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her. He used the neck of the bottle to point to an alcove under the pavement.
    'Get you under there, lady. They stores the rubbish bags there, but it's the only 'idin' place.'
    Lisa crouched down, went under the pavement, sat with her back to a wall. There was a smell of decay that she was hardly aware of. She felt sure the two thugs would come this way.
    'I do have my Beretta,' she said to herself. 'Don't show it. The tramp will be scared out of his wits. Like me . . .'
    The heavy clump of feet walking along the pavement above came closer. She froze when they stopped above her head. The tramp lifted the bottle, swallowed, pulled his cap lower as though going to sleep.
    'You down there. Seen a girl with red 'air comin' along 'ere?'
    The tramp opened his eyes, pushed up his cap. Then he did what she had feared he would do after the reference to red hair. He looked across at her. She knew a curl of her hair had slipped below the scarf. They'd come down the steps and she had no escape route.

    Tweed, with Paula and Newman, had mounted the steps to the stately old house in Eaton Square, part of a terrace, when the front door opened. A man wearing a suit which would have been fashionable thirty years earlier emerged. Peering at Tweed, he descended the steps, swinging his silver-topped cane, and walked away. Tweed still held the door open while he read the names and numbers on a plate screwed to the side wall, then walked inside.
    'I'll do the talking,' he told Newman.
    'So I'll be the silent partner.'
    The trees in the park outside beyond the road were black stark skeletons. A raw wind blew round the square. Once inside the hall Tweed found the right number, pressed the bell. They heard a lock turned, a chain removed. The door opened.
    'Yes?'
    'I'm Tweed. These are my assistants, Paula Grey and Robert Newman. Are you Mrs Mordaunt?'
    'Yes.'
    She was a brunette, attractive up to a point, her coif feured hair trimmed short. Wearing a black dress with a white lace collar, she had a long sharp nose, a full mouth, pencilled eyebrows and cold dark eyes. Tweed cleared his throat.
    'I'm very sorry to trouble you but I'm here regarding the investigation into the tragic business of your husband's death. My condolences, although words are meaningless.'
    'You'd better come in.'
    She ushered them into a large drawing room with tall windows, tasteful and comfortable furnishings - sofas and armchairs covered with chintz, matched by long curtains draped to the floor. Several Sheraton antiques, an unfinished piece of embroidery draped over the back of a sofa.
    'Please sit down.'
    'Thank you. We won't be long.'
    'That's good. I have to go out soon. Would you like a glass of sherry?' she asked in her cultured voice when they were seated in armchairs.
    'Only if you will join us.'
    Tweed had expected her to ask for identification but she had omitted to make the request. In grief you are not the same person. He had noticed a large bottle of sherry, half empty, on a coffee table, an ashtray beside it full of used stubs. Almost as though she had been waiting for them. A water glass with a little sherry in it was also perched on the table. They all detested sherry but Tweed thought it might help to relax her.
    'How unsightly,' she remarked and removed the water glass. 'I'll get the right glasses.'
    She went over to a large cupboard, opened it and exposed shelves of leather-bound books. She swore, slammed the doors shut. 'Hardly know what I'm doing.' She walked to the only other large cupboard by the wall, a contrast in style to the cupboard she had first opened. Pulling back the doors, she revealed a collection of expensive glassware. Selecting four sherry glasses, she brought them to the table. Paula glanced at Tweed. He was watching her closely.
    'I'm feeling better now,' she said as she poured from the bottle. 'Now, how can I help you?' she asked after sitting down, crossing her legs and sipping her sherry.
    'Do you know whether your husband was under