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the point of hurrying? She’d glanced at the institutional clock on the wall of the interview room. It was after six. In the morning she’d make a few calls to confirm what I’d told her was true, and then the police investigation would clank and grind into motion like some clapped-out British car built in the seventies. As soon as it did, anyone who’d ever been involved with Nicky would hire lawyers and clam up. I had at best a few hours to find out what had really happened to her, starting with her husband.
    I’d never met the guy, though I’d seen his car in the drive of Nicky’s house—a sleek,sculpted BMW with one of those metal roofs that fold away into the boot. The house itself was a double-fronted Victorian number behind wrought-iron railings, all red brick and white-painted woodwork, immaculately maintained, like the cover shot on one of those glossy property mags for the stinking rich. Beyond the house you could just about glimpse the tops of silver birch trees running the length of their enormous rear garden. When I’d mentioned to Nicky that it looked like a great house for kids to grow up in, her smile was faked and sad. I’d known instantly that she’d wanted children but couldn’t have them, and I’d wondered why, and knew I couldn’t ask. All I could do was mentally kick myself.
    The thick cream-coloured gravel crunched beneath my trainers as I approached the massive and gleaming front door, its stained-glass panes glowing from a light deep within the house. The noisy gravel was there to deter burglars, I knew; it almost deterred me, as I realized how scruffy I looked. Even with half a million quid in the bank I’d never have fitted into this universe. Certainly not now.
    The doorbell rang like a distant cathedralbell, and I saw movement flicker through the rippled stained glass. A tall, heavyset figure resolved itself as it approached and reached for the latch of the door.
    Nicky’s husband Harry was roughly the same height as me, but instead of my mousy spikes his jet-black hair was neatly trimmed. His blue eyes were cool in his tanned face, and that cleft chin made him look like an old-fashioned Hollywood heartthrob. He was wearing a spotless white cotton shirt and blue jeans, and his feet were bare. He was muscular and fit, and he moved with a sort of twitchy nervous energy; he was frowning at me with irritation, as if he knew my face but couldn’t place me.
    “Mr. Hale?” I said.
    “No one here by that name,” he said. He watched me flounder but didn’t elaborate.
    “Sorry, I thought Nicky Hale lived here—”
    “Nicky is my wife,” he said. “Her name’s
    Hale.”
    “Sorry—right.” She’d told me all this. “Mr.—Anderson, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, yeah, you’re her trainer. Finn, yeah? Nicky’s not in.”
    “I know. I’m looking for her.”
    He thought about that for a second. Maybe he was wondering what sort of trainer door-stepped customers who hadn’t turned up, while I was wondering how he knew who I was when we’d never met before.
    “Like I said, she’s not in. And I don’t know when she’ll be back.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. I shuffled on the doormat as if making to leave, hoping he wouldn’t notice me placing my foot where I could slip it forward to block the door if he tried to shut it.
    “When was the last time you heard from her?” I said.
    “Sorry,” he said. “This isn’t a good time. Try her mobile.” He moved back, ready to close the door. I didn’t put my foot in the gap—I didn’t want to get in his face just yet.
    “Mr. Anderson, could I come in? It really won’t take very long.”
    “Actually I was just about to go out,” he said. This must be how double-glazing salesmen feel, I thought.
    “It’s just that Nicky’s my lawyer, and it looks like she’s run off with all my money. I was hoping to speak to you before the cops turn up.”
    Anderson blinked. “What do you mean, run off?”
    “The cops think she’s