replied. 'Anything moving on the porno-front?'

'Not much. Paedophile stuff on the Internet, of course. And they're smuggling in porno magazines and videos as well.

'How do they smuggle them in?'

'They mix up the porno-magazines with legitimate ones, hoping Customs won't open them. And they send videos in by air, because they don't take up much space and they can be copied easily.'

'Ah, I suspect that someone I know has done a bit of this in the past. Do you mind if I look at your files. I'm doing a bit of private-eye work.'

'Come on into my office.'

Scanning the list of suspects on the computer, Dickens was delighted to discover that Harlesden had on one occasion been caught smuggling in pornographic videos. No action had been taken against him, because the videos found in his possession were, as Detective Inspector Sloman put it, 'just about on the right side of the law.' He had been let off with a caution.

Dickens returned to the office well satisfied with his morning's work. Dwindle, all smiles when he arrived, told him there had been an enquiry by a woman who wanted to trace a missing person. 'Says she can't pay much. I've taken her telephone number.' He then enquired: 'How did you get on?'

Dickens told him that Harlesden had been caught, but not prosecuted, for evading Customs duty.

'So how does this advance our enquiry?' Dwindle asked with a frown.

'We are gradually building up a chain of evidence. Let's examine it in detail: Your former boss had dealings with a movie producer, and movies are turned into videos for home use. The producer in question turned out soft-porn movies, in which Peter Laker's girl friend took part. Wentworth has sold Sabatini the movie rights to a novel on a previous occasion. It is possible that Megan Morgan's book was the subject of discussion between them when Wentworth was in New York.'

'Her book may not be pornographic,' Dwindle objected.

'No. but it might present cinematic opportunities for creating that kind of stuff.'

Dwindle looked doubtful. Suddenly he banged his forehead. 'I've just remembered that we had a fire in the warehouse at St. Albans. Someone said at the time that some videos had caught fire...' He paused and then went on excitedly: 'Perhaps Algy Wentworth realised that they might incriminate him if they were found on his premises, so he or someone acting on his behalf, destroyed them.'

'That's possible,' Dickens said approvingly. 'I never got around to investigating the warehouse. But it all hangs together. It does suggest that Wentworth was interested in the video market and imported some of the more steamy kind to investigate their potential. His philosophy was always give the public exactly what they want. No harm in that I suppose,' he added, remembering Victoria's raunchy novels. 'But why should he hide from the world? He is the sort of man who would have enjoyed fighting an obscenity charge, knowing the publicity it attracts. It must have been something worse than soft porn. The old rascal might have been up to something really nasty.'

'His company are paying us to find him, not judge him,' Dwindle reminded him gently.

'Yes. All we know at present is that he's probably up north somewhere. It looks as though we'll have to go up there and try to find him.'

*

Dwindle felt self-conscious as he walked into the lounge of the flying club which Harlesden's landlady had said was one of his regular haunts. Dwindle had once turned down Cyril's offer to take him up on a flight, concerned that his diminutive size would make it difficult for him to look out of the cockpit. He found Harlesden, wearing a well-cut navy-blue blazer, sitting up at the bar, scanning the Situations Vacant columns in a newspaper.

'What on earth are you doing here, Dwindle?' he enquired with a look of intense surprise.

Dwindle clambered onto the stool beside him and said mysteriously: 'Dickens sent me to ask you a few questions. You remember the police inspector?'

'I heard on the grapevine that he had retired.'

'Yes, but he has had word that Wentworth may still be alive, and that his life is in danger.'

'Dickens got all he's going to get out of me,' Harlesden said, glowering at Dwindle. 'What right has he got to ask you to question me?' He was beginning to look very angry.

'Don't worry, Cyril,' Dwindle said placatingly. 'He's not after you, but he thinks you might be able to come up with some useful information.'

'What kind of information?'

'I believe you flew in some videos for Wentworth­ from Holland was it?'

'I don't know what the hell you are talking about.'

'Keep your voice down, Cyril,' Dwindle whispered: 'This is all very hush hush. But it won't hurt you to tell us what you know. It might save Wentworth's life. Dickens got information that you brought some videos over for Wentworth, which were subsequently burnt in a fire. He's not in the least interested in that aspect of it. But he says he might ask his former colleagues to question you again, if you fail to come up with some answers. I'm dying for a cup of tea?' he added, in order to sound less menacing.

Harlesden motioned to the barman who had just appeared and requested two cups of tea. 'Bring them over to the table, Charlie.'

He got down from his stool and invited Dwindle to follow him.

From his new seat by the window, Dwindle observed a silver, high-wing aircraft taxying in. Far away, a small aircraft was coming in to land against a background of pink-stained strato-cumulus clouds. He turned to face Harlesden, who was regarding him anxiously

'Don't look so worried, Cyril. I guarantee if you answer our questions, no harm will come to you. We know you broke Customs regulations on one occasion. But nobody's in the least interested in that. What Dickens wants desperately to know is what was in the videos that perished in the fire?'

'What makes you think I know?' Harlesden said, languidly lighting up a cigarette.

'If I was delivering some videos that I suspected might be hot stuff I'd put them through my video-recorder before handing them on.'

Harlesden smiled a complacent smile.

'They weren't all that remarkable, if I remember rightly. They consisted of a series of short films called Men In Business Suits. They all took it in turn to maul around a naked lady­ an amazingly good-looker, who danced and sang at the beginning and end of each film. Quite harmless, really. I couldn't see what the fuss was all about.'

'How many of them were there?'

'Eight, if I remember correctly. They were all on the same theme. They would turn some people on, I suppose.'

'Did Wentworth ask you to get them?'

'Yes, he said he had a film director contact in Rotterdam who wanted to send him samples of a film in which he, Wentworth, had taken a financial interest. He paid me well for my trouble. Actually, it was jolly good fun that little jaunt to Rotterdam. I'd have done it for nothing.'

'Why didn't he send you over on a commercial flight to get them?'

'Perhaps he was under the impression that they were hotter than they turned out to be. I still can't understand why he wanted them destroyed.'

'So you started the fire?'

Harlesden looked up at the ceiling for a moment, with a noncommittal expression. Then pushing his face into Dwindle's, he whispered conspiratorially: 'Let's change the subject, shall we. I suppose Dickens is still sweet on Victoria.'

'Possibly,' Dwindle admitted.

'And you, Dwindle? What's in it for you?'

'I'm a gumshoe now, Cyril.'

Harlesden, giving a sceptical grin, said: 'Pull the other one, Dwindle.'

He glanced towards the bar and shouted: 'Where's that cup of tea, Charlie?'

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Elizabeth Pardieu, also known as Sue Cuddly, was sitting in the dressing room, a tiny, enclosed area adjoining the club kitchens. It contained a chair, an oval mirror and an ancient wardrobe, which she had opened on only one occasion and immediately closed because it had an unpleasant smell. She was making up for her singing-cum-strip routine. Alan Harrison, the club bouncer, knocked on the door and entered. A few years younger than his brother, the proprietor, he was a muscular man, with thinning black hair, a large paunch and a slightly bemused expression. He watched her every move while she was on stage, listened to every inflexion in her voice, and lost no opportunity to express his heartfelt admiration for her artistry. He was totally dominated by his older brother. She felt sorry for him. Today he looked even more anxious than usual.

<What do you want, Alan?'

<I'm a bit worried, Sue.'

<What about?'

<There's an American come in. He looks as though he's got a shooter.'

<As long as he's got money, does it matter?'

<Of course it matters. But I daren't tackle him, in case he pulls it on me.'

<Have you told Harry.'

<He's not here tonight. His wife's ill.'

'Why not phone the police?'

'Harry would kill me if I called in the cops. It's the last thing he wants just when his licence is coming up for renewal.' <Okay. Perhaps you're imagining things. We'll just carry on as normal. Okay?'

<Okay, Sue.'

Alan withdrew.

Elizabeth dismissed the whole matter from her mind, telling herself that Alan was a pathetic creature whose suspicions were probably unfounded. She noticed a man who fitted Alan's description sitting alone at a front table, as she went through her routine. He was a thin man with hollow cheeks and a hatchet jaw. He smoked a cheroot as he watched her intently. She was used to the rapt, goggle-eyed attention of men in the audience. It disturbed her that this man watched her almost dispassionately. At one stage he produced a camera, but refrained from photographing her, when Alan stepped out from the side of the stage and pointed to a sign which said: Cameras not allowed.

When the show was over, and she had dressed in a jersey and ornamented jeans, she sat at the bar. The stranger came and sat beside her and said: <Have you ever acted in movies.'

<What's it to you?' she replied.

<Nut'n,' he said in a Texas drawl. <But I reckon I could make a big star out of you.'

<I bet you tell that to all the girls.'

<My boss is a film producer and he asks me to keep a look out for pretty girls like you who can act an' all. Can I buy you a drink?'

She shook her head and said: <Who's your boss?'

<That's a secret for the moment.'

<biz people are never shy with their names.'

<You know your way around, then, honey.'

<A little.'

<You're Elizabeth Pardieu, aren't you.'

<No.' Elizabeth experienced a moment of fear.

<Arturo Sabatini.'

<What?' Elizabeth pretended not to recognise the name of the man who had produced the series of short movies in which she had once acted.

<He's a big guy in the movie business.'

<You're just making it up.'

<No. He's big, lady. Real big. He could sure put you into the big time.'

<I bet he could. Why don't you do your talent-spotting elsewhere.'

<You've no interest?'

<None whatsoever.'

She stood up and moved away. But he held her arm in a firm grip. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Alan moving towards them. She tugged at her arm until it was free and then rubbing it, whispered: <If you carry on like this you'll get thrown out. And there are several plain-clothes policemen here who'd love to have a go at you.'

The Texan apologised loudly and said: <Listen, lady. I'm very sorry if I have offended you.'

He proffered her a card, which she stared at disdainfully, and said: <Any time you feel like auditioning for a big part, gimme a call.'

Alan came forward, took the card, tucked it into the top pocket of his tuxedo and said: <You had better beat it, brother. You obviously don't know how to handle a lady.'

The Texan smiled and said slowly and placatingly: <I guess I'll learn.'

He stood up and slowly walked out.

So what was Clint Eastwood after?' Alan asked, watching his retreating back.

Elizabeth shrugged.

<He's just a phoney who thinks he can pull birds by offering them parts in films.'

<I'll tell you one thing, Sue. His gun isn't a phoney.'

<Then why were you going to have a go at him? That was a bit stupid.'

<For you, Sue, I'd do anything,' Alan said with a sad smile.

Elizabeth had a feeling that he meant it,

<Nice to have you around, Alan.'

And as a reward for his devotion she let him run her home in his car when the club closed.

CHAPTER FORTY

Victoria was delighted to learn from Dickens that her father was still alive and drove the next day to Darach to meet Megan Morgan. After swearing her to secrecy, Mrs. Morgan showed her the postcards Wentworth had sent her. The postmarks suggested to Victoria that her father might be in hiding in the Manchester area. It occurred to her that he might have been helped by a cousin, a solicitor by the name of Gerald Walpole, who had handled some of his property deals. She telephoned Walpole and informed him that she had engaged a private enquiry agency to help her locate her father. At first he declined to meet Dickens and Dwindle, insisting that he had no idea of Wentworth's whereabouts. Victoria, however, eventually prevailed upon him to grant Dickens and Dwindle an interview. They travelled to see him on an early morning train.

'What a bore!' Dickens complained as soon as the train started its rhythmic jog towards Manchester.

'I thought you were keen on railway trains.'

'There's a world of difference between real and model trains. Time seems endless when you're travelling in a real one.'

'I have a theory about time.'

Dickens opened his Daily Telegraph.

Dwindle in a talkative mood, droned on remorselessly, so that Dickens could not escape his words: 'We unconsciously measure time in direct relation to our age. When a baby is two hours old, two hours seems­ is­ an eternity. Can you remember being a baby, Dickens?'

Dickens remained absorbed in the headlines.

Dwindle continued, as though convinced that his thoughts were too important to be ignored: 'I don't suppose you can. At twenty years of age a two-hour journey still seems like a long time to a young man. But not nearly as long as it did when he was a baby. The two-hour journey time is now divided in his mind by the twenty years he has already lived. When he is fifty, his subjective impression of the passing of two hours will be twenty over fifty; that is to say two-fifths of the time of the previous journey. If you could live to be a hundred, Dickens, a trip to Manchester would pass in a flash. The clear implication is that only centenarians should travel British Rail.'

He chuckled at his own joke.

Dickens pleaded, 'Be a good chap and read your newspaper.'

'Dickens,' Dwindle said in mock reproach. 'You're very ungrateful. You complain that you're bored and when I give you the benefit of my wisdom you refuse to listen.'

Dickens grimaced and bent over his newspaper again.

'Don't bother to read all that frivolous nonsense, Dickens. Do some solid thinking for a change. We could solve this case before we reach Manchester, if we put our mind to it.'

Dickens scowled and held up his newspaper, creating a paper curtain between himself and his partner.

Dwindle allowed his attention to drift for a while to an expanse of thigh displayed by a long-legged girl sitting ahead of him in the carriage. She was wearing tights with an apricot sheen. He mused again on his partiality for tall women, assuring himself that nature insisted on a mutual attraction between short men and tall women to ensure the human race did not grow to the sky. He then turned his attention to the Times crossword puzzle.

Half an hour later when it was complete, he read upside down a clue in the crossword with which Dickens was struggling. 'A change of letter turns something broken into a seeker of clues.' Dwindle tapped his knee and said: 'How about 'detective'­ something broken is defective, isn't it.'

Dickens grunted and entered the word. He put the newspaper down and looked out of the window, resenting Dwindle's aptitude for crosswords as much as his fondness for quirky theorizing.

'Do you find the sudden appearance of the word 'detective' an odd coincidence, Dickens?'

'Not really,' Dickens declared. 'I hope from now on you're going to work hard at being one.'

'Have no doubt on that score. Incidentally, I have a theory about coincidences.'

Dickens shrugged, but didn't answer. He pulled an empty pipe from his pocket and sucked on it disconsolately.

'Heaven must be chock-a-block full of coincidences,' Dwindle went on. Imagine living in Eternity and seeing everything repeating itself unvaryingly. A gambler would be bored out of his skull! I have a theory that as we get older­ and consequently nearer to Eternity­ coincidences happen to us more often.'

Dwindle laughed at his thought. Dickens grimaced and put up his open newspaper.

When he put it down, Dwindle still had an inane smile on his face. Dickens hoped he would keep his thoughts to himself. Dwindle, however, leaning forward to get a clearer view of the mini-skirted legs, enquired: 'Why is an egg as hairless as Julia's leg?'

'What the hell are you talking about?' Dickens demanded, thoroughly exasperated.

'Just musing on one of my favourite topics­ women's legs. I find the best way to see any problem in a new light is to take it out of its familiar context, shake it about and then turn it upside down...' He added with a serious mien: 'Getting back to today's business, it's obviously going to be extremely difficult to persuade Gerald Walpole to let us see Wentworth, even supposing that he knows where he is.'

'He has agreed to see us,' Dickens reminded him.

'Only because Victoria put pressure on him. He insists that it is most unlikely that he can help us in any way.'

'So you think we're on a fool's errand.'

'It is perfectly possible.'

'Okay. Okay,' Dickens said resignedly. 'Let's go over the ground again. As you say, one may presume that Wentworth is living somewhere without a telephone, which would explain why he contacted Megan by postcard. He is almost certainly in hiding. One can certainly infer from what has happened that his enemy is very rich and powerful. It just occurred to me a moment ago that perhaps the best way we can convince Walpole that we are acting in Wentworth's best interests is to quote from Megan Morgan's book again.'

A smile spread over Dwindle's face.

Dickens said, solemnly: 'I hope you can still remember the words.'

Dwindle then fell to musing about the fact that had it not been for Dickens's presence of mind he would not be enjoying an adventure more engrossing than anything that had happened to him since his boyhood days. Although his IQ was higher than his partner's, events had proved that he couldn't match Dickens for common sense. One day he would write a monograph on the theme of intelligence versus wisdom. Meanwhile, he supposed he ought to stop teasing Dickens. But mocking him seemed to be the only way of combating his assumption that his police experience automatically made him the senior partner.

*

The train pulled in to Piccadilly Station. Walpole's office was situated nearby. They set off on foot at a fast pace. The solicitor's secretary, a severe-looking lady, her grey hair in an unflattering bun, ushered them into a gloomy office containing heavy mahogany furniture. Bulky files lay on every available surface. Behind the desk at which Gerald Walpole was sitting was a massive bookcase full of law books. The solicitor, tall, slim, about sixty, with iron-grey hair and a hooked nose, invited them to sit down. There were heavy brown pouches under his brooding eyes. Glancing at an old-fashioned wall-clock, he said 'You have ten minutes, gentlemen.'

Dickens said with heavy seriousness: 'This is George Hamble, an eminent philosopher who has recently become a partner in the D and D Agency. I am a retired police inspector. We have been retained by Wentworth Press to search for Mr. Algernon Wentworth, their chief executive. I believe his daughter, Victoria Worth, has been in touch with you.' He went on to explain how they had come across Megan Morgan.

'The idea of Algernon Wentworth going into hiding seems utterly preposterous. I know Algy well and he would never dream of doing anything illegal.'

'We didn't suggest that he had,' Dickens said patiently. 'But we believe that he is in considerable danger. Some powerful person or organization apparently wants to get rid of him. There is always the possibility that they may get him before we find him.'

Walpole coughed and blew his nose.

'I wouldn't like anything to happen to him,' he said, in a hoarse voice. 'But what evidence do you have for the amazing story you have just told me.'

'The fact that he disappeared last year, abandoning his daughter, his friends and his business tends to confirm Mrs. Morgan's story. His clothes, as you know, were found on a Welsh beach, but we have proof that until a month ago he was still alive. It is clear that he was desperately afraid and had gone to elaborate lengths to make people think he was dead. He wouldn't do this without good reason. We wish to do everything we can to help and protect him. I am bound to ask if he has communicated with you.'

Walpole examined both men from under hooded eyes and said: 'I don't know what all this is about. It is certainly not part of my job to go looking for missing clients.' He glanced up at the clock again. 'The whole thing is very puzzling. I don't think there is anything further I can tell you.' He added after a short pause: 'Your time is up.'

Before rising from his chair, Dickens pleaded: 'Victoria Wentworth said she was sure that you would do everything within your power to help her father. My partner will write down an extract from a book which once greatly impressed Mr. Wentworth. If he should contact you at any time, perhaps you would be so good as to quote the words to him. They will reassure him­ and perhaps they will reassure you­ that we are on his side.'

Walpole, holding the tips of his fingers together on top of the desk, watched impassively as Dwindle wrote down the opening words of Megan Morgan's book. He gave a cursory glance at the piece of paper and enquired: 'How long do you propose staying in Manchester?'

'As long as it is necessary to find Algernon Wentworth.'

Walpole rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said with a dubious expression: 'Give me a contact address, just in case I should hear from him.'

Dickens gave the name of their hotel. They shook hands and left.

'What do you think?' Dickens asked, as they descended the staircase?'

'He's playing his cards close to his chest. But if he is in touch with Wentworth, he'll have to check out what I have written with Wentworth. It might be a while before we hear from him. solicitors are never in a hurry.'

'Dickens said. 'Let's try a meal at the hotel. I'm starving.'

They were summoned to the telephone soon after they sat down for lunch. A woman identifying herself as an employee of Gerald Walpole, said she would pick them up at three-thirty p.m. in a car and gave the registration number. They hastily finished their meal.

As the Mercedes drew up outside the hotel, Dwindle noticed that the young woman driver bore a strong resemblance to Walpole. She invited them to get into the back seat of the car, and declared: 'In ten minutes I am going to stop and ask you to put on these blindfolds.' She displayed two black eye-shields that were lying on the seat beside her.

Dwindle remarked. 'Does your dad think we're in MI5.'

'My dad!' She laughed and said: 'I can never hide the fact that I'm his daughter­ we do look so much alike. I'm Vanessa Walpole, by the way. I'm a law student and I've taken the afternoon off. I gather you two gentlemen are going to see Victoria Worth's father. Incidentally I love her books. How's he got himself into this scrape?'

'I wish we knew,' Dwindle remarked. 'We're doing our best to find out.'

A few minutes later, Vanessa asked them to don the blindfolds. 'It's just a precaution. Daddy says if you peek, I'm to turn round and go straight back.'

Dickens and Dwindle obeyed.

Ten minutes later, they were instructed to remove them. They were parked outside a building in a run-down part of the City. A lean yellow dog just ahead of them was investigating the contents of a dustbin. Some of the windows of the three-storey tenement building were boarded up. Paint on the front doors and window-frames was peeling, giving a general impression of neglect. They got out of the car and skirted an abandoned, rusty Morris Oxford squatting on its axles. Vanessa led them into the building and their footsteps echoed hollowly, as they climbed two flights of uneven wooden stairs to which a few fragments of carpet adhered.

She paused outside a door numbered seven and knocked.

The door was opened cautiously. A tubby, almost bald, elderly man with a long white beard peered at them through thick spectacles. He was wearing a pair of corduroy slacks and an ancient tattered woollen cardigan. But his shoes, Dickens noticed, were hand-made of crafted and honed leather. Wentworth smiled when he saw Dwindle and said in a voice that was meant to be hearty but somehow didn't quite succeed: 'Ah, my distinguished biographer of Wittgenstein. Welcome to my humble abode.'

Vanessa said from behind them: 'Algy, these men say they may be able to help you. I'll wait downstairs in the car.'

The small room they entered was carpeted and comfortably furnished with a sofa-bed, a bookcase full of books, a table with a pink Formica top and a single bentwood chair. Mahler's Sixth symphony was issuing from a handsome Bang and Olufsen hi fi unit. A blue-eyed Persian cat sitting on the table stared at them dispassionately. Wentworth switched off the music and invited both men to sit on the sofa-bed.

He said: 'I believe you have a message from my daughter.'

Dickens coughed and said: 'Yes, she sends her love and hopes to see you soon. Perhaps I should explain­ I'm a former police inspector. I was working on your disappearance until I retired from the force. Mr. Hamble and I recently set up a private enquiry agency. We are acting on instructions from your publishing firm, which is concerned for your welfare and would like you back at the helm. As you will have gathered from the message we sent you, we have been in touch with Mrs. Morgan, who is also very concerned about you. We understand from her that you were being threatened. Can you enlighten us further?'

Wentworth shook his head slowly and said: 'You know being holed up here is not nearly as much of a hardship as I thought it would be. When Walpole showed me this place and suggested that I should come and live here I was horrified. But­' he went on in a tone of wonderment­ 'it isn't bad at all! I have time to think. I read books and listen to music. I am busy writing the autobiography I started while I was in America. The last part, in which I give an account of how I came to meet Megan Morgan, is by far the most interesting and entertaining. In fact, I am thinking of issuing it separately under the title: 'The Publisher Who Knew Too Much.' You will understand the reference when I read part of it to you. It's ironic, isn't it, that I can only remain alive by letting everyone think I'm dead! I've already had the singular pleasure of seeing my own obituary in the newspapers. I am relying on you, gentlemen, to ensure that I remain dead. But if you can restore me to a life in which I would no longer be in danger, I would be in your debt for ever more. Unfortunately, I don't think you can.'

He gave a small, despairing laugh.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

<You must put on your blindfolds again,' Vanessa said, after they had skirted the abandoned car and got into the back seat of the Mercedes.

<That's hardly necessary!' Dickens protested.

<Daddy's orders,' she said cheerfully. <Supposing someone threatened to torture you to make you reveal Mr. Wentworth's address.'

<We would behave like perfect heroes,' Dwindle assured her, <and take our secret to the grave. Come on,' he urged Dickens, <put it on and stop arguing,'

Dickens complied, reluctantly.

He suggested, when they had arrived back at the hotel that they should go up to his room to discuss the situation.

<Why your room?' Dwindle demanded pugnaciously.

<What difference does it make whose room it is?' Dickens enquired impatiently.

<Exactly. So let's go to my room.'

Dickens, grim-faced, lowered himself into an armchair in Dwindle's room and complained with a peeved expression: <Only a man with a chip on his shoulder as large as a house could be so petty as to argue about which room to use.'

<And only a man as thick as you, Dickens, could fail to see that an assumption of dominance by either party will ruin any chance we might have of making our partnership work.'

<I could point out that it should count for something that I have been a policeman all my life...However, it's not worth making a fuss about.'

Dwindle sitting cross-legged on the bed, said triumphantly: <That is exactly my point. You have been constantly exploiting the fact that you have been a policeman in order to assert your superiority. Now let's get down to business.'

Wentworth had insisted on reading an extract from his autobiography, declaring that this was as good a way as any to enlighten them about his recent experience. Alone in his hideaway, he had obviously been pining for an audience. They agreed to listen and he had taken up a sheaf of papers and spoken as though addressing a board meeting:

<?What this latest and most dramatic development in my life illustrates most clearly is that I should have stuck to what I know best: publishing books. They have been my metier, my joy, my obsession for the last forty years. Having written one novel and found it an unsatisfactory way of making a living, I decided to go into publishing. I can say with all due modesty that I have been rather successful at it. While hundreds

of other firms have fallen by the wayside and lost millions of pounds of their shareholders' money, I have consistently made excellent profits. The secret of my success is that from the very beginning I have supplied the public with exactly what it wants at the lowest possible price. Someone at a literary gathering once declared that I was an unrepentant capitalist. When it came to my turn to speak, I said that I was proud to have earned what was intended as an unflattering description. And I repeat now what I said then, that tens of millions of books inscribed with the Wentworth logo in homes all over the world testify to the excellent value I have given.

<?My love affair with books lapsed briefly when I entered into a quick flirtation with the movie business. The book trade at the time was going through one of its periodic upheavals and it seemed obvious that people were showing a preference for watching drama on either the silver or cathode-ray screen. Mainlining through the eyeballs, someone once called it. The nightmare of every publisher is that an illiterate public will eventually cease to buy books altogether. Hence the huge and increasing popularity of videos. Through making a small, experimental investment in a movie, I got to know a producer­ Arturo Sabatini.'

Dickens coughed loudly. Wentworth looked up, with a faintly surprised expression. Dickens said, firmly : <Mr. Wentworth. I think we should cut the sizzle and get down to brass tacks.'

Wentworth reluctantly put down the untidy bundle of papers and apologised with a wan smile: <Sorry, gentlemen­ I got carried away. I have been living here in isolation for so long that I tend to forget the real world outside.'

At that moment the cat leaped onto Wentworth's lap.

Stroking its silky fur, he said in a subdued voice: <My brief venture into movies turned out to be a tragic mistake which led to an even more tragic misunderstanding. From the time that I attended my first movie shooting my life became more and more complicated and difficult. Sabatini, a very persuasive, guileful individual, was on first-name terms with practically everybody in the top echelons of American society. And he wasn't shy of advertising the fact, especially when trying to extract money from smaller fry like me. I thought I had his measure. But he was deeper and much more cunning than I had imagined. Someone told me that he had links with the Mafia. At the time I didn't believe it but I do now.'

Wentworth grimaced sourly and continued: <I should have known better than to deal with him. Anyway, to get to the point. He invited me to a party which was held in London at a suite in a Park Lane hotel. Among the guests was an American senator. Champagne flowed, people got drunk. A few of the guests discreetly snorted cocaine. Some disappeared into the bedrooms. Sabatini produced a camcorder and shot some pictures of the proceedings. At one stage he urged a very pretty actress who had acted in several of his movies to pretend that she was making up to the senator. It seemed harmless enough at the time.

<What I hadn't realised was that some of the movies I helped finance were subsequently doctored. I didn't know at the time how easy it is to make up composite videos, transferring images from one video-tape to another, using computerised techniques. I have learned to my horror since that animals and children were substituted for adult protagonists in various scenes in some of the movies I had helped to finance. Sabatini swore to me over the telephone that someone­ it wasn't he­ introduced into the video he had taken at the party a sequence in which the senator and the actress I have told you about appeared in some very compromising scenes. When it became known that he was in the running for the Presidency, the Mafia sent him a copy and began to squeeze him for large sums of money. His lawyers advised him to pay up, but only on condition that every copy of the whole series­ it was, incidentally, called Men In Business Suits­ be withdrawn and sent to him. A deal was made. And that should have been the end of the matter.

<Sabatini telephoned me in London and told me that a few copies of the videos remained in Europe. He asked me to retrieve them from the wholesalers, but he didn't make it clear what he wanted me to do with them. There were eight in all, which I managed to recover. I made the mistake of personally setting fire to them in my own warehouse in St. Albans. The fire, incidentally, got out of hand at one stage and did some damage. Later on, when I met Sabatini in New York and told him, he became abusive and insisted that instead of destroying them, I should have brought them to New York and given them to him. Unless they had personally supervised their destruction he said the Mafia would be unable to fulfil the cast-iron guarantee they had given to the senator that he would not be blackmailed at some future date. He accused me of fucking up the deal made with the senator. In the meantime, the Mafia had apparently assured the senator that everybody and everything connected with the missing videos would be <taken care of'. I assured Sabatini that the videos had been destroyed. He said he wanted positive proof, which of course, I was unable to provide. In the course of the terrible tirade that followed Sabatini told me that I was a dead man. I flew back to England­ a friend had arranged a false passport to help hide my tracks­ and I took refuge with Mrs. Morgan with whom I had been in contact before I went away.

<People will say that it was very wrong of me to let everyone, including my daughter, think that I was dead. But what else could I do! Incidentally, Mrs. Morgan, the lady I lived with is a wonderful person. I have great faith in her book and hope to publish it one day when this whole miserable business is over. There is, by the way, an additional irony­ the girl who appeared in the videos with the senator turned out to have been a friend of one of my employees.'

Wentworth continued: <I was amazed when Vanessa Walpole brought round the opening words of Megan Morgan's novel this morning. I knew then it would be safe to see you. But it is difficult to see what you can do to improve the situation.'

Dickens said: <The American senator in question­ surely he isn't implicated in a murder plot.'

Wentworth cast his eyes despairingly at the ceiling, and said: <Of course not. He's paid off these guys and just wants to be left alone. But when the Mafia do this kind of a deal their word has to be carried out to the letter. Their so-called honour is at stake. Since they can't lay their hands on the outstanding videos, they feel obliged to kill me and everyone else who might know of their existence.'

Dickens found himself perspiring. He mopped his brow and said after a while: <Can we hire a lawyer in the States to make a deal?'

Wentworth said glumly: <That might be the way forward. If we can't, I shall be here for the rest of my life.'

Dwindle enquired: <Have you heard from Sabatini?'

<No. This is one of the chief difficulties. I wrote to him supplying a post box address, but I have had no word from him.'

<He's possibly in hiding as well?' Dwindle suggested.

<Or dead,' Dickens replied. He then added thoughtfully: <You could ask for police protection.'

<Because I have been implicated in producing dirty videos! I doubt if they'd be very sympathetic.'

<You could hire security­ although round-the-clock protection does come pretty expensive.'

<Wentworth said bitterly: <I'm probably better off as I am than having security men under my feet till the end of my days.'

It was agreed that Dickens and Dwindle, after subjecting the situation to exhaustive analysis, would discuss any possible moves with Walpole. Wentworth asked them to convey his love to his daughter and Megan Morgan and assure them that he was fit and well.

Before leaving, Dickens asked Wentworth what had made him leave Mrs. Morgan's house so suddenly.

Wentworth said reflectively: <We found staying in all the time rather oppressive, so Megan and I took a chance one evening and called in at the Falkland Arms. In these small villages everyone is acquainted with everyone else. Nobody, of course, knew me, so she introduced me to the proprietor as a publisher friend down for the day from London. He replied: <Ah, that's funny. We had an American gentleman in here only yesterday asking if we knew of a London publisher living in these parts.' That put the fear of God in me, I can tell you. I decided that I couldn't afford to take any chances and ran away. I didn't tell Megan where I was going, in case it endangered her life. The trouble with being in hiding is that in a short while you become scared of your own shadow.'

Sitting in Dwindle's hotel room later, they discussed Wentworth's problem. Dickens pointed out that they had fulfilled to the letter their contract with Wentworth Press, which required them simply to locate its chief executive. However, there was agreement that they were honour bound to try to offer some solution. Dickens tried unavailingly to telephone Victoria. Walpole was not in his office. Dickens left a message asking him to ring the hotel when he came back.

<How about Harlesden- should we try to contact him?' Dickens then suggested.

<No point,' Dwindle declared. <He flew in the video tapes. Beyond that I doubt if he knows anything.'

<What about Laker's girl friend. If it ever came to court in America, her evidence would be vital.'

Dwindle telephoned Laker's shop. An assistant told him that her boss had taken the weekend off go to Newcastle to see his girl friend, a nightclub singer.

<We have to discuss the whole matter with Walpole,' Dickens said in a disgruntled tone. <It looks as though we may have to stay the night.'

<If he doesn't return to his office, we'll contact him at his home. Incidentally, how is your move to Wales going?'

<Slowly. I've put a deposit down on the cottages, but we've had no offers yet for our London house.'

<Does Ingrid approve of our new venture?'

<She's philosophical about it. She wanted to know if doing private enquiry work was dangerous. I assured her that it wasn't. And you?'

<Maureen is delighted that I have found a job. She says...'

The telephone rang.

Dwindle answered. He heard Walpole's shocked voice saying that he had just visited Wentworth to discuss their visit and had found him lying in a pool of blood with a massive bullet hole behind his ear. The police had been called in.

Dwindle put down the phone, his hand shaking. He informed Dickens.

<Someone,' Dickens said with heavy emphasis, must have tailed us.'

<How could they have known we were going to see Wentworth?<

Dickens thought for a while.

<All those enquiries you put through on the computer. Is it possible that someone set up a program that would have alerted them if a certain pattern of questions was being asked?'

<Everything is possible with computers. But it's a bit far fetched.'

<Fuck! Dickens suddenly swore. <You know what may have happened­ they bugged Victoria's telephone.'

Dwindle commented sadly: <We shouldn't blame ourselves too much. We're new to this business.'

An alarmed expression suddenly crossed his face. He got down hurriedly from the bed and said: <They are bound to try and eliminate Peter Laker's girl friend as well. She knew about the videos, obviously. We ought to try and warn her.'

Dickens said doubtfully: 'We can't help everyone the Mafia is after.'

<Let's salvage something from this mess, Dickens!' Dwindle stood up, his cheeks red, and said passionately: <We've been utterly defeated in this, our first case. Let's try to chalk up one small success, otherwise the D in the D and D Agency will stand for Death and our enterprise will be deemed a failure even before it's got properly started.'

Dickens grumbled: <We don't have enough information to find her. All we know is that she's singing in a club in Newcastle.'

<It shouldn't be too difficult- there can't be that many night clubs up there.'

Ten minutes later, they were standing in the foyer of the hotel awaiting the arrival of a hire car.

<What about Megan?' Dwindle said, as they waited. <She ought to be informed.'

<She is in no danger. Walpole will ring Victoria and she'll pass on the sad news. That probably spells the end of the Tree-men of Wales. What is the name of Peter Laker's girl friend, by the way?'

<Elizabeth Pardieu.'

The hire car arrived.

As Dickens started the engine, Dwindle examined the map provided by the car hire firm. They had marked in their route in red ink. For some reason he was reminded of the thousands of kilometres of blood-red ink he had used correcting the papers of his students. It seemed in retrospect to have been a thoroughly pointless activity. From now on, at all events, he had something more useful to offer the world than abstract theory. He lifted his head from the map and said: <Ha ha.'

<What's the joke, Dwindle?'

<A publisher pretends to kill himself. We investigate his supposed death and our blundering efforts to solve the mystery ensure that he is killed. If that isn't funny, I don't know what is.'

<It's tragic, not funny,' Dickens said sourly.

Dwindle said: <I accept your just rebuke, Dickens. Take the first on the left.'

Dickens turned the car as instructed, took another sharp left and stopped outside a pub. Carrying their luggage, and with Dwindle clutching the route map, they walked through the saloon bar and made their exit through a yard containing a discarded refrigerator, a rusty iron bedstead and several ancient beer barrels. From there they walked to the street at the back of the hotel and drove off in another hire car left by pre-arrangement with the hire car company. Dwindle had insisted on this precaution, in case they had been followed. <Real blood has been spilled,' he reminded Dickens. <Not tomato ketchup.' Dickens, irritated because it was Dwindle who had made the suggestion, was obliged to agree.

As they crossed the Yorkshire moors, Dwindle mused out loud: <Wentworth wasn't a bad chap. A boastful egotist, perhaps, but he didn't deserve to be shot down like some wretched animal.'

<My experience is that villains rarely have any difficulty in justifying their actions.' Dickens replied, sombrely. <They are probably congratulating themselves on having protected the reputation of someone who might soon be the president of the USA. Their hit man will be highly praised for having done his patriotic duty.'

He put his foot hard down on the accelerator.

<Do you really think they might be after Laker's girl friend,' he asked, struck by a momentary doubt.

<Marilyn Monroe wasn't spared,' came the answer.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

It was ten o'clock by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Newcastle. They stopped at a pub for a sandwich and a beer. Dickens asked the plump young barman who served them how many night clubs there were in the district.

<There's dozens of clubs around Newcastle.'

<Can you name a few?'

The barman continued pulling the pint with a withdrawn expression. <There's The Blarney, The Horse's Tail, Doxies, Humphries Hump, Morgan's Meeting Place­ dozens of them.'

<Which one do you go to?'

<I don't throw my money away on that sort of milarkey.'

They sat down at a vacant table to take their refreshments and ponder the situation.

<It's going to be a job finding her,' Dickens said. <I've been thinking while I was driving that we may be making a mistake. It doesn't necessarily follow that just because Wentworth has been murdered they are after Laker's girl friend as well.'

Dwindle, his pint of beer poised midair in his hand, gazed at Dickens pityingly.

<I sometimes wonder which one of us is the rank amateur in this sleuthing business,< he said sarcastically. They got Wentworth because they believed he was in possession of videos tapes that could fatally compromise an American senator. I have no doubt that they have systematically wiped out other witnesses, including Sabatini. We know that Peter Laker's girl friend was a participant in what happened. She is bound to be on their list. What additional proof that her life is in danger do you require, former Inspector Dickens?'

Dickens shifted uneasily.

<Is it possible that Laker decided to come up here because he got wind that she may be in some sort of trouble?'

<I doubt it. He was pretty stuck on her­ couldn't get her out of his system. He and I discussed several times whether he should take her back. I advised against it because she had led him such a dance. But I'm not so sure now that I was right to do so. Relationships, like people, can sometimes make a good recovery from an illness.'

Dickens looked outside. It was growing dark. He said <Dwindle, we are going to have to scour the night clubs in Newcastle for her. For God's sake don't get too drunk in the process.'

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sue Cuddly had created a loyal following at the Palm Tree club for her renderings of the Blues and sentimental favourites of the 'seventies and 'sixties. She now relied for her hold on the audience more and more on her improved singing technique and less on taking off her clothes. The obligatory disrobing at the end of her act remained, however, because Harry Harrison had insisted that she mustn't disappoint her fans. He was well pleased with her performances and with the improved atmosphere in the club. The doorman rarely needed to exercise his muscles these days. His clientele were better dressed and spent more lavishly. The five-piece band had modified their choice of numbers, to reflect the tastes of an older, more prosperous, audience.

The club was housed in a flat-roofed building which had belonged to an engineering company that had gone bankrupt. Harry Harrison had picked up the remaining lease at a bargain basement rent. His shrewdness and flair in running the club had improved its reputation. He vetted the comedians' scripts and allowed them to tell earthy rather than smutty jokes. His strippers supplied glamour as well as nudity­ if necessary, he lent them money to buy the right type of clothes and underwear. A few of his recent cabaret acts had appeared on television.

Entrance to the Palm Tree club was from the car park through a single metal door watched over by Alan Harrison. Another door led from the entrance foyer to the main reception area, which contained about thirty tables. The cloakrooms were on either side of the foyer. On busy nights, when all tables were booked, customers too late for the meal were allowed to watch the floor show from behind a partition at the back of the hall. The <cheapies', as they were disparagingly referred to­ mainly youngsters who couldn't afford the fairly high-priced meal­ were allowed onto the dance floor after dinner was served, if they bought one bottle of champagne at an exorbitant price. Young people enlivened the dancing and made for a more festive atmosphere.

Mickey, an elderly small, brown mouse of a man, presided over a bar located in a small room­ an extension on the main building half-way down on the right-hand side of the hall. It was a dimly illuminated area containing half a dozen plush armchairs. The table d'hote meal, pre-cooked and delivered by a catering establishment, was served around ten o'clock. The champagne was genuine­ Harrison did not, as did some club owners, allow the substitution of a cheaper sparkling wine. The five-piece band sat on the left of the stage. On the right was a kitchen separated from the stage by a tiny dressing-room.

Harry Harrison had started life in his father's butcher's shop in Stepney, London. As he sliced bloody meat and sawed bones his mind had dwelled on higher things. On a visit to Paris during his youth, he had fantasized about owning one day a nightclub like the Crazy Horse. When his father died, he sold the shop, borrowed heavily from the bank and opened a club in Soho. It had been smashed up one night by a gang of hoodlums and its reputation had never recovered. Harrison went bankrupt. He had gone into several shady deals thereafter and had once gone to prison for two months for inflicting grievous bodily harm on a debtor who had refused to pay his debt. In self-justification he told the judge the man had stolen his hard-earned savings. After coming out of prison he had worked as a long-distance lorry driver, travelling across Europe. Eventually, after buying his own lorry, he had succeeded in making enough money to start up again.

He had chosen Newcastle because his third wife came from there and it seemed to offer a more stable and less expensive environment than London. An agent supplied him with acts for his cabaret. He had given Sue Cuddly, as she now insisted on being called, a six months contract with several raises in pay. She was in every sense of the word his star.

Alan had told him about the incident with the Texan which had occurred a few days previously. It vaguely worried him. He wanted no repetition of the violence which had led to the close-down of his last venture­ although he tended to discount Alan's allegation that the man had been carrying a gun. Questioned about it, Alan had admitted that he might have been mistaken­ he said he thought he had seen the outline of a <shooter' in the man's pocket But he admitted that he couldn't be certain. Harrison had instructed him to be extra vigilant. He toook the precaution of emptying the tills early, hiding the cash in a locked metal steamer trunk at the bottom of the wardrobe in the dressing room.

Dinner had been served. For a change no one had complained at the lack of choice on the menu. Harrison usually placated any customer who didn't like the meal by offering him or her a free drink. He had ambitious plans for enlarging the kitchens, hiring chefs and introducing an á la carte menu.

The bar was busy. Harry had turned on what he called the <smoochy' lighting, which cast a soft glow over the wall paintings with recurring motifs of women wrestlers and palm-fringed beaches. A few couples had ventured onto the dance floor.

A lady ventriloquist called Monique was in the dressing-room, making up her face, her dummy, Natasha resting on her lap. Natasha was a very pretty doll with golden ringlets, a rosebud mouth and huge blue eyes. Her enormous black eyelashes fluttered with each joke that Monique told the audience, acting as a kind of cue for laughter. Monique always liked to establish contact with her <other self' during this crucial period before going on stage. She was a gaunt, attractive brunette of forty, her wide mouth, exaggerated by liberally-applied lipstick. She had recently left her husband and family, in order to pursue a career in entertaining.

The first act, a male juggler, was hurriedly struggling into his plus fours and silk sports shirt in the men's toilet ­ the club lacked a men's changing room.

Harry Harrison, his husky voice booming through the loudspeakers was saying: <Hope you enjoyed your meal, ladies and gentlemen. Laughter is a great help to the digestion. I now introduce Sporting Sid who makes golf look easy. You're allowed to grab his balls when they leave the stage.'

Sporting Sid lurched drunkenly onto the stage, a bag of golf clubs balanced on his head. At times he appeared on the point of losing it, as he wandered around dazedly in circles with the bag tilting at grotesque angles. Then, directing a daft grin at the audience, he allowed the heavy bag to fall and caught it neatly between his bent knees.

Swiftly, he balanced first one, then two, then three clubs on his nose and forehead, With a convulsive jerk of the head, he sent them flying into the air, caught two in his hands and one between his knees. From then on golf clubs went flailing through the air in a dazzling display, revolving on their axes and spinning in wild loops, as he manipulated them with his busy hands. Then he appeared to stand and watch dispassionately as one by one they returned­ almost it seemed under their own volition­ to their assigned places in the golf bag. Finally, in a nicely-judged display, he kept two clubs rotating in the air while he sent lightweight practise balls flying into the audience with the aid of a club held in his free hand.

He bounced cheerfully off the stage, to the accompaniment of enthusiastic applause, his bag of clubs held high.

Harrison carried a chair centre-stage and then spoke into the microphone: <He's a scratch player, is our Sid but he hardly gives himself time to scratch his balls! And now ladies and gentlemen...in the next act all the secrets that women never dare tell their husbands will be revealed. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you MONIQUE and NATASHA.'

The orchestra played some introductory chords.

Peter Laker, sitting alone at a table for two near the bar, toyed with his glass of champagne and gazed anxiously around. Although the place answered the description of the night club, the name Sue Cuddly on the billboard outside had given him cause to doubt whether he had come to the right place. In answer to his enquiry, the doorman had dogmatically insisted that Sue Cuddly was the real name of their star attraction.

Monique, wearing a red, sequin-spangled gown that hugged her skinny frame walked awkwardly on stage carrying her doll. She sat on the chair, holding her protectively...

After a pause, Natasha slowly raised her head, stared mournfully at the audience for a second and then nestled back in her mother's arms.

<Come on,' Monique said encouragingly in a Yorkshire accent, looking at the audience: <They won't bite you.'

<No, but Daddy bit you.'

<That was just a love bite.'

The blonde doll leers suggestively at the audience and says, fluttering her thick black eyelashes: <But he shouldn't have left his false teeth in your knickers.'

<That's supposed to be a family secret. Now face the audience. I want them to listen while I give you some sex education.'

<You said you'd tell me how you came to have stretch marks on your tummy.'

<Yes, I will.'

<And how you came to have teeth marks in your bum.'

The eyelashes flutter wickedly.

<I've already told you that.'

<Is there a connection between the two.'

<Yes, there was a connection of sorts.'

<Was it a very good one?'

Furious fluttering of eyelashes.

<Not very good. But it did the trick, didn't it.'

<Am I just a trick!'

<No, darling. You're my sweet little girl.'

<Even though I'm only recycled paper and wood?'

<To me you are a real little girl and I love you very much.'

<Even though I gave you a sore bum and stretch marks?'

<Yes, darling.'

<Then why the hell did I have to be made out of recycled materials!'

<We were very poor, sweetheart...We were so poor ...'

Peter's attention was diverted at that moment by a procession of latecomers entering the club­ half a dozen young couples, including a very tall woman. Alan directed the new arrivals to positions behind the partition. From here the <cheapies' could watch the cabaret until dancing recommenced.

Peter had driven from London. It had been a long day's drive and he was tired. This was an important day for him. He intended to try to persuade Elizabeth to come back and live with him. She could continue with her singing career but could use the shop at Muswell Hill as her home base. Jenny would live with them.

To the accompaniment of a rousing fanfare of trumpets, Harry Harrison appeared on stage, clapping the departing ventriloquist. When she had disappeared, he held up his hands and declared: <And now the moment you have all been waiting for­ Sue Cuddly. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you SUE CUDDLY!

Peter was elated when he saw Elizabeth in a long, low-cut blue ball gown swaying onto the stage, smiling, her palms held upwards towards the audience to restrain the enthusiastic handclapping. One or two excited catcalls came from the back of the hall.

It was at this moment that Dickens and Dwindle also arrived, tired and discomfited, after having called in at nine other night clubs.

Dickens had been bitterly inveighing against Dwindle's insistence on making this journey. <It's going to put us into the red,' he grumbled.' The name Sue Cuddly he had just noticed on the billboard outside seemed to confirm that they were wasting not only their time, but also their business capital. He was especially angry because Dwindle had been steadily consuming the drinks they had been obliged to buy, while he had to remain sober because he was driving.

A dozen or so other people were spread out behind the partition. When Dwindle recognised Peter Laker sitting by himself at a table, he whispered excitedly: <Dickens­ that must be Elizabeth Pardieu­ I can see her ex-boy friend, Peter Laker, over there, She's a stunner, isn't she.'

In a plaintive voice, holding her hands in supplication towards the audience, Sue Cuddly sang:

I was with you when the world was born.

I was with you when first love was sworn:

Only you, only you, only you.

Peter, as did every other male member of the audience, felt the message was addressed personally to him. It was all part of Elizabeth's new-found, engaging artistry. She had not yet noticed his presence.

I was with you when the ramparts fell;

I was with you when they invented Hell;

Only you, only you, only you.

I was with you when the floods arose;

I was with you when God made a rose;

Only you; only you; only you.

I was with you when we had the Blitz;

I was with you sheltering in the Ritz;

Only you, only you, only you.

A change of key and beat as she intoned the chorus:

Came the first frosts of winter and you poured the wine,

Precious drops from an ancient vine.

Came the first heat of summer and we

blended true.

You said you loved me and I still want you.

Only you, only you, only you.

Listening to the banal words a tear came into Dwindle's eyes. He was in a maudlin state of drunkenness, having solemnly assured Dickens that he was making a sacrifice in breaking the temperance vow he had recently given Maureen and had only done so out of a sense of duty to the D and D Agency. He realised that Dickens was angry but even in his drunken state, remained convinced that they had made the right decision in coming to Newcastle. Peter Laker's girl friend, Elizabeth, was plainly in danger from an organization that valued its so-called <honour' more than life itself. Unable to see over the partition, he stood near Dickens, peering round it at the blue-gowned singer in the spotlight, thinking what a fool Laker had been to reject this beautiful and talented woman.

Elizabeth, rhythmically wagging her bare shoulders as she changed key, suddenly felt a surge of excitement, as she caught sight of Peter Laker sitting alone at a table in the shadows near the bar, gazing at her devotedly. Joyfully, she continued singing, acknowledging his presence with an almost imperceptible wave.

But panic attacked her a minute or so later. Although the audience tonight seemed cheerful, friendly and well disposed and she was singing with verve and gusto, there seemed something threatening out there among the array of faces. She did then what she had always done when on stage­ by an effort of will she blended all the people watching into one anonymous, cohesive whole, telling herself that there were no individuals­ just an amorphous mass of humanity that loved her and wished her well.

I was with you when the world was made.

I was with you when man first met maid.

Only you, only you, only...

She froze, as she caught a slight movement among the youngsters standing behind the partition. Dwindle saw her flinch. One of her shoulder straps fell forward; it was an unconscious gesture, prompted by a wish to end her act quickly.

Dwindle looked round to see what had attracted her attention and then, with his head bent forwards like a rugby forward, started a charging run from behind the partition towards a pair of apricot-coloured tights. His small size helped to keep him out of view. Gathering speed he head-butted the crotch of the woman with tremendous force. There was a loud report, as a gun fired harmlessly into the air, followed by a groan of anguish. Dickens, who had been hypnotised by the singer, heaved himself off the partition, pushed aside the horrified customers and found Dwindle engaged in a violent, lh struggle with a very strong lady holding a gun. She seemed on the point of overpowering him.

The band had stopped playing.

Dickens planted a heavy fist into the woman's face. She collapsed into an untidy heap on the floor, her long, apricot-coloured legs threshing helplessly. The wig came askew, uncovering a head of cropped brown hair. Dickens took hold of the gun and then, noting that the man they had just attacked was still conscious, sat solidly on his chest causing a noisy expulsion of air from his lungs.

Alan Harrison appeared, ordering the customers behind the partition to stand back. Approaching Dickens and Dwindle, he said: <What's this all about?< and then, recognising the Texan, added: <Fucking hell, it's him. I told him not to come back here.'

<He was about to kill your lead singer,' Dwindle said, his face wreathed in a self-congratulatory smile.

Alan Harrison bent down to look at the man who was lying still, his face distorted with pain.

<A case for the police, don't you think,' Dickens said, crisply.

<Bloody right. I'll telephone for them. Do you want any help.'

<No, I'll shoot the bugger if he moves,' Dickens replied.

*

The police having arrested the gunman, Harry and Alan Harrison, Peter and Elizabeth joined Dwindle and Dickens at one of the tables. Elizabeth, after thanking Dwindle, remarked how extraordinary it was that Laker and his friend Dwindle should have decided independently of each other to come to Newcastle on the same day.

Dickens, with a grin, quoted Jonathan Creighton: <Coincidences are a sign of the workings of a mysterious Providence.'

Elizabeth then said wonderingly to Dwindle: <And how did you know that he was a man in drag?'

Dwindle answered with a puckish grin:

<?Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, which is as white and hairless as an egg."

I share with the poet a prejudice against excessively hairy legs­ although, mind you, I have always fancied tall women.'

Plainly enjoying being the hero of the hour, he went on: <Now that the seeds of chance have brought you and Peter together, hadn't you better do something about it.'

The couple held hands across the table, smiled at each other and nodded vigorously at each other.