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Marlow’s situation, had said little as he took his leave of Shefford. He knew intuitively that something was wrong, but until he had time to digest the case he wouldn’t even contemplate discussing it.
    None of it made sense; Marlow was a handsome, attractive male, a man with a good, steady relationship at home. He was popular, he had a job that he thoroughly enjoyed and which brought him good money and his employers had even held it open for him when he was convicted of attempted rape. Upcher had succeeded in getting the burglary charge dropped, and in Marlow’s defense at the trial he had played heavily upon the confusion about which party had made the initial approach, whether both of them had been drunk—they had been seen in the same bar, and Marlow’s claim that she had led him on and subsequently refused him had rung true. In Upcher’s opinion the victim was a very disturbed woman whose evidence was unreliable, and he had been shattered by the verdict. Not just from a professional point of view; his relationship with Marlow was good, he actually liked the man and believed him to be innocent.
    Marlow had taken it well, although Upcher was surprised that he had requested his representation for this, a much more serious charge. He had borne Upcher no grudge about losing the case, and had even admitted that, drunk or sober, he should not have forced himself on the woman, even though he had truly believed it was what she wanted. He had said, with a rueful smile, “I’ll never drink more than my limit again, so I suppose some good’ll come out of it. I didn’t hurt her though, Arnold, she made that up, the cops got it wrong.”
    Was Marlow a rapist and a murderer? Upcher thought not, and could not believe he had misjudged the man to such an extent. The question occupied his thoughts all the way back to his Queen’s Gate flat.
    The Arnold Upchers of this world are expensive, and anyone seeing the tall, angular man in the hand-tailored suit parking his dark green Jaguar in the residents’ bay could have been forgiven for mistaking him for the famous conductor who had once lived in the elegant service block a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. With the remote control he locked his car and set the alarm, allowing the chill night air to clear his head. By the time he reached his door, Upcher was convinced that the police had got it wrong again. Marlow was innocent, and he would prove it.
    Jane crawled to bed at midnight. She had exhausted her stock of stories before Joey finally fell asleep, from the three little pigs to a strange mixture of Batman confronting the Ninja Turtles.
    Peter was sitting up waiting for her. He flipped the bedclothes back and patted the mattress. “Come in, my beauty! And tell me a story . . .”
    She snuggled into bed and gave him a blow-by-blow description of the goings-on at the police station.
    “They were like kids playing at cops and robbers! I don’t know what they were up to, but they stopped me working. They’ve got a nice juicy murder that should have been my case, and you know what I’ve got instead? A dyspeptic accountant who’s had his bloody case adjourned four times in a row! Last time I had to wait at court all morning like a prat until he sent in some fictitious doctor’s note, and then I was told to go away. Next thing, the little sod’ll up and leave the country—I would, in his position. He owes ten years’ income tax and VAT. I’ve got to know the little pest so well over the past three months that I can tell you what he’ll be eating for breakfast, and even when I suggested that another adjournment would be. . . . Am I boring you?”
    Peter smiled. He had only been half-listening.
    She closed her eyes. “I don’t think I could manage another sentence, I’m so tired . . . Oh, God, am I tired!”
    Peter switched the bedside light off and reached for her, wanting to draw her close, but she muttered, “I’m afraid I’m too knackered . . . anyway,