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making it sound as if she and her husband lived above the clouds, up where the hoi polloi never reached; Malone saw a slight smile on the face of Juliet, the youngest sister. “We may have had a visitor, I’m not sure. I was out, but my husband was home. People from his office often drop by at odd hours. It’s just across the road there.”
    She nodded west, towards the end of the long curved glass wall; the vertical edge of the tall Casement building showed there like a sun-reflecting border. A jigsaw was falling into place in Malone’s mind. He was not ignorant of the men and money that ran this city, but homicide detectives rarely, if ever, had to sort out the skeins of power.
    â€œRob liked girls.” Juliet had a throaty voice. To Clements, a late-night movie fan, she sounded like the crop of actresses out of old British movies, when they all tried to sound like Joan Greenwood. To Malone, a man with a biased ear, she sounded phoney. “Perhaps one of them came here and brought someone? A boyfriend followed her?”
    â€œRob was told he was never to bring girls unless we were here.” Rosalind sounded like a headmistress.
    â€œI’m sorry, Inspector—” Juliet made a poor attempt at looking innocent. “I’m playing detective. Forgive me?”
    â€œThe doorman says he didn’t let in any visitors for Mr. Sweden. But we think Mr. Sweden must’ve been expecting someone .”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?” The Minister’s voice was sharp.
    â€œDetective Kagal has interviewed your maid. She says your son gave her fifty dollars to go to the movies. We think he wanted her out of the way.”
    â€œFifty dollars to go to the movies?” Ophelia made it sound as if, up in the penthouse, she added up the housekeeping money every night.
    â€œRob was generous, you know that,” said Rob’s father, his voice still sharp. “Money didn’t mean anything to him, easy come, easy go.”
    â€œHe was generous to a fault,” said Rob’s stepmother, the sound of violins in her voice, and Malone waited for honey to run down the walls. It struck him that though Derek Sweden was upset by his son’s death, the three women and Rufus Tucker appeared to be labouring to show any real grief.
    â€œWhat did your son do, Mr. Sweden?”
    â€œ He was a broker on the Futures Exchange—or he was up till a few weeks ago. He worked for a brokerage office owned by my brother-in-law, Mr. Casement. A few weeks ago he transferred to Casement Trust, the merchant bank side of the corporation.”
    Malone nodded as if he understood; but he would have to ask Russ Clements, the human data bank, to explain what futures brokers did. Russ, he knew, would also almost certainly know what Cormac Casement did. “Mrs. Aldwych mentioned that he liked girls. Did he have a regular girlfriend?”
    â€œNo,” said the stepmother. Rosalind was as composed as her two sisters, but whereas the other two were relaxed in their chairs, she sat stiffly, even primly, on the long couch. She wore a simple black woollen dress, as if already prepared for the funeral, but the double strand of pearls lying on her full bosom suggested she might also be prepared for lunching out. “He preferred to play the field. He had no difficulty in getting girls to go out with him. He was a very handsome boy.” She looked at her husband, then suddenly smiled; it was so unexpected, Malone wondered if what had gone before was no more than an act. “Your looks, darling.”
    Her two sisters nodded in agreement; Sweden looked unembarrassed. Then Tucker glanced at his watch, a large old-fashioned gold hunter that he had taken from his waistcoat pocket. “Minister, I think we’d better be going—”
    Sweden looked distracted; there was no doubt his shock and grief were genuine. But he would never let himself fall apart; he was not called The