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events.
    ‘What did you find out?’ I asked, as he seated himself and began thumbing through his notebook to the right place, a process that involved a damp finger and more time than I could spare.
    ‘Well, Mr Rocco,’ he said finally, ‘I did a small check on the lady in question as you requested. She’s married to a solicitor called James Drew – younger member of Drew, Drune and Tibbs – lives in a basement flat. No children. She has a part-time position in a university library.’
    ‘A librarian?’ I repeated.
Tish
?
    ‘And she writes.’
    ‘That’s more like it. Poetry, I suppose,’ I said, an errant memory flitting through my mind of long afternoons spent in my flat – me painting, Tish wrestling with a poem, or lying on the rug with her A level books spread around her.
    So I was surprised when he said, ‘Not poetry, Mr Rocco. She writes romantic novels as Marian Plentifold.’
    ‘Romantic novels?’
    ‘She seems to be doing quite well with them, too.’
    ‘Inspired by her husband, no doubt,’ I said, and something in my voice made him cast a doubtful glance my way.
    ‘Mr Drew seems to be a respected member of the firm, which was founded by his grandfather. He’s older than Mrs Drew by about ten years. His father lives in South Africa with his second wife and family.’
    ‘So – happily married then?’
    Mr Rooney emitted a small dry cough. ‘General opinion among the office staff – obtained from one of the secretaries, a Miss Sandra Walker – is that there was some disappointment when he married. Hopes had been cherished, especially by one of the secretaries, who’d been having an on/off affair with him for some considerable time. According to Sandra, Mr Lionel Drew, the senior partner, didn’t think she was the right material for a solicitor’s wife. She married someone else, but she’s now divorced and has recently rejoined the firm. Apparently she’s been making a play for Mr Drew again, but apart from the occasion of the office Christmas party he hasn’t responded.’
    ‘So what did he get up to at the office party?’
    ‘Having drunk a little too much, he retired with Mrs Vanessa Grey into the small photocopier room.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘There are thirty-four blurred photocopies in existence.’ He passed me a folded sheet. ‘I expect in the heat of the moment, as it were, the button …’
    ‘Yes.’ Well, it was a minor peccadillo, I suppose, compared with what I’ve got up to in the past. But then,
I’m
not a married man.
    ‘He seems to be able to keep his trousers on generally otherwise, then?’
    ‘There was no hint of anything else,’ Mr Rooney said primly, ‘and he’s been trying to distance himself from Mrs Grey ever since – very hangdog and worried his wife will hear.’
    I suppose every dog is allowed one bite. Or one photocopy.
    ‘That was the extent of my brief, sir, but if you’d like me to proceed further?’
    ‘No. No, that’s fine, thanks,’ I assured him.
    ‘Who was that?’ enquired Carlo a few minutes later, passing him in the doorway.
    ‘A private eye. I set him on to find out what became of Tish.’
    Carlo has big, liquid dark eyes, and can look indescribably sad-spaniel sometimes. It goes over well with the girls. He looked like that now.
    ‘Tish? After all this time you still care about her?’
    ‘No, it’s just my curiosity was stirred by seeing her at the gallery – as I suppose hers was in coming to see the show. I just felt I’d like to know how she was, what she was doing.’
    ‘Yeah, and I’m Titania, Queen of the Faeries,’ Carlo said sceptically.
    I grinned. ‘Well, that’s what I thought I wanted, only it seems deep down I wanted to find her miserable, separated, divorced – you know? In need of rescue, anyway. So what does that make me? A complete bastard?’
    ‘Human. Do I take it she’s happily married and living in suburbia with two point five children?’
    ‘All except the children. And she’s turned into a