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thinking of adding another. You can help me decide.”
    She stood looking at him, hands on hips, her face quite different, cynical and knowing. “What some people will do for kicks.”
    She disappeared behind the screen and Faulkner poured himself a drink at the bar and switched on the hi-fi to a pleasant, big-band version of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” He walked to the fire, humming the tune, got down on one knee and started to add lumps of coal to the flames from a brass scuttle.
    “Will this do?” Grace Packard said.
    He turned, still on one knee. She had a fine body, firm and sensual, breasts pointed with desire, hands flat against her thighs.
    “Well?” she said softly.
    Faulkner stood up, still holding his drink, switched off the hi-fi, then moved to the bedroom door and turned off the light. The shapes stood out clearly in silhouette against the great window and Grace Packard merged with the whole, became like the rest of them, a dark shadow that had existence and form, but nothing more.
    Faulkner’s face in the firelight was quite expressionless. He switched on the light again. “Okay…fine. You can get dressed.”
    “Is that all?” she demanded in astonishment.
    “I’ve seen what I wanted to see if that’s what you mean.”
    “How kinky can you get.”
    She shook her head in disgust, vanished behind the screen and started to dress again. Faulkner put more coal on the fire. When he had finished, he returned to the bar to freshen his drink. She joined him a moment later carrying her boots.
    “That was quick,” he told her.
    She sat on one of the bar stools and started to pull on her boots. “Not much to take off with this year’s fashions. I can’t get over it. You really did want me to pose.”
    “If I’d wanted the other thing I’d have included it in our arrangement.” He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and stuffed it down the neck of her dress. “I promised you a fiver. There’s ten for luck.”
    “You must be crazy.” She examined the note quickly, then lifted her skirt and slipped it into the top of her right stocking.
    He was amused and showed it. “Your personal bank?”
    “As good as. You know, I can’t make you out.”
    “The secret of my irresistible attraction.”
    “Is that a fact?”
    He helped her on with her mac. “Now I’ve got some work to do.”
    She grabbed for her handbag as he propelled her towards the door. “Heh, what is this? Don’t say it’s the end of a beautiful friendship.”
    “Something like that. Now be a good girl and run along home. There’s a taxi rank just round the corner.”
    “That’s all right. I haven’t far to go.” She turned as he opened the door and smiled impishly. “Sure you want me to leave?”
    “Goodnight, Grace,” Faulkner said firmly.
    He closed the door, turned and moved slowly to the centre of the room. There was a dull ache just to one side of the crown of his skull and as he touched the spot briefly, feeling the indentation of the scar, a slight nervous tic developed in the right cheek. He stood there examining the statues for a moment, then went to the cigarette box on the coffee table. It was empty. He cursed softly and quickly searched his pockets without success.
    A search behind the bar proved equally fruitless and he pulled on his raincoat and hat quickly. As he passed the bar, he noticed a pair of gloves on the floor beside one of the stools and picked them up. The girl had obviously dropped them in the final hurried departure. Still, with any luck he would catch up with her before she reached the square. He stuffed them into his pocket and went out quickly.
    Beyond, through the great window, the wind moaned in the night, driving the rain across the city in a dark curtain.

4
    When they carried Sean Doyle into the General Infirmary escape couldn’t have been further from his mind. He was sweating buckets, had a temperature of 104 and his stomach seemed to bulge with pieces of broken glass