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the car. I slid into the driver’s seat and she bent forward and whispered with a nervous backward glance at the cottage in case Peredur was in the window, ‘I’m sorry about Peredur. He’s frightened, you see. They say the man was killed by gangsters and it is better not to get involved.’
    ‘Is it true what the papers say, about you and . . . the dead man?’
    ‘You mean Absalom? Most of it is lies, of course.’
    ‘You knew him?’
    ‘You mustn’t tell Perry.’
    ‘Oh we won’t.’
    ‘You see . . . I went to Aberystwyth. To see
Bark of the Covenant
. Perry would go mad if he found out. He thinks Clip is a graven image. He hates idolatry.’
    ‘Of course we won’t breathe a word.’
    ‘I met him in the queue for the movie. He was a Jew, you see, and I was wearing my stovepipe hat because they told me I would get a concession on the ticket if I did. And Absalom saw my hat and thought I must be a Jew and started talking to me. He asked me what tribe I was from.’ She giggled.
    We forced polite smiles.
    The girl looked over her shoulder again and leaned further into the car window. ‘I had dinner with him afterwards. But you mustn’t tell Peredur.’
    ‘We won’t.’
    ‘We talked, you know, about things. Mostly about hats and stuff and the best way to re-black the brim. He had some good tips.’
    ‘Did he say anything unusual?’
    ‘Well, the funny thing is, he did say something rather odd. He said, “After seeing this movie tonight my life is fulfilled.” And I said, “Yes, it was a jolly good film, wasn’t it?” And he said, “No, I don’t mean that. I mean tonight at the cinema I saw a man, a man whom I have sought all my life. My quest is ended.”’ She smiled. ‘He was ever so posh!’
    I pressed a card into her hand.
    ‘If you think of anything that might help us, feel free to drop in to our office.’
    She stuck the card up the sleeve of her blouse along with her handkerchief.
    ‘It’s in Aberystwyth,’ added Calamity.
    The mention of the town lit a small fire in her eyes. ‘Ooh!’
    ‘And merry Chr . . . er . . . Christ Mass.’
    ‘No, you mustn’t say that – it’s like saying merry funeral or something.’
    ‘Happy New Year, then.’
    ‘No, you mustn’t say that, either; God doesn’t like it because it implies there was something wrong with the old one.’
    ‘What about “Oh, the baby’s knuckle or the baby’s knee, Where will the baby’s dimple be?”’ said Calamity. ‘Can we say that?’
    ‘I’ve never heard that one.’
    ‘It’s traditional.’
    ‘Well, then, I think it would be suitable.’
    I dropped Calamity at her bus stop and drove back to the office. The sky was overcast and, though it was still only midafternoon, the cloud had snuffed the last dregs of light from the day. Occasional flakes of snow fell. There was a small crowd gathered in the street outside the office. But, for once, they hadn’t come to complain. They were watching a crane winch a fat man into a garret across the road.
    The woman from the all-night sweetshop said, ‘You’ve just missed the reinforced bed. You’d think he’d find somewhere on the ground floor, wouldn’t you?’
    ‘Who is he?’
    A man leaning against a lamppost spoke from under the brim of a fedora hat pulled down low. ‘Nobody knows.’ He had a slight American accent and was impeccably dressed: two-tone black and white brogues, sharply creased, generously cut trousers. A silk handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of a coat of midnight blue. The discretion of the handkerchief was good: just enough to see it. Most people get that bit wrong. The man walked off.
    I stared up, along with the other good burghers of Aberystwyth. Flakes of snow, invisible in the gathering dusk, smarted coldly for the briefest of moments on my eyeballs. The man was a round shadow slung beneath the crane, with short arms and legs sticking out and giving the outline of an inflated rubber glove. He turned slowly, swivelling on