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realize by now that you’re always going to be disappointed.’ Another of her hackneyed, predictable statements; he could have foretold it, word for word. Didn’t she realize that stuff like that would just infuriate him? For a surprising, delicious moment, he saw himself with his hands round her throat, squeezing the life out of her, watching her eyes dilate with terror as her string of clichés was stilled for ever.
    It was a glorious vision, as fleeting as it was delightful. It left him shocked but delighted. It was another sign that he wasn’t as other men, when it came to the strength of his emotions. Another sign that his extra sensitivity meant that he felt things more keenly than the common run of men. Peter was wrong there, as he often was; his knowledge of human nature was nothing like as profound as he proclaimed it to be. He didn’t realize that all over Britain on any single night there were thousands of married men and thousands of married women who enjoyed delicious escapist moments as they envisaged choking the life out of a perpetually irritating spouse. He would have been astonished to know that even that conventional woman Edwina occasionally thought of him with his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and those too-mobile lips stilled for ever.
    Fortunately for the forces of law and order, only a tiny percentage of people ever transform thought into action. Any murderous move of that sort would certainly set Peter Preston apart from other men.
    Christine Lambert chose her moment and her menu with great care. They had steak and their first Jersey Royal new potatoes of the year, with purple sprouting broccoli from their own garden. She had one glass of a very agreeable Merlot and John had two. They had cheesecake for dessert; she passed him a second helping without a word after his first longing glance at what was left. She sent him into the lounge to decide upon their television viewing for the night, whilst she cleared the dishes and prepared the coffee. She poured him a brandy to drink with his, then, after a moment’s consideration, set a second, token measure for herself beside it on the tray.
    The feminists would have been tutting long ago, she thought. But she had her methods of achieving things, old-fashioned but generally effective. She looked at the tray and wondered if she was overdoing things, whether John might see through her obvious ploys. But men were credulous creatures, when your weapons were food and drink. That was surely a thought of which even the most modern woman could approve.
    She asked him about his day and he talked to her a little about it, as he would never have done twenty years ago. When he asked her about her own day, she knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for. ‘I’ve been tying up a few things concerned with the literary festival. I like Marjorie Dooks. She says what she thinks and doesn’t say other things behind your back. She treads on a few toes, but she gets things done. And she’s not afraid of work herself. She doesn’t ask you to do things just because she doesn’t fancy them herself. She makes you feel as if you’re definitely the best person for the job.’
    â€˜That’s good. I’ve had mixed reports about her, but nothing to contradict what you’ve just said.’ John Lambert contemplated the big globe of his brandy glass, rolled its contents pensively around inside it, and took an appreciative sip.
    She marvelled anew at his policeman’s capacity for gathering information she did not think he would have. He took no obvious interest in local affairs, yet whenever anything came up, he invariably seemed to know far more than she would have expected. A CID trait, he said apologetically, whenever she remarked upon it. You kept your ears open to everything, including gossip and rumour, and filed it away for future reference. There was nothing sinister or complex about it; you