She grinned again as she went upstairs, feeling better, as if she had scored a secret personal triumph over David.

  She woke with a start in the large bed and wondered if she'd overslept. She reached over and picked up her watch. Six-fifteen. Relieved, she sank back on to the pillow and closed her eyes. In the distance she heard a lorry thunder down the King's Road. Then she heard the click of a door; it sounded like her front door. She listened intently, but realized she must have imagined it, and closed her eyes. Another hour of sleep. She needed it. Her lungs felt sore and there was a sharp throbbing pain in her head. She always smoked too much and drank too much when she saw David. Separating wasn't easy; sometimes it seemed harder than staying together.

  A shadow passed in front of her eyes in the dark room and she felt cold suddenly. She opened her eyes and saw Fabian standing over her bed, could see him clearly in spite of the dark.

  'Darling!' she said.

  'Hi, Mum.'

  She stared up at him; he looked worried, agitated.

  'I wasn't expecting you back until tonight, darling.'

  'I'll get some rest now, I'm very tired.'

  'You must have driven through the night.'

  Fabian smiled. 'Go back to sleep, Mum.'

  'I'll see you later,' she said, and closed her eyes, waiting for the click of her door closing. But she heard no click. 'Fabian, darling, close the door,' she called out. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the door and saw it was closed. She smiled, confused, and lapsed back into a dose.

  It seemed only seconds later she heard the shrill cry of an insect in trouble, urgent, insistent, growing louder. She fumbled for her clock, wanting to stop it before it woke Fabian. Her hand groped about on the bedside table, found keys, a book, a glass of water, the hard scaly cover of her Filofax. The shrill insistent beep continued; she lay back for a moment and waited for it to stop, then remembered it would not; the wonderful solar clock that would never switch off by itself, programmed to beep, if necessary, until the end of time. It became, instantly, yet another reason to dislike David. What a damned stupid Christmas present to give; cruel, masochistic. He had bought it because it amused him; wines and gadgets. For a man who had turned his back on urban civilization, he was too damned fond of gadgets.

  She pulled on her track suit and padded out into the corridor, quietly, not wanting to wake Fabian, pleased he was back, making a mental note to cancel a meeting that evening so they could do something together, maybe go out and see a film and have a Chinese afterwards. He was at a nice age now, in his second year at Cambridge, beginning to see clearly how the world worked, yet still filled with the enthusiasm of youth; he was a good companion, a mate.

  She pounded her two mile route up to the Fulham Road and round the Brompton Cemetery, then scooped the papers and the milk from the doorstep and went back indoors. It struck her as mildly odd that Fabian had not left his usual trail of clobber all over the hallway. She hadn't noticed his car outside either, but maybe he'd had to park in another street. She went back upstairs, quietly, to shower and dress.

  She wondered whether to wake him up before she left, but went to the kitchen instead and scribbled a note. 'Back at seven, darling. If you're free we could go to the cinema. Love, Mum.' Then she looked at her watch and flew.

  By the time she reached the Poland Street car park her mood had changed to a sense of gloom. She nodded mechanically at the attendant as she drove up the ramp. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't place it; she felt depressed, flat, and blamed David. Something in Fabian's expression had unsettled her, as if he had a secret he was keeping from her, as if there was a conspiracy and she was the only one not to know.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alex stared in disbelief as her secretary laid a third stack of Jiffy bags on her desk.

  'All this is today's, Julie?' She picked up one of the packages and looked dubiously at the label. 'Ms Alex Hightower, Hightower Literary Agency' was spelt out in huge jittery letters. 'Hope he hasn't handwritten the manuscript.'

  'Philip Main called a few minutes ago. Asked whether you had deciphered the message. He may have been joking, but I wasn't quite sure.'

  Alex thought of the negatives she had developed and grinned. 'I'll call him back after I've opened the post.'

  'In about two weeks.'

  Alex picked up her paper-knife and searched, bewildered, for a gap in the Sellotape.

  'A Walter Fletcher rang � wanted to know if you've read his manuscript yet.'

  'Doesn't ring a bell.'

  'He was complaining bitterly that you'd had it for almost a week.'

  Alex stared at the shelves beside her desk, piled high with manuscripts of novels, plays, film scripts. 'Walter Fletcher? What was the title?'

  'The Development of Tribal Dances in the Middle Ages.'

  'You're joking!' Alex sipped her coffee. 'Did you tell him we don't handle that sort of thing?'

  'I tried to. He seems fairly convinced it's going to be big.'

  Alex ripped open the bag and pulled out a shapeless wodge of dog-eared papers, several inches thick, and loosely bound with elastic bands. 'This one's yours,' she said, passing it straight to her secretary, who flinched under the weight.

  Julie put it down on the desk and stared at the first page, a barely decipherable code of misspellings, crossings out and red underlining. 'He appears to have typed this without a ribbon.'

  'Look on the bright side,' said Alex. 'At least it's typed.'

  The intercom buzzed and she picked up her phone.

  'Philip Main for you.'

  Alex hesitated for a moment. 'O.K.' She pushed the button. 'You're mad,' she said. 'Completely mad.'

  She listened to the usual sniff, followed by the clearing of the throat that always sounded like a grunt, followed by the long hiss as he drew deeply on the inevitable Capstan Full Strength that he poked in and out of his moustache with his nicotine-stained forefinger and thumb. 'Did you understand it?' His. deep, quiet voice was tinged with a boyish excitement.

  'Understand it? What was I meant to understand?'

  Sniff; grunt; hiss. 'It's a whole new form of communication; a new language. We're evolving from dialogue; it's a random communication mutated into celluloid. Nobody bothers talking any more, that's too trite; we make films, shoot pictures, pass them round. Dialogue is too dominating - you don't get a chance to develop your thoughts if you're listening to dialogue - but you develop someone's pictures and they talk to you � part of your soul goes into them.'

  Alex looked up at her secretary and tapped her head.

  'So, thirty-six photographs of an animal's genitals were meant to communicate something to me.'

  Grunt. Hiss. 'Yes.'

  'All it communicated to me was that it was far too small.' She heard a giggle from Julie.

  'Organs of the Species.'

  'Organs of the Species?'

  'It's the title; I've got the title.'

  'Of what?'

  'A new book; we're going to write it together.' Grunt.

  Hiss. 'Your passion for photography. My obsession with the sex organs.'

  'Philip, I have a lot of work to do. Friday's my worst day.'

  'Let me buy you lunch next week.'

  'I have a very busy week.'

  'How about dinner?'

  'I think lunch would be better.'

  'You don't trust me.' He sounded offended.

  'Tuesday. I could do a short lunch on Tuesday.'

  'I'll pick you up at one. All right?'

  'Fine. Bye.'

  Alex shook her head and put the phone down.

  'Philip Main?' said Julie.

  Alex nodded, and smiled. 'Mad. Completely mad, but the book he's writing could be brilliant - the bizz - if he ever finishes it.'

  'Will anyone be able to understand it?'

  'No, so it should win a few awards.'

  The intercom buzzed again.

  'Yes?' said Alex.

  'There's a policeman down here, Mrs Hightower.'

  'A policeman?' Her instinctive reaction was guilt, and she raked through her mind, trying to remember if she had any parking tickets outstanding? Or had she been reported for reckless driving? Surely not? 'What does he want?'

  'He'd like to have a word with you.' There seemed to be an insistency in her receptionist's voice; perhaps she too was intimidated by policemen?

  'Maybe he's written a book?' said Julie.

  Alex shrugged. 'Ask him to come up.'

  He came through the door with his cap in his hand, looked down at the ground, at his immaculately polished shoes, then up, aiming his eyes at a level just below the top of Alex's desk. He was young, she realized with a shock; she had expected someone old, but he was as young as her son.

  He had a flat boxer's nose, but soft, kindly blue eyes, shy eyes. 'Mrs Hightower?' he said, expectantly, to both women.

  'Yes,' said Alex.

  He looked nervously at Julie, then at Alex, put his hands behind his back and swayed slightly from side to side. 'Do you think I could have a word with you alone?'

  'It's all right, officer - my secretary works with me all the time.'

  He looked at Julie then at Alex. 'I think it would be better if I could speak to you on your own.'

  Alex nodded at Julie. She went out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  'Mrs Hightower - I'm Constable Harper, from the Metropolitan Police.' He blinked furiously.

  Alex watched him quizzically; he was making her feel uncomfortable.

  'You have a son, I believe � Fabian?' 'Yes?' She felt cold, stared past him, out through the horizontal Venetian slats at the grey rooftops beyond, saw the rain sliding down the window leaving trails like snails. Her mind started racing.

  The policeman unbuttoned the top button of his tunic, then did it up again; he dropped his hat on the floor, and knelt down to pick it up, then composed himself. 'He owns a red Volkswagen Golf GTi?'

  Alex nodded. What the hell has he done this time? The police had been before, eighteen months ago, when someone had reported him for reckless driving. She nodded blankly as the policeman read out the registration number. 'He's been travelling in France?'

  'Yes. Been skiing with some friends � and then he went to Burgundy to a party � a twenty-first � the daughter of a friend of my husband's.'

  The policeman's eyes were wide, staring, and his mouth was twitching as if an electric current were running through it. Alex looked away from him again, and stared at her face in the word-processor screen at the side of her desk. She looked old, suddenly, she thought, incongruously, old.

  'We've had a phone call from the police � gendarmerie � er - police, in Macon. I'm afraid there's been an accident.' The words began to float around her, as if each was contained in a watery bubble; she saw them, heard them, again, repeatedly, in different sequences. Taken. Hospital. Arrival. To. On. Found. Was. But. Be. To. Arrival. Dead. She felt one of her knees hit something hard, then again. She stared at the policeman's face, saw two faces, then four.

  'Would you like a cup of tea?'

  Who had said that, she wondered, suddenly. Him? Her? She spoke mechanically, positively, tried to be courteous; tried not to make the man feel like an idiot, in spite of her mounting anger. 'I'm very sorry,' she said. 'There has been a mistake; a very terrible mistake. My son is at home, asleep in bed; he arrived back safely this morning.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Constable Harper departed in a flurry of staccato apologies and twitches. Alex sat down, staring at the spats of rain on the window, and dialled her home phone number.

  She heard the click as it answered, and a dull roar. Over the roar, she heard the voice of her cleaning lady. 'Hold on, you don't go no away please.' There was a clunk, the roar stopped and her voice came on again, clearer. 'Very sorry; go turn off 'oover. Missy Eyetoya 'ouse.'

  'Mimsa, it's Mrs Hightower speaking.'

  'Missy Eyetoya no here; you telephone please at office.'

  Alex waited patiently, and then repeated herself, slowly, louder.

  'Allo Missy Eyetoya.' There was a pause as if Mimsa was looking something up in a phrase book. 'How you you?' she said positively, slowly, triumphantly.

  'Fine, may I speak to Fabian please.'

  'Misser Fibbian? He no here.'

  'He's asleep in bed.'

  'No, he no sleeping. I just clean his room. You say he come back tonight; I just clean room for him.'

  Alex hung up, grabbed her coat and went out into the corridor. She put her head through Julie's office door. 'I'll be back in an hour.'

  Julie looked at her anxiously. 'Is everything all right?'

  'Yes, it's fine,' she snapped.

  She double parked in the street, ran to the house and up the steps. There was a drowning roar from the vacuum cleaner and a strong smell of polish. She walked through and saw Mimsa, arched like a chicken, hoovering the drawing room. She ran up the stairs and along the corridor to Fabian's bedroom, paused outside and knocked gently. She opened the door. The bed was neatly made and there were no suitcases, nor any clobber lying on the floor. It smelt clean, freshly aired, unused.

  She looked around the room, up at the strange gaunt portrait of her son. He stared back down, sternly, arrogantly, hand slipped inside his jacket like Napoleon. The eyes were all wrong; they looked cold, cruel, not those warm eyes that were full of life that was the real him. Fabian had given it to her last year as a birthday present, but it had unsettled her; she had tried it on a few different walls, and eventually hung it in his own room. She felt a shiver as she looked at it now.

  She went up and looked in the spare room, then the bathroom; but there was no sign of Fabian having returned. She went to her bedroom, picked up the phone and dialled her husband.

  'Can I call you back?' he said. 'I'm right in the middle of something urgent.'

  'So am I,' she said, conscious of sounding more hysterical than she had intended. 'Is Fabian with you?'

  'No,' he said, impatiently. 'He was going to that twenty-first at the Arboisses' last night. He wouldn't be back in England yet.'

  'David, something very strange is happening.' 'Look � I'll call you back in half an hour. Are you at the office?'

  'No. I'm at home.'

  Alex was conscious of the sound of hooting outside. It was getting increasingly impatient. She hung up and ran down the stairs. Mimsa jumped in shock as she saw her. 'Missy Eyetoya, oh you give me fright!' Alex dashed outside. 'Sorry,' she shouted at a small, thin-lipped man in a large BMW who glared and shook his head. She jumped into her Mercedes, moved down the road, then reversed into the space the BMW had left. She went back into the house.

  'You did not see Fabian, Mimsa?'

  Mimsa shook her head; the whole top half of her stooped body shook as though it were attached to her legs by a fulcrum. 'Don't see no Misser Fibbian. Don't been back yet.'

  Alex went through into the drawing room and sat down on a sofa, looking around at the apricot walls, thinking, suddenly, how pretty the room looked, and then, suddenly, how strange it felt being at home on a weekday morning. She stared at the bowl of red roses on the table by the door, and smiled. They had arrived by Interflora on her birthday, three days ago. The card from Fabian was still tucked in with them. Red roses; his favourite flowers. He always gave her red roses. She closed her eyes and heard the vacuum rev up again to a crescendo and then undulate, as Mimsa pushed the machine backwards and forwards over the carpet, relentlessly.

  He had come into her room this morning; she had seen him; surely to God she had seen him?

  She heard the front door and ignored it; probably the milkman; Mimsa could deal with it.

  'Missy Eyetoya.' She opened her eyes and saw Mimsa looking agitated. 'Policeman here.' Mimsa's eyes were wide open, bulging; she jerked over her shoulder with her thumb.

  �That's all right, Mimsa, show him in.'

  Mimsa stared at her, and Alex smiled reassuringly, nodding.

  A moment later, Constable Harper was standing awkwardly in the doorway, cap in hand, and mouth twitching like a rabbit. 'Sorry to bother you again,' he said.

  Alex swept some hair from her face and pointed to a chair. He sat down and placed his cap on his knees. 'Nice house.'

  Alex nodded and smiled. 'Thank you.'

  'We seem to have a problem.' He turned the cap over a couple of times. 'I don't know quite how to say this. There is a young man in hospital in Macon, who was in the � er � the accident, Mr Otto �' he pulled out his notebook and looked at it. 'Mr Otto von Essenberg. He says that the other three in the car were a Mr Charles Heathfield, a Mr Henry Heathfield and Mr Fabian Hightower. Obviously he's still in a state of shock.'

  'Charles and Henry Heathfield?'

  'Yes.'

  She nodded.

  'Do you know them?'

  'Yes, their parents live in Hong Kong. Charles is at Cambridge with Fabian. Henry's his younger brother. Are they all right?'

  Harper paled, looked at the ground, and shook his head. 'I understand that �' he shook his head '� that they were killed.' He looked back at Alex, and turned the hat over again. 'You said you saw your son this morning.'

  Alex nodded bleakly.

  'I'm sorry, this is very difficult.' He looked away from her again. 'Where exactly did you see him?'

  'He came into my bedroom.'

  'What time would that have been?'

  'About six. I think I looked at the clock, I'm not sure.'

  He wrote carefully in his notebook, his hand shaking. 'About six?'

  'Yes.'

  'Here?'

  'Yes.'

  'But he's not here now?'

  'No.' She sensed an inevitability dawning on her and she bit her lip.

  'Do you know where he's gone?'

  She shook her head. It was getting harder to speak.

  'Did he say anything?'