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a mirror, seen your hopelessness the dark rings around your eyes, the pathetic smile. You could not afford to lose more weight. The midwife had shaken her head at your lies.
    If it had been courage, Dora, you would have left at once, but desperation kept you going for another five years. Five years in which Arthur grew larger, more dominant every day. Five years in which you furiously fuelled your hatred of him. Five years in which you grew bolder, more reckless, in which you listened and did not speak. It was during that time that your body coddled the seeds which now swim as eggs and discs beneath the skin. Without those five years you would still be healthy, Dora. You would still be young for Sam.
     

6
     
    Marie Dickens had drawn Edward Blake, the husband. She had not spoken to him on the telephone, but dealt with his secretary. The first story was that his appointment book was full for the next two weeks. But when, at Marie’s suggestion, the secretary had consulted her boss, it turned out that his itinerary was not as rigid as it had appeared. Marie’s appointment was fixed at three-thirty that same afternoon.
    She used the ladies room before going in to see him. A hair had appeared on her left cheek, and she plucked it and flushed it down the drain. Where did they come from? Facial hairs, Jesus. Didn’t they know she was a woman?
    He was a tall man, three or four inches over six feet, broad shoulders. His suit was silver-grey, tailored well to hide a paunch; conservative tie and shoes. He had a small but immaculate collection of chins. His hair, which was plentiful, was a couple of inches longer than you would expect. Vanity, thought Marie. And a sexual magnetism about him which he did nothing to disguise.
    His smile was disarming. It activated well over half a century of laugh lines, but in no way diverted one from the serious and deep-brown hue of his eyes. The man’s ace, however, was in the timbre of his voice. Marie had never quite worked out if that professional voice was a gift from God, or something that was developed. Many politicians had it, some broadcasters and actors, and the best doctors and salesmen. It was designed to put you at your ease, take you off guard, so that you could be severely shafted from the rear.
    Marie sat down.
    ‘I thought you might have brought me a cheque,’ he said. He could have smiled again, then. It was hard to tell.
    ‘Not part of my brief, I’m afraid, Mr Blake.’
    ‘But off the record, of course, can I look forward to early settlement now the police have dropped the case?’
    ‘As I said, that’s not my department. But I have been led to believe that our investigation is not to be protracted unnecessarily.
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘How can I help?’
    ‘I have to ask some personal questions,’ Marie explained. ‘And I’m also going to have to talk about your late wife, India. I don’t want to upset you in any way, but—’
    ‘Just ask,’ he interrupted. ‘During the time I was in police custody, any feelings I may have had were completely shredded. I assure you I won’t be upset. My only desire is to put the whole sorry story as far behind me as possible. I’ll answer all your questions as fully as I can.’
    ‘Did your wife have any intimate friends?’
    ‘I’m sure you can do better than that,’ he said. ‘Good Lord, a private investigator with a sense of delicacy. This really won’t do, Ms Dickens. What you mean is, was my wife having an affair? Did she have a lover? Isn’t that what you’re saying?’
    Marie nodded.
    ‘No. India was a faithful wife. She did not have a lover.’
    ‘But would you have known? Many cuckolded husbands are the last to suspect.’
    ‘Is that the voice of experience?’ A hard edge had come into his tone, and he checked that now. ‘I’m sorry. I try to be objective, but it still gets to me. My wife was eighteen years my junior, but I believe she loved me. You may well think I’m an old fool who’s deluding