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colour, this technical artistry and imagination, had been content to churn out meretricious souvenirs for the tourist trade.
    “You didn’t know I could do it, did you?”
    Absorbed in the painting, they hadn’t caught his almost silent approach through the open door. He moved round and joined them and stared intently at the portrait, as if seeing it for the first time. His daughters, as though obedient to some unspoken command, grouped themselves around him in what in older children could have been a conscious gesture of family solidarity. Dalgliesh had last seen Blaney six months earlier, splashing alone along the edge of the beach, painting gear slung over his shoulder, and was shocked by the change in the man. He stood a lean six-foot-three in his torn jeans, the checkedwoollen shirt open almost to the waist, his long, grubby feet in the open sandals looking like dry, brown bones. His face was a picture of red ferocity, the straggling red hair and beard, the bloodshot eyes, the gaunt-featured face burnt red by wind and sun, which yet showed on the cheekbones and under the eyes the bruising stain of tiredness. Dalgliesh saw Theresa slip her hand into his while one of the twins moved closer to him and clasped both arms firmly round one of his legs. Dalgliesh thought that however ferocious he might appear to the outside world, his children had no fear of him.
    Alice Mair said calmly, “Good afternoon, Ryan,” but did not appear to expect an answer. She nodded towards the portrait and went on: “It’s remarkable, certainly. What are you proposing to do with it? I can hardly suppose that she sat for you or that it was commissioned.”
    “She didn’t need to sit. I know that face. I’m showing it at the Norwich Contemporary Arts Exhibition on October third if I can get it there. The van is out of use.”
    Alice Mair said: “I’ll be driving to London within the next week. I could collect it and deliver it if you let me have the address.”
    He said: “If you like.” The response was ungracious but Dalgliesh thought he detected relief. Then Blaney added: “I’ll leave it packed and labelled to the left of the door in the painting shed. The light is just above it. You can collect it whenever it suits you. No need to knock.” The last words had the force of a command, almost of a warning.
    Miss Mair said: “I’ll telephone you when I know when I’m going. By the way, I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Dalgliesh. He saw the children on the road and thought of giving them a lift.”
    Blaney didn’t say thank you, but after a moment’s hesitation held out his hand, which Dalgliesh grasped. Then he saidgruffly, “I liked your aunt. She telephoned offering to help when my wife was ill, and when I said there was nothing she or anyone could do, she didn’t keep fussing. Some people can’t keep away from a deathbed. Like the Whistler, they get their kicks from watching people die.”
    “No,” said Dalgliesh, “she never fussed. I shall miss her. I’m sorry about your wife.”
    Blaney didn’t reply, but stared hard at Dalgliesh, as if assessing the sincerity of that simple statement, and then said curtly, “Thank you for helping the children,” and lifted his son from Dalgliesh’s shoulder. It was a clear gesture of dismissal.
    Neither of them spoke as Dalgliesh negotiated the track and finally turned onto the higher road. It was as if the cottage had exerted some spell which it was important to throw off before they talked. Then he asked: “Who is that woman in the portrait?”
    “I hadn’t realized that you didn’t know. Hilary Robarts. She’s Acting Administrative Officer at the power station. Actually you’ll meet her at dinner on Thursday night. She bought Scudder’s Cottage when she first arrived here three years ago. She’s been trying to get the Blaneys out for some time. There’s been a certain amount of feeling about it locally.”
    Dalgliesh asked: “Why does she want to gain possession?