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smile. His distant, upper-class childhood had left him with plenty of problems, but a need to justify himself had never been one of them. Her experience had been quite different. Like many children of divorce, she had grown up with guilt, as though her parents’ split had been her fault. Rationally she knew it hadn’t, but she still hadn’t found a way to stop seeing everyone else’s unhappiness as her responsibility.
    Reaching for the phone on the kitchen worktop, she tapped in the number for Caro Lyalt’s direct line. One of her best friends, Caro was an inspector in the Metropolitan Police, now based at a station in Clapham.
    ‘Hi, Trish,’ Caro said as soon as she’d picked up the phone. ‘That was a fantastic lunch last weekend. I’ve only just needed to eat again. How are you?’
    ‘Not too bad at all.’
    Caro laughed. ‘I love the way you always exaggerate. Now, what can I do for you?’
    ‘You’re probably far too busy, but I wondered if I could entice you out for a quick coffee this morning.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Now-ish? Half an hour, I mean? I’m only doing paperwork at the moment, so I can take my time, but …’
    ‘Perfect. I have to be near the Café Rigoletto this morning in any case. Let’s meet there. D’you remember it? About halfway between us.’
    ‘Of course. See you there. Thirty minutes. Bye.’
     
    When Trish arrived at the café, Caro was already there, chatting to the owner behind the counter. As tall as Trish, she was less spindly, but her solidity came from muscle rather than fat. She had short blonde hair, kept very smooth and neatly tucked behind her ears, big hazel eyes, and a well-shaped face with not a hint of slackness anywhere. Her jaw was square and her beautiful mouth firmly controlled. She looked what she was: determined, rational, strong and loyal. Seeing Trish, she beckoned and introduced her to the café’s owner.
    Unlike the chain coffee shops with their depressing uniformity, this was a family business, which had existed on the site for three generations. The coffee was good, and the dense Italian cakes even better. Trish ordered a caffè latte and a slab-like chocolate concoction full of nuts. Caro raised her eyebrows
and chose a double espresso and an austere-looking hard almond biscuit to dip into it.
    ‘It’s not fair that you stay so thin,’ she said, looking Trish up and down. ‘You must have the most extraordinary metabolism. Now, how can I help? It didn’t sound as if it was David worrying you for once.’
    ‘It’s not. He’s doing fine these days. Why d’you think I need help?’
    ‘Because you never call me at work except when you do. Neither of us has much time to spare, so don’t let’s waste it on guessing games.’ Caro sounded friendly, but the message was clear.
    ‘I just want to know how your lot would go about investigating a terrorist outrage if the bomber-in-chief confessed,’ Trish said, bounced into organising her ideas as she spoke. ‘Would you leave it at that and be happy to see him convicted on his own, or would you try to find out everything about him, his antecedents and his friends and so on?’
    ‘The latter, of course. I’m surprised you even need to ask. What kind of bombing are you talking about? And how are you involved? A client?’
    ‘Not exactly. Don’t look at me like that, Caro. I have no contact with any kind of terrorist. I’m only asking because of a possible defamation case. My bombing happened more than thirty years ago, but I don’t suppose police methods have changed that much. Say it was being investigated now, would your lot do the digging themselves, or would they hand it over to the security services?’
    Caro’s shoulders twitched. She didn’t quite glance behind her to check for eavesdroppers, but she looked as if she wanted to.
    ‘Why are you asking me ? Why haven’t you just looked up the trial transcript?’
    ‘There won’t be anything useful there because the bomber pleaded guilty,