“You must be very fond of your sister.”

  A look passed between them that said they both knew it was a lie, but Dolly pretended it hadn’t happened. She said simply, “My sister loves her husband, and I’m asking you to help me.”

  She was hoping underneath it all, Morgan really was a soft touch. She waited for what seemed like an age while he scrutinized her, seemingly making up his mind. Finally he picked up the briefcase.

  “All right, Mrs. Marsh, you win. My fee stands at the usual rate, all right?”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” she gushed, quickly exiting the office before he could change his mind.

  Morgan sat at his desk and shook his head with a wry smile.

  “Women!”

  Audrey’s hair was still done up in rollers, but apart from that she was dressed up to the nines. Tea was laid out on the small coffee table, the cushions neatly arranged, a nice bowl of flowers on the sideboard. Ray stood uneasily in front of the mantelpiece, hands stuffed in his pockets, afraid to sit down in case he got a yell from Audrey and had to fluff up the cushions again. For the last half hour she hadn’t been able to sit still, flitting in and out of the lounge like a mad thing while she got herself ready.

  The doorbell rang, and Audrey started pulling the Carmen rollers from her hair, shouting, “That’s her. Ray, Ray . . .”

  “Let her in, shall I?” he asked.

  Audrey bustled back into the lounge. “You just sit down there. No, not on the cushions, over there, on the edge of the sofa.” She ran her fingers through her hair and checked herself in the mirror one last time. “Right, I’ll let her in, then.”

  “Good idea,” Ray said calmly. “But bear in mind she might think she’s come to the wrong house.”

  Audrey started to the door, then turned back to him with a schoolmistress-like tone. “Now, you let me do the talking, Ray.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  As Audrey went to the door, Ray patted his pockets for cigarettes. He was starting to get a bit edgy now. Damn. He opened a cigarette box on the mantelpiece and tinny music started tinkling, while a little ballerina turned round and round, but the box was empty. He could hear Audrey in the hall, shouting and whooping with joy, and another, lower voice laughing along with her. Shirley entered the room first, carrying a vanity case, and clutching several packages under her arm. She saw Ray and stopped in her tracks.

  Audrey nudged her further into the room. “Go in, go in.”

  Shirley and Ray stood looking at each other.

  “Ray, this is Shirley. Shirley, this is Ray, Raymond Bates.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Shirley, love.” Ray smiled.

  Shirley didn’t say anything. She obviously hadn’t heard a word about Ray.

  “I’ll put the kettle on; you must be gasping for a cuppa,” he said, trying to ease the tension.

  “Come on, love, sit down, sit down,” Audrey said as he left the room. “Ooh, you look lovely. I wanna hear all about your trip.”

  Shirley remained standing. “Has Dolly Rawlins called?”

  Audrey shrugged. “Why would she? I thought she was on holiday with you.”

  She was starting to worry that something was wrong, but still couldn’t help eyeing the pile of presents. Shirley finally sat down and handed them over. Audrey started ripping off the tissue paper with a lot of oohs and aahs—her favorite perfume, a couple of boxes of chocolates, and then she took out the beautiful silk nightdress.

  Ray came back in. “Kettle’s on.” Then he looked at Shirley and back to Audrey.

  “Photos don’t do her justice, Aud.”

  Shirley said nothing. Audrey held up the nightdress, trying to cover the embarrassment. “Oh Ray, look, it’s silk, isn’t it, Shirley?”

  “You got your fags down ’ere, gel?” he asked.

  Audrey began undoing her second parcel. “A dressing gown. Oh, Shirley, you shouldn’t . . . Look at this!” She took out a necklace. It was all bananas and cherries in bright plastic. “Oh, this is lovely, really lovely. You get this in Los Angeles, did you? Ohh, it’s beautiful!”

  Shirley jerked her head toward the door. “He seems to be making himself at home. Permanent fixture, is he, Mum?”

  Audrey dropped the necklace. “Now don’t you start, you only just got ’ere.”

  They could hear Ray whistling in the kitchen. He popped his head round the door. “I can’t find the fags, Aud.”

  Audrey gave him a look. “Come and sit down, Ray, and talk to Shirley.”

  Ray remained standing in the doorway. “Better not sit down,” he said with an awkward grin, nodding at the cushions. “She’ll have a fit if I put a dent in them.”

  Shirley took a carton of cigarettes out of her vanity case. She didn’t look at Ray as she started unwrapping them. “So, you’re living with my mother, are you?”

  Vic Morgan sat in a rickety chair in Trudie Nunn’s scruffy lounge and listened to the baby’s cries coming from the bedroom. The smell of baby sick hung over the room. Toys lay on the floor, dirty crockery on the table. He wondered what on earth Mrs. Marsh’s so-called sister’s husband was doing getting himself involved in this situation.

  The baby carried on crying. How long was she going to be in there? He drummed his foot on the floor. It had taken him a while to get her confidence. At first she didn’t want to let him in at all. But then he said that he’d got something for her. He handed her the briefcase and the note, and the plane tickets, and she’d taken them into the bedroom.

  He got up and tapped on the bedroom door. “Mrs. Nunn, if you wanna get your passport sorted out we really should make a move. Mrs. Nunn?”

  There was no reply.

  He wandered round the room again. He stared at the photograph of a young, smiling boy on the mantelshelf. He wondered if that was her husband. There must be a Mr. Nunn somewhere round the place.

  Trudie Nunn sat in the bedroom, the open briefcase in front of her. She kept touching the money, not quite believing her eyes. Then she picked up the single sheet of notepaper. It said simply, Trudie, get over to Australia. Sydney. Hilton Hotel. I am waiting. Ask the messenger no questions, just be on that plane. Harry.

  Again Trudie touched the money. It was almost as if he was in the room with her.

  She whispered over and over to herself, “Harry, I’m coming . . . I’m coming, Harry.”

  He hadn’t let her down after all. He’d said he would send for her, and now he had, and nothing was going to stop Trudie from joining him.

  Shirley could hear Audrey shouting “Ta-ra” to Ray from the hallway. The front door slammed. The remains of the tea was still on the coffee table. Audrey came back into the room, blabbing on about Shirley’s lovely suitcases in the hall, how she always loved matching suitcases, that it was the height of fashion to have everything matching, that one day she’d always have everything matching—shoes, handbag, luggage, the lot—it showed good taste. On and on she prattled. Shirley waited for her to run out of steam.

  Eventually Audrey came out with it. “Well, what d’ye think of him? Good-looking, isn’t he?”

  Shirley snorted.

  “Well, he might not be your type . . .” Audrey said in a hurt voice.

  Shirley sighed. “No, he isn’t, and you know why? He’s got ‘small-time villain’ stamped right across his forehead, Mum, just like all the others you’ve dragged back ’ere. When will you ever learn?”

  “What about your Terry?” Audrey snapped back. “He wasn’t exactly Prince Charles, was ’e?”

  Shirley ignored her. “’E’s married, isn’t ’e? You don’t have to tell me—you’ve gone an’ done it again, ’aven’t you?”

  Audrey stood up with an angry expression on her face. “You watch your mouth, my girl!”

  Neither of them said anything for a minute. Audrey busied herself clearing the tea table. Then Shirley picked up the large parcel on the sofa.

  “Can you give this to Greg?” It was a tracksuit she’d got her brother in Los Angeles.

  Audrey didn’t look up. “You can give it to Greg yourself—he’s living at your place.”

  “My place? Greg’s living at my place?”

  With the cutlery still in her hand, Audrey turned to face her daughter. “I don’t know what’s come over you. You’ve changed, you know that? You’ve changed.”

  Shirley picked up her vanity bag and walked out, pausing at the door to say, “Well, I’m glad one of us has, Mum.”

  She slammed the door behind her.

  After a moment’s trouble with the sticky door handle, Morgan entered his office and played back the messages on his answering machine. The first call was the mechanic from the garage, regretfully informing him his beloved old Rover needed a lot of work if it was going to pass its MOT. The second call, at 8:30, was from Mrs. Marsh, asking if Trudie Nunn had made the plane. The third call was also from Mrs. Marsh, with the same question only in a slightly tenser tone of voice. Morgan was just about to see if the rest of his messages were from Mrs. Marsh, when he heard the doorknob rattling.

  “Push, Mrs. Marsh!” he called out.

  The door opened and Dolly walked in. “How did you know it was me?”

  “She’s on the plane, Mrs. Marsh, with the kid. I have a couple of receipts for you—and a dry-cleaning bill. The little nipper was sick down me twice.”

  Dolly smiled. “I’m sure that never happened to Humphrey Bogart.”

  Morgan laughed. “No, and I don’t come when people whistle, either.” He looked at her. “So you just wanted to make sure I’d done my job?”

  “No, not just that.” She handed him a photograph. “This is my sister’s husband. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to bring it to you, but now I want you to keep watching Trudie Nunn’s house to see if he turns up, and, if he does, to follow him and find out where he goes.”

  “Ha-ha!” said Morgan. He looked at the photograph, then at Dolly. “So now you’ve paid off the girlfriend, you think lover-boy will want to find out where she’s gone?”

  Dolly nodded.

  “How long do you want me to watch Mrs. Nunn’s place? Couple of days?”

  Dolly shrugged.

  “I see, until he shows, right?”

  Dolly nodded. “I have to go. No, please, don’t get up, I’ll practice with the door myself.” She wiggled the doorknob once, opened it with a click, and left.

  Morgan leaned back in his chair and began whistling between his teeth. He swiveled round and played back the rest of the messages on the answering machine. Nothing important, one Mrs. Windsor wondering if he would call her at his convenience. Then the bleep, bleep of someone hanging up, then another call from Mrs. Marsh, again inquiring if Trudie had made it to the airport. She was certainly very persistent, and determined to get that woman out of England and as far away as possible in Australia. He looked hard at the photograph Mrs. Marsh had given him, then turned the answering machine off.

  He tapped the photograph with his finger. Where had he seen this face before? When he suddenly remembered, he shot forward in his chair. Of course, Harry Rawlins.

  Morgan picked up the phone, dialed and waited.

  “Detective Inspector Resnick there?”

  The reply came back that Resnick was retired.

  “I see. D’you know where I can find him?”

  Shirley just about hit the roof when she saw the state of her house. It looked as though it had been used as a Salvation Army doss-house for six months. Every room was a mess, especially the one where there were two rolled-up sleeping bags. Greg had shuffled and sniffed, and said all he was doing was looking after the place. He was going to get it all tidy, he just didn’t know when she was coming home, that’s all.

  Shirley had made herself hoarse screaming at him as she marched from room to room, each one more of a tip than the last. “I can’t tell you how disgusted I am. You and your lousy friends are nothing but layabouts, lazy, no-good—”

  “All right, all right.” Greg went and got a duster and some spray polish and started cleaning up in a half-hearted manner.

  Shirley opened the fridge. She couldn’t believe the stench—rotting bags of carrots, onions, cabbage, food that must have been left for weeks. She put on a pair of rubber gloves and began chucking them into a black plastic bin bag. She opened the crisper at the bottom of the fridge, which was packed tightly with videotapes. She took a handful out and looked at the labels. Big Boobies and Suspenders, Flesh and Sex of a Superman, Supergirl and Supersex.

  Shirley stormed into the hall. “Greg, what are these doing in the fridge?” she yelled. “They’re pornographic!”

  Greg shrugged and carried on polishing. “Nah, they’re educational!”

  “Oh, sure, ‘Big Boobies and Suspenders’! I’m gonna burn these!”

  Greg put his duster down. “Aw, leave it out, Shirl, they’re Ray’s.”

  Shirley looked at him. “Ray? Ray who?”

  Greg shrugged. “You know, Mum’s boyfriend. They’re his.”

  “Oh, they’re Ray’s, are they? Right, I’m going round there.”

  Linda and Bella’s flight from Rio had been an excruciating experience. Bella had refused to speak for most of the journey, and when she did, it was only to bite Linda’s head off. So Linda had tried watching a film, and mercifully had eventually fallen asleep.

  Now she was sitting miserably by the luggage turntable, while Bella went off to get a trolley.

  Linda’s head was throbbing, her eye hurt, she was feeling nauseous all the time. She watched the suitcases going round and round, then spotted Bella lugging the cases off the turntable. Linda looked round the baggage section—and then gasped. Heading almost directly toward her was Harry Rawlins, carrying a small holdall. He was wearing a creamy linen suit, and had dark glasses on, but Linda was sure it was him. She was frozen with terror, unable to move as he walked within ten feet of her—and straight past, looking neither left nor right, toward the “Nothing to Declare” channel. As he reached it he removed his dark glasses and slipped them into his top pocket. He looked round him, and for a moment Linda was sure he had seen her. She needed to warn Bella.

  At that moment, Bella appeared with the trolley, laden with all their cases. Linda jumped up.

  “Bella! Don’t look round, but Harry Rawlins is here—he’s going through Customs!”

  “You’re imagining things, Linda.” Bella turned and stood with her hands on her hips, scanning the passengers going through Customs. “Must have been someone who looks like him. Come on, grab your case and let’s get out of here.”

  It was late at night, and on the other side, there were only a handful of people waiting at the arrivals barrier. Leaning casually against the barrier, one man in particular stood out. Blond and handsome, his muscular physique bulging under his fashionable Italian suit, Micky Tesco glanced at the arrivals board, and the flashing light told him that Flight 432 from Rio had landed.

  He checked his watch and looked slowly round the terminal. A good-looking red-headed airline stewardess caught his eye and he gave her the once-over, from the top of her head down to the heels of her shoes. She turned toward him, as if she’d felt him looking at her, and smiled. She was fit, all right, and he knew he could pull her, easy. But he turned back to the arrivals gate without returning her smile. He had other fish to fry.

  Harry came down the walkway in a scruffy suit and in need of a shave. Micky Tesco did a double-take. No way that tramp could be the man he was waiting to meet—the man, Mr. Harry Rawlins. He looked over toward the lounge, wondering where the redhead had gone to.

  At the same time, Harry spotted Micky and made his way over. He sidled up behind him while he was looking the other way and quietly said one word: “Tesco.”

  Micky jumped round, startled. Rawlins nudged him forward. “Keep moving to the end of the barrier. Any minute now, two women, one white and one black, will be coming through Customs. I want you to stay on their arses, find out where they’re staying.”

  They spoke for a few more seconds, and then Tesco handed Harry a set of keys, and Harry quickly made his way out of the building.

  Tesco walked back to the arrivals gate, just in time to see Linda and Bella emerge from the Customs Hall. Linda was leaning heavily on the trolley. Very pale, she looked as if she might pass out, while Bella just stared dead-eyed, her lips pursed. It was very easy for Tesco to slip quietly behind them and follow them to the exit and out to the taxi rank, neither paying any attention to the blond man sauntering along behind them.

  If Dolly Rawlins’ rented flat was threadbare and seedy, it was luxurious in comparison to the flat Micky Tesco had rented for Harry. But at least it had a phone, and the first thing Harry did when he arrived was put in a call to Gordon Murphy.

  Gordon Murphy was an old-timer. Quiet, a bit of a loner, he’d spent most of his life in and out of prison, though right now he was living with his mother. He’d worked for Harry for years and Harry knew he could trust him. Gordon had a great respect for Harry and, even if the man called from the grave, Gordon Murphy wasn’t going to ask any questions.

  As Harry replaced the receiver, Micky Tesco let himself in. Harry hadn’t realized he had his own set of keys.

  “You could have knocked first,” he said irritably. “How d’you make out, then?”

  Micky dropped the keys with a shrug and sat down, putting his feet up on the rickety coffee table, showing off his shiny cowboy boots. Harry didn’t like his manner. A bit too self-assured; a bit too cocky.

  Micky took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and looked at what he’d written: The white chick got dropped off at a basement flat in Kensington. The black girl went on to a place up west, Phoenix House, behind the theater.

  Rawlins put his hand out for the scrap of paper. “This place is a doss-house. I need groceries, booze, soap—there’s a list on the table there. I also need a motor. You got one lined up for me?”

  Tesco replied sullenly, “Yeah, picking one up tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “’Bout ten.”

  “Right, see what you can get now, and bring the rest tomorrow.”