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the spare bed while you’re gone.”
    “It’s already done, and I’ve put that Anglepoise lamp by the bed, he sleeps with a light on.”
    “OK, I’ll wash my hair and get dolled up.”
    “You don’t have to, he’s only six, for Chrissake! He won’t care what you look like.”
    “Ah, but Marianne will be looking me over, and I want to make an impression. After all, I’m the Other Woman!”
    “Not quite!”
    “Oh, go on, get going . . .”
    Jane rolled up the newspaper he had left on the bed and whacked him on the head with it, then dashed to the bathroom. Joey would be arriving soon, and she wanted to be ready.
    At Southampton Row, Moyra Henson had been interviewed over and over again. She gave Marlow a perfect alibi and wouldn’t be budged; he was at home, she insisted, as he had said in his own statement. He had been at home watching television with her. Marlow had not left the flat all evening, and they had gone to bed together.
    When she was finally let go, DI Burkin was ordered back to her flat to impound Marlow’s car, a brown, automatic three-liter Mark III Rover. He took two officers with him and gave Moyra a lift home.
    She kept up a constant stream of abuse all the way back in the patrol car, sitting between the two officers. They didn’t say a word. Burkin, uncomfortable in the front seat with his long legs cramped against the glove compartment, was also silent, though Moyra’s voice was beginning to grate on his nerves and he would be glad when they got shot of her.
    There was no sign of the Rover; it was not in the parking bay or anywhere in the vicinity of the flats. Sullen and uncooperative, Moyra accused the police of stealing it themselves.
    As she shampooed her hair under the hot water, all Jane could think of was how John Shefford had done her out of a murder case. She had to make an effort to shake herself out of it, she was becoming obsessed. Before she knew it, Peter was back from the shop.
    He yelled that he’d got a few extras. He opened the bathroom door.
    “I got a chocolate cake, that one you like. It needs defrosting so I’ve left it on the draining board, OK?”
    “Yep, just give me a few minutes to get my glad-rags on and I’ll set the table.”
    But by the time she had dressed and dried her hair, Peter had done it all. Jane shrieked that she had wanted the best china, and started collecting the plates. Peter caught hold of her.
    “Hey, this is just fine! Don’t put out the best stuff, he’s liable to smash something.”
    “Do I look OK?”
    He held her at arm’s length. “Yeah, nice blouse, looks Victorian.”
    “Well, it’s not, it’s cheap Laura Ashley, so I bought two, but they’re my best!”
    She was wearing a full skirt from Next and a pair of red suede shoes she had never worn before; every time she had put them on she had felt they were a bit too flash, so they were pristine, not a scuff in sight. It tickled Peter that she was making such an effort, even down to perfume.
    When the doorbell rang Jane flushed, and he grinned. “Just relax, she’ll only stay a minute.”
    Jane hovered near the kitchen while Peter opened the door. Joey flew into his arms, yelling, “Dad! Dad!” Peter swung him up and kissed him, then put him down, but Joey hugged his dad’s legs.
    Jane peered at the door, expecting the ex-wife. First came a huge bag, large enough for Joey to stay two months, then a box of toys. Finally Marianne’s back was visible.
    She spoke to someone who was invisible to Jane. “I won’t be a sec, darling!”
    Peter’s face was like stone. He had not even acknowledged Marianne’s new husband, his old friend.
    Marianne was wearing a short, frilly evening dress. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was the type that novelists describe as silky, a real shampoo advert. To Jane’s surprise she seemed much younger than her thirty-eight years.
    “Hi, Pete, I’ve brought everything he could possibly need, and a lot he might not . . .”
    Peter turned