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concerted effort Stephen, finishing with a few darting flurries, stood up and held the drawing a little distance from her.
    â€˜Well?’
    Nina squinted at it for some moments, then gave a slow nod. ‘That’s really rather
good
.’
    â€˜Don’t sound so surprised!’ He laughed.
    â€˜Yes, but you usually draw from life, not from someone describing it.’ She leaned forward to scrutinise his handiwork. ‘I couldn’t swear it, but there might have been something fleshier about the lips . . .’
    He returned to the sketch and worked it over a little – erasing, adding, refining – before he handed it back to her. The mouth had been plumped, as required. It briefly amazed her that something in her mind’s eye should take on this vivid material form.
    â€˜That’s him,’ she said. ‘Or as close to him as I can remember.’
    Stephen opened his cigarette case, from which she plucked one and lit it. They smoked for a meditative minute, the sketch lying on the coffee table between them. Nina felt an inward shudder as the stranger’s eyes, sump-black, seemed to fix on her. She stood up, and wandered over to the mirror at the fireplace. She addressed Stephen’s reflection in it.
    â€˜May I ask you something – does my face look “gaunt” or “hard” to you?’ She couldn’t even bear to mention ‘horse-faced’.
    Stephen blinked at the question. ‘Er, no. Neither. Why do you ask?’
    She hesitated, then said, ‘Oh, just something a critic wrote about me when I was doing
Fire in the Hole
.’
    â€˜Tsss. What rot. Should like to aim some fire up
his
hole, the blighter.’
    Nina laughed. ‘Ah, my defender!’
    He felt pleased at having said the right thing, and made a mental note to avoid any reference to the words ‘gaunt’ and ‘hard’ in her presence. Nina had returned her attention to the drawing. ‘So – when do we take it to the police?’
    Stephen paused now, looking shifty. ‘I’ve been thinking about that . . .’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜I can’t go to the police. They’ll ask me why we had a room at the hotel . . . If that comes out, it’s all over with Cora.’
    Nina’s brow closed into a frown. ‘But it’s important – it might help them to catch him!’
    â€˜I know. But my marriage is important, too,’ he said, realising how hypocritical that would sound. He looked away, embarrassed, and felt grateful that she didn’t challenge him.
    At length she said, in a measured tone, ‘I suppose we could send it anonymously. With a note?’
    He shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t work. It needs a credible witness – context – to back it up. Otherwise it’s merely a drawing of a man’s face, and who cares?’
    â€˜Then what was the point of doing it?’
    â€˜I don’t know. The problem only occurred to me as I was drawing the thing.’ She leaned back on the sofa, and blew out her cheeks. What a lot of fuss for nothing. Stephen had been gazing off, abstracted; then he turned his head towards her, his expression intent. ‘Wait – I have an idea.’
    She looked at him, raising her eyebrows in mute enquiry.
    â€˜You should take it to the police,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You present it as your own – why should they doubt it? And you
are
the one who saw him.’
    Nina pointed to the sketch. ‘I couldn’t draw that – I’m not capable of it.’
    â€˜But who’s to know? The important thing, as you said, is to let the police have it. You tell them it’s the man you saw, they get it to the newspapers, maybe someone will recognise him.’
    Her expression remained dubious. ‘I don’t know. What if they rumble me?’
    â€˜They won’t. They’ll simply think you’re a decent citizen who wants to help –