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stream, lose your footing and get borne seawards. She wasn’t, unfortunately, a particularly good swimmer.
    Rafael left work with a slight headache. There was so much to think about at the moment, what with the invitations to the new exhibition at the gallery going out late, having to find a new carrier and Philip’s refusal to sell him the picture.
    On the other hand, it had occurred to him that Charlotte would make the perfect mule to carry the goods out of the country for him. Mind you, she was a squawker; heaven only knew how she got on at the library because when the flood-gates opened, she never stopped. Now she was agitating because another girl was going to move into the flat and the place was a tip. Fine. The rent would be shared between five and not four, which would please Liam and Zander, both of whom were perpetually short of money.
    Better get Liam to calm her down. Liam didn’t fancy Charlotte much, but he’d do as he was told for a bonus.
    Rafael had an amusing thought. He had more stuff to move than Charlotte could feasibly take without asking questions. He’d have a look at the new girl; if she was anything like Charlotte, he could use her, too.
    It was worrying, though, that Philip had disappeared with the picture after their little chat the other night. The picture had been genuine enough, though Rafael had told Philip it was just a good copy worth a couple of hundred at most.
    The boy had wavered, tried to beat the price up. Perhaps it had been a mistake to threaten him? Rafael had only shown him his knife to help the deal along, and he’d had no real intention of using it, but Philip had been drinking too hard to realize that.
    If it hadn’t been for the little girl with the waist-length hair that Rafael had been chatting up, he’d have stuck by Philip till a sale had been concluded. It had been a mistake to leave him behind in the pub to go on drinking, but who’d have thought he’d have done a midnight flit?
    However, all was not lost. Philip hadn’t the brains to hide properly, nor the money. He’d be back, and when he returned it would be curtains and not pictures for him, right?

Three
    Friday afternoon to evening
    B ea tried to get hold of Max up in the Midlands, got through to his PA and left a message for him to phone her urgently. His PA didn’t sound very encouraging; Max was out at some constituency function and would be going on to another meeting early that evening. In other words, don’t hold your breath, Mrs Abbot.
    How do you attract the notice of a busy man like Max, who felt the burden of the Party resting on his shoulders, even though he was a mere foot soldier and might never be anything more?
That tax demand …
    Answer; you ring his wife. Bea didn’t actively dislike the over-thin Nicole, but she didn’t cherish warm feelings towards her, either. But needs must. Nicole wasn’t at the house her parents had bought for them. She would be out to lunch with her friends, or perhaps at Max’s side at a constituency event, smiling and not meaning it. Bea dug out Nicole’s mobile number, and rang. Her phone was switched off. Bea left a message, trying to keep calm, trying not to shout. There was no doubt about it, she was thoroughly on edge.
    Her own landline rang. Bea answered the phone in a clipped voice.
    â€˜Abbot Agency, how may I help you?’
    A laughing voice, a well-known voice, the voice of her ex-husband, Piers, the well-known portrait painter and tomcat. ‘I’m coming round in—’
    â€˜No, you’re not. Piers, I’ve got—’
    â€˜â€”ten minutes.’ The phone went dead.
    Maggie whirled into the room, snatching up papers, banging filing cabinet drawers around. Max had experimented with having a paper-free office, but hadn’t backed up as much as he might have done. Also, computers were fallible and Bea had decided that although they would take every