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in that road.
    What was Max doing here? Waiting for her, obviously. She felt a familiar tightening of nerves, because a visit from Max usually meant he wanted something. But . . . a nasty thought. Was all well with her darling grandson? She usually saw him twice a week but for some reason it hadn’t been convenient the other day. Perhaps he was ill?
    She had planned to go down into the agency, but instead she mounted the stairs to the front door and let herself into the house.
    Thursday late afternoon
    â€˜Nance? The bird’s let herself into a big house on the far side of Kensington Church Street, not a hundred yards from where I found Josie. It looks as if she’s running some kind of business from the basement. The Abbot Agency, whatever that might be. Escort agency? She’d make a fine madam. It doesn’t sound like a solicitor’s office, does it, but it’s only a hop, skip and a jump from the music man’s new flat.’
    â€˜She’s not a totty?’
    â€˜Far from it.’
    â€˜We’ll know where to find her if we need to. Meanwhile, we’ve got to think of the future. I’ve done all the groundwork for a new project, and I’m not giving up, especially after we lost out so badly on the last one. Someone’s sending round a girl who might be a suitable replacement for Josie, and I’d like you to see her.’
    â€˜It’s too soon. Josie’s not even buried yet.’
    â€˜It’s never too soon to earn some more money. Be there.’
    Thursday late afternoon
    â€˜Max, my dear! How nice to see you. And how is my beautiful grandson? I was so sorry to miss him earlier this week.’
    â€˜Now, Mother. Don’t be obtuse. You know perfectly well that Nicole has taken him up to our house in the constituency for the summer break. I hope to join them soon. Our flat here in London is not pleasant in this heat.’
    â€˜I’d forgotten you were going so soon.’
    Bea’s drawing room was pleasantly cool as she’d had the forethought to lower the blinds over the windows at the back of the house before she left. She raised them now and threw open the French windows so that, just for a minute, she could step out on to the wrought iron staircase which curled down into the garden. A breath of fresher air stirred the curtains behind her, and she thought how pleasant it would be to go down and sit in the shade of the sycamore tree, perhaps with a glass of iced water. But not yet.
    Max had taken up his stand with his back to the fireplace – which held a display of ferns at this time of year. Bea loved him dearly. He was the only child of her first marriage to a tom-catting portrait painter who had wooed her as an eighteen-year-old but, finding marriage and responsibility not to his taste, had abandoned her to bring up their son alone. Piers was in the money nowadays, and he and Bea were now good friends. He’d even managed to re-establish some sort of relationship with his son. Piers had never been handsome but had all the charm in the world.
    Max, on the other hand, was tall, dark and handsome . . . if carrying a little too much weight. Bea held back a sigh. Max was wearing his ‘official’ face. Max was on the warpath about something.
    Would a diversion help? ‘Can I fetch you a cup of iced tea? Some home-made lemonade? I think there’s some in the fridge.’
    â€˜You should have told me you were going to be out this afternoon. I’ve been waiting for over half an hour for you to return.’
    She subsided on to a high-backed chair. ‘Well, I’m here now.’ No point in telling him why she’d gone out, because he disliked CJ – perhaps was a little jealous of his influence? – and he’d be horrified to hear she’d been in conversation with a man accused of having under-age sex. She ironed out a smile. ‘Max, dear; do sit down. You’re looming over me.’
    â€˜Now