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gathering, and he could see that the concert would be well supported. Some of the young people were obviously students, probably friends of the performers.
    “Hunter Cowgill! Well, I’ll be blowed. Haven’t seen you for years, and you haven’t changed a bit!”
    Cowgill turned quickly, and his heart sank. He would have recognised his police college chum anywhere. Big-boned, red-faced, bright blue eyes and a mouth full of teeth—more teeth than any normal person, surely. It was Pearson. Now, what was his Christian name? Gareth, that was it. Done well in the Metropolitan division. Ah well, he
was
an old friend.
    “Gareth, how nice to see you! Didn’t know you were a fan of classical music? How’re you doing, you old sleuth?”
    “Retired, Hunter, retired three years ago. I couldn’t stand the pace, with all these young lads wanting my job. I come here all the time. Graduated, you could say, from the Beatles to Bach.”
    All this was said as if for the hundredth time, which it probably was, and polished up in the telling. Pearson insisted on buying Cowgill another whiskey, and carried on a monologue until the bell rang, warning that the concert was about to start. Cowgill had chosen a seat in the balcony, well out of sight, and he saw with relief that his cheerful friend marched straight down to the front row of the stalls.
    A hush fell in the hall, and then a minion took away the sign reminding the audience to switch off their mobiles. Another pause, and then on came Jamie. He waved to the audience and went straight to sit at the piano. Three more seconds, and then Akiko walked in, carrying the cello as if it was a dead dog. She looked very pale, and Jamie smiled at her encouragingly.
    Cowgill settled down in his seat and relaxed. He remembered that Lois had said Akiko would not be at her best. He wished he could communicate to her that she should not worry. She was pretty enough to command a round of applause even before she started to play. And anyway, he was sure most of the audience were tourists visiting London who would have no more idea of the finer points of cello playing than he had.
    After a very tuneful first half, the musicians retired, the lights came up, and Cowgill waited until the rest of the balcony audience had gone down the wide steps to the bar. He had other plans, and the main obstacle to these was good old Gareth, who would be keen to seek him out and continue the story of his life so far.
    There were two doors leading from the side aisles to where Cowgill presumed were dressing rooms behind the stage. He noticed that a few people from the stalls were now walking away from the main entrance to the hall and disappearing through these doors. He intended to follow them, and set off at speed with his head well down. There was no sign of Gareth Pearson, and once through the door Cowgill relaxed. Walking confidently, he found himself looking at a spiral staircase, and could hear laughter and conversation coming from above. He guessed it was a room behind the stage for entertaining family, friends and groupies.
    Looking around, he saw behind him a cupboard, with its door ajar. With practised stealth, he slid inside, avoiding large brooms and a clutch of fire extinguishers. There he settled, eyes and ears wide open.
    After a few minutes, he began to realise what a ridiculous sight he would be to anyone discovering him. He was too old for this game, and wished he had, like jolly Gareth, retired and taken up a harmless hobby. But before he had time to return to his seat, he heard quick, light steps coming down the spiral staircase. He peered out and saw Akiko, even paler in the half-light. Then, in seconds, she was out of sight.
    He heard her footsteps stop, and her voice, very low and quick. Who was she speaking to? As far as he knew, nobody had followed him in. But then a similar route to the upper room existed on the opposite side of the stage, and there would be a way through. Now a man’s voice, nasal