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Reach. He had a few local acquaintances — mostly one or two of his former work-mates; but no real friends. To many he appeared to exude an excessive meanness of soul, creating (as he did) the impression of being perpetually preoccupied with his own rather squalid self-interest. But he was not a particularly unpopular man, if only because he was good with his hands and had undertaken a good many little odd-jobs for his Jericho neighbours; and if the charges he made were distinctly on the steep side, nevertheless he was punctual, passably expeditious, and quite certainly satisfactory in his workmanship.
    He was a fisherman, too.
     
    Although he seldom drank much, Jackson stood at the back of his darkened front room that evening with a half-bottle of Teacher's whisky on the cupboard beside him and a tiny, grimy glass in his right hand. He had seen the police arrive: first two of them; then a doctor-looking man with a bag; then two other policemen; and after them a middle-aged man wearing a raincoat, a man with windswept, thinning hair, who was almost certainly a policeman, too, since he'd been admitted readily enough through the front door of the house opposite. A man Jackson had seen before. He'd seen him that very afternoon, and he felt more than a little puzzled… After that there'd been the ambulance men; then a good deal of activity with the lights throughout the house flicking on and off, and on and off again. And still he watched, slowly sipping the unwatered whisky and feeling far more relaxed, far less anxious than he'd felt a few hours earlier. Had anyone seen him? — that was his one big worry. But even that was now receding, and in any case he'd fabricated a neat enough little lie to cover himself.
    It was 3 a.m. before the police finally left, and although the whisky bottle had long since been drained Jackson maintained his static vigil, his slow-moving mind mulling over many things. He felt hungry, and on a plate in the kitchen behind him lay the fish he'd caught that morning. But when at last he could see no further point in staying where he was, the two rainbow trout remained untouched and he climbed the stairs to the front bedroom, where he pulled the flimsy floral-patterned curtains, jerking them into an ill-fitting overlap across the window, before kneeling down by his bed, putting his hand beneath it, and sliding out a large pile of glossy, pornographic magazines. Then he slipped his hand still further beneath the bed — and drew out something else.
     
    Earlier that same evening, in a posh-addressed and well-appointed bungalow on the outskirts of Abingdon, Mrs Celia Richards at last heard the crunch of gravel as the car drove up to the double garage. He was very late, and the chicken casserole had long been ready.
    'Hello, darling. Sorry I'm so late. God! What a foul evening!'
    'You might have let me know you were going to be— '
    'Sorry, darling. Just said so, didn't I?' He sat down opposite her, reached to his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
    'You're not going to smoke just before we eat, surely?'
    'All right.' He pushed a cigarette carefully back into its packet and stood up. Time for a quick drink though, isn't there, darling? I'll get them. What's yours? The usual?'
    Celia suddenly felt a little more relaxed and — yes! — almost happy to see him again; felt a little guilty, too, for she had already drunk a couple of jumbo gins herself.
    'You sit down, Charles, and have that cigarette. I'll get the drinks.' She forced herself to smile at him, fetched another gin for herself, a whisky for her husband, and then sat down once more.
    'You see Conrad today?'
    Charles Richards looked preoccupied and tired as he repeated the word absently: 'Conrad?'
    'Isn't it the duty of your dear little brother Conrad, as co-partner in your dear little company— ?'
    'Conrad! Sorry, yes, darling. I'm a bit whacked, that's all. Conrad's fine, yes. Sends his love, as always. Enjoyed his trip, he said. But