The road wound round and up through a seemingly endless row of two-storey council dwellings, stark metal staircases leading to the upper floors. Towels, sheets and underwear hung from the balconies and windows; it felt like a ghetto.

  The two tower blocks now loomed straight up in front of her, crumbling, pre-cast concrete; they stretched into the sky like a pair of giant dismal tombstones.

  Alex got out of the Mercedes, locked it carefully and walked into the lobby of the nearest building. Most of the glass from one door panel was lying on the floor and the other door was wedged permanently open. The word FUCK had been aerosolled across a wall in large crimson letters, and there was an unpleasant smell she could not identify.

  She looked down the name panel. It was there: E. Need-ham. She felt a confusion of emotions suddenly. It would have been easier if there had been no name; the decision would have been made, and she could let it rest.

  She pushed the button and the huge lift door slid open; it was more like a goods lift than a passenger lift. SUCK YOUR BALLS. The crimson aerosol artist had been at work in here too. She pushed the button for the third floor and the door shut, slowly, jerkily. She wondered if she would have been more sensible to have walked. There was an almost imperceptible jolt and the doors in front of her began to slide downwards, slowly, almost agonizingly slowly. The lift smelt foul, like a public lavatory, and suddenly she noticed, to her horror, a puddle of urine on the floor beside her. She moved away. There was a clunk and a judder and the lift passed a marker for the first floor.

  Finally, it jerked to a halt and she stepped out into a grimy stone-floored corridor. There was a faded ban-the-bomb roundel sprayed on the wall, and further along someone had carved PIGS into the wall with a chisel. She stopped outside number 33, a blue door with a spyhole, and looked for the bell. She pushed it, heard a rasp like an angry insect, and waited. A moment later a woman's voice called out, 'Yeah?'

  Alex stared at the door. 'Mrs Needham?' She waited, but nothing happened. Somewhere down the corridor she could hear a baby crying, and above her the faint blare of pop music. She rang the bell again.

  There was another long pause. 'Yeah, who is it?'

  Alex stared at the door. 'Mrs Needham?'

  'Who is it?' The voice was closer now and she heard the shuffle of footsteps, saw the glint of movement in the spyhole. 'What yer want?' said the voice, hostile.

  'I want to speak to Mrs Needham, please.�

  'You from the Council?'

  'No. My name's Alex Hightower. My son used to go out with your daughter.'

  There was a long silence. Alex heard a hacking cough, then silence again. 'Hallo?' she said, nervously.

  'So what yer want? I've paid me TV licence.'

  Alex frowned, baffled. 'I just want to have a word with you about your daughter, Carrie. Do you have a daughter, Carrie?'

  A pause. 'Yeah.' Another pause. 'What she done?'

  'Nothing, Mrs Needham. I have some news to give her. Please open the door.'

  There was another hacking cough and she heard the sound of bolts sliding; the door opened a few inches. She saw a much younger woman than she had expected, someone her own age, but a pinched, hardened face, aged by neglect, sourness and a sallow complexion that was desperately in need of some fresh air. She must once have been very pretty, and she could be attractive now if she made the effort. She stood there, her hair a nest of curlers, cigarette hanging from her lips, in a dirty blue dressing gown, looking her up and down. 'You're not from the Council?'

  'No.'

  'Yeah, well, they got some funny ideas.' Alex saw the eyes stare at her shiftily, then dart nervously around. The woman jerked her head and stepped back; Alex took this to be an invitation and stepped into a short hallway which stank of sour milk and cigarette smoke. Through the door to the right she could see the kitchen, the table stacked with a pile of empty beer bottles. The woman led her into an L-shaped bedsitting room. 'Carrie, you said?'

  Alex nodded and stared around at the unmade bed, the bare walls, the clothes, trash, magazines and unwashed dishes strewn around at random, at the filthy windows and the magnificent views out over London beyond.

  'My son, Fabian, used to go out with your daughter � until quite recently; I think they split up just after Christmas.'

  The woman stared blankly, drew heavily on her cigarette, even though it was down to the filter, screwed up her nose, took another drag and stubbed it out. 'Ain't seen her; she don't come here much.' She turned her face away from Alex and coughed again, a long, hacking cough. She turned back. 'Sit down, throw those papers on the floor. I'm afraid it's not much here; they don't give you much now, the Council, if you're on your own.'

  Alex removed a pile of newspapers and a half-completed pools coupon from the sofa, and sat down.

  'Gone her own way, if you know what I mean.'

  Alex sensed the woman eyeing her up and down. 'All children are difficult, one way or another.'

  'I don't know about no Fibbin � wozzisname, Fibbin?'

  'Fabian.'

  'Don't know about 'im. She din't say nothing about him.'

  'He was killed in a car crash two and a half weeks ago. I know he was very fond of Carrie; I thought she ought to know.'

  'Oh yes?' the woman said, matter-of-fact, and Alex wondered if perhaps the woman had misheard her.

  'I thought Carrie might have come to the funeral, you see.' Alex bit her lip; she wanted to get out of here, away from the stench, this wretched woman, the filthy flat.

  'I'll tell her when I see her, dear - dunno when that'll be. I'm sorry, haven't offered you nothing - don't get many visitors, see, except from the Council.'

  'I'm fine, thanks.'

  'Cup of tea or something.'

  'No thank you, really.'

  'She's in America.' She nodded at the mantelpiece and Alex saw a postcard with a picture of a skyscraper.

  'How long has she been there?'

  The woman shrugged. 'Dunno how long she been anywhere; just get postcards, nothing else; get 'em regular, I suppose,' she shrugged. 'Know some mums don't even get that.'

  Alex smiled. 'I thought Carrie was very nice; pretty girl.'

  The woman shrugged. 'I wouldn't know, wouldn't know what she looks like these days; had some photographs of her once, dunno what I done with 'em.'

  There was a rasp from the doorbell and an urgent pounding on the front door.

  'Who is it?' she shouted sharply.

  It rang again twice and there was more urgent knocking.

  'All right, all right!' She stood up, coughing, and shuffled out.

  Alex went over to the mantelpiece and looked at the postcard. In small white print at the bottom were the words: 'John Hancock Tower'. There were several more cards stacked up beside it. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, Mass. Newport, Rhode Island. Vermont, New Hampshire. She heard the click of the door opening, heard laughter and footsteps, looked around nervously and slipped the card from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology into her handbag.

  'Bugger off! You fuckers!' she heard Mrs Needham yell; there was a crash as the door slammed shut, and Mrs Need-ham shuffled back into her room, holding a beer bottle, her face flushed with rage. 'Buggers, the kids round here. Buggers.' She prised the top off the bottle, took a swig, and offered it to Alex.

  She shook her head. 'No, thank you.'

  The woman wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Get 'em all the time. The Council say they can't do nothing.' She took another swig from her bottle. 'How did you say your son was?'

  Alex looked at her, horrified, as she realized that the woman was drunk and had been all along.

  'He's dead, Mrs Needham,' she said, as calmly as she could, feeling pity and anger fighting their way up her throat. 'Dead.'

  'Yeah, well, gets us all,' said Mrs Needham.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alex drove down the King's Road, glad to be out of Mrs Needham's flat and away from the claustrophobic desolation of the estate.

  She felt anger rising in her, anger at the woman for living like that, for not caring that Fabian was dead; anger at her being so pathetic, anger that anywhere as ghastly as that place could even exist. Then she thought of the view, that stunning view from the window, and it seemed absurd that the only thing of beauty about the whole place should be the view of somewhere else.

  The house was peaceful; she picked the Sunday papers off the doormat and took them through to the kitchen. She heard the whirr of the kitchen clock, the soft breathing of the boiler. Everything felt normal, smelt normal, sounded normal. The house hummed, sighed, creaked, like the old friend it had always been. She felt comfortable, safe. Home.

  The phone rang; it was David. 'Alex, are you O.K.?'

  His voice sounded clumsy, intruded on her peace, and she felt instantly annoyed with him; then she remembered how she had treated him and felt sorry. 'Hallo, David,' she said, making an effort to sound pleased to hear him. 'I'm fine � look - I'm sorry about last night - I don't know what happened �'

  'It must have been the strain, darling. We've both been under terrible strain; the shock of the whole thing.'

  Swear at me, for Christ's sake, be firm with me, don't be so bloody nice to me all the time; call me a bitch, shout at me; make me afraid of you, she thought, but could not say it. 'Yes, you're right,' she said, flatly. 'I ran after you last night, shouting at you, waving � everyone must have thought I was bonkers.'

  He laughed. 'Why?'

  'I wanted to apologize.'

  'I rang you when I got back; there was no answer, I was worried sick.'

  'I went to the office.'

  �The office?'

  'I thought I'd try and do some work; I ended up sleeping there.'

  'I think it's good to work hard at the moment, take your mind off- you know - but don't overdo it - you must try and rest.'

  She watched her reflection in the toaster, saw her eyes and looked away, unable to face them. It was a lousy feeling, lying when you knew you were being believed, she thought; it was like cheating against yourself. 'I went to see Carrie's mother today.'

  'Carrie? Did she know?'

  'No. Nothing. She hardly ever sees Carrie, apparently. She's in the States somewhere at the moment.'

  'She was a sweet little thing.' His voice tailed off. 'How about some dinner one night this week?'

  'That would be nice'

  'How's your diary?'

  'I've left it in the office. Let's talk tomorrow.'

  She sighed as she hung up, thinking for a moment of the times they had been together, when they had been happy; or had it all been a pretence then? All just a larger he? She made a sandwich, then went through into the drawing room, lit the fire, put on a cassette of Don Giovanni and curled up on the sofa.

  It was late afternoon when she woke up with a start out of a heavy dream. She felt confused and hot; she had been driving somewhere with Fabian; he had made a joke about something and they had been laughing; he seemed so real in the dream, so incredibly real, it took her several seconds to remember ... that they would never drive anywhere, never laugh together again. She felt sad and cheated, cheated by the dream and cheated by life, and stood up with a heavy heart, walked to the window and drew the curtains against the darkening light.

  She wished her mother was still alive, that there was someone older and wiser in whom she could confide; someone who had been through it all before. There were things about being an adult she had never got used to; sometimes it seemed she had become a parent without ever having ceased to be a child.

  She opened her handbag and took out the postcard she had taken from Carrie's mother: it was a wide riverside panorama, showing an avenue of grand university buildings. She turned it over. 'Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Boston, Mass.' was printed on the bottom. Boston, she thought; Boston, Boston, Boston. She looked at the handwriting, large neat upright letters:

  'Hi Mum, This is a really friendly place, lots of things happening, met some great people. Will write again soon. Love C

  There was one half-hearted 'X' after the initial. She carried the card upstairs and went into Fabian's room.

  His trunk sat on the bed, like a coffin, she thought, shuddering. F.M.R. Hightower was stencilled in faded white letters amid the scratches and dents on the lid. She opened the first catch, which sprang back sharply and caught her finger a painful blow, and opened the second more cautiously. She raised the lid, rummaged through the clothing, and pulled out Fabian's diary. She opened it up and pulled out the blank postcards she had found in his desk at Cambridge, and compared them with the one she had in her hand from Carrie; although the pictures were different, the printed layout on all of them was exactly the same. She frowned, puzzled, looked around the room, caught Fabian's eye staring down from the portrait and looked away, guiltily, embarrassed about what she was doing.

  There was a zipped pocket at the back of the diary, which she opened; inside was some pink notepaper, with handwriting that looked like Carrie's, and it was dated January 5th. The address, in Cambridge, was also handwritten:

  'Dear Fabian,

  Please stop these persistent phone calls which are annoying and distressing for everyone. I have told you I do not want to see you again, and there is nothing that is going to change my mind. There is no one else, as you seem to insist, I just cannot cope with your weird habits any more. So please leave me alone. With love. C'

  The same curly 'C and the same style of handwriting as on the postcard, but something struck Alex as being different about it, and she could not work out what. She read the letter again. Weird habits. Weird habits, she thought, puzzled, conscious that she was beginning to feel cold again in the room, cold and uncomfortable. The doorbell rang. She looked at her watch: it was six-fifteen. She slipped everything back inside the diary, laid it on top of the trunk, and went downstairs.

  She opened the front door and felt immediately unsettled by the large woman with the peroxided hair who stood there.

  'Hallo, Mrs Hightower.'

  Alex stared at her neat black pill-box hat, her leather gloves and her immaculately pressed white blouse.

  'Iris Tremayne; I popped round last week.'

  Alex watched her tiny rosebud lips parting as she spoke, like a secret door in the soft folds of her face. There was a determination in the woman's eyes, a determination that this time she would not be sent away. 'Come in,' she said, unable for a moment to think of anything else to say.

  'You need me, dear, I can tell,' the woman said, stepping possessively into the house.

  Alex still had the words of the letter going round in her mind. Weird; weird; the glare of the portrait, the sudden chill in the room. Surely it was Morgan Ford she was seeing, and that was tomorrow? 'I think there's a mistake �' she began.

  Iris Tremayne stared imperiously around the hallway, then followed Alex into the drawing room. 'You're being troubled dear, aren't you?' There was a gentleness that just stopped her voice short of being bossy.

  'I've been a bit jumpy, that's all.'

  'I should think you would be, with what's been happening.'

  Alex stared at her warily. 'What do you mean - with what's been happening?'

  'You're being troubled dear, aren't you? I could sense it when I came round before, you were going to be troubled; tell me, I'm right, aren't I dear?'

  Alex glared at her, annoyed suddenly for the intrusion into her privacy. She had the appointment for tomorrow; she did not need to speak to anyone now. She wondered if Morgan Ford and Iris Tremayne were connected, whether he had tracked her down through the Olivetti service number she had given him and sent Iris Tremayne round? Ridiculous. 'Would you like a cup of tea?'

  'Oh no dear, thank you.'

  She looked around her again. �This is a very nice house dear.' A painting on the wall caught her attention and she walked over towards it, then pointed her finger. 'Is that a Stubbs?'

  'No.'

  'He's the only painter of horses that I know.'

  'It's one of my husband's.'

  'He's a painter is he?'

  Alex looked at her coldly. 'No, the horse; he used to own it. One of his hobbies.'

  'Not a betting person myself; suppose I should be ... with my sensitivity ... but it never seems to work for us sensitives, dear, I never knew anyone who could predict winners for themselves. Restful, aren't they, pictures of horses.'

  'I've never really thought about it.' Alex stared at her impatiently. 'What did you mean just now, when you said I was being troubled?'

  'His spirit is restless, isn't it dear? He wants some help.' She lowered herself carefully into an armchair, like a crate being lowered into a hold, thought Alex. The woman closed her eyes tightly, inclined her body forward and, keeping her gloves on, held her right wrist in her left hand. She opened her eyes and looked up and Alex detected, for the first time, a flicker of doubt in the woman's positive manner.

  'Don't worry, dear.' The lips parted, stretched into a nervous smile, then shrank back, as if they had a life of their own. 'There's no charge, no charge at all. Of course, you can give a donation to charity if you wish, but that's optional, quite optional.' She raised her large false eyelashes up to the ceiling, frowned, as if detecting a flaw in the paintwork, then smiled again uncertainly. 'Coping are you, dear?'

  'Yes,' said Alex coldly. 'I'm coping.'

  'He's around, isn't he dear?'

  'What do you mean?'

  Iris Tremayne shook her head and breathed in sharply; her shoulders suddenly contracted, then relaxed again. She closed her eyes and sat very still. Alex watched her curiously, and felt a sudden deep sense of dread.

  The woman began to twitch, almost imperceptibly. Then suddenly she stopped and stood up straight, opening her eyes. 'I'm sorry dear,' she said, 'I've made a terrible mistake. I shouldn't have come.' Her voice had changed, it was icy cold now; the calm had gone from her face and she looked almost as if she was frightened. 'No, I shouldn't have come at all. A terrible mistake.'