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he could stare out of the porthole. He was on the starboard side of the boat, so he could see the lights on the shore, and could even make out the dark contour of the horizon against the sky, whose blue was already beginning to brighten slightly as the dawn approached.
    â€œGoodbye, Riviera,” he murmured. “I had a good time, while it lasted, but responsibility calls. From now on, when there’s trouble at t’mill, it’s down to me to sort it out. Maurice Rawtenstall probably doesn’t think I’m up to it, but his predecessor probably thought the same about Dad. It’s traditional, after all. Maybe I’m not—but with luck, I will be, and luck’s something I’ve never been without.”
    He shut up then, feeling slightly foolish even though the drone of the boat’s engine would have drowned out his words before they reached the ear of a listener stood directly beside him.
    Nice was lit up brilliantly, as a modern twenty-four-seven city ought to be; the Promenade des Anglais seemed endless. The heat in the cabin was stifling, but he remembered only too clearly what had happened last time he’d tried to let in a breeze and he knew that it wouldn’t last much longer. He let the porthole remain shut, and used the towel that had been carefully placed at the foot of his bed to mop the sweat from his face.
    He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia, not merely for Cockayne but for Cockayne in Autumn, when the shadow of the Pennines wasn’t quite enough to keep the chill out of the low-lying dale and the sky was as grey as slate and the smoke-blackened stone of the terraces was like a sponge soaking up the moisture from the foggy air.
    Soon, it would all be his: his own little Utopia, insulated from the hurricane of change that was sweeping the world by the mass and pressure of all the Credesdale traditions.
    For a moment, he could almost believe that he belonged there, cultivating his own narrow garden with infinite patience and stoicism. But then he thought of Lissa Lo, and everything that she symbolized, not merely by her beauty but by her glamour and fame, and told himself that there would be time enough for gardening in Utopia when he had wrung the last few drops of delight from the blazing glory of Cosmopolis.
    And then the sun came up, rippling silver across the placid waves of the Mediterranean.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Although Lissa Lo couldn’t have had more than two hours sleep, even if she’d tumbled into slumberland before Canny had stumbled across his friendly neighborhood mugger, she was as bright as a button by the time the two of them clambered up the steps into the back of the jet and fastened their safety-belts.
    They were running more than half an hour behind Lissa’s original schedule, but once they were in the air the captain turned in his seat and leaned out of the cockpit to give them a thumbs-up sign—a promise that he could get them to Church Fenton on time, given the kindness of the weather and the co-operation of French and English air traffic control.
    Canny assumed that Lissa Lo had that effect on everybody—everybody who was male, at any rate. Her face was immaculately made-up, presenting a truly fabulous appearance, and even her casual clothing was cut to the millimeter...but Canny wasn’t sure that it was wise to expose himself to so much titillation.
    Even though he knew that the information was irrelevant, Canny took time out to study the model’s discreet companions. They weren’t as ostentatiously big as the minders most successful models trotted around as status symbols, but they compensated for their lack of vulgar mass with an easy arrogance suggestive of immense skill in esoteric martial arts. Canny couldn’t pinpoint their origins, although he was normally able to tell Chinese, Japanese and Filipinos apart—but then, he couldn’t pinpoint Lissa Lo’s origin either; she had a curiously cosmopolitan