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mutual admission that he did not fit in. To Marcus, the long Sunday morning telephone calls fixing brunch wasted his time; he came, he ate, sometimes he smiled, once he made a joke about blessed eggs Benedict. Occasionally a woman came with him, and he appeared proud of it, but women were not his thing, or perhaps he was not a woman’s thing.
    Marcus did not like surprises. That much Stephanie had in common with him. Now she saw he was as helpless as driftwood, tossed every way around by this flood of the unexpected. ‘You were kind to come, Marcus.’
    He caught the officer’s cold eye. ‘They traced you through me, you see. Because we did the visa application through the office.’ He wanted her to do what had to be done and what he could not do. Like speak to Stewart’s parents.
    They expected her to act now. She looked at her watch. ‘Carl and Betty won’t be up yet. I will speak to them this evening. I’ll call my mother – she should be back by now.’ Her mother’s life was now ruled by golf and her stepfather. They did not like to play in the late afternoon because the shadows were tricky and working people started to get on the links.
    â€˜I can’t think of anything else,’ she said to the police-woman.
    â€˜You’ll find it’s a lot to take in,’ she replied, moving towards the door. ‘There’s a very good Victim Support organisation in Westwick. I’ll leave you their number.’ She picked a card from a pocket in the cover of her notebook and left it on the console in the-hall.
    â€˜If you need anything, Steph …’ Marcus did not know how to get off the doorstep.
    â€˜I’ll call,’ she reassured him. ‘You were good to come, Marcus. I appreciate it.’
    She walked down the front path to see them off; it seemed only polite. The departing cars made whirlpools of blossom petals, then the street was quiet and sunny again. She felt dread drenching her heart; trouble had found its way to her door. Things like this were not supposed to happen in Westwick. The schools and the gardens and the history and the ten-minute run to the airport were part of the story, but the real reason she had set her heart on living here was that it was safe. Or had seemed safe.
    The telephone rang right on cue as she shut the door. It was F A W Capelli, Liaison Officer at the Foreign Office, a brisk, even voice, not too young, reeling out words which, when she tried to repeat them afterwards, seemed to have no meaning. ‘We expect things to move rapidly at this stage. The usual pattern is either an immediate resolution or possibly quite protracted negotiations,’ she heard him say. ‘Controlling the time-scale is an important advantage, so we will be doing our utmost to bring things to the swiftest conclusion possible.’
    After, he had hung up, she went to sit with Max. She would have liked to hold him, and draw some strength from the solid little body, but he never liked to be held. She watched him watch the TV, oblivious of the danger to his father. Would she have to explain to him? Stewart was not due back for another week, at least.
    â€˜How strange,’ her mother said when Stephanie called her and tiptoed through the facts. ‘What did he want to go to such an out-of-the-way place for?’
    â€˜They were invited. All the biggest developments are in those kind of places. You remember the hotel they built in Poland?’
    â€˜Business. Oh yes. Are you all right, dear? Is there anything you want me to do? There is a committee dinner this evening but I suppose I could—’
    â€˜No, no. We’re fine. There’s no need to put yourself out.’
    â€˜I could come over tomorrow …’
    â€˜No, please. You stay where you are. We’ll just have to wait and see how things develop. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ She hated to have her mother visit because she transplanted so