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sweetest. Two reasons:
    First, Orchestra , the professional magazine for musicians, had listed those considered the greatest living players on each classical instrument, and Gerald did not figure under ‘bassoonists’. Two others were named. If they’d picked only one he might have been reasonably all right. But to be pushed to third really got to him. And, of course, he couldn’t be certain that Orchestra regarded him as third, or twenty-third. They’d named two. This did not mean that if they’d chosen three, he would have been it.
    She left her Ford in the car park at the edge of Martin’s Fields and walked over the grass towards the children’s adventure playground. It had been a cold late autumnal day and now, mid-afternoon, only a few people were about, walking the dog, or jogging, or practising place kicks at the rugby posts. Of course, the playground had been closed for a week after the discovery of Tasker’s body on the youngsters’ curly chute there and, although it reopened a few days ago, no children played in the enclosure now. It might be on account of the weather. More likely, for a while the Fields and amusements would be regarded by parents as jinxed and they’d keep their kids away.
    Suppose Esther told Gerald he should certainly have been placed first or second in the bassoonist tally, he would see that for what it was – the would-be soothing verdict of someone naturally biased in her hubbie’s favour, and more or less ignorant of bassoons and of bassoon world league tables. The knee-jerk, worthless words might inflame him further. And suppose instead she argued that if three were named, he must have been included, he would take this as a declaration that, yes, she considered him third rate. Gerald could get rough-house when offended on such a scale, and Esther didn’t fancy any of that just now. She had a tricky job on needing concentration and a brain not dulled by recent blows or distracted by widespread pain.
    Luckily, Tasker’s smashed body had been found early by one of the park keepers opening up the playground for the day. The slide was quickly tented and the area taped off as a crime site before any youngsters and their parents arrived. A notice near the gate said: ‘This playground is intended for children between the ages six to fourteen.’
    But adaptable, obviously.
    â€˜The nearest public phone booth is in Stanton Road. The nearest Accident and Emergency Hospital is the Fildew General in Lent Street.’
    Unneeded, both, in this case. Her mind slipped back to Gerald. The second reason for his present unpredictabilities centred on that TV invitation. At times he seemed thrilled. At others he regarded it as ‘piffling’ and ‘footling’ – or said he did. She knew he would accept. It was the panellist status that riled. He thought there should be a programme, or possibly programmes, devoted only to him. He believed he deserved this, or he had believed it until that list of great bassoonists ignored him. Gerald considered he was being treated not quite as a musical nobody, but only not quite. He could be used to make up the numbers – either as third or worse in the magazine list, or on a panel of four or five where his personal voice could get only a share of attention, despite his flair.
    Tasker had not been killed in the playground. That happened somewhere else and the body arranged on the slide at night after the gate lock to the playground was picked. Did this location, this careful, grotesque placement have any special meaning? Did it say something about why Tasker had been beaten before the bullets? Was the message that Tasker had childishly imagined he could do an exposure piece on the firms and should therefore be presented, slaughtered and bruised, in a juvenile, six to fourteen, playground? And the slide? A devious drop down and down to elimination from his cocky reporter’s