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collected over the years, was on a stand by the window. Babs switched it off.
    The chap in the armchair by the hearth wore a heavy pepper-and-salt sweater, thick corduroy trousers and a pair of well-darned woollen stockings. A newspaper was folded across his chest and Kenny guessed that he had been catching up on his shut-eye.
    â€˜Where’s your daughter? Where’s April?’
    â€˜In bed, fast asleep,’ Babs told him. ‘Drink? We have Scotch.’
    â€˜No. No thanks,’ said Kenny.
    He thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and tipped his hat back, his blue eyes watchful and assessing, not hard.
    The man in the armchair rose and offered his hand. ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’m Christy Cameron. I guess we haven’t met.’
    Kenny shook the chap’s hand.
    â€˜This is my sister Rosie’s husband,’ Babs said. ‘He’s a copper and I think he’s here to give you the once-over.’
    Christy Cameron spread his hands. ‘Well, here I am, in all my glory. You sure you don’t want a drink, Mr…?’
    â€˜MacGregor. Kenny.’
    â€˜Inspector Kenny?’
    â€˜Just Kenny will do.’
    Babs brushed his shoulder as she passed out of the room into the hallway to check on the blackout curtain or to make sure that April was asleep.
    â€˜ Have you come to give me the once-over?’ Christy said.
    â€˜More or less.’
    Christy laughed and seated himself in the armchair again. He nodded towards the sofa that faced the fireplace. ‘Best make yourself comfortable if I’m gonna regale you with the story of my life.’
    Obediently Kenny unbuttoned his overcoat, took off his hat and seated himself on the sofa.
    â€˜I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here?’
    â€˜I assume you’re a lodger,’ Kenny said.
    â€˜Yeah,’ Christy said. ‘It wasn’t my idea, but when Barbara offered me room and board – would you have turned it down?’
    â€˜I imagine not,’ said Kenny.
    â€˜You get sick of hotels in my game.’
    â€˜What exactly is your game, Christy?’
    â€˜Nobody told you? I’m a photographer.’
    â€˜What do you photograph?’
    â€˜Anything and everything.’
    â€˜For instance?’ Kenny said.
    â€˜If you wanna check my credentials call the London office of Brockway’s Illustrated Weekly. ’
    â€˜Where’s your head office? New York?’
    â€˜Yeah, in Plaza Center,’ Christy said.
    â€˜Are you on staff or do you work on contract?’
    â€˜Boy, you sure do come to the point, don’t you?’
    â€˜Usually,’ Kenny said.
    â€˜I’m not…’ he glanced at the door again. ‘It’s not—’
    â€˜Staff or contract?’ Kenny said.
    The rhythm of the afternoon’s interrogation was still with him but quizzing an innocent civilian wasn’t part of his brief. What did it matter if Babs was having a fling? The Yank would be gone long before Jackie got out of uniform. The only danger, Kenny supposed, was that Jackie might arrive home unexpectedly on embarkation leave.
    â€˜Contract. I work for other magazines as well.’
    Babs returned with April in her arms. The little girl, wide-eyed and not at all sleepy, was dressed in pink flannelette pyjamas and a pair of fluffy white socks. A dressing gown was draped about her shoulders.
    â€˜Hi, kid,’ Christy said, winking. ‘Too rowdy for you, are we?’
    â€˜She wants a drink of milk.’ Babs put April down on Kenny’s lap. ‘Hold her for a minute, Ken, will you?’
    Awkwardly he slid an arm about his niece’s waist. He was unused to small children for he had no younger brothers or sisters, only Fiona, and the idea of Fiona ever sitting on his lap was ludicrous. April leaned back and stared up at him for several seconds, then glanced at Christy Cameron, who said, ‘It’s okay, honey. He’s