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what?”
    “For Sarah Morrow’s case. Five years ago.”
    “Look, Emma. I don’t think I can—”
    “Oh, do cut the Sir Galahad routine, Tom.” She paused so that I looked directly at her. “Now, you and Justine. Who was to
     blame?”
    “If we’re going to discuss this, I want my lawyer present,” I said.
    “You have got your lawyer present,” Emma replied. “Who was to blame?”
    “I don’t understand you lot. It was your women’s group that instructed Justine as junior counsel. Or have you forgotten that
     little detail?”
    “It wasn’t
my
group. I had no say in it.”
    “Well, the sisters then. Collectively. They must have wanted Justine to defend.”
    “I think it came from the family. Sarah Morrow once went to the same school as Justine or something.”
    I then remembered being told something similar a few years previously. “So it was the Stonebury connection?” I asked.
    “I suppose so,” Emma replied. “Anyway, the point is Justine simply didn’t have her heart in it. Didn’t care. Only in it for
     the publicity.” Emma sipped some more wine. “Justine’s a bit like… well, rather like one of those birds. You know, the ones
     that go after shiny objects.”
    “Jays? Or magpies?”
    “I’m not a bloody ornithologist, Tom. The point is, they’re just attracted to the glitter.”
    “Perhaps she was misunderstood.”
    “And perhaps you just wanted to get into her knickers.” We both knew that was a cheap shot. “You’re so pathetically weak with
     women. A toss of the hair, quick whiff of perfume and you’re putty, Tom.”
    She emptied my glass. “God, this wine is rough,” she said and tried to smile, but it was not very convincing. “You see, Tom,
     I sometimes worry about you.”
    “About what?”
    “About… well, about your disgusting little soul. Christ, now I’m sounding like your priest.”
    “I haven’t got one.”
    “Perhaps you should.” She picked up her bag and brushed herself down. “I’m just worried about what you’re doing to yourself.
     Justine Wright is trouble, Tom.”
    “Emma,” I said, “let me just say—”
    But she put her fingers to my lips a little like Justine had done at Manly’s party years ago. For the first time in her life,
     Emma Sharpe pressed her cheek against mine. She immediately recoiled in embarrassment, not wanting me to take it the wrong
     way. But I could not, not with Emma.
    “Want to know the truth?” she asked as I nodded. “I’m a little frightened about what we might find in this case, Tom. I don’t
     give a damn about Richard Kingsley; as far as I’m concerned, he can burn in hell for ever. He’s pure evil.”
    “To you, he’s evil,” I said. “To me, he’s just another client suffering from a dodgy alibi and an acute lack of innocence.”
    “That’s what you always do,” Emma said. “Try to joke it away.”
    “Well, innocence is a much overrated commodity. Don’t you think?”
    Emma paused but did not smile. “You see, Tom, no matter what you might say, there’s something at the heart of all this. Something
     rotten. You know, a bit terrible. I’m not sure what it is, but I think you might just stumble your way into it.”
    She started to walk away, but stopped after a couple of paces and added, “That’s why I’m worried about you, Tom.”

C HAPTER S EVEN
    T HE BEDROOM AT HOME WAS AS COLD AS EVER . Penny, my wife, insisted on sleeping with the window ajar whatever the season. There was a slender shaft of moonlight on
     the bed and I could see her baggy white tee-shirt—she never wore negligees or anything like that. Too prissy, she used to
     say.
    And then I felt a movement somewhere below my belt-line. In Kingsley’s novels, such a scene would result in the hero’s “manhood”
     becoming engorged and throbbing. But the only thing that throbbed was my forehead. And all that I felt further down was a
     faint tingling. I knew that it would happen. It occurred disconcertingly often in