 
A Web of Lives

David Medlycott

© Copyright 2013 David Medlycott

Smashwords Edition

A Web of Lives is a work of fiction.

Any similarity to persons or events, past or present, is co-incidental.

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ISBN 9781301930562.

\------------------1-----------------

The receptionist, Linda McInnes, pushed her chair back a bit; she did not like the way the tall, heavily built Londoner was leaning over her desk in the front office of the 'Mid-Northumberland Reporter'. She had begun by going out of her way, being polite, not wanting to appear unhelpful. She was not able to give private details to the public, but he was determined to not listen. She had tried the 'jobsworth' angle and that she didn't make the rules, but the more she tried the more aggressive he became. Phoning the editor Miss Hickman had not helped, she had just said to repeat the company policy, which merely made matters worse. She had hung up when Linda had asked her to come down and speak to the man herself.

He was waving around a copy of their monthly colour magazine, open at a photograph which showed, among others, the organizer of a rugby club charity function. They looked rather alike this, aggressive man and the man in the photo. She had no further time to consider this, he was pointing at the figure again, 'Listen, luv! Where do I find him?' He was beginning to get rather loud; his rough voice harsh and hoarse, and spit was beginning to fly. Linda began to feel frightened.

'I've told you, you've got the wrong name.' She repeated. His face began to colour up and his breathing was becoming erratic, a fine spray of spittle came from his lips as he repeated, with great menace, 'I'll not ask again. I know who he is, luv; where is he? I'll find him, you mark my words!'

The bell on the front door clanged loudly on its spring as someone entered. He stepped quickly back from the desk and stood upright, staring threateningly at her.

'You could try the reporter who wrote that piece, his name's there,' she pointed at the magazine, 'and you can phone him here. He's not in yet, though, I'm afraid.' She swallowed hard, but her throat was dry. Two women with a pushchair entered the office and the burly intruder turned away from them, hiding his face, and forced his way out past them.

'Are you all right, pet?' asked the older of the two women, 'You look a bit pale, has he been giving you trouble?'

The harassed receptionist pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her damp face as she tried to swallow again.

The bulky figure crashed out of the front door of the newspaper office, paused to glance up and down the street, turned to his right and strode away. Two minutes brisk walk brought him to the door of the Northumberland Arms. The sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard inside and the clash of empty bottles being thrown into a skip. He thought for a moment, ducked through the low door and made for the bar. The young barman, crouched behind the bar cleaning, heard nothing till the big fist thumped the bar loudly. He jumped up in fright, 'we're not open, yet.'

'Phone book?'

'Sorry?'

'Give me the phone book.' The voice was harsh, the order urgent.

The barman reached along beneath the counter. His wrist was suddenly clamped to the bar edge by a strong hand. He looked up in fright at the pale eyes beneath the close cropped white hair. The face showed a long hard life, the pallid complexion surrounding the sunken, grey eye sockets gave it a cold, hard, almost cadaverous, appearance. He might have looked an old man but the grip on the barman's wrist was vice-like and showed no sign of easing. It was hurting.

The man looked over the bar to see what the barman was reaching for. He released the grip and snatched the Yellow Pages from the shelf below. He carried it to a seat by the light of the window and furtively put on a pair of reading glasses. The barman looked on massaging his bruised wrist as he listened to the pages being flipped through. The vacuum cleaner droned on in the back bar undisturbed. Having found the entry he was looking for the man tore out the whole page, threw the book back on to the counter and left.

\--------------------2-------------------

For a Monday it was not a bad day for John Tobin. First, he had had a lie-in, second it was a nice early summer day and thirdly he had banked some money before coming to the café for a late brunch. Tempted as he often was by the café directly over the road from his flat he did, usually, cook for himself. But, today he felt like a treat. He had bought a broadsheet newspaper rather than reading the café's free copy of the local paper and sipped his coffee while sorting the rest of his post, waiting for his food to arrive. The post was fairly full, but consisted mostly of brochures and circulars, with a couple of pieces of research information he had sent for. He didn't open these; he recognised his own stamped, addressed envelopes. There were also the opened envelopes that had contained the cheques he had just banked and a pile of circulars and cards. The remaining two items were a picture postcard from Cornwall and a plain envelope addressed in a familiar handwriting. Just then Mrs Harton brought his all-day breakfast. She waited impatiently as he scooped the sorted piles of post back into one heap to clear the table. Hungrily he began to eat, reading both newspapers as he did.

The sun also shone on the queue of cars waiting to board the cross channel ferry from Southampton. Alan Harper returned to his car, placed his coffee cup on the roof and juggled with his keys and the clothes in his arms while attending to the mobile phone tucked under his chin. He tutted at the phone, opened the estate door and threw the clothes in on top of everything else in the overloaded car. The rest of the queue were starting their engines and revving as he switched off the phone. He did likewise; he had arrived early and was only a few cars back in the queue. He felt the rear suspension bottom as the heavily laden estate bounced up the ramp and disappeared into the dark interior. He locked the car and headed for one of the restaurants for an early lunch. It had been a long day already and he needed nourishment. He was a tall rangy man around sixty years old, but looking younger, fit, tanned and in good shape, something he was very particular about. He had changed into jeans and a casual white shirt and trainers while waiting and was now ready to relax. He would feel even better when the ship cast off and he was sailing out into the channel.

Rebecca Shaw had also tried to call Tobin, twice, and now tried again, this time the phone was engaged. She couldn't hang on though as she too was in a queue; for the Shuttle. She did not know that her step-father was crossing to France at the same time and he was quite unaware of her trip. She had a quick glance at herself in the vanity mirror behind her sun visor, plumped her thick mass of dark curls into place, it actually made no difference, but she felt better for the attempt. She wore no makeup these days, just a little lip colour and was happy to display her freckles. Having escaped the clutches of her mother less than a year ago she had frantically caught up with other girls her age, mid-twenties, and learnt to look as natural as possible, saving a lot of money along the way and avoiding looking like her mother. Although her hair was a mystery, she had her mother's features, but where the hair came from she did not know. Her mother had suggested it was a 'throw-back' in her genes. Whatever, she didn't mind, left to its own devices it was an attribute to her looks she had discovered, turning heads in the street when she wore it down, as it was now. She threw the mobile phone on the passenger seat and drove onto the Shuttle.

John Tobin was drinking a fresh cup of coffee and making a list of tasks for the week in his notebook. So far, it looked as if it was going to be a fairly quiet week workwise, but there was always his writing, if all else failed and he could find no more excuses to avoid it; there was the family history research he had taken on, unfortunately none of them now looked as interesting as they had at first; he had a voice-over job on Thursday in an advert for a local carpet company and there was a film and a TV series being made in the region for which he hoped he would get some bit part work, again. He had some photographs to get off to a calendar company on a speculative basis, they had expressed interest in the past, and he just needed to trawl through all the pictures on his computer. But, most important, he suddenly remembered, was the country show report to write for 'The Mid-Northumberland Reporter', the local paper, that he had promised for the following morning. He gathered up all his post and papers, paid for his meal and crossed the road to his flat.

He eventually got to check his phone messages when he returned from shopping two hours later. There was a barely subtle reminder of his report deadline for the morning from Sandra Hickman, the editor; a gushing enquiry from Mrs Davies, whose house history he had quite forgotten he had promised to do, the aging femme fatal had buttonholed him in the pub a fortnight ago and he had agreed just to get away. Then there was the message with the strange sounds, a bit like someone breathing or sighing and car doors slamming, in the background he thought he could hear engines starting. He played it through twice more, but made no more of what he could hear and gave up, puzzled. The new shopping provided the makings for a hearty sandwich and fresh coffee for the cafetiere, with which he sat at the computer and bashed out his report and sorted some photos to accompany it.

Rebecca Shaw was soon through the tunnel and driving south. It wasn't till she was half way through that she had begun to think about what she was doing. She had never driven on the continent before and was quite unprepared. She had received a phone call from a girlfriend who was staying in her parent's house in South West France with her boyfriend; the girlfriend had said why didn't Rebecca come over some time? She hadn't thought twice about it and immediately invited herself over, she now realised that maybe it was a bit tactless, but she would just stay a couple of days and then go exploring. She was now terrified on the wrong side of the road, she had drifted onto the 'right' side of the road a couple of times only to meet and narrowly miss on-coming traffic. She had arrived at a toll station on the motorway and not known what to do; the only saving grace had been her excellent French she had learnt from her stepfather. She pulled into a rest area to stretch her legs and use the facilities; she was exhausted and still had several hundred miles to go. She couldn't even be bothered to pick up the phone.

'Tell Sandra I've emailed her the copy for the weekend, it's not much, but there wasn't much to report really, and there's a few photo's, as well.' Tobin was on the phone to Linda McInnes at the Reporter.

'There was an awful man in here looking for your friend Alan this morning. He was really horrible, and, you know what, he looked just like him, but much older. He was waving around last month's County News with that picture of Mr Harper in it. But, he didn't call him that,' she thought for a moment, 'he called him Jimmy. I told Sandra, but she wouldn't help, it really upset me.'

'Well, he obviously had the wrong man, didn't he? I shouldn't worry about it, has he been back?'

'No.'

'Well there you are then.'

'I'm not happy! Why should I have to put up with that?'

'I'm sorry, Linda. What can I say?'

'Well. Anyway, Sandra left you a message. Can you do the 'What's on' this week, please? Well, I added the please.'

'Why?'

'Nicola's poorly. Or something.'

'OK. Why do I always give in? The time it takes for the money she pays. Anyway, tell her OK.' He hung up the phone and returned to his beer and crisps.

He picked up his notebook and studied the list he had made earlier; there was Mrs Davies' house history that he should make a start on, and there was the voice-over job coming up for the carpet company. The sheet of paper, laughingly called 'the script', was on the table, he had already learnt his line. He browsed his bookshelves for local history while repeating his line. 'Cover your floors with Alec Cameron, all carpets slashed!' Someone was going to have to rewrite that; someone got paid for it and probably a lot more than he got paid. He tried it again in several different ways. A change of tone, a change of pitch, a change of emphasis, but nothing could make that sound exciting. He pulled some books on the history of the region and began to consult their indexes. He had used these books when he had written a piece on the history of the town a few years before.

Longalnbury had grown up around a market place at a junction on the major Northwest – Southeast route across the county of Northumberland centuries before. The salt traders heading West from the coast had joined the old road here, and, as often happened, an inn had quickly appeared. A small community developed around the inn and the junction and trade had prospered. The original route had grown to become a major road between Newcastle upon Tyne and Scotland and the old salter's road was now one of the many minor roads heading east to the coast. Crossing the major road here was also a 'B' road that meandered its way up from Hexham, in the south, and continued north-eastwards, through the very similar market town of Rothbury, to the old, walled, castle-town of Alnwick.

The steady growth of the little hamlet, first into a village and then into a small town, could be seen in the architecture and in the layout of the narrow lanes of the original settlement as they radiated out into the wider thoroughfares of the more prosperous village. These in turn widened into the roads of the Victorian township. However, the Victorian townsfolk could never have anticipated the needs of modern travel and the narrowing of the main road as it entered either side of the town had been the source of continuing argument for decades. It had also generated many column inches in the papers over the years.

Tobin's first, unpaid, job on the local paper had been to report on a meeting held to discuss another suggested solution to the problem and his write-up had been praised, locally. Which was more a measure of the poor standard of the paper then than of his writing talents, he maintained. However, five years on, there was no comparison with today's 'Mid-Northumberland Reporter'. He was now paid reasonably, and reasonably regularly, and he and the permanent staff of two reporters worked hard to maintain the improvement.

He worked on making notes until he fell asleep.

Rebecca Shaw bought some snacks from a vending machine, took the lift to her room in the budget hotel, collapsed on the bed and fell fast asleep, with half of her journey still to go.

\----------------------------3\-------------------------

'Sunburn Danger say Met Men', read the placard outside the newsagents. Another week had drifted by and it was Monday morning again. But this week he had delivered his copy to the office, a nice little piece on the cancelled school fair; budget cuts and industrial unrest were rearing their heads in this idyllic country community. The busy weekend, busy by his standards, and the return of summer, gave him a contented, self-satisfied feeling, as he wandered along with his shopping.

The town was transformed in the sunshine. The town had emerged gleaming from the previous weeks washing by heavy rain, the flowers in their baskets and tubs had revived and lifted their heads to the sun, their cheerful colours and green foliage fresh and bright with the evaporating morning dew. The streets were once again full of townspeople and tourists either hurrying or ambling about their business.

From the position he took, sitting on the sill of his open front room window, Tobin could closely inspect two hanging baskets on the lamppost outside, so close that they were nearly window boxes. The town was renowned for its floral displays with many awards to its credit. He was dreamily studying the flowers when a dustcart went by. He smiled at the memory of the letter that had been anonymously circulated round the office during the week; the sender's name had been tactfully removed from the photocopy. The writer suggested, apparently quite seriously, that all the buses and municipal vehicles should be decked out in flower boxes and baskets to promote the town; particularly those vehicles that were going further afield, to places such as Alnwick and Newcastle! The book was still open as to which local worthy had written it. Needless to say the letter had not been published.

He sat on the broad sill of the open window, with his foot resting against the opposite side and his chin on his knee. His side of the street was still in shade, the sun would be another hour in climbing round to shine in his window and he felt himself winding down already, and it wasn't even ten-o-clock. He dragged his mind back to the present. Part of his self-satisfaction was due to another article that he had nearly completed; it was sitting on the desk awaiting its final revision. He resolved to work for another two hours and then find something to do out of doors. Looking at Mrs Davies' house and taking some photos seemed a good idea. He went to his desk, made a note to phone her and switched on the computer.

His keyboard was balanced on top of his accounts book and its associated papers, receipts and statements, and rocked annoyingly. He had spent a large part of the previous week sorting and getting them up to date and he did not want to disarrange them now. There was nowhere left to put them, all his filing stacks were full to falling over, so he levelled the little piles on the desk a bit to stop the worst of the wobbling, raised his seat slightly and carried on working.

He was happily tapping away on his article about climate change, his weather encyclopaedia wedged between his knee and the underside of the desk and the first draft of his article on the 'Weather, a bonus or a bane?' clipped to the side of his monitor.

The phone rang.

'Yes?' He said, impatiently into the mouthpiece.

'If you spent more time in this office I wouldn't have to waste time looking for you!' snapped an angry female voice.

'Good morning, Sandra.' He said, with exaggerated tolerance; she wasn't going to ruin his day. 'You know that I work far better in the peace and quiet of my own home. And, I'm only a phonecall away.'

'Well, you're a phone call further away from whatever is happening at your friend Alan Harper's. Ian Henderson's on his way; there's police and an ambulance there, so it must be something. Are you going to call Harper's office, or shall I set Nicola on to it?'

'No! No, it's OK. I'll see to it now!' He hung up. Damn the woman! He hadn't seen the Harper's for some time, maybe even a month, he thought as he gathered his notebook and digital recorder together, and that was most unusual. In the space of one week he would normally bump into Alan two or three times and see Rosemary shopping at least once, maybe more often, if he was near the off license. Now that Rosemary's daughter, Alan's stepdaughter, Rebecca, had her own flat twenty-odd miles away in Newcastle he seemed to see them all less than he used to.

Rebecca did phone 'Uncle John' occasionally; he had, in fact, just managed to break her of the 'Uncle' habit. She had grown into a fine looking woman and he found himself caught between loyalty to a friend and lust for his friend's stepdaughter.

His car was parked in its usual place at the top of the back lane. He unlocked it, opened the door and stood back to let out the heat and the damp smell. He didn't use it enough and doing nothing to maintain it didn't help, either. Consequently he wasn't surprised when all he got when he turned the key in the ignition was a dull 'click, click', another flat battery. This was why the car was where it was, parked at the top of a slope. He released the handbrake and as the car rolled forward he slipped it into gear. He let the clutch in sharply as the car gained speed and arrived at the junction with the main road in a cloud of brown smoke, with the engine racing. The road was clear both ways and he was able to pull straight out without attracting too much attention. So often in the past, particularly when the weather was cold and damp or there had been a lot of traffic causing him to sit too long, he had pulled out into the road only to have the car cough, stall and strand him there for all to see.

As he drove he tried to remember precisely when he had last seen Alan to talk to.

They had been at the rugby club charity 'do', which Alan had organised. It had been quite a prestigious affair, by the standards of Longalnbury, and Alan had raised a lot of money from it. Tobin had been there in two capacities, first as a guest and secondly as a reporter. He had gone grudgingly in both guises. Sandra Hickman, the boss, had wheedled her way round him, as usual, when she discovered he had been invited and saved herself some money. He hated formal events and made a point of avoiding them whenever he could and had tried to make excuses, but this time to no avail. He had saved her even more money by taking his own camera, which had got him into some unwanted trouble with his friend. All in all, it had not been an enjoyable evening.

One of the few occasions when he had really fallen out with Alan, his friend and mentor, was when one of the photos Tobin had taken had been published. It showed Alan and some of his friends giving a toast to an unseen third party.

Alan had complained to Sandra and Sandra had hauled Tobin in and given him a particularly hard time. He had always known that Alan was camera shy, but had put it down, literally, to shyness and thought he was doing everyone a favour after all these years by highlighting Alan's contribution to the event, together with the band of loyal supporters. He had obviously misunderstood.

One of the reasons, the main reason, Tobin was a grudging guest and never very comfortable at that sort of event was that he had been too many different things to too many different people in Longalnbury. Driver, handyman, gardener, had all been regular odd jobs in his early days and his former employers could not seem to forget it. Although he was able to mix and converse quite happily with any of them, their discomfort was obvious; status was all important and they had difficulty accepting him as an equal after he had been willing to do their menial work. Well, it was their loss!

It had been some years since he last did those kind of odd jobs; he had moved on quite successfully, he thought, but their memories were long, and their vision narrow, and they were unable to see him as anything other than the handyman.

The change in his lifestyle had been sudden and surprising. Alan had discovered Tobin's desire to write and had introduced him to Sandra Hickman, editor of the paper, and another of Alan Harper's string of attractive female friends.

A determined single lady, she had taken over a weekly rag and had turned it round into a successful local paper, with a colour magazine and regular supplements, which were the bits that provided Tobin with his regular work. She enjoyed her power and Tobin had to work hard at resisting the added attraction that it gave her, she was the boss after all. The power also brought her enemies. There were the predatory males who couldn't resist the attraction, even when she had not set out to attract them in the first place. Men who could not cope with women in positions of power; and then there were the suspicious wives who saw her as a threat. In some cases they may well have been right!

And, worst of all, she kept employing the annoying Nicola. Tobin knew that it was politics that kept the girl there, but it still rankled with him. It wouldn't be so bad if Sandra would just stop defending her when the argument was plainly indefensible.

Still, when he thought about it, he shouldn't complain; Nicola's failings brought him work and it was better than working in the filling station or the shop, which had been his last two fill-in jobs.

He arrived at the entrance of the cul-de-sac where the Harpers lived. The end of the road was sealed off with blue and white police tape; he drove past and parked behind a small police car. Henderson the photographer's car was just in front. He ambled back to the small group of people who had gathered to look.

Down at the far end of the road all that could be seen were a couple of police cars, some ordinary cars and an ambulance with its blue lights still flashing.

Tobin showed a card to the young policeman at the barrier.

'Ah. A reporter from the 'Reporter' then!'

A fiver for every time that had been cracked! 'So, what's happening then, officer?' He tried to make the 'officer' sound polite.

'Sorry, sir, can't tell you.'

'Oh! Come on!'

'Really, sir. I cannot tell you anything, because I don't know myself. That's my car you have just parked behind and this is as far as I got.'

'Well, can I be through, then?'

'In a minute, maybe. When my pal comes back I'll find out. How's that?'

'OK. I suppose.' Tobin turned to an onlooker. 'Did anyone see what's happened? Sir?'

'Nuh!' And the man backed away.

'Thanks.' He looked about for help.

'Not surprising, is it?' came a strident female voice from the far side of the group.

'Isn't it?'

''Course not. Filthy rich, the lot of them! Just look down there.' A small wrinkled hand and extended finger pointed down the road. The woman was wearing a headscarf and a heavy coat, buttoned up to the neck, even though it was a bright summer day. 'I bet he came home early and surprised them and got 'it for his trouble. They bring it on themselves these people, you know.' The ends of her thin colourless lips were permanently turned down, with deeply etched lines displaying a lifetime of bitterness.

'OK. So you know the people involved, then?'

'Me? Nah! Wouldn't mix with them if you asked me, and that's not likely, is it?' She hurried away before she could be asked any more questions, her empty shopping trolley rattling along behind her. Tobin watched the sad little figure as she tottered away down the road.

'Well, I know them, or her, anyway,' said a man standing behind him. 'And if anyone was surprised it shouldn't have been her husband coming home early. Know what I mean?'

'You tell me. What did you say your name was?' Tobin flicked through his notebook for a clean page.

'I didn't. Never mind that. I went to school with her, Rosie Taylor she was then, and there was only two things in life that she liked. The other one was money! And if she could use the first to get the second all the better!'

Tobin heard some sharp intakes of breath and tutting around them, the crowd's attention, and disapproval, had certainly been gained.

'Where was this then, Mr....er....?'

'In Morpeth, man. That was before she got her grand ideas and looked down on the likes of me!'

'Didn't do her much harm, did it?' Observed another man nearby, indicating the expensive houses around them.

'Well, I don't know about that, there's an ambulance, down there and a lot of excitement going on. So someone's come to harm, I'd say!' His Northumbrian accent was getting thicker as the discussion became livelier.

'What's your involvement here, then?' asked Tobin trying to get back to the subject.

'I was working in the garden of number six, there. And this young lass, she's the daughter, turns up in that blue car there.' He pointed toward the house drive that was the centre of attention. 'Then about ten minutes later the police turn up and then the ambulance. I came out then, went to the shop, like. When I came back they wouldn't let me in!' He looked at the policeman and shouted, feeling brave surrounded by the small crowd, 'Oi! I'm losing money stood out here, yuh knah!'

He was ignored.

Tobin turned back to the policeman. 'Has Henderson the photographer gone in?'

'I think he has, sir, just when I arrived. He went in with the sergeant.'

'Well, I'm supposed to be in there with him.'

'I'm sure you are, sir. As I said, as soon as I'm relieved from here I'll sort it out.'

As they watched, Tobin saw Henderson and a police officer appear at the front gate of the house and look up the road. Tobin began jumping up and down waving his arms wildly above his head. Henderson said something to the policeman who disappeared back into the house and moments later reappeared with a man in plain clothes. They exchanged a few words and the officer signalled to let him through. Tobin ducked under the tape held up for him by the constable and walked briskly down the road, Cheviot Close.

It was an address that certainly said 'money'. He had never actually walked through here before having always driven to the door, as everybody else did, in this road of three and four car garages.

The numbering was sequential Tobin knew, beginning with one on his left and continuing round to number sixteen on the right, back at the junction. He had been to number eight often enough, and helped build more than half the houses when he first arrived in Longalnbury. He passed number six with the wheelbarrow and garden tools showing where the gardener had abandoned his labours at the arrival of the police. Tobin wondered what the man felt so guilty about.

The seven dwellings on the left of the road were all large bungalows set below the level of the road, with large, open front gardens and even larger rear ones, all well-spaced from each other and of individual design. The houses on the right of the road were a little smaller and slightly closer together and set so much further back on higher ground that they were almost hidden by the shoulder of their front gardens. Tobin was heading for the left hand of the two two-storey houses that stood commandingly at the end of the road behind substantial fencing and hedges. The only activity on the street was at this house; the other residents were showing remarkable restraint in remaining behind their lace curtains. He knew the inside of most of the buildings here intimately. His first job on arriving in Longalnbury, fifteen years before, had been as a labourer on the first four bungalows. The designs for the other ten arrived shortly after and he could remember the wrangling over the planning consent for Alan's house being two storeys. Consent being won only when it was agreed to build another, next door, to balance up the view. Alan had wangled it somehow. Having the landowner's attractive daughter, who had inherited the land and was now selling it, and the equally attractive lady chair of the planning committee on his side must have been an advantage, Tobin recalled. Calling the house design a dormer bungalow had no doubt helped as well.

Henderson was standing with the police constable by the hedge that Tobin had also planted fourteen years before; they were joined by the man in plain clothes, presumably a detective, as Tobin approached.

'Good morning, John.' Henderson's tone was full of warmth. Tobin was on his guard immediately, he would normally expect to be greeted by some clever remark, nothing too hurtful, but just sharp enough to remind him that he was the amateur among professionals. 'This is D.S. McColl,' Henderson indicated the man on his left. He turned to the P.C., 'Sorry, don't know your name.'

'Symmonds, sir.'

'Oh, yes, and P.C. Symmonds.' He said in an exaggerated manner, nearly slipping into his more usual, mocking tone. 'I'll leave you with it, then. I'll go and sort out all this gear I don't need.' He indicated the cameras slung around his neck and before Tobin could speak he had gone.

'You're a friend of the family I understand, sir.'

'Umm, yes....' Tobin took a further breath to speak, but McColl anticipated the question.

'I don't know exactly what's happened, sir. It's difficult to decide. The young lady will soon help, I hope.' Tobin looked puzzled. 'The daughter, Miss Shaw? She's next door, being comforted by the neighbour. We really would like to speak to the husband, Mr Harper, but I understand that he's away somewhere. You wouldn't happen to know where, would you, sir?'

'Me? No. I've no idea.'

'Pity.'

'She's called Shaw because she's Rosemary's daughter from a previous marriage.' Tobin said, helpfully. The policeman nodded; he had worked that out for himself. 'I was just thinking on the way here that I hadn't seen them lately.'

'Really, sir?' He reached across Tobin to restrain him as he moved toward the house. 'Sorry, sir, you can't go in at the moment till we've finished and cleared... everything away.'

'Look. I presume we're talking about...'

'I'm sorry, sir. I thought you knew. Yes, we are talking about Mrs Harper, and she's dead. But, that's all I can tell you. Perhaps you would like to see the daughter?' He indicated the way to next door and turned away.

'Is he new here?' Tobin asked PC Symmonds.

'Just transferred out of Newcastle, sir.' Everybody was being so polite he noticed. Symmonds had been a constable in Longalnbury for years. No one could remember a time without him. He knew the town better than anybody, the families, their troubles, their streets, their histories. Tobin had seen him in court quite often, since he had begun reporting, and had seen the regard in which he was held. The big grey-haired officer commanded respect, not just because of his age or his size, but for the practical common sense that he dispensed. The old fashioned style of 'bobby on the beat' was well suited to Longalnbury, a town that prided itself on its old style values. Tobin had heard that Symmonds was due for retirement soon and was about to comment on it, but was forestalled by a firm nod of the policeman's head toward the next door neighbour's driveway. He took the hint and walked around the dividing hedge and up the other drive.

He had never met the neighbours and wasn't even sure who they were. Despite all the time he had spent working there, and subsequently visiting, he couldn't recall ever having seen another occupant of the Close. Lots of big cars came and went frequently enough, but no actual human forms were discernible within. So far as Tobin knew Alan Harper was the only resident who worked in the town, all the others travelled away, mostly to Newcastle. Alan travelled, as well, and widely, but had retained his base here and that made all the difference in the eyes of local people.

He reached the front of the house. It was of a similar size to Alan's but a slightly different design. The side gate was open and, squeezing past the big green Vauxhall car and looking through, Tobin could just see that the side door was open, too.

Inside was a policewoman comforting a hunched figure that was turned away from the door. His shadow caused them both to look up.

'John!' cried Rebecca, weakly.

'Yes?' demanded an imperious voice from the far side of the kitchen. A woman appeared at the interior kitchen door. She must have seen him walking down the side of the house.

'I'm a friend of the family.' He said, reassuringly.

Really?' He was given a cursory inspection, up and down, she wasn't reassured. 'Well, as long as you're not one of the press, that's all!'

Well, actually....'

'It's OK Mrs Mayhew, I know him.' interrupted the policewoman, quickly.

'Well, alright. If you need more tea, it's over there.' It was very obviously a tiresome intrusion. 'I really must go out very soon, you know. But, I don't know how, if you're not letting any cars through. Can't you use that radio of yours and let him up there know that I'm being picked up!'

'I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, Mrs Mayhew. The area has to remain sealed off. You can be collected from the barrier up there and returned. As a resident the officer will let you through. If you could let me know when you're going and when you anticipate returning, it would help. We will, of course, have someone watch over the house while you are away. And, we might need to speak to you again.'

'My God!' She stormed from the room, slamming the door. They looked at each other and almost smiled; the officer shook her head in disbelief at the arrogance and turned back to her tearful charge.

'John?' Rebecca pleaded again. He sat down gently beside her and placed his arm around her shoulder.

'Mr Tobin?' The policewoman confirmed her memory of his name as she stood up. He nodded. She went to the kitchen sink and returned with a glass of water which she handed to Tobin. 'The doctor's on his way. If you would sit here for a few moments, I'll see if the boss can get a better response from her.' She nodded toward the door and the departed, over-dramatic Mrs Mayhew.

'Certainly.'

Once they were alone the girl threw her arms around him and finally let the tears flow, loudly onto his shoulder. The interior door opened again and Mrs Mayhew, attracted by the noise, looked in, cast her eyes heavenwards, 'tutting' and retreated back into the house. Tobin let the girl cry on. After a few minutes the sobbing eased and she looked up wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

'Sorry.'

'It's OK. It's natural,' said Tobin, awkwardly.

Another shadow fell across them from the outer door; a very business-like young man walked directly in. He set a large black case down by the settee and studied them. 'Doctor Bennett.' He stated. 'I think we had better get you somewhere more comfortable.' He looked toward the kitchen door. Tobin began to say that he thought there might be a bit of resistance to this idea when the door opened again and a very different Mrs Mayhew appeared.

'Doctor Bennett, how nice.'

'Thank you, Mrs Mayhew. Could we make this young lady more comfortable, do you think?'

'Of course! Come through here, my dear.' She oozed concern, and glared at Tobin as if he had not thought of the poor girl's welfare. 'I'll fetch you a blanket, shall I?' She asked the doctor.

'That would be very helpful.'

As Tobin helped Rebecca to the door Mrs Mayhew pushed between them taking the girl's shoulder and pushing Tobin back with her elbow. Rebecca was steered through the door and out of sight. With a haughty glance over her shoulder she dismissed Tobin with a, 'Thank you.' And the door closed again in his face.

He wandered back outside and down the drive.

Henderson was loitering by the gate. 'Discover anything?'

'No. Except, how objectionable the next door neighbour is. How about you?'

'Not much yet. The door was still open when I arrived. I came down here with Symmonds and got a quick glance inside before they noticed me and shut the door. There's a body at the foot of the stairs and a God-awful smell. I think it could have been there a while.

'The girl was collapsed against a wheel of her car and PC Murdoch was braying hell out of next door's door.' He nodded toward the Mayhew's. 'She didn't want to know, but Murdoch had seen her inside earlier, and nobody denies PC Murdoch!' That was certainly true. Tobin had seen her sorting out revellers at closing time on a Saturday night. She was a formidable sight in uniform, and quite impressive out of it, too. In full makeup and dressed for an occasion she was a head-turner.

At that point the shapely PC strode past with the plain-clothes sergeant in tow. 'Look out Mrs Mayhew.' thought Tobin.

'He can't take his eyes off that rear view, look.' observed Henderson, of the plainclothes man. She also made him look quite small. They disappeared up the drive. Henderson continued, 'from what I can piece together, it appears that the daughter couldn't get any reply and couldn't get in with her key. So, she rings the force on the trusty mobile and Murdoch and Symmonds are here in a flash, but I think they took their time about breaking in. I think they'd guessed what had happened, 'cos they radioed for the ambulance first. I just chased it and phoned it in when I got here. They got you pretty quick, too, didn't they?'

'Hmm.'

'Anyway, from something Murdoch said I think what they found was pretty awful, it made Symmonds throw up. She sent him off, tough cookie that woman, and I arrived in time to help him stretch the tape across the road up there, and he looked pretty ghastly I can tell you.'

'I met some gardener up there, and a few envious people, too.'

'That'll be Willy Clark. He wouldn't have been 'working', of course, just 'helping out',' said Henderson with a knowing nod. 'It's amazing the number of people he just 'helps out'. He should get an award, but it might puzzle the benefits agency! 'But,' he said with great emphasis, continuing, 'the interesting bit is where Mr Alan Harper is? I overheard a discussion on their radios when they were trying to trace him. His office thinks he's abroad, with the wife, and has been for a week. At least they originally thought he was just going for a long weekend on his own, but when they phoned here last week and got no reply they thought the whole family was away. Apparently, the drill is, if they are all away they turn off the answerphone and that's what had happened. What do you make of that then?'

Tobin didn't know what to make of that then, it all seemed a bit confused.

'Mind you, it's probably all coincidence. You know what she was like,' he made a tippling gesture with his right hand, 'she probably got herself pissed as a rat and fell down the stairs and your pal will turn up tomorrow.'

Tobin found it a bit distasteful standing so close to someone in these circumstances, even Rosemary Harper, and hearing them discussed in this manner. She had become a bit of a drinker, it was true, in fact she had always been a bit of a drinker, and she had become a bit reclusive lately; she only went out to shop when she had to and that was mostly to the off-licence. Invitations to the house had almost ceased and the few that Tobin had received had been from Alan alone. That was probably to do with Rebecca leaving home as much as anything. Rosemary had depended a lot on her daughter, although the casual observer would never have realised that.

Henderson broke into his thoughts. 'Well, I can't hang around here all day! I'll just get some shots of the house with the blue lights around and go, I think. She'll want to flog some of these to Newcastle and anywhere else she can, I expect. Our revered lady editor will want her money back on our time!' The cynicism again. 'I've a feeling this won't amount to much, you know. It's an accident in circumstances that no-one can explain, at the moment. That's all.

'Ah. Here's the coroner. He'll not be in long, I'll bet. They'll whip her off to the mortuary, whip her open and find nowt. Bet ya!' Tobin's look of distaste brought Henderson's attempts to lighten the atmosphere to an abrupt halt. 'Ah. Well. Sorry. One thing though, has she got any relatives? 'Cos, if not, that poor kid's going to have to do the formal ID. Unless your pal does pop up.'

'I think there's a sister somewhere, I'm not too sure.'

'Oh, well,' he shrugged and wandered out into the Close as a silver Audi pulled up behind the ambulance. A man in a suit got out carrying a case.

Murdoch reappeared, still towing sergeant McColl. She was carrying a mug of tea which she handed to a grateful Symmonds. The man in the suit ignored them all and walked haughtily into the house.

McColl approached Tobin, 'any other relatives?'

'I think there's a sister, somewhere,' he repeated.

'Name?'

'I don't know. I don't know what her maiden name was. Rosemary was a Shaw before she became a Harper. Teri will tell you, I expect.' He had a flash of memory. 'Taylor! I think someone said she was called Taylor.'

'Teri?'

'Sorry. Rebecca. It's her middle name, Theresa. Alan shortened it as a pet name and she liked it and took to using it. In fact, she hates 'Rebecca'. Only, when Rosemary was around we didn't use it... it avoided an upset, she hated 'Teri'.'

'Doesn't matter much now. But, let's just try and be consistent for the moment. Rebecca is the next of kin unless the husband reappears, is that right?'

'As far as I know, except for this possible sister.'

'Where could he have gone then, this Mr Harper? Mr Tobin?'

'I don't know. Ask his office. What's going to happen now?'

'I don't know yet, probably not a lot.'

'So you think it's an accident?'

'I said I don't know, yet. Just wait and see!' He was not going to be pressured. 'Off the record it would be very useful to talk to the husband.' He paused and studied Tobin for a moment. 'Would you recognise his writing?'

'Oh, yes. It was illegibly neat.'

'Could this be it?' McColl produced a white envelope, opened it and handed Tobin an A4 sheet of white paper with a big ring-mark staining the middle where a glass had been stood.

' _ROSEMARY,_

I'M FINALLY LEAVING. I'VE BOOSTED YOUR BANK BALANCE AND THE HOUSE

IS PAID UP AND EVERYTHINGS IN YOUR NAME.

GOOD LUCK AND GOODBYE.

ALAN.'

Tobin stared at the note for a moment and reread it.

'Doesn't beat about the bush, does he? Anyway, keep this to yourself. OK? Is it his writing?'

'I think so. It's printed rather than written, which I've not seen before, but I think so. Yes.' There was something about the note that was nagging at the back of Tobin's mind. Had he forgotten something? He looked at his watch, but the time meant nothing, he wasn't missing an appointment. It was a strange feeling he had, as if he had forgotten to do something or go somewhere. He shook his head. McColl was talking.

'The house is a bit of a mess, at the moment. Was she normally like that, or was everything in its place?'

'Well, lately...' He found it impossible to criticise, now.

'You mean, when she'd had a few she couldn't care less?'

'Well...' Tobin shrugged.

'It's not uncommon, you know. We'll have to try and get the daughter to check the house over, none the less. There're whisky bottles everywhere.' He held up the paper and indicated the ring mark. 'But only one glass that I can see. Someone's had a real smashing time in the kitchen, too. Was she like that?'

'Well..... .' Tobin wanted to change the subject. 'How long has she been there?'

'I would guess at around a week or so,' he looked to Symmonds for confirmation. The big policeman grimaced and looked away; he needed no reminder of the grisly discovery. After all his years on the force he still could not come to terms with these kinds of events. Murdoch, who had been standing talking to him, gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder and went back into the house. McColl watched and continued. 'Last Sunday's papers are in the front room, but yesterdays and today's are jammed in the letter box and all last weeks are on the floor behind the door. So it's a fairly straightforward guess.'

'What about the milk?' asked Tobin, thinking aloud.

McColl looked at Symmonds enquiringly.

'Davies is the milkman, sir. In the market square.'

Without being asked, and without thinking, Tobin recited the phone number from memory.

'Make a study of milkmen, do you, sir?'

'Oh. No. I've been on the phone to his wife a lot lately.'

'Really, sir?'

'No! No! No. Nothing like that. Not if you've seen Mrs Davies!' Out of the corner of his eye he saw Symmonds nodding his head in agreement. 'I'm helping her research the history of their house, that's all.' Symmonds was writing down the number.

They fell into silence and stood about awkwardly, waiting. Henderson reappeared, reviewing his shots on his camera. He eyed the silent group quizzically, one by one, and joined the end of the line.

The coroner came out of the house, ignored them again, got in his car and drove off. The ambulance crew appeared and drove away. PC Murdoch was standing behind them waiting.

'Well. Did he speak to anybody?' demanded McColl.

'He confirmed that she was dead, sir,' said Murdoch, trying to keep a straight face.

'Well. That's reassuring!'

'And, as soon as the photos are done we can move her to the mortuary. He can do her tonight.' They all looked at her at the unfortunate expression. 'I'm merely repeating what he said!'

They all turned to look at McColl.

'Right! I want scenes of crime to go through this place. So seal it off and put someone on the door till they're finished. I want statements from the whole street. And I want the husband found! A.S.A.P.!' They all turned to look at him, surprised.

'So it wasn't an accident?' Enquired Henderson.

'It's unexplained.' He began to number off the points on the fingers of his left hand. 'The husband is missing; what I take to have been his office has been stripped; parts of the house look like they could have been ransacked while other parts, barring a week's dust, are spotlessly clean and tidy. So, unless any of you know better, I'm playing safe!'

The clientele of the Northumberland Arms was a fairly good cross section of the community of Longalnbury. The building was also a good guide to the history of the town, particularly if you listened to the current landlord recreating a vivid past for any tourists who were willing to listen.

Like many buildings around the market square parts of it were extremely old and if they were not parts of the original tavern, as often claimed, they could not be much younger. The fine back door and adjacent windows looked out onto a narrow back lane which had once been the main road through the village. Some three centuries before, a farsighted parish council had altered the route of that thoroughfare to run to one side of the square rather than through the centre. Over a period of time the owners of the buildings along the old road had merely turned their houses round by building new fronts on what had been the old backyards.

The Davies, who lived two doors up from the pub, had got very excited about this news when told to them by an eminent archaeologist who had been staying at the pub and had taken an interest in the area. More accurately, Mrs Davies had got excited, as theirs was the only wholly residential property left in the street.

Ron Davies was standing at the bar when Tobin arrived for his lunchbreak.

'The police are looking for you, Ron!' He joked

'Aye. But, I left them their milk every day, as usual, so they can't do me for that.'

'You mean at the Harper's?'

'Aye.'

'Christ! They were quick.'

'Aye. Young copper's just left.'

'So... someone's been nicking the milk every day, then, and today?'

'Aye. Looks like it.'

The barman was hovering behind the counter in anticipation. 'I'll have an orange juice, please Eric. Ron?'

'Aye.' He considered his glass, 'just a half, then.' The barman got busy.

'Do you deliver to anyone else in that street, Ron? What are they like?'

'Bloody stuck-up bunch. 'Part from him at number eight, he's OK. But, she's awful, mind.' He added. 'Why, man. Catching her sober's a rarity. And, not nice, either!'

'That's the Harpers?'

'Aye.'

Tobin had to listen carefully to the quiet answers from the milkman, who never looked up, addressing all his replies to his drink.

Ron Davies was a familiar sight around town. He had been a milkman there for forty years or more and, although he didn't look it, was known to be well beyond retiring age. Life for Ron Davies was never hurried; he had married late in life, there were no children, all decisions were carefully weighed and deliberated, like changing from a horse drawn float to a motorised one. If it had not been for the threats of the vet' in the nineteen seventies it was generally reckoned old Ron would probably still be tramping the streets with a horse. The old horse had been almost beyond help and Ron had been forced to retire it, so he bought a clapped out old electric float that was even slower and was forever running out of power half way through the round. That had not lasted long, and was still lying rusting in his yard, causing him to buy his current vehicle, a five year old cut down Bedford van that was now thirty five years old. Although by nature an introspective man, he made an effort to wave or nod to passers by. But Tobin had never tried to engage him in conversation before. He would be wary next time; he hadn't realised just how monosyllabic the man was. Tobin wondered if he could get him to answer with anything other than 'aye'. The drinks arrived and Tobin paid. The dairyman poured his new drink into his pint glass and took a swig.

'Do you deliver to them all up there, Ron?' He had phrased that wrongly and waited for the inevitable.

'Nuh.'

'Oh!' Tobin couldn't quite hide his surprised smile. 'Who not?'

'Number nine.'

'Mrs Mayhew?'

He shrugged, indifferently.

'Who delivers her milk, then?'

'Richie.'

'He's a long way off his patch, isn't he?' He shrugged again. Richie Hepple was the dairyman who covered the more rural area on the far side of town and the small council estate. Tobin was surprised that he bothered to go so far across town.

'Family.' Stated Ron.

'Family relation?' There was no further response. He tried a change of tack. 'I suppose the police asked you if you had seen anything suspicious up there?'

'No.' He finished his drink and rose to go. 'You'll be round later, will you? 'Bout the house?'

'I don't think so, Ron.' He said, carefully. 'Tell Mrs Davies that I'll, er... I'll be in touch when I have any news for her. I'm waiting for some information from the county archives. It takes quite a while, tell her.' Especially when you haven't sent for it yet, he thought. 'I've also got quite a lot of work on at the moment, so I'm very busy, you know.'

'Glad to hear it, lad. I'll certain tell her. 'Cos, you see,' and, for the first time he looked Tobin directly in the eye, penetratingly, 'when she gets a fancy to something... she can get sort of obsessive, you know?'

'I know.' The vision of Vivienne Davies passed vividly before him, dark and once vivacious, now over fifty, overweight and overpowering. 'I know exactly what you mean.' He had suspected all along that the house history was a pretext, now he knew.

'Good! And if the police do ask me if I saw anything suspicious, I'll tell them about the feller in the car that I've seen several mornings these past few weekends.'

Tobin took him by the arm, holding him back. 'What did he look like?'

'Oldish. Well my age, anyway,' he corrected himself, defensively, 'short white hair; big man, you know, bulky in the car. But, he never let me see his face properly, always turned away.'

'What about the car?'

'Which one? They were different each time. That was the other strange thing. That's why I noticed.' He proffered the empty glass, 'Thanks for the drink, anyway. Better go.'

'Thanks, Ron.'

'Sounds a bit like a bloke who was in here last week.' Tobin hadn't noticed the barman, Eric, return.

'Really? When?'

'Last Monday. You remember, hot, sunny day?'

'Yes, I remember.'

'Well, there was just me and the cleaner in. No-one else turned in, the weather was too nice, these kids are bloody unreliable, you know.' He was all of twenty himself. 'Anyhow, she was hoovering in the back there and I was sorting bottles down here,' he indicated the empties skip and the crates beside it, 'and there was this hell of a bang right here.' He smacked the bar top, painfully, to demonstrate his frightening experience. 'I nearly shit a brick!' He said, rubbing his sore hand. 'It was this guy you were talking about, I'm sure. Straight out the films, like a big old gangster, just like Ron described him, and he is big. It was his eyes, though, like he hadn't slept for weeks, and really pale, he was. Mind you, he had a sort of familiar look, there was something about him, I've seen before, I'm sure. He growls at me for the phone book and then grabs the yellow pages and goes over there.' He pointed at the window. 'He rips a page out, flings the book at me and goes'

'Which page?'

'I don't know.'

'Let me see, please.'

The barman reached under the counter and handed Tobin the vandalised book. He riffled back and forth through it until he found the gap. 'Well. He was looking for something between flying schools and funeral directors.' He returned the book to Eric, finished his drink and left.

\-----------------4\---------------

The hall clock at number eight Cheviot Close showed ten thirty. Tobin had agreed to arrive early and clean up the hall after the removal of Rosemary's body the previous day. He was standing at the open front door watching the van carrying away the damaged piece of hall carpet as the small, blue Ford approached. Teri was accompanied by PC Murdoch in the passenger seat. She parked at the entrance to the drive and walked up to the front door, the tall policewoman following. Tobin was glad to see that she was out of uniform. He saw Teri register the bare hall floor and swallow. She muttered, 'thanks,' quietly as she passed him and entered the house that had suddenly become her property.

'I've not touched anything else,' he told Murdoch, 'but, I was nosy.'

She looked at him enquiringly. He held up the bunch of house keys as explanation. 'Both cars are still in the garage. So Alan must have used something else to carry away all his stuff.' He tried not to look too smug at this deduction. Murdoch quickly put him in his place.

'That's presuming he moved everything in one go! But, it's a thought. I know they're checking taxis, but I don't know about car and van hire companies. I'll just use the phone.'

Tobin followed Teri to the right of the front door into the front room. It looked in perfect order. All that was out of place was a pile of the week's unread newspapers neatly stacked on a side table. The cream leather three piece suite and pale beige, deep pile carpet looked like new. The pictures and ornamentation were exactly as he remembered them from when they were installed new fifteen years before.

This was a room for show only, for the guests that Rosemary considered important; they had become few and far between recently. The only other reason to enter the room was to dust it.

That prompted Tobin to think aloud about the Harper's cleaning lady. 'What about Mrs Hunter?'

'Mother fired her about a month ago,' said Teri. 'She complained all the time, apparently. So....' She raised her hands, palms up-turned, in a gesture of despair. 'I thought I saw her working in the Co-op, recently.'

They returned to the hall and to Murdoch, who was still on the phone. Teri looked at the expensive parquet flooring exposed by the missing carpet at the foot of the stairs. She didn't remember it. Tobin saw her puzzled look, he could remember it and when it was laid.

Alan had had it installed shortly after they had moved in in answer to Rosemary's request for a wood floor. The floorers had commented on the cost and that they hadn't laid such a good one as this for a long while. Within a month Rosemary had an enormously expensive carpet laid on top of it.

Not wanting to see the kitchen just yet Teri led the way upstairs. At the top she hesitated unsure of where to go first. She walked forward to her left and grasped a door handle, not expecting it to work. But, it did. They entered a room that neither of them had seen before, Alan's private study. It was bare, with just the simple, functional furniture standing on the polished wood floor. Above the desk hung a large print of a desert scene; other landscapes hung around the walls, jungles, mountains and a polar ice cap. Lighter coloured squares of wallpaper showed where other pictures had once hung and two large empty frames leant against the end of the desk. Tobin wondered if they had been portraits, as the other pictures showed no trace of people. A Turkish rug on the floor and dark drapes at the French windows completed the décor. The drawers and filing cabinets were empty save for the odd piece of scrap paper here and there.

Outside the window was a small wooden balcony with two very weathered seats and a superb view over rolling countryside.

They looked at each other, she shrugged, 'I wouldn't know if anything was missing anyway, I've never been in here before. I was just curious. 'The next room was a man's bedroom; again sparsely furnished, like the study, with a single bed neatly made, two large wardrobes and a simple dressing table. Teri made a quick check of the wardrobes; one was completely empty, the other contained a lot of dark, formal looking clothes and several pairs of highly polished shoes.

'All his luggage has gone,' she pointed to the tops of the wardrobes where presumably it had been kept, 'and his summer and casual clothes'.

Another door led into a bathroom, a door at the far end showed it to be shared. Teri ran her finger along the shelves checking off the contents, not a masculine item could be seen among the mess of shampoos, gels, lotions and all the clutter of a woman's bathroom.

'There was only his toothbrush and shaving things', said Teri.

They passed through the farther door into a larger bedroom. Teri hung back and let him go first. It was a woman's bedroom, of that there could be no doubt and it was a mess. The curtains were part open. A large double bed stood against the far wall; a duvet in a flowery cover had been kicked off and lay partly on the floor. The bottom sheet was all crumpled and twisted; one fitted corner had ridden up exposing the mattress beneath. All the drawers were open some nearly falling out; clothes hung or lay everywhere, dirty laundry was scattered around a nearly empty linen basket in one corner.

'This place certainly looks like it could have been ransacked,' said Tobin, quietly. He turned to look at her. She held her head in her left hand, hiding her eyes. He put his arm round her shoulder in comfort, but she wasn't crying.

'Not necessarily,' she whispered, embarrassed. Murdoch had caught up with them, and quietly surveyed the room.

'Seen it like this before, have you?' She asked.

Teri just nodded and walked out of the main door.

They caught up with her on the landing where she had stopped to take some deep breaths, the air in the bedroom had been stale and musty and had brought back memories. Still, she didn't cry. They checked the two guest bedrooms and bathroom; they all seemed untouched. They were back at the top of the stairs. She took a deep breath and descended.

At the bottom of the stairs, opposite the front room, was the living room. In here there was less disturbance, more a look of untidy living. There was a scattering of magazines, papers, DVDs, CDs, a cardigan and a pair of slippers. At one end of a huge, well-worn settee was a pile of cushions and at the other end a blanket had been thrown back by the last occupant. Again there was the slightly musty smell, but mixed with the smell of stale alcohol. A large stain on the carpet by the settee showed where a large amount of liquid had spilled, beside it an empty whisky bottle had been thoughtfully stood back up by someone.

On the large coffee table in the centre of the room lay some large photo albums, two of them open, one on top of the other. Teri bent down and flicked through them. She paused at a couple of pages where photos had been removed and closed each album as she finished it. A sliver of card fell from the spine of one as she placed it to one side. It was the edge of one of the pages left behind when it had been removed by tearing along the binding perforations. She shook her head, puzzled, and held up the strip for Tobin to see.

'These albums haven't been out in ages. I'm surprised she hasn't thrown them out, actually. Mother stopped collecting photos seven or eight years ago, I have most of them, now, I rescued them from the bin. That was at the time when things started to go downhill, or, rather, when she gave up bothering to hide it.'

Tobin looked at her in surprise, he hadn't realised that the marriage had been that bad for that long. If she noticed the look Teri didn't acknowledge it, she just kept staring down at the pile of albums. He wandered around the room peering at shelves and their contents. Teri joined him at an open cupboard. The contents of one shelf had subsided where the albums had been removed. There was a mixture of old letters, notes, recipes, some old photographs and paperback books all sliding over each other.

She gave an exclamation and her hand shot up to her mouth; she hurried from the room. Tobin and Murdoch stared after her in surprise as they listened to her footsteps running up the stairs. The policewoman joined him in the room as they looked about. They bumped shoulders as they tried to move in opposite directions. Tobin muttered an apology as his gaze met hers. She smiled and he saw for the first time the faint laughter lines at the corners of her eyes, he was unaccustomed to tall women who looked him directly in the eye. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from those large, smiling, dark eyes, 'I've...' He had to clear his throat. 'I've brought some milk, I'll make some coffee, shall I?' He suggested, brightly.

'You haven't looked in the kitchen, then?'

'No, not yet.'

She wrinkled her nose, which was quite an attractive gesture, and shook her head.

'As bad as that?'

'Oh. Yes!'

They heard footsteps descending the stairs and Teri reappeared carrying a small, old white suitcase.

'Just where she always hid it.' She said, relieved, putting it on the table on top of the albums. She popped the clips and the lid sprang open from the pressure of all the paper inside.

'Much as it always was,' she commented. 'There's everything in here, from insurance policies and important stuff like that, to old bills and receipts and rubbish.'

Teri stopped and looked at him. She smiled. 'Look, John. I'm OK, now. Shouldn't you be at work or something? I don't want to keep you. We'll be OK, now. I'll just sit here and plod through all this.' She gave a silly giggle at the reference to plod and the sight of PC Murdoch. 'Sorry. I am all right, honestly, I'll ring you later or in the morning.' She reached up and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. He glanced at Murdoch who gave an imperceptible nod of confirmation.

'OK. Ring whenever you like. I'll not be far away.'

By that evening she had not rung and he decided he could not wait in forever.

His first stop was the Northumberland Arms, one of many such named pubs in the county, Tobin was several paces in, his mind distracted by the events of the day, when he saw the group of men at the bar with Brian Dale at the centre. He had never had any direct dealings with Dale, but knew of the man's reputation. Alan had once, foolishly, become involved with him, but had got out quickly after a few months, leading to considerable animosity, to put it mildly, between the two men. Dale pushed himself away from the bar and swayed a little as he faced Tobin. 'Well. Here's one of his apologists,' he stumbled over the last word. 'But, I'd bet anything you know where he is. Some man he is,' he looked around, addressing his bunch of cronies, 'drove his wife to drink, pushed her down the stairs and buggered off.'

Tobin took a breath to answer, but thought better of it and headed for the landlord who was waving at him from the other end of the bar. Tobin made his way to his favourite position at the corner of the bar, where the broad, dark wood counter turned toward the backroom; he often sat here where he could watch both bars. He pulled up a barstool and sat down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dale regain the security of the bar barging aside the men that were in his way. He shouted the length of the bar at Tobin, 'I used to wonder just what fiddles he was working! Lived like a lord, hiding away there in his little fortress, well, he's up to his neck in shit now. We'll soon find out, they'll be digging into everything. Digging in his garden, I bet!' He burst into raucous laughter at his own joke, elbowing the nearest man to encourage him to join in.

Dale waved his beer glass unsteadily over the heads around him; fortunately it was almost empty and didn't slop on those who were too slow to step back. 'I had a word with friends of mine in the police this morning.' He confided to his colleagues, his voice getting still louder. 'Told them the secret was in the books. "Look in his books", I told them.' He looked down the bar at Tobin with glazed, unfocused eyes. 'He was good with books. They were very interested.' The heads turned toward Tobin again, who maintained his composure by ordering a pint of beer and ignored the provocation. Dale subsided against the bar.

'Pay no attention, lad. He gets like that sometimes,' said the landlord, trying to reassure himself as much as Tobin.

'Don't worry,' replied Tobin, eyeing the group. 'That's a club for failures, if ever I saw one. We should pity them.'

'Well, you needn't shout that about, lad, never the less!' The big, normally cheerful publican glanced nervously over his shoulder at the group; his tone had changed in the space of just a breath. Tobin paid for his beer and, puzzled, watched Austin disappear into the other bar.

The group around Dale stirred, rearranging themselves with much scraping of furniture. Two of the group brought some more seats from elsewhere. They were not dressed as formally as the others for whom they fetched and seemed to take no real part in the conversation; also, they were obviously not drunk like the rest. Dale's minders? Or someone else's? Tobin sipped his beer and watched them discreetly as some other topic took their interest. All the other faces in the main group were familiar to Tobin.

Dale, sturdily built, six feet tall, was in the haulage business; he ran the family firm inherited from his father. He was tending to overweight these days and his face was the product of too much good living and stress. The once strong, full features were disappearing under a layer of fat; the pale eyes now seemed to peek out from between sagging brows and puffy cheeks. The feature that had always made Dale distinctive, the head of thick wavy hair, was still there, but very grey now rather than the luxuriant, black mop of his younger days. He had been a striking man once upon a time.

Another face in the group ran market stalls, Tobin didn't know his name, but had seen him at various markets around the county at different times, selling imported fancy and seasonal goods. He was a tough looking one - the minders might be his.

Two of the others had to be brothers, he felt sure, as they looked so alike. The older of them was a car dealer. Tobin had been to one of his showrooms when looking for his present car. He hadn't bought there, though; all the cars had been very high mileage ex-company cars at equally high prices. The younger 'brother' looked out of place, uncomfortable, in his dark suit. He stood stiffly; listening to the conversation and laughing, too loudly, at what he thought was the appropriate moment. His head jerked from side to side in exaggerated fashion as he followed the talk from one person to the next; his eyes a little too wide and staring.

The fourth suited man Tobin knew by name, Brookes. A couple of years earlier he had tried to set up in business after leaving, some said being fired by, a large, multi-national company. He couldn't get the backing and it later emerged that the company that he had parted from had found itself in serious trouble with the Customs and Excise. There had been questions asked about dealings with transport contractors and details of imported goods and materials, or, more precisely, a lack of details. Brookes had not worked since then, officially, but had spent a great deal of time around the Dale Transport organisation, which just happened to be one of the contractors implicated in the investigation, but there had been no further action, as far as anybody knew, and interest had faded.

Most of this gossip Tobin had gleaned from Alan, who once, three years before, foolishly had dealings with Dales, but, quickly got out. Tobin knew that there were few people that Alan Harper would refuse to deal with, and both Dale and Brookes were top of the list.

One of the minders stepped away from the group and began talking into a mobile phone. Tobin saw that the other had detached himself and was standing beyond the group at the far end of the bar against the wall, drinking a soft drink and watching them, and watching Tobin.

The mobile phone disappeared and the minder joined Dale to discuss something, presumably the subject of the phone call. To Tobin, as he watched from his corner of the bar, Dale now appeared much more sober. The two men checked the time on their watches and Dale turned his attention back to the group of men. Tobin caught his glance as he assumed his previous, intoxicated, manner; this was intriguing stuff.

Dale thumped the bar counter loudly, summoning the landlord. He placed three ten-pound notes on the top and waved his hand over the group, indicating another round of drinks, to the cheers of the group. When the drinks arrived, all large measures of spirits, except the minders, Tobin noticed that Dale's remained untouched, although he appeared to be getting as merry as the rest of the group. The money was certainly flowing tonight, yet Tobin's understanding of Dale's position was that the business was struggling and had been for years, according to some.

The junior Dale had invested the minimum in the firm since inheriting it from his father, also called Brian. This had been the cause for much speculation in some areas as to the honesty of the concern. Tobin had questioned Alan on the subject after his sudden departure from the firm, which he had joined as a partner despite the dire warnings of several of the local business fraternity.

'You've gotta watch that bugger, you know.' Tobin looked up and met the worried gaze of Austin Tadworth the landlord.

'I'm sure.'

'No, seriously, watch yourself. He's had it in for Mr Harper for a time now. Don't know why, don't want to, but he's seen his chance with all this business with Mrs Harper. Hey, it's sad that, i'nit? That's what all this is about, you nah.' He nodded backwards toward the group of men. Tobin knew. 'They've all had dealings with Harpers and can't wait to make the most of it. Mind my words, if Dale can get enough like that around him he'll be big trouble.'

'Thanks, Austin. I'll take care.' He tried to sound as sincere as he could. Somehow he could not take the group at the end of the bar too seriously. But, they still cast a shadow of doubt. Particularly as he caught another of Dale's steely glances.

'I'm not a natural business man, you know what I mean?' said the publican, plaintively. Tobin nodded, hoping he was just meant to agree.

'I just know how to cater for people,' he continued.

'And very well you do it, Austin.'

'When it comes to the clever bits with business, well... I'm not always that interested, to be honest. But, Alan's different, he enjoys all that and he really enjoys getting into it with us, me and them like me. And I'm grateful, and all and I don't mind who I tell. But, there's some,' his head inclined ever so slightly toward the Dale group, again, 'who aren't so grateful. They were quick enough to seek help, take it for granted, like, but then don't accept it. You know? Can't admit it. And there's a few, not a million miles from here, who've taken good advice and then been that bloody-minded they've done the exact opposite. And then, when it all went wrong, who did they blame? Uhuh. Alan.' He nodded, sagely. Then, thinking he had probably been talking far too much, bustled off into the back bar.

How typical of Alan, Tobin thought. Many, if not most, people in Longalnbury had witnessed these little acts of kindness. Not that Alan would have called them that, himself. He was a distant man by nature, never usually getting involved with individuals, but, he would quietly mutter a word of advice or a suggestion in passing. However, whenever he received thanks, or any demonstration of gratitude, he was plainly embarrassed, but, Tobin knew, secretly pleased. However, any suggestion of personal publicity and he became openly hostile, the mere suggestion of any public display of gratitude, or any kind of photographs for publicity purposes sent him into a real spin; quite unusual behaviour which he would never explain.

The refurbishment, a few years back, of his main office had involved displaying photographs of all the staff for clients to see; an attempt by the manager, Carol Adams, to take a photo of Alan and include it with the rest had nearly ended their ten year working relationship. Tobin had wondered if the publication of the photo he took at the charity dance Alan had organised had been the reason for not seeing him for the last few weeks.

Austin, the landlord wandered back to Tobin's part of the bar. Tobin pushed his empty glass toward him; he took it, selected a clean glass and began to fill it.

'How long have you known Alan Harper, Austin?' enquired Tobin. The publican blew out his cheeks, making puffing sounds as he thought back. The pint glass was full before he finally decided.

'Since he arrived, I suppose. I think I can remember him coming in here looking for somewhere to stay. Well, I do remember him coming in here for that, but I think that was when he first arrived. I thought he was a foreign tourist, you know? He had this funny accent, then, quite strong. And a dark suntan, 'cos his hair was very fair, his skin was definitely much darker. Isn't that funny? You know, I hadn't thought about that in years. For a while I was, you know, a bit wary of him. He was a bit strange, in some ways. Didn't mix much for a long while, he was quite...' He hunted about looking for an appropriate word.

'Withdrawn?'

'Mmm. S'pose so. He did a lot of things, lot of sport, worked hard, all that, he just didn't socialise. That's what it was. He was a bit like you, you know?'

'Really?' Tobin tried not to look too surprised.

'Mmm. Used to do all sorts of odd jobs. Very clever, could do anything, quick as anything, 'cos he was so fit, I suppose. But then he started doing peoples books; he was very good at that, turned out he was qualified. Very quick. Used to do them at night, you know?'

'Uhuh?' Tobin indicated for the landlord to join him in a drink.

'Well, I don't mind if I do. I'll have a half, if that's OK. Alan used to come in here a lot in his early days, most days, in fact. Used to do my books, in fact. Most nights then he'd have some sport practice or something going on and then come in here with whatever group it was he was with. He'd leave them and go in the office there and tidy up my accounts. I used to give him food and drink in return. Good deal, I thought. In fact,' he said, with a degree of pride, 'it was me what suggested he start up properly, in his own right, as a business. Trouble is, it started to cost me then!' His hearty laugh drew attention from the other end of the bar. But, it was short-lived, they quickly returned to their discussion, they had gone very quiet Tobin realised.

Austin was not going to be put off his story, now he had started. 'He began to socialise a bit more then, he didn't work quite so many hours.' He leant across the counter, conspiratorially. 'Between you and me though, his socialising was getting a bit near the edge, if you see what I mean.'

Tobin raised his eyebrows in innocent enquiry.

'He was a terror for the women, you know?'

'Really?' He always had been, thought Tobin.

'Oh, yes. I think he had a few close calls with some husbands and boyfriends, from what I heard. There might be a few grudges still floating about, even now, after all this time.' He glanced about him to see who might be listening, even though it was plainly obvious that they were alone. 'There could even be some not so old. He has been seen with other women, you know? Not hereabouts, but in Morpeth and Newcastle, though. I've got a few friends around and they've seen him in pubs and restaurants with some pretty good looking women, and in clubs, too!'

'Well, it's none of my business. They could have been business contacts, for all we know.'

'Oh. Of course, of course.' He agreed, hurriedly. 'You know me, I'm not one to spread stuff like that. I only told you because you're a friend of his... too. We've got to do what we can for him, haven't we? If there's anything I can do to help him....' He shrugged, waving his tea towel about as he dried glasses. Tobin sipped his drink thoughtfully as the publican sidled up the bar to check on his customers huddled at the other end. He was ignored, they had obviously found something else far more interesting now, they had become very quiet. Austin returned to his more receptive client.

'How long did he run the book-keeping business, then, Austin?'

'Well, he's never stopped, really. It just got bigger; he employs others to do it, now. You remember? He employed that accountant lad, can't remember his name right now. He left after a year and his friend took his place, that's Michael and he brought his friend, the other Alan, to join him a while later.

'Then he took on the building society agency, and then the insurances, and then he went in partnership with the estate agency and opened the other offices. That's where he's made his real money, when he was bought out. His share of that was... something...' He paused, realising that his mouth was running away. '... so I'm told!'

Most of this Tobin already knew, but he hadn't thought in detail about the value of that buy-out. There had been several estate agents offices in the chain around the area, they must have been worth quite a lot of money when they were sold, and Alan had been the major shareholder in that company. No wonder he could afford to pay off the house for Rosemary and buy Teri an expensive flat in the Jesmond area of Newcastle. He had already been a wealthy man; his value was what Tobin had just been trying to piece together in his head, with the aid of Austin's gossip. Alan Harper had always been very discreet about his money. His car, although it was a Mercedes, was quite modest, particularly when compared to the rest of Cheviot Close. His lifestyle was also modest, he enjoyed the good things of life, of that there was no doubt, but it was all in moderation. The house had been his only real extravagance, but that had been at an understandable time, his marriage.

Alan had fingers in so many things, some of which were certainly worth money, but many of which he kept to himself, that trying to establish his personal wealth could only be a guessing game. Tobin sat trying to mentally list the two sides, those that were financial interests and the others, like Austin and himself, who received more in the way of moral support; an investment for the future, perhaps? He didn't get very far with his mental arithmetic. The party at the end of the bar was breaking up noisily.

Austin was back and carried on as if he hadn't left. 'You've done all right by Alan Harper, haven't you?' He asked, bluntly. He saw Tobin's surprised look. 'I mean you've done OK for yourself, as well, you got that helping hand along the way.' That was quite true, of course.

All through their friendship Alan had kept feeding him little ideas and tips. Individually they had meant very little and Tobin had often been tempted to ignore them, but, time and again, they had proved correct and profitable. Where Tobin just saw routine work Alan, annoyingly, always seemed to spot little shortcuts and opportunities that brought that bit of extra money, making all the difference.

It had been Alan's suggestion that had started Tobin on his first, and only, business venture. They had found a small van and Tobin had started couriering from Newcastle to Longalnbury and around the county. At first, most of the work had been for Alan and his various concerns, but, word had spread quickly and Tobin found himself busy, often working seven days a week. He had kept it going for two or three years, but eventually got fed up with the hassle of employing others when the business grew too large for him to handle alone. And, he couldn't deny that it was nothing like what he really wanted to do.

They had tried to sell to Brian Dale, of all people, but he had laughed them off the premises. That must have been the beginning of the rot in the Dale/Harper relationship, Tobin supposed. He had subsequently sold the business quite quickly to one of the growing number of national firms, then expanding, for a considerable sum of money, in Tobin's eyes. Alan refused to take any share of the proceeds, other than the small amount of money that was still owed him for the extra vans that had been acquired, even though the success had been due, in great part, to his skill in spotting openings. He had even joined in couriering for fun, taking a van out himself, just for a break away from his office. Interestingly, when the time came he had not tried to dissuade Tobin from selling; the novelty had obviously worn off for him, too.

Tobin had no hesitation investing his new found wealth under the guidance of Alan, either. Once again it proved fruitful. In the space of a few years his capital had more than just grown, it had multiplied.

But, the most promising innovation had been Tobin's introduction to Sandra Hickman, another of Alan's good-looking friends. She had taken over as editor of the paper shortly after Alan led the consortium of locals in acquiring the ownership. For years the local paper had been run by one man and had steadily declined in line with his health and age. They had caught it just before it buried itself.

In a typical whirlwind of activity Alan had arranged the delivery of computer technology and the donation of the old, but still working, printing press to a museum; rearranged the delivery contracts; made new contracts with other printers and hired the new editor. Only one edition was lost, but, at the time, probably no one noticed. However, the profile of the paper quickly rose and Tobin was taken on as Sandra Hickman's 'Man Friday'; how she loved to wind him up with that expression; he had apparently 'been doing nothing' for most of the previous year and found himself volunteered for the job. It lasted for three months until he had run himself ragged. He then surprised himself by giving them the ultimatum of 'a proper job or nothing!' and achieving a good bargain, in his opinion. He didn't bother trying to explain to Alan and others just why he preferred a casual arrangement of the kind he had agreed, it was easier to let them think of him as slightly eccentric. He had in fact taken a leaf out of Alan Harper's book and organised himself out of a bad situation while retaining the best bits.

He began referring to himself as a journalist after this, but soon realised how pretentious this was as he got to grips with the glamour of births, marriages, deaths, court cases and road accidents. All of which had to be reported in the minimum number of words.

'He means it, you know.'

'What?' Tobin looked up at Austin, the rotund mine-host, who faced him over the bar but was half glancing toward the departing group at the other end of the bar. Tobin realised that Dale had shouted some departing insult at him while he sat reminiscing into his beer glass.

'I've not seen anyone so full of hate as that man recently,' said Austin, pummelling glasses up and down in the sink. He felt safe to speak now that the bar was clear.

'Ah! It's just the drink, Austin.' But Tobin was not entirely convinced. He might not have caught the shouted threat but the departing look had said more than words.

He finished his pint and left.

An evening stroll had been his original intention when he left his flat, but now he found himself back at his own front door, so he went in.

With the kettle on and an hour to spare before the Ten-o-Clock News he decided to have a bit of a tidy up and sort out, or, at least, to try and begin one. He could trace the previous tidy-ups by studying the strata of debris and litter in the office. He started with the floor. To him that was logical as he would need that space to put stuff while sorting out. What he now gathered up and added to the piles already on top of the three filing cabinets was of course the product of similar, abandoned, attempts in the past. At his feet under the desk was a pile of old papers that he tipped straight into the bin. There was only one newspaper; it was folded around a stack of mail. In a flash, Tobin knew what he had forgotten. There was his credit card bill! He placed it carefully, unopened, on his keyboard. Beneath it was a large white envelope addressed in a hand that he now recognised. He dropped the rest of the mail on the floor and, with a slight tightening of the chest, slit open the envelope.

Inside was a sheet of white paper like the one shown him at Alan's house, only minus the stain.

' _John,_

I can't begin to explain all this. I have to leave. It's a bit awkward and I wasn't quite ready. Will you keep an eye on things for me? Please? I'll try and get in touch as soon as I can when things have settled down. I know this is asking a lot and it will be very difficult for you, but one day I will explain and hopefully you will understand. I think you will find it v. interesting. I've taken care of Rosemary, just watch out for Teri, please.

Au revoir, mon ami,

Alan.

He read through the note a second time. That last line was a bit unfortunate. He picked up the envelope and studied it. He hunted out his magnifying glass; it turned up in the folder containing the maps of the Davies' house. Through the glass he could determine that the envelope was postmarked for the Saturday before last; the weekend when Rosemary probably died. Tobin could remember receiving that mail now. He sat back and swallowed hard in a dry throat, wondering just what to do. That last line of the letter was very awkward. The kettle clicked in the kitchen.

\--------------------5\-------------------

The ringing noise proved to be the telephone at his bedside. His eyes wouldn't open; the lids clung to each other with great affection. Tobin was lying on his front, which was not normal for him; his arms were above his head and had absolutely no feeling in them. He tried to reach for the noise but felt nothing. He heard an almighty crash as everything on his bedside cabinet hit the floor, with a splashing sound. His eyes opened this time, very wide, and he had to concentrate very hard to make his nerveless arms and hands, that had just cleared the table top, rescue the clock, book and telephone from all the water that had been in the pint glass on the table, but was now spreading quickly across the floor.

''Lo?' He mumbled into the phone. It almost hurt, his eyelids were not the only bits stuck together. Several bottles of strong continental lager followed by a mix of odd things he found in bottles left over from Christmas had seemed a nice idea at the time, last night.

'What on earth's going on there?'

'Teri? Wha's-e-time?'

'It's eight o clock, John.' She said brightly.

'Mmm. Had a late night.'

'So did I. But there was no alcohol left in this house!'

'Where are you?'

'Home.'

'Newcastle?'

'No. Cheviot Close. That lovely policewoman agreed that I was OK to stay.'

'Mmm. Murdoch.' He mumbled, dreamily.

'Pardon?'

'Er. Nothing. Nothing. What's all this about, then?'

'What do you know about Nottingham?'

'Nottingham? Same as everyone else I suppose. Robin Hood, Maid Murdoch...er Marion!' He groaned and sat up. He took a deep, audible, breath and rubbed his eyes and face vigorously. His hand made a scraping sound on his stubble. Somebody had filled his mouth with some awful tasting paste.

'You're hung over!' She accused.

'No. No. No. I'm fine. Just give me a few moments to wake up, that's all.'

'You can have all morning, then. I've got to go to the inquest and give formal identification. Then, I'm told it'll be adjourned. I've got some things to do after that, so I'll see you at the house for lunch. OK?'

'Yeah. OK.' She had hung up. Damn! He had forgotten the inquest; he should have offered to go with her. But, she sounded bright enough. Or was that for his benefit?

Tobin replaced the receiver on the phone and replaced the phone on the table. He shuffled, naked, into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, then stumbled back to the bathroom and stood under the shower turning the temperature up and down. He returned to make his coffee, this time clad in the bath towel and feeling a little fresher.

A second and third coffee with some toast finally did the trick. He shaved, brushed his teeth and got dressed; then cleaned up the mess.

The windows were flung wide and the radio turned up loud as he rearranged the untidiness of his flat. The last job was to empty the overflowing bins and put out the rubbish for the bin men. It was bin day, wasn't it? It must be, everybody else's bin was out in the back lane! He rarely met this deadline, all too often he had had to load up his car with smelly bags and take them to the tip himself.

The post was on the doormat, there was nothing special so he left it on the table behind the door. He closed up the flat and set off for work.

As he left the front door he was handed a copy of the local free paper. It was a pale imitation of the advertising papers seen in cities, six sides if they were lucky, more usually four, like today. It was all adverts with a little inconsequential news item or two to fill up the space. Today it was a piece he had written on school fairs. His name was nowhere to be seen, he noticed, annoyed. He scanned it quickly; it took seconds only. It had been edited with a blunt instrument and the item ended mid-sentence, and mid-column. Tobin opened the paper searching for the continuation; there was none! Just as well his name was missing, then. The free paper was a sub-contract job and he had often felt like offering to take it over himself, then common sense got the better of him.

He made his way along the main street to the newspaper office, normally only a five-minute walk. It took him several times longer and he lost track of the number of people who stopped him. Some demanded to know what was going on and others seemed very well informed. According to those who had read it, the reports in the 'Journal', the regional morning paper, had been quite comprehensive. If that was so, it made him wonder if it was not being treated as an accident after all.

He escaped from the last inquisition immediately outside the office and dashed inside, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it, as if to bar some imaginary horde following. He gave a long, deep sigh.

'Are you OK?'

'Yes, thanks, Linda. I couldn't get along the street for people asking questions. But, do you know what I thought was really sad? No one seemed to care about Rosemary. Everyone asked about Alan and Teri. Oh! There was great concern for them, but nothing about poor Rosemary.'

'Mmm. Yes. Well, Miss Hickman was looking for you earlier. She's on the phone at the moment, and then you'd better go and see her.' There was a warning in her voice. 'There was hell on in here yesterday. We were run off our feet, AND, you didn't have your phones on!'

'Ah! Yes. I'm sorry about that.' There was little conviction in his voice, he hesitated, about to add an excuse. A withering look stopped him. Linda had obviously borne the brunt of the day's stress.

He wandered across to the waiting area and picked up a copy of the previous night's 'Chronicle' the regional evening paper. The front page was all football with a murder somewhere else tacked on the side; a reflection of today's priorities. He found the report of Rosemary's death on page five with a small reprint of one of Henderson's photos and a bare report of the discovery beneath. It had been slow to hit the papers; the previous morning's had contained only a couple of column inches tucked well away. This morning's paper he had to prise from Linda's grasp as she tried to read it between phonecalls. Today Rosemary had achieved front-page status. A larger print of the same photo, showing Tobin and McColl talking and a fuller report referred him to page five again.

Here, in greater detail, was considerable speculation about the disappearance of Alan Harper. One sub-heading that caught Tobin's eye said 'Client's Money' and made a great deal of the financial services business that was the 'mainstay of Harper's empire'. There was a ridiculous estimate of the amount of money handled by the business and the 'wide range of services available'. What appeared to be quotes from an unnamed source went on to give the impression that Alan Harper handled all the money, personally. This, Tobin knew, could not have been further from the truth, as Alan had gone to great lengths to employ expert management and staff to run everything, mainly to free him of the tedium, as he had described it.

An image of the previous night in the pub flashed across Tobin's mind.

Down the page, under 'Missing Husband', was a very poor photo of Alan and what purported to be a biography. It made dismal reading. Unattributed quotes told of the 'the foreigner' who arrived in town some years earlier, that presumably was a reference to the accent that Alan had had then, as Austin Tadworth in the pub had mentioned. The explanation for it had been completely ignored; the London orphan who had been brought up by French relatives was no secret in the town, to those who took an interest. As was the retention of British citizenship through further, English, relatives with whom he had stayed and gone to college when he returned to this country. Simple.

Tobin read on, with increasing dismay and rising anger as one negative aspect of Alan's life followed another. In reality there weren't many when compared with all the positive aspects, but when taken out of context and listed in this manner, they cast Alan in a poor light. To Tobin it was blatantly obvious that this was the intention. He noted how carefully it had been written, to avoid any comebacks on the paper, and that the 'quotes' were unattributed. There was no by-line to the biography, just several names that had collaborated on the whole article listed at the top of the page. Someone had worked hard at short notice to create this picture.

He was not slow to point this out to Sandra Hickman as soon as he got in to see her. When he finally paused for breath, she very slowly and coldly pointed out to him, 'If you had been available yesterday that might have been avoided!' She strode round the desk glaring up at him. 'I DID give them YOUR number as well as the chairman of the traders association, obviously they couldn't get you! AND... while we're on the subject, where were you yesterday? If you had been around that 'rubbish' that you're belly-aching about would not be there. That page could have been yours, to our mutual benefit, and all this would have been avoided. I don't think Alan Harper would be very impressed with these missed opportunities, do you?'

She was right there. But it was Alan who had caused all this in the first place, and, Tobin reckoned, the last thing he would have wanted was to have his name all over the papers. Tobin remembered the note still tucked under the keyboard of his computer in the flat. He had been very tempted to destroy it, but, for some reason, hadn't. He hadn't decided what else to do with it, either. He knew what he should do with it, but that last line in it worried him.

'Arnold Wiseman?'

'What about him?' She snapped. But he was not going to be browbeaten.

'That was not a very good number to give out. He is probably one of the worst people to approach regarding Alan Harper. It explains why he wasn't in the pub last night with Dale and his crowd. He was busy spewing out this rubbish.' He threw the offending newspaper on the desk.

She stepped in front of him again and looked straight up at him. 'I am not in the business of defending people who are inconsiderate enough to dump on others!' She strode back round the desk to her seat, leaving Tobin stunned at what he had just heard.

'There are only two members of the board who haven't been on the phone and that's because they're away. They're all as jittery as hell over this, they are not keen all of a sudden to be associated with anything to do with Alan Harper. If they pull out their money goes with them and so does this paper, and so do our jobs! Alan Harper could well have done to think about all that before pulling a stunt like this. What does he think he's doing?'

Tobin refrained from commenting that Alan probably hadn't anticipated the death of his wife and the complications that attended it. Sandra Hickman was still in full flight, however.

'These board members are only fair-weather friends. While we are no trouble to them they're fine, but now that something like this has happened they want nothing more to do with it. AND..., what's more, this isn't the only company that's suffering from his sudden departure. Some of these people are involved with Alan in other ventures and are extremely jumpy. No-one's heard a word from him and that's not a good sign.'

Tobin slumped into the guest chair opposite her holding up his hand to fend off the onslaught. He rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. He was lost for words. What had Alan, his friend, his mentor, done? The enormity of it all was taking shape. He could see the knock-on effect and didn't know what to do about it.

Sandra Hickman saw the look of dejection and took pity on him. The face that looked at her now had none of the cheeriness of previous days; the cheeky smile had vanished without trace. The ready wit and quick answers were silenced and a hunted look had crept into his eyes. She had never seen him like this in all the time that she had known him, and she had made a point of trying to know him. She hadn't succeeded, yet, but there was time. She sat back and studied him. At forty they were nearly the same age, give or take two years. She wondered if he would organize a surprise party for her fortieth, as she had for him. He certainly didn't look his age, the only lines on his face were laugh lines, normally, until today. She had described his features to her friends as 'interesting'; she talked about him a lot. His face was composed of features that, in theory, should never be seen together, but his character made them compatible. The boyish grin that was never far away helped combine the large features into a rugged, purposeful unity that did not go unnoticed by a lot of women. He was blissfully unaware of all this and was, in fact, a very shy individual. He had, however, a natural warmth and sincerity that most who met him, male or female, found attractive and made him an easy person to be with.

Typically, he didn't notice the softening of her expression as she watched him, he was too distracted with the problems at hand and the situation he found himself in. Sandra got up and poured two coffees from the machine in the corner and handed him one.

'Thanks. We've got to do something about this!'

'I quite agree.' She said slowly, and added with great emphasis. 'But, mud sticks. He is...was...or whatever...my friend, too, John. I knew him... very well.' She turned away to hide the glimmer of a smile that was impossible to suppress. 'Or thought I did! He did a lot for me, I was in a real corner before he got me in here, just like he's done things for you and all these others.' She made a wide, sweeping, inclusive gesture. 'But, he's not helped himself this time, has he?' Tobin shook his head in silent agreement. 'I don't need to explain to you how people are only too willing to read and believe that kind of thing.' She flipped her hand at the discarded paper. 'It brings him down to their level. They feel more comfortable then!'

Tobin noted the disdain in her voice and understood all right. Unfortunately, so had someone else, and they had got to the paper first.

She stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. She gently drew his head back till it rested against her breast and massaged his tense brow. It appeared to go unnoticed. 'I don't know just what we can do at this moment. It's going to take a hundred times the effort to undo all that.' She nodded at the paper. 'We'll have to try, though'. She gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and lifted his head, he wasn't responding. Sandra frowned, puzzled, returned to her side of the desk and flopped into her seat with a deep sigh. 'Meanwhile, there is still work to try and get on with. Take the coffee with you.' She was dismissing him. 'See you later?'

'Erm, yes; perhaps. Thanks.' He held up the cup to show his appreciation. She let out another, exasperated, sigh as he ambled out of the room.

Tobin mooched about the office for the rest of the morning. He photocopied the clippings from the papers and puzzled over the photo of Alan. Not only was it very poor, it was an old one. It was a three quarter view of him taken as he was turning toward the unseen camera. Photos of Alan were extremely rare, he was notoriously camera shy. Someone must have found a snapshot with him in and had it blown up, hence the poor quality.

He wandered about some more and returned the paper to Linda, open again at the page she had been reading. She looked at the photo of Alan and called Tobin back.

'Did that awful man get in touch with you?'

'What awful man?' Tobin knew a few but not many.

'Oh! You'd know alright. Awful! Shouting and bawling. Looking for him.' She indicated the photo. 'Only he had the magazine with the photo in. You know. The one that he,' indicating Alan once more, 'made so much fuss about.'

'What was this man like?'

'Big. Burly!' She indicated a huge height from her chair. 'White hair, thick but cut short, and a really pale face.'

'With dark eyes?'

'Yes! Well the eyes themselves were quite light, but, the skin around them was dark and like... umm... sort of elephant's skin. Know what I mean?'

'I know what you mean.'

'Well, I told him I couldn't give out private addresses, but he went on and on, really aggressive, like it was my fault. He had me quite frightened.' She nervously stretched her neck a little within her collar at the memory. 'And she wouldn't come down.' She jerked her thumb upstairs in the direction of the offices.

'Sandra?'

'Uhuh. And he was really getting nasty. If it hadn't been for someone coming in... well. Anyway, I suggested he contact you. Through the office, of course! Hope you don't mind.' She gave him a coy little apologetic smile.

'No. That's OK. I expect he'll be in touch, then. If it's that important.' He turned to go again.

'Oh. Sorry.' Said the receptionist to Tobin's back. 'The point of all that was...they did look ever so alike. Him and your friend here.' She waved the photo of Alan.

'Really?'

'Oh. Very.'

'Thanks.' He said, thoughtfully, and ambled out and back upstairs. What on earth was going on?

The last hour of the morning dragged by; a great lethargy crept over him. He sat staring into space; he stood staring into space; he ambled about staring. It wasn't HIS problem. The real problem was that it had been MADE his. He wanted to feel the same as Sandra, "not there to defend people who dump on others", and he certainly felt dumped on. But, this wasn't just 'other people'. It was Alan, to whom he owed just about everything. Bollocks to the man!

He sat on a window sill and watched the street. He would much rather be somewhere else, doing something else. But, what? He put his hands behind his head, stretched his legs across the wide sill and watched the clouds in their leisurely passage across the sky.

Mid-day finally arrived and he set off for the Harper house, still dreaming. He could get the car serviced and just drive off somewhere. He hadn't had a proper holiday in years; but where? His mind rambled across many ideas and for each one he could all too easily find a reason for not doing it. They were lame excuses, about as lame as the ideas, and he was getting annoyed with himself as he drove, muttering self-criticism, his mood blackening. He was having quite an animated argument with himself as he pulled up outside Teri's house with no recollection of the drive he had just completed.

He walked up the short drive, there was no sign of Teri's car; she was late. The side gate was unlocked and he wandered through onto the enormous patio behind. A brick built barbecue stood to one side with a wooden table and chairs beside it, a lounger stood open by the lawn. He stood beside it, beneath the balcony that ran across the back of the house, and gazed at the view that he had never tired of seeing, from the time that he had helped build the house.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. Alan had always encouraged the wildlife of the area, putting out food for the birds and hedgehogs and whatever else wandered in to the garden. Tobin turned slowly not wanting to frighten whatever was there. There was a bright reflection through the hedge, he walked slowly toward it, something must have passed in front of the light; a bird, maybe, or a small animal in the hedge? The reflection disappeared. He stopped and moved slightly to his right and then his left, the reflection reappeared. He took a step to his left and the reflection disappeared again. He stepped right and there it was once more. He continued slowly forward and the light blinked as something large moved across it, a cat, perhaps. Then he heard a patio door slide shut. He stepped straight to the hedge, puzzled. The light came from the mid-day sun reflecting off a tilting window in the conservatory next door. He could see clearly through the hedge now even though it appeared to be two or three feet thick. He pulled apart the layer of leaves on his side and six inches in found that the hedge had been hollowed out. A large volume of shrubbery had been trimmed away from the other side, below an overhanging tree, leaving a space large enough to easily accommodate a head and shoulders. It had been there for quite some time, the cut branches were dark at the ends, stained with tar, and some had been trained into place around the hole over a period of time. He was intrigued, why should the Mayhews want to spy on Alan and Rosemary?

'What are you doing!?'

He jumped back, nearly tripping over in the soft earth of the garden. He had been so absorbed he hadn't heard Teri arrive.

'You're standing in the middle of a flower bed!'

'I'm sorry, I thought .. er .. there was a trapped bird in there, or something. Maybe a cat had got it.' It sounded pathetic. 'Aah!' As he turned his shoe stuck in the soft soil of the garden and pulled off, filling with earth and making him hop out of the bed.

'What a mess!'

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry!' He retrieved his shoe, as he hopped about, tapping it against his other hand to empty it out. 'Where are the tools? I'll get a hoe and tidy up.'

'Never mind that now. Come and have some lunch and I'll tell you what I've found.' She held up a carrier bag with a distinctive bottle shape in it as encouragement.

Tobin was a bit uneasy entering the kitchen after what he had heard about it the day before, but it was all cleaned and shining.

'Cleaning this place out helped me a lot yesterday. What a job, though.' She pointed at a pile of full bin bags by the door.

'I can imagine.'

'Been reading the papers, have you?'

'Have you?' He asked, cautiously, in return.

'Not really. Just enough to guess what's going on.'

'Really?'

'Oh, yes. And Maureen told me a few things and I can guess enough to fill in the gaps. She said they're not assuming it was an accident for 'good reasons', so the inquest was adjourned. If there is anything truly suspicious any enemies Alan has are going to make the most of it.'

'Whose Maureen... and what good reasons?'

'Murdoch! I thought you would have known that, being the leader of her fan club!' She eyed him slyly.

'Really? Go on.'

'When they checked through this house for fingerprints and so on they found that some parts had been wiped clean. This kitchen, although it was an absolute tip, had been completely wiped over; and the living room and nearly all the doors and banisters, and the light switches and drawers. It gives them a clue as to where he searched.'

'He?'

'Probably. But, there was one he missed!' She was becoming quite animated now. 'In the back of the top tray of the dishwasher,' she walked over and opened the appliance to demonstrate, 'was a glass, the machine was empty otherwise.' She did a mime of upturning a glass and placing it in the tray. 'On the glass were three prints, two were my mother's where she had put the glass in and one was a man's thumbprint!' She looked triumphant, as if the discovery had been hers. 'Not another like it in the house!' She dramatically waved her arm to encompass the whole of the building. 'They're checking the records now.'

'I see.'

'That's a secret, mind.'

'Of course. What about the photo albums?

'Them, too.'

'Wiped?'

'Yes!'

'If you don't mind me saying, you're not as upset by all this as one might expect.'

'Am I not?' She said, mockingly.

He ignored it and continued. 'It's pretty horrific finding a body at the best of times... if there ever could be a best time. But finding your own mother, and under those circumstances... unimaginable!' He shuddered at the thought.

'I know what you mean. Maureen said that old Symmonds actually threw up! And so did I, nearly, several times. Yes, it was terrible... at first. But, I got it out of my system pretty quick, I suppose. Look, one day... perhaps I'll be able to explain to you about me and my mother. When I've worked it out for myself. Meanwhile I stride on, manfully!' She forced him a smile and clattered the bag on to the table to cover her emotions and to change the subject.

'Switch the kettle on, we'll start with a coffee, it's all there and I've got milk here. Christ! I'm tired.' She rubbed her eyes. 'I didn't get much sleep last night.' She raised her hand to stall his criticism. 'Because I didn't go to bed after cleaning in here - I'm a qualified Mrs Mopp now, you know! And then by the time I'd finished going through so much stuff the birds were singing.'

'And what was it you found?' He asked as he assembled the coffee and found the corkscrew for later

'Some correspondence. Between my mother and a... a private detective!'

'In Nottingham?'

'Yes! So your brain was working? You did sound awful on the phone this morning.'

'Thanks. What was it about, this correspondence?'

'I don't know. What I found was quite recent stuff. There's talk of money paid and a report. And an appointment... for last week!'

'You'd better phone them and see what you can find out.'

'I already have! We have an appointment for twelve tomorrow.'

'WE... have an appointment?'

'Of course. We!'

\----------------6\------------------

'W.P. Norris' read the discreet brass plaque fixed beside the large front door of an elegant, red brick town house. They found the house, at the address they had been given, on a pleasant tree lined circus just off the inner ring road of Nottingham. There was no indication of Mr Norris' profession, or that of anybody else who occupied the other offices within the building. Teri and Tobin climbed to the second floor and entered a door bearing a second, identical plaque.

An expensively furnished reception area with an expensively dressed receptionist faced them. She glanced at the clock on the wall above them and asked, 'Miss Shaw, Mr Tobin? Good, take a seat, Mr Norris won't be long.' She indicated two long settees to the right of the door next to a tall window that looked out to the rear of the building. Tobin could see the backs of the surrounding buildings were all immaculately kept with gleaming paintwork and the brickwork cleaned and restored. Below was an area of backyards, all neatly converted into little private carparks, filled with expensive cars.

A light coloured blind was pulled partly down the tall window to reduce the mid-day sun. Teri admired the abundant foliage of the various potted plants that stood about the room.

The receptionist rose from behind her desk, attracting Tobin's immediate attention. Tall, tanned and wearing a simple, soft dark dress she walked across to a side table.

'Coffee or tea?'

Tobin was imagining PC Murdoch maturing like this, there was about ten years difference between them he reckoned, Murdoch was in her late twenties. He didn't hear Teri's answer.

'Coffee or tea?' Repeated the receptionist.

'Oh. Sorry. Coffee, please. I was daydreaming.'

'Yes, I noticed.' He could feel the start of a blush rising in his cheeks. What a voice. What a figure! Before he could stop himself he glanced at her left hand; and she caught him! She just smiled, it obviously happened all the time! She handed a tea to Teri and a coffee to Tobin, who shrank back into his end of the settee.

The other door opened and a firm voice called, 'Come in, please. Thank you, Angela.'

Teri was shown to a guest chair in front of the desk and an identical one was brought from the wall for Tobin. He wasn't sure just what he had expected Mr Norris to look like, but he hadn't expected him to look like this. Greg Norris was tall, slim and athletic. His age was difficult to determine, but was somewhere in the mid-thirties. He had short, neat, fair hair above a strong, pleasant, open face. An expensive grey suit jacket was unbuttoned over a cream shirt with a striped tie. Old school? Having never knowingly met a private detective before, this executive looking person surprised Tobin. He had the same tan as Angela and the same elegant manner, which was too much of a coincidence. They must be a couple, Tobin thought to himself. Well, you win some and you lose some! Anyway, it was a long way to Nottingham.

Norris sat in a large, well-upholstered chair facing them across an enormous, Victorian partner's desk.

'Long trip?' He asked Tobin, presuming him to be the driver.

'Not bad!' Said Tobin, snapping out of his fantasy. In reality he felt exhausted, having spent the entire journey with both feet braced against the footwell and both hands clamped around the passenger seat. Teri had arranged to pick him up after breakfast; he had presumed she meant an early breakfast. But, she had had a leisurely, normal one and had then broken the entire Highway Code to make up time.

'Good.' He turned to Teri. 'In case you should hear anything, I made a few inquiries after your call yesterday, Miss Shaw; I needed to confirm that you were who you said you were. I'm sure you understand.' He gave her a reassuring smile. 'I was dreadfully sorry to hear of your mother's death. It's never an easy time and I gather it's none too straight forward, either.' He glanced from one to the other, receiving no response. 'Well. Where to start, then?' He reached into a top drawer and took out a folder, opened it and spread out a few papers.

He rested his elbows on either side of the folder and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. Looking at Teri he said, 'From your phonecall yesterday I can assume that you knew nothing of this? Is that right?' She nodded. 'So first I must give you some background.' He was being gentle, but business-like, a reassuring and competent performance. Tobin relaxed a little and listened, quite impressed.

'Your mother's intentions, when she first came to see me, involved divorce proceedings.' He looked up to gauge her reaction, Teri sat impassive, and Tobin was the one who showed surprise. 'You are no doubt thinking what I first thought, why on earth come all the way down here when there are perfectly good services at home? Well...' He straightened up and pulled out a piece of paper containing hand-written notes, placing it in front of him.

'She explained that it wasn't a matter of adultery. Although there had been occasions, she believed, but she wasn't going to cite them. Nor was it any other 'messy business', I remember her phrase. It was to do with finances.' He glanced up at Teri regularly, like a TV newsreader, checking her reactions. 'She suspected him of having other moneys, other incomes that she knew nothing about. She made a point of saying that he wasn't a selfish man, and that she wasn't motivated by greed...' Teri snorted loudly at this and then promptly apologised.

'Don't worry,' he told her, 'I'm regularly told that greed isn't a motivation. Your mother was suspicious of some activity of your father's.'

'Stepfather.' She corrected him.

'Ah! Yes. I beg your pardon.' He paused while hunting for the right phraseology. 'As you are no longer a dependent your mother had not, shall we say, included you in the equation.'

'I can believe it!' She looked skywards, shaking her head.

Norris glanced at Tobin for his reaction, a brief raise of the eyebrows. He cleared his throat and continued. 'She gave me the basic background on your... stepfather. She also gave me a hefty advance against our fees and expenses. Which, I might tell you, has hardly been touched.

'I was to trace as much as possible of Mr Harper's background, starting from birth; hence her coming to Nottingham. Alan Harper was born here. That was a simple matter to confirm, which is why we have not spent much of the advance.'

She interrupted. 'You're trying to tell me that you've only got as far as his birth, is that it?'
'Not quite. But, there's a simple explanation why we went no further, as we explained to your mother.' Teri looked puzzled.

'We reported this to your mother the week before she died.' He was trying to break something gently, that was clear. 'Mrs Harper was coming to see us last week because we reported to her that we had a death certificate in her husband's name.' He paused again, gauging the reactions. Tobin and Teri just stared back, unsure if they had heard correctly. 'It wasn't a clerical error. Alan Martin Harper died aged six, in London, where he was living with his mother, and was brought back here for burial.' He pulled out a large black and white photo and passed it across for her to see. It showed a small headstone complete with dates and parental names. A birth certificate and death certificate followed the photo across the desk. They sat in silence for some minutes.

Norris rose from his desk and walked quietly to the door and spoke to Angela outside. She followed him back in carrying a tray of hot drinks and placed it on the corner of the desk. She brought herself a chair and placed it next to Norris'.

Teri gave an embarrassed little laugh. 'Does that mean that Alan Harper isn't Alan Harper... he's a... a fake?'

'I'm afraid that it does look that way. I cannot think of another explanation, at the moment. Now you see why we didn't take it any further. That really is all your mother needed to know. I didn't go into great detail in the letter, but made last week's appointment. We were on the point of inquiring after Mrs Harper when you rang yesterday.'

'Is it... would it be possible... how much would it cost......?'

'To find out who he really is?' Norris finished the question for her. She nodded.

'It's possible. But, I think the chances are slight, at best. If there is a connection between the two Alan Harpers then there's a chance, but it's a fifty-year-old chance, seeing that he died at the age of six. If, however, our impostor happened across Alan Harper's identity by chance then I wouldn't hold out much hope at all.' He glanced at Angela who nodded in agreement. 'It used to be fairly easy to adopt an identity, it isn't that difficult now, and he's been Alan Harper for... how long now... twenty or more years? And that's only the twenty years that we know of. For how long was he Alan Harper before that? Another twenty?' Norris spread his hands in a gesture of query.

'He had a French background and came to this country in the early seventies,' explained Tobin helpfully.

'And trained in accountancy,' the detective added, demonstrating his knowledge. 'Or, so he said!' He left the implication hanging. After a pause, he continued.

'A colleague of mine in Newcastle has been doing a little inquiring.'

'Ah!' Said Tobin, knowingly, as he began to understand, but he kept quiet. Norris frowned at him and continued. 'He says that it would appear that, despite what is said locally, the business side of his affairs seems to be quite in order. The only question mark is purely one of confidence, now. His private life though, would seem to be a little complicated. Well, it was complicated, now it's complex! Wouldn't you say? I'm sorry. You were going to say something Mr Tobin.

Tobin was going to comment that Norris' colleague was a bit heavy-handed, he hadn't been very subtle in his enquiries, he thought, camping out at the house, according to the milkman; and terrifying Linda and the pub barman, but thought better of it. 'Not really. I'm just glad that you can confirm that his business is OK. That's all.'

'Good.' Norris glanced at Angela and back. 'Well. The ball's in your court now, I think. We can arrange a statement of account and a cheque for the balance of the money, or... what would you like? Is there anything else we can do for you? The cheque would have to be in your mother's name, of course, to go into her estate.'

All three of them looked at Teri. She thought for a moment.

'Hang on to the money. I'll get in touch later. No! No. I think you should follow my mother's instructions and keep digging. Is there enough money? I don't remember seeing a cheque stub or anything.' She thought out loud.

'There won't be one. Your mother paid cash, and I think there's plenty to be going on with.' He looked to Angela once again.

'Good. Then just let us know how you're getting on.' She rose, suddenly very decisive.

'Certainly. Angela will get straight back on to it.'

'So, you're not just a receptionist?' said Tobin, thoughtlessly.

'I'm not the receptionist at all!' She gave a little laugh. 'She's having a long lunchbreak!' A perfect set of white teeth flashed in complement to the laughing eyes as she reached for the file. In explanation, she added. 'My brother and I took this business over from our father when we left the police.'

'You're brother and sister!?'

Teri led him firmly from the office.

An hour's fast drive north brought them to a service area at the intersection of two motorways. Neither of them had spoken much on the journey and now they sat over two coffees, still silent.

'You know... ?' began Tobin.

'What!?' snapped Teri, preferring the silence. She could not make up her mind how she should feel about Alan.

'I hadn't realized Alan and Rosemary's marriage was as bad as that.' Perhaps he hadn't looked enough to see.

'I don't think it was ever good. I can see that now, looking back. I never liked him, you know? My mother made sure of that. I was insanely jealous. I was seven years old and there had never been anyone other than my mother and me for the last five years, about as long as I could remember. Then, suddenly there was this man, taking her away. She played on it, made a great thing out of it to me, getting married again. It made me feel second in everything, third even. Everything I did was always put down, criticised. I never received any praise, all comments were negative, if it was good nothing was said, that was the only way I knew that anything was OK, she couldn't find anything to fault. It has a terrible effect over the years, you know? It eats away at your confidence, you're never sure if it's safe to do something 'cos you know it's going to be criticised.

'Anyway, she married him for all the wrong reasons. Money and image were top of her list. Status. She didn't want to stay single. My real father left us when I was two; just dumped her and left. It scarred her deeply, took all her confidence, she said. So I think she married out of spite, to show that she didn't need him anymore; that she was still attractive enough to get a man, to get another rich man; and to spite men in general. That's the way she was and that's the way she brought me up! So, it's not surprising that that's the way I thought and behaved. Now I know better, I hope! Now I know that she was a greedy, scheming, manipulative cow!

'She took. She took and took and took! She never gave anything in return. She took my father's money, she's taken Alan's money; and she's taken my life... and ruined it!'

Tobin sat, stunned and speechless. There was a lot of history and emotion pent up behind this outburst. He had the feeling it had only just begun.

'I don't think I have ever met my father since he left. I was only tiny, but I think I can remember him, despite the distortions of my mother. Do you know, she openly boasted about how much she got out of him? She used to complain that it was nothing compared to what she could, or should, have got. I didn't know any better, I just accepted what she said. That's why I'm still called Shaw. Alan wanted to adopt me, but she wouldn't let him, so my father had to keep on paying, but it was still Alan who paid to keep me! I had to keep that a secret. But he knew all along, of course, he wasn't stupid, but having a little secret between us helped keep that little distance between Alan and me. She was clever. She's kept all the money to herself all this time. Everything from my father, who I now know was very generous; an awful lot from Alan who was equally generous; and I think she was stealing from him, too! But, I can't find the bank accounts anywhere to prove it. All those details are missing somewhere.'

'It would show up on bank statements, surely? Withdrawals, things like that?' He volunteered, helpfully.

'Possible, but I doubt it, if I could find them. No, every time she went to the supermarket or big shop she would get fifty pounds cashback, it soon mounts up! I know what her idea was; she told me. In dribs and drabs, she was going to screw him for as much as she could get and then divorce him for as much as she could get, of what was left! Lovely lady, eh? And I was 'left out of the equation'! That's because I wouldn't help her these last couple of years, I 'abandoned her'. I left home, you see, with Alan's help. I 'defected'. That was unforgivable in her eyes. Alan found that flat in Jesmond and paid the deposit for me, and a bit more, too, but she didn't know about any of that. In her eyes, I was a traitor; she called me just that in a stream of abuse one day.

'So, that's my darling mother for you. Does that explain why I didn't cry much? She'd already made me cry enough. You know, when I was little, she would make me cry just so she could be seen comforting me.' She turned away and stared out at the empty motel carpark. Tobin could see the tears forming in her eyes as she blinked rapidly, taking deep breaths as she fought them back. She wasn't finished.

'As I've come to see these things these last two years, there have been a few times when I could have 'helped' her down the stairs in that way myself! She still tried to control my life, still picked at me, and still manipulated me because she still needed me around. She was miscast in this life, she would have made a great actress; she loved the attention and the drama. But, what did she become? She was a lonely, bitter old lady; old way before her time and lonely because she drove any possible friends away with her bitterness and hatred. And then the drink! And, could she drink!'

Tobin had witnessed a few of Rosemary's drinking sessions. Like the recent rugby charity dance, Teri and a friend had to pour her into a taxi. Alan had to leave the event and lock Rosemary in the house before returning to carry on running the evening. He had been that distracted by events that night that the ill-fated photo had been taken without him realising.

'I just wish I knew why she was like that. I dread the thought that I'll go the same way. Why did she treat my father that way? She would never tell me the details.' Teri sat, amazed at herself and exhausted; drained by the outburst.

'Phew! Shit!' She finished her coffee and stood. 'Sorry. But, now you know! Let's go!'

There were six messages on his answerphone when Tobin returned that evening. He checked his mobile, flat battery. Two messages were from women wondering where he was, Sandra Hickman and Vivienne Davies. The other four were all from Detective Sergeant McColl. He had left a phone number for Tobin to contact him immediately on his return, regardless of the hour. Tobin did and at ten p.m. the flat doorbell rang.

'You said you wouldn't mind,' said McColl, 'so I thought 'while the iron's hot', you know.'

'I know,' said Tobin, who had just got home with an Indian takeaway meal.

'You go ahead and eat, I already have.'

'Thanks. This is all very urgent, sergeant. What's up?'

'Well, it could wait if you insist, sir. It's just that you are a hard man to pin down and I do need a few answers.'

'Well. OK. Ask away, if I can help.' McColl watched keenly as Tobin unpacked his meal onto a warm plate waiting under the grill. He put the plate onto a tray with some cold beers and they adjourned to the living room. Should he offer McColl a beer? He'd wait and see.

'Have you known Rebecca Shaw long?'

'I've been acquainted with her for something like fifteen years, almost since Alan and her mother married. But, I've only got to know her properly in the last couple of years, maybe not that long.'

'When she was living at home, what was her relationship with her mother like?'

'Very close. That's why I said I was only acquainted with her, no one else could get near her.'

'Was she a very dominant mother?'

'Very!' Tobin was wary of where this was going to lead. He tore a chunk off his paratha and fished around in the vegetable side dish for an interesting morsel; keeping his eyes on his plate.

'So when they parted it wasn't amicable?'

'I don't know that I would call it parting, Teri moved out into a place of her own. Just part of growing up, I thought. Eventually, Teri had to make her own way and leave home. Alan helped Teri out with the flat, I know, but if that caused any trouble, I don't know.'

'But, possible?'

'Certainly possible.'

'She was a temperamental woman?'

'She certainly was.'

'And, she had a drink problem?'

'She certainly did.' Tobin's thoughts flashed back to that afternoon.

'Was any treatment ever sought for the drink problem?'

'Several times, I believe. But, I don't think she ever stuck with any of them. I think Alan thought the best remedy was the drink itself. She would work up to a tremendous binge, be desperately ill and stay off the drink for a while. But, she always drifted back on it in the end.'

'That's very interesting.' McColl had taken out his notebook and was making a few notes. Tobin knew he had gone too far.

'Did Mr Harper ever induce any of these 'binges'?'

'No! I can see where you're going now, and, no he didn't. He wouldn't. He actually did care for her, and about her, you know. She may not have justified that care, in fact it's common knowledge that she behaved dreadfully towards him at times, but, I know he took his marriage... very seriously.' Tobin had nearly said deadly!

'Really? Now that's not what we've been hearing. He was unfaithful to her on many occasions, I am led to believe. There is even a suspicion that she knew.' He stopped, waiting for a response.

'Maybe, if you say so, though I prefer not to listen to gossip. It's none of my business what other people do in their private lives.' He had gone off his food now and placed the tray on the floor beside him.

'But, you're a newspaper man, Mr Tobin; surely it's your business to know these things?'

'No! I'm not a newspaper man. I just do bits and pieces for the 'Reporter', I'm not a full time reporter!' McColl's eyebrows rose at the vehement answer.

'How do you make your living then, Mr Tobin. You seem to live very nicely here.' He cast his eyes around the flat, ignoring the untidiness. 'Do you rent or own it?'

'I own it!'

'Big mortgage, presumably?'

'No, as a matter of fact, outright! Look. What has this to do with things? I agreed to see you because you wanted my help, now I find myself in the spotlight.'

'All right, sir, just wondering. It's a nice place, though; well placed. Must be worth a bit?'

Tobin forced himself to sit quietly and leave the response he had formed unsaid. The policeman noticed the effort and smiled to himself.

'Do you know a Miss Lambert? Julie Lambert?'

'Yes, I do. Alan Harper employed her when he had the estate agencies. She stayed with them when they were sold and now she's the area manager. I know she's a friend of Alan's, but whether there's any more to it than that I wouldn't know!' He had been drawn he realised, a bit too late. He was a bit too defensive, a bit too quickly there. The truth was he didn't know for sure, but he certainly wouldn't have been surprised. He shut up.

'Thank you, sir.' The eyebrows had risen again.

McColl found a clean page in his notebook and looked at Tobin.

'What were you doing the weekend before last?'

Tobin had to think for a moment. He gave a brief rundown of the weekend. Not much.

'And the Monday?'

'Much the same. I find a quiet weekend often leads to a quiet Monday.'

'Mmm. And the rest of the week?'

'Yes. Quiet, too.' That wasn't quite what McColl had meant, but he let it go.

'You didn't hear from Miss Shaw or Mr Harper in that time?'

'No,' why had he said that? It was sort of true. He hadn't opened Alan's letter till this week. The letter! 'I... erm... .' He was about to admit having the letter when McColl asked him.

'Do you know what Miss Shaw was doing that week?'

'Erm... no. I don't, actually. She doesn't live round here, anymore, so I don't keep track of her movements.'

'She went to France.'

'Really?' He was genuinely surprised.

'At the same time as Mr Harper disappeared.'

Tobin's mouth was open, but no sound came out.

'She went by the tunnel in her own car on the Monday morning. Mrs Harper had been away for a couple of weeks before that, without her husband. Was that common?' Tobin shook his head and spread his hands with a shrug.

'Well. It is late, now. I'll leave you to your meal, I think it's getting cold. I'll see myself out. Goodnight.'

The estate car swooped down on to the bridge across the river Tyne and headed toward the north bank and the city of Newcastle upon Tyne. It was the end of a journey that Alan Harper had done many times. He was later than he had intended to be as the ferry had been late into Hull and then they had all been held on board because of a 'security alert', an incident involving a tanker of some sort. When they had eventually been released all the vehicles had been whisked through with the minimum of delay and the minimum of attention.

He had not been able to inform the hire company of the vehicles return. Four hours after Teri and Tobin had stopped for their break Alan had pulled into the same motorway service station and found he had no change for the phone. He had thrown away his credit cards two weeks previously, together with is mobile phone, and could not be bothered to get change from the shop. Well, what the hell, they'd find the car soon enough. He had climbed back in and headed north up the A1.

The car turned off the bridge and into the city heading for the office of the car hire firm. He parked in the far corner of the private carpark, as per the instructions in the company's handbook, checked he had left nothing in, locked it up and deposited the keys in the box provided. He hefted his rucksack onto his back and left the small carpark.

A few hundred yards further down the road at the Central station a representative from the same car hire company was waiting for the late London train to arrive. He knew the client from several previous meetings and no longer had to hold up his clipboard displaying the company logo. The client found the rep' first. The routine was quickly done; the forms were all pre-filled with the details gathered from the previous hires. The client obligingly proffered his driver's licence and had it waved away. A set of car keys changed hands and the rep' gave the client directions to the parking bay where he had left the car. They parted company just a couple of minutes after meeting.

The car hire rep' looked around for his girlfriend who was late coming to pick him up. He checked the time on the large station clock above his head, the train had been a few minutes early, he realized. As his gaze returned to head height he was surprised to see his client walking briskly towards him. 'Is there a problem?' He asked. The man looked puzzled, but said nothing. 'I'm terribly sorry! I thought you were someone else,' said the rep' as he took in the man's clothes. He was dressed like a hiker and carried a rucksack. The man said nothing and strode straight past. At the platform he looked up and down and walked to a figure standing in the shadows beneath the footbridge. He stooped down slightly and kissed the figure. They walked out into the station concourse arm in arm and talking quietly. The tall white-haired hiker and the smaller, red-haired woman left the station as the last of the passengers queued for taxis.

\-------------------7\-------------------

Sandra Hickman had been polite but cool on the phone that Friday morning, 'inviting' him to call at the office 'at his convenience'. Tobin made a point of not hurrying. Now he sat opposite her looking at some letters.

Two were photocopies sent by the deputy chairman of the board, Peter Charlton. Tobin knew that Charlton would not be sad to see the back of Alan Harper, but, with the largest sum of money invested in the paper, he also had every reason to try and hold it all together. The photocopies were letters from two other members of the board, both supposedly friends of Alan's, resigning their memberships and putting their shares up for sale. Sandra's worry was that if any of the remaining six members were frightened into similar action the future of the paper was in real jeopardy.

One of the sellers was Colonel Ferguson, father of Tobin's béte noir Nicola. Not wishing to appear cynical, he did not make the observation that her departure would probably save the paper more than the loss of her father's investment. The other resignation was almost to be expected, Alan had often referred to him as the original fair-weather friend, so any effort spent on trying to encourage him to stay was probably wasted. But, realistically, Ferguson would be the loss. He and Alan had always got on so well; the military man had found something in Alan that he liked and from then on Alan could do no wrong. Ferguson was a difficult man who lived in a black and white world, anything grey was intolerable to him. His loss would be very damaging; it would also attract a lot of attention and could lead to further resignations.

He put the letters on the desk and let out a big sigh. Was he getting this thing out of all proportion? The private investigator, in his report to Norris, had found that the businesses were sound. It was just the confidence factor. The Ferguson factor, Tobin thought.

He would have been content to leave the whole matter there, play it down and just see if it would blow over and resolve itself, but for the third letter, which lay to one side on the desk in front of him.

It was addressed to the editor and intended for publication. Tobin counted the signatures – ten, prominent among them was that of Brian Dale. It was hardly surprising to find his name included in a group such as this, having witnessed the man's animosity. Tobin was becoming increasingly puzzled by the strength of feeling that he was witnessing. There was more to this than a simple business squabble, that was obvious.

The letter quoted a lot of the press reports of recent days, most of which were out of context clips from small reports in other newspapers, including some nationals. Individually, the items were inconsequential, but, when collected and summarized, as they had been here, and in the article earlier, they gave the story a considerable negative bias. It had been very cleverly assembled and gave the impression that the news had attained a national coverage far greater than it had. The really interesting statistic, though, thought Tobin, was that there had only been two mentions on television, first on the night of the discovery and then on the morning after, and that had only been on the local stations. The letter then rambled on and eventually came to its prime purpose, demanding to know, publicly, what action the police 'and other authorities' were taking in investigating the life and professional conduct of Alan Harper. Unfortunately, the letter stopped short of calling him a murderer or Tobin could have done something about it.

'That's why you're here.' Sandra indicated the letter he was holding. 'We've got to do something about that... these bastards are not going to let go. For whatever reason, they're out to at least discredit him and they'll not worry who else gets damaged in the process.'

Her tone had changed pretty quickly, Tobin thought. The fundamental problem for Tobin's was trying to defend a person who didn't actually exist, and not being able to explain it. His first thought, and his only idea so far, was to stall for a bit and see what happened; typical of him! The one positive point was the miss-timing of Dale's letter, arriving on publication day, helped a bit. That gave them a few days grace.

'Contact as many people as you can who will take Alan's side and sign them up. I'll do the same over the weekend and on Monday we'll compare notes and take it from there'. Tobin hoped he sounded convincing. He had only one firm idea and he could not imagine how that would really help.

On his way back to the flat he called into the small supermarket. Three quarters of an hour later he staggered out laden with carrier bags of goods that he had not realised he needed. Luckily for him Longalnbury was not a big town and he didn't have to walk far to reach home. His fingers felt even more like they had been cut off when he had finished filling the fridge freezer. He made himself a cafetiere of coffee and retired to his office.

He retrieved the business card from his wallet and dialled the number.

'Good morning. Mr Norris, please. It's John Tobin in Northumberland'. He quickly explained his problem, made his request and hung up. That was that! He would try and forget this business for the moment and distract himself with things that were hopefully more pleasurable. But, where to start? He returned to the carrier bags in the kitchen and unpacked all the cleaning materials that he had just bought. He opened all the windows wide, turned the C.D. player up loud and set to.

For the rest of the day he cleaned and tidied and polished and vacuumed. The rotating washing line in the backyard took two full loads of washing and the tumble drier took a third that he didn't want the staff and customers of the chemists downstairs to inspect. Two sets of curtains were taken down and carried to the cleaners and he made a couple of phone enquiries regarding carpet shampooers. After a late, healthy tea of salads that he made himself he sat and surveyed his transformed home. It hadn't been this clean since he moved in!

But, he had only tackled the easy part. His office door stood open, he couldn't shut it for the stacks that lay in the doorway. The paperwork and books had been piled there as he found them around the flat. There was no more room in the office, he had been stepping over piles of things for weeks now and something was going to have to be done. He was just contemplating this and trying to find something else to do when the phone rang. Blessed relief! It was the reply to the call he had made earlier to Norris, the private detective. He made an appointment for Sunday afternoon and noted down the address.

He spent a further two hours attempting to bring some order to the chaos, with moderate success. By packing the cardboard boxes of files more neatly and tighter he found he could reclaim some useable space in which to sort out the unfiled paper work and research notes. At the end of that time he found that he had one completely empty cardboard box. He immediately filled it with the contents of the desk and pushed it to the back of the kneehole.

The address he had written down earlier was in Gateshead, he found, when he looked it up in the A – Z of Newcastle. How handy, he could kill three birds with one stone.

A group of craftsmen and women in the area who were exhibiting at the Gateshead Flower Show had asked him to help with a promotion, he could visit them; he could also call into that Scandinavian furniture store and buy some storage shelves and units and then keep his appointment. Excellent. He wrote all this down and added it to the lists already laid out on the kitchen work surface, then rewarded himself with a cold beer from the fridge.

After a shower and another beer he stretched out on the settee and tried to read. His mind kept wandering off the book and back to the same old subject. He had managed to distract himself with the physical effort of the afternoon's work but now he could not escape thoughts of Alan Harper, or whoever he really was. He hadn't a clue what to do about it; it was not something that you could prepare for. You don't expect a good friend to suddenly disappear and turn out to be non-existent! Who could you turn to for advice? Who had experience of such things? Nobody that he knew, certainly. He didn't dare confide in anyone, for fear of feeling foolish or not being believed and possibly giving the game away; knowing his luck it would be all three!

What if Norris was somehow mistaken? Perhaps there were two Alan Harper's and no-one had noticed. It was a bit extreme he had to concede, but, no more incredible than what seemed to have actually happened.

What about Teri? First she finds her own mother dead, and regardless of what she had said she must feel something for her. Even just as another human being. Then she finds that the man she knew as 'father', and finally come to respect, didn't even exist; or, not in the guise in which she knew him.

What about all of Alan's businesses and money? Who really owned them? If he didn't exist what became of his wealth? Was it forfeit? Could Teri inherit any of it? Did any of the money that Rosemary had hidden away actually belong to her in the first place? If not, what would happen to it? Did that leave Teri penniless? The more he thought about the situation the more questions crept into his mind. Two further beers from the fridge didn't help; he just became morose and sleepy.

He eventually managed to drag himself off to bed and he lay and listened to the radio till he drifted off to sleep.

It was a disturbed night and he woke early from a dream where he kept chasing someone he didn't know, who kept disappearing before his eyes. A return to sleep seemed impossible, so he rose at an hour he hadn't seen for a long while. By seven-o-clock he had showered and had two coffees. It was a wet morning with the rest of the day promising to be the same, so the windows were only open enough for ventilation purposes as he attacked the office. First, he disposed of yesterday's untouched cafetiere of cold coffee. Then, out came the previous night's boxes, to be stacked in the corridor at the top of the stairs and marked with a felt tip marker. He now had space to move and he began to rearrange the bookshelves into subject order.

He stopped only to go to the stationers for files and envelopes and, most importantly, labels. Lunch was made quickly and eaten on the go as he vacuumed the office for the first time he could remember. By teatime, order had been restored. Only the material to be stored in the new furniture, being bought that weekend, was not back in the room. It was astounding, the space, the light, and he could reach the window to open and close it, now.

He was exhausted, he had been driven all day by his desire to forget, to ignore, but he couldn't understand why. However, he was pleased with what he had achieved. He looked around him and saw what McColl, the detective sergeant, had noted two nights before. It was a smart place and was worth having; another legacy of Alan Harper. Alan had found the place and seen the potential and persuaded the previous owner of the chemist's downstairs to sell off the floors above his shop. Tobin had the cash to buy the shell and, guaranteed by Alan, had borrowed a bit extra to do it up. Once again, he speculated on the cost of fitting out the attic as an office. He would definitely enquire, and added a note to that effect to one of his lists, as he made yet more coffee.

His reward to himself was to eat out. He phoned the Italian restaurant and booked himself a table for one at eight p.m. After shaving and showering he dressed in some of the lightweight clothing he had found and washed yesterday; it was still warm from ironing. He went to select a book to take with him and saw again the worst pile of papers from the day's work. It was nearly three feet tall and bore the rough label of 'work in progress', so many things started and not finished! He felt a bit ashamed to look at it all. He used to joke about it once, in self-defence, that life was like that, 'you've started, but God knows when you'll finish it'. He stopped, looked at it and sighed. Near the top of the pile was a thickish file, the writing on the spine not yet faded. It had been a good idea, that one, for a who-done-it. It was so nearly finished and he had abandoned it in a fit of pique. He gathered it up, with a couple of pencils and his wallet and left.

He rewarded himself very well. Antipasto followed by pasta in a cream and asparagus sauce with Tiramisu to finish. Half a litre of red wine had helped considerably over the two hours that he spent sat at the corner table. That was his favourite table, it was under a light so that he could read and was large enough to spread papers about while eating. He had flicked through the file and reminded himself of what he had been doing. The outline was virtually complete and there were a lot of notes, most of them loose and escaping all over the table. He had got a long way with the draught copy and had only ground to a halt at some technical points. He could remember the day when he pulled the last sheet of paper from the printer and bundled it all up in frustration, meaning to follow up the problem. But he never had, properly. Somewhere in there should be some notes that he remembered writing at a later date, when he had had an idea for getting out of his problem. He couldn't remember what the idea was now, but he had written it down, so it should be somewhere.

He couldn't concentrate for long though; his thoughts kept drifting back to the same old subject. He couldn't deny, he was missing his close friend; the one on whom he had relied far too much. Or should it be depended on. His contacts had always come through Alan. It was Alan who had the enthusiasm to make things happen, regardless of who had the idea in the first place. Alan was the one who provided or created his living, to a great extent. Now that he was gone Tobin was going to have to fend for himself. It was a bit like leaving home all over again, it filled him with trepidation. He saw now how he had quite selfishly retreated into his own small world, a world that suited him and him alone.

Tobin knew, also, he was guilty of much that he criticised in Teri and what it must be like for her; but, she had friends and work that would help to keep her going. Tobin had no such support; Alan had been the friend as well. By keeping a low profile to avoid responsibilities he had also completely missed out on the social aspect of a large part of his life. Certainly, he had met people and made friends but he had never had to find or prepare the road ahead. He was going to have to learn, and quickly, how to establish and keep contacts. Downhearted and disillusioned with himself, now, he paid his bill and trailed home. The clean, bright flat, which had filled him with pride earlier, did nothing for him.

As he made coffee and had a long drink of cold spa water from the fridge, he put the television on for the first time in two days and watched the end of the late night news while drinking his coffee.

The bedside radio helped him off to sleep.

Sunday morning was a slow start; the previous night's red wine prevented him from tasting very much when he rose. Vigorous teeth cleaning and gargling with mouthwash, followed by two slices of cinnamon toast and several coffees finally uncovered his tastebuds. Tobin was not a drinker, so when he did overindulge the effects where out of all proportion. His self-pitying mood of the previous week was still with him.

Fortunately the car was feeling better and started on order. He set off south, eventually passing through Ponteland, past the airport and on to the A1 where it began to skirt the Western side of Newcastle. He picked up the signs for the flower festival soon after crossing the river. Getting there was easy compared to talking his way in. No arrangements had been made for him and much flourishing of his 'Mid Northumberland Reporter' card eventually gained him access. He was now running late and had to dash around the marquees to find his party. Tobin took particular care with names and details as he shot a series of photographs; the party seemed very impressed with the amount of photography. He didn't let on that he was unfamiliar with his back up camera and that he was merely being extra cautious.

His duty done, goodbyes said and having bought some raffle tickets in support of the local hospice, he headed off for the furniture store and some lunch.

His well-worn A-Z of Newcastle led him to a street of Tyneside flats in an old part of Gateshead and he found a parking space immediately outside the address given him on the phone. It was the only available space in the street and he carefully reversed the fully laden car in to the opening, he had difficulty seeing around the stack of flatpack furniture that surrounded him.

The number he was looking for was the second in the row of four doors in the unique architectural style of Tyneside flats. The street was a sequence of two windows then four doors then two windows and so on down the row, both sides of the street. The outer two doors were for the downstairs flats on either side, and the inner doors for the upstairs flats on either side, he therefore was ringing the doorbell of the upstairs left hand flat.

There was a quick patter of feet on stairs and the door was answered with remarkable speed.

'Oh!' Tobin could not hide his surprise. 'I'm sorry. I was expecting to see someone quite different. I'm looking for Mr Vincent Chapman'

'You've found him. Who were you expecting?'

'A big man with short white hair and a very pale complexion.' The man standing in the doorway could not have been more different. He was medium height, dark hair slicked back and with a healthy tan from a recent holiday, but, he was sturdily built.

'Well. The wife's got him well hidden, then. You Mr Tobin?'

'Yes.'

'Come up, then.' He left Tobin to close the door as he ran back up the stairs two at a time. He was also in complete contrast to the private detective Tobin had met a few days earlier in Nottingham. In place of the suit was a cardigan and slippers and in place of the smart offices Tobin was shown to a corner of the living room.

'Put the kettle on, Belle!' He called into the back of the flat and seemed unconcerned at the lack of reply. Tobin took the proffered chair and noticed that the desk, at least, was as grand as Norris's. Chapman's was an antique roll top bureau that he opened as he sat down. Inside was as neat as Tobin's desk had been untidy. The shelves on the wall behind Chapman held a few legal books, a combined answerphone and fax machine, a lap top computer and some expensive camera gear. A wireless router blinked at them. In the corner behind the desk was a stack of box files.

'So who's this white haired gent that I'm supposed to be, then?'

'That's it exactly, I thought it was you. I've not met this person myself, but that's the description of someone who's been making enquiries around town – Longalnbury. Rather indiscreetly, I might add. I thought I had put two and two together and got you.'

'Not me, I'm worth more than two and two.'

'And not someone working for you?'

'No. I work alone. If it's a job for more than one I pass it on.'

'I see,' said Tobin, thoughtfully.

'Mr Norris said to help you – if I could.' He placed great emphasis on the last three words.

'If you would. I'm a friend of Alan Harper.'

'Who's just done a bunk, leaving an embarrassingly dead wife behind.'

'Yes, that's right.' Tobin was a bit taken aback with the directness of the smaller man. 'There's a great deal of trouble brewing at home, as well as the death. There's a small group of men who are out to do whatever they can to take advantage of Alan Harper's misfortune.' The detective looked sceptically at Tobin. 'So. I was thinking about your report to Norris.' Chapman was already shaking his head.

'Sorry, no can do. That sort of information has to remain confidential, like the informants. You should know that, Mr Tobin. Besides, I haven't many contacts left in that area, now. I can't afford to lose any.'

Tobin did know that but had vainly hoped that he might have gleaned a little help.

'But, I think you should look further afield.' Tobin looked puzzled at this.

'Intercon Cuisine.'

'Pardon?'

'You don't know about Intercon Cuisine?'

Tobin shook his head, what now?

'Intercon is Mr Harper's biggest concern. You didn't know? It's on the Airport Industrial Estate. On your way home.'

'I never knew!' Alan's 'biggest concern and he knew nothing about it!

'Mrs Gould runs the place. Very helpful, I found. Should be on your side, I think.'

'Thanks.' Chapman pushed a sticky-note pad towards him to write down the names. 'Thanks – again.'

'So, who's making trouble in the sunny vale of Longalnbury, then?'

'Do you know the area?'

'Oh, yes! After I did my national service, I signed on again, as a driver, and then I became an instructor. I was at Otterburn with the transport quite often and discovered Longalnbury close by. When I was de-mobbed I joined the Ministry of Transport; a civil servant would you believe; and found myself back up here again. Anyway, cutting a long story short, I did well and used to supervise tests and inspections on Heavy Goods Vehicles and suchlike. We lived in Longalnbury for a few years, didn't we Belle,' he addressed his wife who had just made a timely entrance with the tea, '37, Main Street, right next door to the chemist.' The address seemed to bring back pleasant memories.

As Belle poured the tea Tobin asked, 'Brian Dale?'

'Huh! Yes; he's still around isn't he? Shouldn't be. Enough people have tried to put him away! He inherited a perfectly good business from his father and quickly ruined it. But, it keeps going, and there's not a few folk who've tried to find out how. Me included, once. No-one's nailed him yet, though; can't prove anything, no details. No proof. You can guess though, can't you?' Tobin wasn't sure, but he was listening.

'My late partner worked hard 'in that area',' he said pointedly, 'that's where we met and became great friends. When he retired and started this business I took a chance and joined him; people thought I was mad leaving the civil service, but, it wasn't for me.' He looked, fondly at the wall above him at some old photos of a young policeman and at the same man out of uniform. 'Very sad, he died last year. AND, he never nailed Dale! Believe me, he tried. His nephew's up there, now. Symmonds?'

'Yes. Great guy.'

'Gets it from his uncle. Very alike.'

Belle handed them both cups of tea and bustled around the already spotless living room. She smiled and nodded shyly to Tobin as she left.

'I live at 35A, Main Street, above the chemists.' Tobin said, conversationally.

'Really? Mrs Harton still got the café over the road?'

'Yes, she's still there.' Tobin thought of the grumpy, somewhat eccentric little lady and her wonderful home baking.

'Her husband Mick worked for Dale.' Chapman said, casually.

'Really?'

'Aye. Went to jail for him, too. But, still they never managed to get Dale. He's the boss, as far as I'm concerned.'

'What happened?'

'Mick's wagon was stopped, and inside it was a load of cigarettes and alcohol. "I don't know what it's doing there". He threw his arms up in imitation of innocence. 'He protested his innocence. Did no good. Dale fired him immediately, of course, and 'co-operated' with the inquiry. He fired another couple of drivers at the same time. Their faces didn't fit, basically, and he grabbed the opportunity to get rid of them. Mick got a couple of years for 'handling'. He didn't do that long, fortunately, good behaviour and so on, but he was wrecked, bad experience. He's never worked since! Never been out of the house since, I don't think.'

'It explains a lot, now you mention it. I only ever see him through the window across the road.' Tobin sat thinking about never going out for years; he couldn't imagine it.

Chapman drained the last of his tea. 'Well. Mustn't keep you. I'm sure you've got things to do, building furniture, from the look of your car!'

That was a quick piece of observation, Tobin thought. He placed his cup next to Chapman's and they headed for the door. He received the same shy smile from Belle and a mouthed 'Bye-bye' as they reached the head of the stairs. Chapman led the way down at a trot. Tobin, following, saw that the cardigan and slippers image of the detective was quite misleading. He could see the broad shoulders and thick neck hidden beneath the baggy garment. The impression was reinforced when they shook hands inside the front door and Tobin felt Chapman's grip. The other hand whipped out a business card and popped it into Tobin's shirt pocket. Tobin fished out one of his crumpled cards from his wallet in exchange.

'Call in next time you're up. We can have a cup of Mrs Harton's best.'

Chapman cheerfully agreed.

Tobin's parting impression was very different to when he arrived, although he was unsure what he had achieved. There was the powerful, stocky figure, of indeterminate age, standing at his door with a wave of farewell. He had guided Tobin through the meeting giving him just enough information, which he ought to have discovered for himself.

Tobin drove home kicking himself for his ignorance.

\------------------8\-----------------

'John?!'

'Yes.'

'I've been questioned by the police! They think I'm a murderer!'

'Teri! Teri! Calm down! Don't be so silly. Why should they think that?'

'I don't know! But, I've just spent two hours at the police station!' Tobin eased the phone away from his ear as he checked the time. It was ten-thirty. Allowing fifty per cent for Teri's exaggeration, she'd probably been there since nine-ish.

'Where are you now, at the house?'

'I'm at your office! I came here expecting to find you and you're not here!'

Damn the woman! The last thing he wanted was the for the staff there to hear and see Teri like this. 'No. It's a Monday morning and I'm here. And I'm busy.' But he immediately relented to avoid a further outburst. 'You'd better come round. I'll leave the door off the latch and the kettle on. I'll probably be in the shower....' But, she had hung up. Damn the girl, again! What business had she got to go there? His life was difficult enough there without her barging in! He shoved the last of the shelves into place in his new bookcases with a snort of frustration and stood back to admire his handiwork. They would have to be painted, or stained, another time. They would have to be filled later, too.

By the time he emerged from the shower, shaved and in clean clothes, she was pacing the living room floor clutching a mug of coffee.

'I made you one, but it's probably cold by now!'

'Well, thank you very much.'

Her eyes were puffed and red from crying, her jaw was rigid and white with fury, her breathing shallow and rapid.

'Sit down,' he said, firmly. She sat.

'Why?' She demanded.

'Because you make the place look untidy standing up.' He joked, feebly.

'No!' She screamed at him, furious at his flippancy. 'Why were they questioning me? Why would they think I'd do that?'

'Well. You told me the other day that you wouldn't have minded helping her down the stairs like that.' He had barely finished when she threw herself at him screaming.

'You told them that!!?'

'No! I haven't said a word.' He said, pushing her back into the seat. 'But, if you said that to me, who else have you said it to?'

'No-one! No-one.' Her voice tailed off as the thought raised questions in her own mind.

'Are you sure? You don't sound too sure. You haven't moaned to someone at work? Or in a shop, say, or some public place where you could have been overheard?'

She sat looking at the floor, shaking her head.

He continued, 'you didn't have any rows with her where you could be heard?'

'Only at home, and she screamed at me more than I screamed at her. Ooh!' She gave a loud sigh and slumped back into the chair. 'This is typical. She's still giving me a hard time and she's dead!' Tobin stayed silent, studying the carpet. 'She has had smash ups before - in the house. Just a couple of times. After she'd had too much... the depression was awful.' She got up and stalked to the window. 'Bloody, bloody, bloody... stupid woman!' She paused for a breath.

'What else did you tell them? Did you tell them about Nottingham and what Norris found?'

'No! No. I'll not tell them anything! Anyway I don't believe that, now. It's stupid! They must have got it wrong somewhere.'

Tobin interrupted to slow her down. 'What did you tell them about France?'

'What about France?'

'Why you went there at the same time as Alan disappeared?'

'How did you know about that?' She glared at him, defiantly. 'It was just a coincidence, that's all. That's what I told them. But, they're so bloody stupid! They don't want to believe you! Stupid, bloody... drunken bitch throws herself down the stairs and everybody else has to suffer for it!'

'But, that's the point, isn't it? Was it an accident? You told me yourself about the place being wiped clean. Who did that? And why? The police need to know that. Maybe it was an accident; she got herself so pissed she just fell down the stairs; but if there was someone else there, why didn't they help? By not calling for help they may well have contributed to her death. Probably did. We know she lay there for some considerable time before she died, don't we?'

Teri turned away, partly covering her ears, not wishing to hear the gruesome details again. She hadn't been so squeamish the first time round. Tobin remembered her relating it to him in all its awful detail. She had almost seemed to delight in it. Her hands turned into clenched fists either side of her bowed head. She turned back to face him, a mixture of fury and despair. 'Why can't Alan be here? He was the one who always sorted her out. Why can't he be here when he's needed? Just disappearing off without a word. It's just so... bloody selfish.' She had moved back in front of the open window and Tobin tactfully drew her away. She clung to him. 'Do you think he will get in touch? He is your friend! You should know!'

'I think he will.' He said, quietly and cautiously into her ear.

She jumped back. 'Do you? Why?'

'Well.' He hesitated, unsure of what to tell her or whether to tell her anything at all. 'He said he would try to get back in touch as soon as he could.'

'When? How do you know that? Did you know he was going? You did! You knew he was going!'

'No! No. No. I didn't know any such thing.' He regretted saying anything, now. But, he had started, so... 'He wrote me a note, probably as he was leaving. I mislaid it after receiving it and didn't open it till much later.'

'Do the police know about this?'

'No. Not yet.'

'Why didn't you say anything earlier?'

'I was going to tell you when I thought the time was right.'

'Oh. Were you? And when did you think that would be right? Why does everybody think that they can make decisions for me? I'm not a child anymore, I can decide these thing s for myself, you know. I've had to spend my life with people talking behind my back and then finding out what other people think will be right for me to know! 'When it's OK for me to know'!' She stood in the middle of the floor stamping her foot, fists clenched at her side, her head thrust forward.

He let the ferocity of the outburst fade. 'Well, I was going to tell you. Look. I'm not sure what to make of it.' Tobin said, fetching the note from the office. 'And, I'm not really sure what to do with it, either. Did you see the note he left your mother?'

'Yes.'

'What did you make of that?'

'I think he's being... bloody selfish.' At another time her childlike swearing would have been quite amusing. But Tobin didn't smile as he handed her his note from Alan. She glanced at it and threw it on the floor. The last line had obviously not registered.

'Well?' He asked as he bent to pick it up.

'I don't know! All I know is, it's just not fair. I'm just getting myself sorted out and he does this! It's so selfish! It's not fair!'

Tobin could see the young Teri and her childhood tantrums all over again. 'You're not the only one, Teri... '

'I don't care about anyone else... what am I going to do? He's left me all alone... he's not thought about that! Has he? And now, I'm questioned by the police like some criminal!' Tears welled up in her eyes. She banged her coffee mug down, messily, grabbed her bag and stormed out. Tobin heard her feet clattering down the stairs followed by a vicious slam of the front door.

He fetched a cloth from the kitchen and cleaned up after her. She had had a lifetime of someone cleaning up after her! He flopped on the settee; he hadn't handled that encounter very well. Just how else he could have handled it, though, he wasn't sure.

An hour and a half later he was working on the draft of the who-done-it when the phone rang.

'Tobin.'

'Good afternoon, Mr Tobin. D.S. McColl.'

'Good afternoon, detective sergeant.' He checked his watch, in surprise. 'What can I do for you?'

'You could be honest with me, sir.'

'Sorry?'

'I said, 'you could be honest with me, sir'.'

'Yes, I got that bit, but what do you mean?'

'I mean that you haven't been honest with me, have you?' He paused, but Tobin didn't answer. 'You might remember, I asked you if you had heard from Alan Harper and you told me that you hadn't, didn't you, sir?'

'Ah. I see. Yes. Well. It doesn't take someone very long to run and tell tales, does it? I bet she didn't tell you the explanation, did she?' There was silence down the phone. 'You see, I did get a letter, but, I put it aside and forgot all about it. I didn't open it till the other day. I didn't realise who it was from until a lot later.'

'Really? Yet you identified his handwriting for me, didn't you, sir? I think we need to talk about this, don't we, sir? I'm at the Longalnbury office, it's only a five minute walk for you; and don't forget to bring the letter.' He hung up.

Tobin slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. What a vicious little.... What was Teri playing at? Spite, he supposed. He had embarrassed her by finding out about her French trip, so now she was lashing out in revenge. She hadn't really grown up much, after all. Stupid, selfish, childish, thoughtless.... Tobin packed up his office, thumping things down as he thought of each adjective, as if he could beat them into her.

Having noisily banged everything around that he could safely bang around he retrieved the letter from under the keyboard and walked to the police station, slowly.

By the time he returned to his flat, after his two hours at the police station, Tobin had to admit that he could understand some of Teri's feelings about the experience. He had made a poor job of explaining himself and the timing of the opening of Alan's letter. The obvious accusation of complicity in the disappearance of Alan Harper had quickly cropped up and he got quite flustered as he tried to deny it. After about the third attempt he even doubted himself! Then had come the accusation that he was not prepared for. Did he realise that if he had opened the letter Rosemary Harper might still be alive now? His face must have been a picture, he only hoped that it told the story. Shortly afterwards he had been allowed to leave, angry, bewildered and fed up.

He felt insulted by the insinuations and had struggled to stay calm at the barrage of repeated accusations. He realised afterwards that that was the ploy, of course, to put him off his balance and see what he said. He was only thankful that, for some reason, they had not asked him if there was anything else he could tell them. He had been waiting for the question, but for whatever reason it hadn't occurred. Just how he would have answered he still didn't know.

Unsurprisingly, McColl had kept the note, but Tobin had had the foresight to run it through his fax machine to get a copy. He laid the copy on the worksurface in the kitchen while he made himself a mug of decent instant coffee and studied it again. The second line 'It's a bit awkward, I wasn't quite ready', intrigued him. He was sure McColl wouldn't miss it either. It was the most significant line there, he was sure, but he wasn't sure why! More significant than the line 'taken care of Rosemary...' Alan had obviously been planning to leave at some time in the near future, but, he 'wasn't quite ready' must mean exactly what it said. But, why would he be leaving? And so secretly. It obviously must have something to do with his identity. Could it have been Rosemary? Had she discovered something that had caused her to employ the Norrises? Or, worse thought and therefore probably the police's thought, had she been in danger of discovering something? Or could it all be just terrible coincidence? He pondered all the way through his coffee and slowly regained his composure.

Unlike Teri, Tobin believed the Norris's report. People like that don't make mistakes like that. Did they?

Teri. He picked up the phone and dialled her number. There was no answer; she must be at work. He looked up her work number. She worked for a public relations partnership and he was amused to see that Public Relations immediately followed Public Houses, it seemed a natural progression, he thought, with his experience of that industry. He found the number.

'Prentice-Partnership-Paula-speaking-how-may-I-help?'

Argh! How he hated that! She had done the course but didn't know what it was about! She was nearly human, though, and that was marginally better than those electronic menus, no matter how clever they were.

'Teri Shaw, please.'

'Sorry, Miss Shaw doesn't work here anymore, can anyone else help you?'

'Since when?' He demanded, a little more abruptly than he had intended.

'Erm... well, today, I believe.'

'Where's she gone, then?'

'I'm sorry, sir, I can't tell you that.'

'Can't or won't?'

'I'm sorry, sir,...'

'Yes, I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have jumped on you like that, but, she has led me a bit of a dance today.'

'Yes, sir,' said the voice of Paula, very knowingly. 'Hold on. Please.'

Tobin endured a minute and a half of electronic Greensleeves until a man's voice said, wearily, 'can I help you?'

'Yes, I hope so. I'm trying to get hold of Teri, er... Rebecca Shaw.'

'Can I ask who you are, please?'

'My name is John Tobin; I'm a friend of the family. I'm trying to help sort out some of the problems.'

'Of which she is most certainly one,.' stated the voice, dryly.

'I'm afraid so.'

'Well. I'm afraid to say... we had to let her go.' The euphemism was not lost on Tobin.

'And why was that?'

'Well,... Her... er... reliability was not really... er... .'

Tobin saved him any further embarrassment, 'you mean, she didn't turn in? She was at the police station.'

'Oh. I know, and we were happy to give her the time off for that. But, when she rang in to say that she wouldn't be back in this week and would we just put it down as unpaid leave... well... .'

'What was she going to do with this unpaid leave?'

'Go on holiday. Again!'

'Thank you,... Mr... er... ?'

'Murphy.'

'Thank you.' He hung up. What on earth was she playing at? He was beginning to wish Alan was here, now, just to sort out Teri. He seemed to be the only one who could.

He closed the Yell.com page and paced about the flat. He had had enough. It really was not his problem. There were limits to how far he would go in watching out for this uncontrollable child. He was not a paid minder, and wouldn't fancy being one, either! He retreated to his office and closed the door. Now that was a novelty!

The thick folder lay on the desk. He smiled at the irony of the title, a year or more ago he had given his who-done-it story the working title of 'Disappearance'. He opened the folder, found his place and began to work.

On the M25 motorway skirting the south-west of London a small blue Ford car was caught on a speed camera as it raced toward Southampton. The young female driver showed no concern for the double flash of the camera, indeed she might not have even noticed it as she stared straight ahead, muttering at the slower cars ahead of her in the outside lane.

One of the last vehicles on to the ferry at Dover was a white, French registered, Citroen van belonging to a food company. The driver pulled into the bay indicated, extinguished his cigarette, picked up his jacket and climbed out. His passenger, a white-haired hiker followed him and they headed for the bar, talking animatedly in French.

Near Newcastle Central station the car rental company was just closing when their regular London hirer returned his car early. The representative, annoyed at being delayed, managed a forced smile, nevertheless. 'Had a good weekend, Mr Mitchell?'

'No!' He threw the keys on the counter.

'Oh. Dear.'

They went through the usual procedures and the rep' put the car in the compound near the office. He was only ten minutes late for his girlfriend picking him up.

\--------------------9\---------------------

Tobin had spent the last week buried in his work. One day was spent re-recording the carpet advert voice-over, where he noted with satisfaction that the re-write was virtually what he had suggested, but there was no recognition of the fact. By the end of the week his eyesight felt permanently damaged from staring at the monitor for so long. His back and buttocks ached from sitting and his arms, shoulders and neck were stiff after long hours hunched over the keyboard. The newly cleaned flat had suffered from a week's inattention, too.

But, on the other hand, he was on a high at completing the book. He had written up the ending based on the notes he had finally found. That had worked out really well. He had also rewritten the first three chapters to send off, with the synopsis that he had just pulled from the printer, to an agent he had contacted during the week. He wasn't relishing the prospect of proof reading the rest of the book, but nothing could dampen his spirits now. As the last page came out of the printer he had jumped and pranced around the flat, punching the air and yelling like an excited child. It was good, he knew it. He just had to convince someone else, and convince them enough to buy it.

He shaved off the week's growth of stubble and had a shower. Tidying the flat would have to wait; it was Sunday after all. Anyway, he was going to reward himself, in the way that he usually rewarded himself; with food; he was starving. He had slogged away all week with breaks only to sleep and eat, and occasionally to shop.

The sun shone, the traffic was light and the pub was not far away. With a spring in his step he approached the Northumberland arms and pushed open the door. He could not stop himself from surveying the bar before entering. It was only a momentary pause, undetectable to others, but it took some of the gloss off the day. He need not have worried, the bar was empty. The sound of quiet conversation drifted from the back room along with the smell. His stomach gave an involuntary turn and rumbled loudly, his mouth watered.

'Ah! Austin.' He said to the benevolent, smiling and overweight form of the landlord. 'A pint of the very best and is that wonderful aroma for sale?'

'You mean Lizzie's Sunday lunch? Why, of course it is, man. You don't think I have that aroma pumped through here for nothing, do you?' Words such as aroma when said in the Northumbrian dialect, with the exaggerated vowel sounds and guttural 'r's, had always pleased Tobin.

'Grreyat!' He could never copy the accent. 'I'll have an enormous one, please.'

'Is that enormous as in next size up from gigantic?' His huge hands were indicating plate diameters of wheelwright proportions.

'No. Nooooah.' He tried the accent again, Austin looked pained. 'Several sizes up!' He flung his arms wide. Euphoria was setting in with hunger, obviously. The landlord departed with Tobin's order muttering, 'aromah, ahroma, ahromah!' The word had caught his imagination, as well.

Tobin fetched himself a barstool and sat at 'his' end of the bar, by the hatch. It was the worst place, really, as the staff came and went through it all the time to collect and deliver. But, the position was good for observing the activity in both the front and back rooms. Something he never tired of doing.

Austin had just returned and begun pouring Tobin's pint when the door opened and a figure paused on the threshold. The landlord reached beneath the bar and threw a rubber wedge at the newcomer. 'Stick that........ under the door, Simon, please.' He smiled at Tobin with some little private joke that remained private.

Simon Waddington caught the wedge, dropped it and smartly kicked it under the door in one practised move. He smiled momentarily and then reverted to the dour expression with which he had entered.

'John, here, is in a good mood for some reason, and he's just buying, so, if you say something nice he'll buy you a pint!' said the publican as he placed Tobin's glass in front of him.

'Certainly,' said Tobin, magnanimously. 'What would you like? But, only if you cheer up!'

Austin poured the second drink and left them in contemplative silence. Tobin's mind was still working on his storylines. True to form he had forgotten his notebook and was trying to commit an idea to memory by acting out a scene in his head, but, the facial contortions were a bit of a give-away. Fortunately, Simon Waddington's mind was elsewhere and Tobin's facial antics went unnoticed. They were both still quiet when Austin returned, beaming and carrying Tobin's meal. The plate wasn't of the proportions that had been suggested, but no more food could have been piled on it safely. It was placed reverently in front of Tobin with a knife and fork wrapped in a white serviette.

'Get round that, then!'

Tobin did, watched intently by Simon.

Silence prevailed once more, except for the sounds of cutlery on crockery. Tobin now realised how hungry he was and the massive plateful disappeared at a steady and impressive rate. Simon just stood and watched and drank his pint.

'Wow!' Said Tobin, finally, wiping his mouth on the serviette and pushing away the empty plate. He stood up to ease his full stomach. 'That was fantastic!' He beamed at Simon and indicated his glass, 'another one, Simon?'

'Oh! Thanks.'

Tobin had hoped for a counter offer of a drink being bought for him, but never mind, he was full of good humour as well as food. Until Simon raised the one subject he had wanted to avoid, for the time being, at least.

'Heard anything about Alan, yet, then?'

'No!' Kill the subject, quick! He looked away to find Austin to refill their glasses.

'Things are getting desperate, you know.'

'Mmm.' Tobin tried to sound as non-committal as possible.

'Well.' Simon wasn't going to be put off. 'He has a one third share, you know? And going off like this puts everything at... you know? What if the bank wants their money? I don't know what to do.' Now that he was sharing his troubles he was getting even more morose, staring down into his pint glass.

'Have you spoken to the bank?'

'Oh! No!' as if that would give the bank the idea. 'He used to do all that kind of thing. I wouldn't know where to start. The wife wants me to sell the shops and retire.'

I'm not surprised thought Tobin. 'You don't fancy that, then?'

'Oh. No.'

'Well, just get on without him, then. Just speak to the bank and tell them what you're doing. Don't ask them, tell them! Can you pay the bank, should they want it?'

'Oh. Yes!'

'Well, what's the problem? When was the last time Alan actually did anything in one of your places?'

'Oh. Ages ago.'

'Well, there you are then. He doesn't need to be there, he's just collecting his share of your profits. If he chooses to bugger off then that's his loss, not yours!'

'That's another strange thing. The cheque came back.'

Tobin looked at him quizzically.

'His share. I banked his last quarter's money and it bounced straight back. The account was closed, apparently.'

'Really?'

'So what do I do about that, then?'

Tobin was deep in thought. Alan had closed a bank account, just one or all of them? 'Sorry, what did you say?'

'What do I do with his money?'

'Put it aside for a while and if he doesn't turn up put it to better use.'

'Aye. I suppose you're right. But, it is a worry, you know, when you don't know what's going on. And something strange is going on.'

'Mmm.' Tobin's memory of his lunch was fading fast now, he was going to have to abandon his drink and leave if Simon did not shut up his whining very soon.

'And that fellow certainly upset our Michelle, turning up again, like that.'

'What fellow?' Tobin's interest returned.

'The one that caused all that upset looking for Alan.'

'Upset?'

'The week Rosemary died, although we didn't know then of course, in the shop he was, making a hell of a fuss looking for Alan. 'Though he didn't use that name that time, just pointed to a photo.'

'That time?'

'Aye. Well, he was back last weekend, looking for Alan, again. Only this time he used his name. Alan Harper. 'Cos the first time round he'd got the wrong name, Michelle reckoned. Quite upset our Michelle, he did, too. Got quite nasty, apparently. She's only fifteen, you know.' Tobin knew, alright, but, she didn't look it. If only uncomplicated, naïve, Simon Waddington knew even part of the truth about his worldly-wise young daughter... but, well, perhaps better not!

'Did Michelle say what he looked like?'

'Oh. Aye'

'Big man, white hair?'

'Aye. And horrible eyes, she said.'

'But looked like Alan?'

'Aye. That's right. How did you know? What's going on?'

'Wish I knew.' He knew he was going to have to get out into the fresh air and walk a bit. 'Look, I must go, now, Simon. Don't worry about your business, you'll do fine.'

'Don't you want another drink?' Now he asks!

'Another time. Thanks.' He left the little patch of gloom in the otherwise bright and cheery pub and walked down the street. The town was getting busier, now. Families were out walking off their Sunday lunches or possibly walking to a late one. Tobin checked his watch, it was early in the afternoon and he hadn't anticipated being out and about at this time. He could collect his camera and the car and drive out of town; or borrow a dog and have a good walk nearby. Both ideas appealed, but, meant having to change his clothes, so he headed home.

The phone began ringing as put the key in the lock, but whoever was calling rang off before the answering machine could cut in. As he was kicking off his shoes he pressed the dial button and one, four, seven, one, three and heard the phone at the other end ring.

A familiar female voice said, 'Hullo!'

'Ah! So you're back are you?'

'Oh. It's you!'

'Yes, Teri, it's me. Where have you been?'

'None of your business! I've just had a few days holiday, that's all.'

'You've started a rather longer one, I think, according to your boss. Sorry, your ex- boss.'

'What have you been saying?'

'Me? Nothing.'

'Why were you talking to him, then?'

'To find you.'

'Why?'

'To wring your bloody neck! But the urge has passed now; after a week. Why did you have to drop me in it with McColl like that?'

'Well. You two had been talking about me behind my back!'

'So, tit for tat, eh?' He heard her sniff at the other end of the phone. 'Anyway, why did you ring me just now?'

'How did you know?'

'Technology was never a strong point, was it?'

'I need you here. Now!'

'Where's here? And, why?'

'My flat!' She slammed the phone down. With a sigh he replaced his shoes, made a mental apology to the dog for the lost walk, found his keys and went out for a kangaroo session with the car.

His flippant mood expired as he entered Teri's flat.

'I'm sorry, I'd offer you a coffee, but....' She waved her hand, limply, at the flat interior. They stood in the centre of the living room and surveyed the mess. Whoever had searched the flat had done a neat job, as far as searches go, but had left everything turned out. As far as Tobin could see, nothing had been broken, but, the contents of every shelf and drawer had been carefully stacked close by. The untidy feature was the upturned furniture.

'When did you find it? Have you reported it?'

'I got home at two, and, no, I haven't reported it.'

'Well, we'd better, where's the phone?' He began hunting.

'No!'

'Or your mobile... Pardon?'

'I said no. I don't want them trampling all over the place! They'd probably say I'd done it myself, or something! One intruder's enough. There's nothing missing.'

'I see.' He felt like arguing the point, but thought better of it. How could she tell nothing was missing?

'Do you?' He followed her gaze to the photo albums lying open on the coffee table.

'Ah!'

'I want to let it go, let it drop. OK? It won't take long to put back and it will all be forgotten.' She said, with uncharacteristic decision.

Tobin looked at her in surprise. 'You've changed your tune.'

'I've had time to think, that's all. I'm sorry to have dragged you all this way down here. I suppose I panicked a bit, walking in to all this.'

'Well, you would. I'll help you clean up, then. Earn that cup of coffee, maybe.'

As they worked Tobin became convinced that the flat had been searched by a professional. Drawers had been removed, bottom ones first and tipped over to empty them, then carefully stacked; shelf contents had been removed and similarly stacked and the furniture had been overturned with care. No damage, and no noise either, he was willing to bet. Teri was almost cheerful about it, continually pointing out the lack of damage. Still nothing appeared to be missing, she assured him.

'How did he get in? We'll presume it was a he.' Tobin wondered aloud, wiping dry the phone, having found it outside on the window ledge, and plugging it in. It still worked despite its weathering.

'I've been wondering about that, too.'

'Who else has keys?'

'Just my moth....... There should be a set at the bungalow. I don't know if they're still there. I'd forgotten all about them.'

'Were they labelled?'

'They were, yes.'

'That could be the answer.' He looked, questioningly, at her. She said nothing. He filled the kettle. 'You'd better get the locks changed.'

'Tomorrow, after the inquest.'

The inquest! He'd completely forgotten, again. 'Are you going to stay up there tonight, then?'

'I wasn't going to, but... .'

'Best idea.' He tried to sound reassuring. In reality he was troubled by the Alan look-a-like apparently roaming the area.

Simon Waddington had said he was about last weekend, this could be his handiwork as Teri had been away a week. If it was his work, then, how did he get the keys? There was certainly no forced entry. Had he been at the Harpers? Before or after Rosemary died? Or when Rosemary died?

They made the coffees and sat in silence; each wrapped in their own thoughts. Teri, having regained her composure, was now feeling the effects of her drive back from holiday. She still had not revealed where she had been. Tobin idly flipped through the photo albums. They were much the same as Rosemary's, except for one thing.

'There's quite a lot of photos of Alan here.' He commented. 'I've never seen so many.'

'Mmm. He didn't mind me taking them. But, I know he didn't like other people taking them, even mother. His antics in avoiding cameras were quite funny, sometimes.' She smiled at the thought. 'Silly, though. There's some more up there on the shelf that I've got to put in from this year's ski trip.' She pointed to the shelf where the albums were normally kept.

Tobin fetched the folders as Teri laid her head back on the settee and stretched luxuriously. The loose photos were much the same in content, but they were a larger format. They showed the same resort as most of the others and the same café. In these Alan could be seen smiling broadly with his arms round the shoulders of two men who both looked local. He showed Teri a photograph of a man wearing a red ski suit with blue and white on it.

'Ah. That's Denis.' She said wistfully. 'A ski instructor, very nice, but married.' That was the first time he had heard anything like warmth from her when speaking of another person, especially a man.

He held up the photo of Alan with the two men in the café. 'What about them? That's seems a regular haunt, is it?'

'They're some kind of distant relatives of the family that brought Alan up, I think. He's very close to them. We stay with them whenever we go there. Mother hated it; she just used to drink all the time. They didn't discourage her, either. They have a different attitude, - 'if that's what she wants to do, fine, it's her liver'. She shrugged. 'It kept her out of the way while we skied all day.'

Tobin gathered all the photos and albums together and replaced them on their shelf.

'I must say, you're very calm about all this. You weren't last week.'

'I told you, I've had time to think it over!' She relaxed back onto the settee, again. 'There are probably some very good reasons for all this, and when we hear them we'll all realise that we've got the whole thing out of all proportion.' He could hear Alan Harper as she made the declaration.

'You think so?'

'I'm sure.'

'Did you know that someone who looks very like Alan has been enquiring about him for the last month or so?'

'That private detective?'

'No.'

'The one working for the Norrises!' she repeated.

'I thought that, too. But, then I actually met him. And it's not anyone working for him, either.'

'Well, maybe someone else employed one! There are a few who might.'

'True. But, I don't think so. He's too heavy-handed.'

'Well. I'm not going to worry about him.'

'Even after all this?'

'You don't know it's him. It could be a total coincidence. Anyway, thanks to you, it looks as if it never happened and I'm going to carry on where I left off.'

'Find a job?'

'Oh. I'll get something. They'll probably take me back at Prentices. They did the last time!'

The sheer arrogance of the girl! Tobin shook his head in disbelief. The reality was, she was probably correct. 'I'll be in touch. Let me know how it goes tomorrow. OK?'

She flashed him a big smile. 'OK. Don't worry. I'm fine now. I'll give you a ring and then take you out to dinner! How's that?' She reached up and gave him a little kiss on the cheek and a very affectionate hug.

He left, still shaking his head.

Driving back home Tobin pondered on the change in Teri. She had become so upbeat, from having been very down and moody; she was always moody. Where had she been for the last week that could have had this effect on her? He wondered as he drove.

He made a last minute decision as he left Newcastle and diverted to the industrial estate where Intercon Cuisine had their office. He had called past on the night when he first discovered its existence, but, that had also been a Sunday and there was no sign of life. This time, however, there were lights showing from windows at the back and a couple of vans, both French registered, were parked by the doors.

It was a large organisation with its own secure compound, the gates of which were now locked. Tobin was still puzzled how he had not known about it before. He had known that Alan had some involvement with a business of this sort, but nothing on this scale. However, it did explain his frequent trips to France.

What did he know about this man? Another wave of doubt passed through his mind; how many others thought they knew Alan Harper, but in reality just knew one aspect? How many versions of Alan Harper were there? Was everyone, including his own family, kept at arm's length? And, who really was he, anyway?

He reversed down the side of the compound for a better look, but could see nothing in the lighted windows and pulled forward again to examine the two vans. One was a Citroen of the type commonly made and used in Britain and most of the continent; it was white and had the company's markings on the side. The other was more of a small truck with a refrigeration unit on the front of the truck body. He wound down the window and could hear the fridge motor running. This second vehicle bore the same livery as the first, but from his viewpoint he could not read all the information on either. However, he could read the number plates and noted them down. He didn't know why, it just seemed useful; he could remember Alan explaining to him how the last two digits on old French number plates indicated the department of origin, and the new EU style ones, like the small truck, showed them at the end. He was about to drive away when he remembered his camera in the back of the car. He steadied the long lens on the window frame, filled the viewfinder with a van side, he could read it clearly now, and ran off several frames at different exposures. There was still no sign of movement in the factory so he packed up and returned to Longalnbury.

He was grateful to find his parking space at the top of the back lane was free. Rather than use the back door to his flat, he walked down the side lane to the square and along Main Street to his front door. The setting sun cast a mellow glow over his side of the road and he was just daydreaming about sun and the righteous when a movement over the road caught his eye. The lights were on in the café as Mrs Harton cleaned up behind the counter and Tobin was amazed to see Mick Harton outside, sweeping the step. He quickly crossed the road and caught Mick before he could retreat inside.

'Hallo, Mick.' He tried his friendliest, casual manner.

A frightened, hunted look passed across the other man's face. Tobin just caught a whispered, 'Hallo'. They had frequently exchanged looks and an occasional wave across the street from behind their respective windows, but had not spoken. Tobin thought quickly.

'I'm really glad I've seen you, Mick. I need your help.' Mick frowned suspiciously.

'I'm writing an article on transport and drivers from the good old days and you're a veteran of them, aren't you; pre-motorways and power-steering and all that?'

He nodded.

'Driving over Shap in mid-winter and all that... .'

'Aye.' The suspicion faded into a faraway stare.

'I was wondering if I could have chat and get some reminiscences from you. Would that be alright?'

He nodded again, almost with enthusiasm.

'Are you alright out there, Mick?' Came the strident tones of Mrs Harton, coming to her husband's defence.

'We're fine, thanks.' Tobin called softly in reply. He gave Mick a friendly pat on the shoulder. 'I'll be in touch tomorrow. OK?'

Another nod and almost a trace of a smile and the little man scurried indoors.

Tobin crossed the road to his front door unaware of the large figure that emerged from the shadow of the newsagent's door and followed him. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open as the shadow fell across him. He spun round in fright and stumbled across the threshold as the big figure bundled him into the hall and kicked the door shut behind them. The hair shone bright white in a brief flash of sunlight and then Tobin was pinned against the wall in the near darkness.

'You know who I am?' It was a menacing growl right into his ear. A large hand had Tobin's collar twisted tight and suspended him against the wall. The other fist was pressed up under his ribs as the man's elbows pinned Tobin's arms.

'I don't know who you are, but, I've heard about you.' His collar was choking him.

'So you know what I want, then.' Tobin could feel the warm breath on his face and the man's considerable strength and weight pressing him against the wall.

'Not exactly... .'

'Where's Jim... where's Alan Harper. That's all I want to know. See?' There was a strong London accent turning Harper into 'Awrpah' and the 'Th' sound had a trace of a 'v' in it. All of it quiet and close into his left ear.

'I honestly don't know!' The twisted collar was choking him. Suddenly the grip eased and the bulk pressing on him gave a sharp twist and a knee slammed into the inside of his left leg just above his own knee. He gasped in agony.

'I know you're all hiding him, covering for him, see? I don't want no bovver, see? And I don't want to hurt no-one else, see?' Each question was punctuated by a hard shove of the body, winding Tobin more each time and causing him agony in his leg. 'But, if someone does get in the way... well, too bad,... see?' To really emphasise the last question Tobin was thrown on to the foot of the stairs, hitting his head on the rail as he went down. He lay there trying to refill his crushed lungs, one hand nursing his leg, the other his bruised head.

The face appeared close to his again. 'By ve way. You've had a visitor upstairs, done a bunk when he saw you chatting to that bloke out there. So don't try and blame me for any mess. OK?'

The door opened and Tobin could see in the light from outside the striking resemblance to Alan Harper. He also registered a brown leather bomber jacket and light trousers before the door slammed shut and he was alone in the dark.

He lay there trying to recover his breath, head swimming, stomach churning, he began to shake. The pushing and shoving and close face brought back dark memories of school bullies. He had buried those memories twenty five years before, but, this encounter had brought them flooding back. He needed a third hand to massage his constricted throat. He sat up breathing deeply to fight back the sickness. The light switch was just within reach and the sixty watts of light steadied his nerves. He turned and climbed the stairs, slowly, on all fours. The intruder's parting words came back to him as he reached the top and saw that all the doors were closed, something he never did. His heart, which had just started to calm down, began to pound again. He took the two steps to the living room door and opened it. The room had not been searched like Teri's had; his room had been vandalised. The only item that appeared intact was the light bulb in the table lamp that still glowed, lying bare on the floor, dimmed by some papers which lay over it. He picked his way across the room and stood it upright.

He walked cautiously to his office, his heart alternately in his boots and his mouth. He pushed the door, he pushed harder and whatever was obstructing it gave way and he looked round it. The contents of every folder, file, drawer and shelf lay on the floor. On top were the computer, printer and fax machine, all smashed and topped off with the contents of the cafetiere that he had not drunk that morning because he had let it go cold.

He turned his back on the mess and retraced his steps to the kitchen. The back door hung open, the frame splintered around the lock keeps. He looked outside down into the backyard and saw the back gate standing open. He turned to go back in and saw the black scuff marks on the outside of the back door by the lock where a boot had made several contacts before the door gave way.

He picked up the kitchen phone and dialled. As he put the phone to his ear he realised that there was no response. He replaced it and walked to the office. A black scuff mark down the skirting board showed where a boot heel had stamped the telephone socket off, breaking the circuit.

He thought back a few hours to Teri's flat, which had been tidy by comparison. Tobin's was going to take an awful lot more time to restore. He wouldn't dream of letting this go unreported. With a deep sigh that almost released the tears he went back down to the front door. He might as well walk round to the police station as stand there contemplating the destruction. He pulled out his mobile phone, flat battery.

Behind the front door crumpled against the skirting board was a white envelope. He picked it up and straightened it out, there were footprints on it, but there was no name or address. He pushed it into his back pocket.

Mrs Harton's café was in darkness as Tobin emerged into the street. He didn't have to walk far before finding Murdoch and Symmonds parked at the corner of the square.

It was midnight, nearly six hours later, when Tobin finally closed his front door wishing the last police officer 'Good Night'. Quite surprising had been the early appearance of D.S. McColl, who was supposed to be off duty and his sympathetic attitude toward Tobin when he saw the damage. A Scenes of Crime Officer was only a few minutes behind McColl. Her initial checks showed that the intruder had probably worn gloves. The only detectable prints were Tobin's and in many places they were smudged out by a blank patch, caused, possibly, by a gloved hand.

When Tobin speculated on the motive behind the break-in, he was surprised when McColl did not disagree with a possible link to the disappearance of Alan Harper. While Murdoch had a sift through the other rooms of the flat Tobin, McColl and Symmonds tried to sort through the office. Beneath the surface layer of tipped paper work, which they just shovelled into boxes for Tobin to sort later, they found the first signs that Tobin's suspicions might have some foundation. His address folder and another folder containing notes he had made on the disappearance of Alan Harper were lying neatly open on the floor. Tobin commented to McColl that all the papers were in reverse order. The detective stopped what he was doing, thought for a moment and dug out the damaged fax machine. Prising it open he produced the end of the paper roll from within. He held it up to Tobin in mute question.

'Yes. That was a nearly new roll. I never use it these days,' agreed Tobin. The pages of notes and addresses had been fed through the fax machine to make copies. He quickly scooped the loose pages together before McColl could get a look.

After bidding PCs Murdoch and Symmonds farewell four hours after they were supposed to finish their shifts, he returned to the front room and reached for the TV remote control. He threw the useless instrument on the floor as he remembered it wouldn't work, his mindless visitor had spitefully put something threw the screen of his television.

Tobin felt something in his back pocket, he took out the envelope. In a closer study it now looked familiar. Not that it was anything other than a plain white envelope; it was the two previous white envelopes he had seen recently that gave this one a certain familiarity. As he tore it open and extracted the single white sheet he knew he was right. In Alan Harper's neat handwriting it was dated and timed that afternoon.

' _John,_

Sorry I've missed you, but I can't make appointments!

I just wanted to say thanks for fighting my corner. I know it's not been easy and there have been some complications that no-one could have foreseen. I suppose that it's nice to know that some folk should think me that important that they panic, as some have. I'm not of course, and they can all get on perfectly well without me. Better, in fact, 'cos they don't have to pay me money anymore! We'll have to find a way of telling them that, won't we?

Please don't give up, John. It will be worth your while. Honestly. But, we do need to talk tho'. I'm not really hiding from the police. I expect that Teri has explained a few things to you by now and that you will understand when I tell you that I was not exactly heart broken when I heard of Rosemary's death, sad – yes, broken-hearted – no.

By now you will also know about me and Julie Lambert. Well, you do now! I'm going to try and persuade her to come away with me. I might need your help there, especially as Teri doesn't know anything about this, and Julie isn't too keen on leaving.

I'll sort her out, never the less! OK?

Keep smiling

Cheers

Alan.

Tobin laid the letter on the settee beside him and blew out a lung-full of air. It took a large handful of salt to believe the, 'I'm not really hiding from the police.... 'bit. He was certainly hiding, and if not from the police, then from whom? Tobin had met one of the answers earlier that night, he was certain; he rubbed his throat as he recalled the incident. Alan had been hiding for twenty years, perhaps he was so used to it that he'd forgotten! Now came the ultimate foolishness, Julie Lambert! How could Alan think she would leave with him? She had a string of men trailing after her. Alan was just one of them. She was certainly a good looking lady and, by several accounts he had heard, 'good company'! Charming, discreet, attractive and with a voracious appetite for men was the picture that had been given to Tobin, and the chances of her going off with Alan Harper were nil, in his opinion.

Well, he'd found the fatal flaw in the character of Alan Harper: women!

He folded the note and put it back in his pocket. He felt sick with tiredness and as a reaction to the evening's events. He'd had enough for one day. He checked the security of the chair wedging the back door shut and collapsed into bed, thoughtfully remade for him by PC Murdoch. Now, there was a prospect... he didn't remember his head touching the pillow.

He was waking up to the sound of bells again. It wasn't the phone, but it took Tobin half a minute of shouting down the thing before he remembered that it wasn't working. He sat up, blinking; someone was ringing his doorbell with a double ring. He fell out of bed tangled in the duvet and looked at the clock, he double checked with his watch. Eleven-o-clock? The ringing stopped as he was hopping to the door, he still had on one shoe. Where was the other? He couldn't see it, it must be in the bed!

'I'm coming!' He yelled down the stairs, as he finally shed himself of the bedding. He kicked off the single shoe and slipped down the top three steps in his socks. 'Wait! Wait! Wait!' He called frantically, tumbling down the stairs. He fell against the front door and opened it a crack, just enough to peek through with one bleary eye.

Teri stood outside, her eyes widening with horror as the door opened further revealing a creased and crumpled John Tobin.

'Christ!' She caught her breath and coughed. 'Have you not been to bed?'

'Course I have. You just dragged me out of it.' He opened the door wider to allow her past and followed her up the stairs.

'Well, you look awful!' Looking at his rumpled clothes.

'Thanks. I've got news for you, too.'

She took one look in the office and front room and looked at him accusingly. 'When are you going to tidy this place up? It looks like a bomb has hit it!'

'I did, and one has! You should have seen it before the police came.' She turned back from the mess of the office her mouth open and her eyebrows rising in question. 'Yes. Me, as well. But, not nice and neat like yours. This guy went through here with a bulldozer. But, he'd had a search first, and copied some of the stuff I've got on the Alan thing. I played it down with McColl, didn't let on just what was in the notes, but he's not stupid. No matter what you think! He agreed that it wasn't just vandalism and was almost certainly connected with Alan's disappearance. Therefore, if someone's copied notes and things, why? McColl didn't say anything last night, but, I bet he'll be back.'

'Mmm. Well, I just left one rather irritable copper at the inquest, and I wouldn't risk a bet on it 'cos I'm certain he'll be back.' She paused. 'Did Alan ever talk to you about a Julie Lambert?' She watched him carefully as he turned away.

'Yes. He .. er .. did mention her. She's the manager in the estate agent chain.' He said, lightly, but cautiously.

'Oh. I know that! She was more than that! And now she's dead as well!' Tobin was staring out of the window seeing nothing. 'Did you hear?'

'Yes. I heard. How?'

'I don't know. McColl just got the call as we left the inquest. Which was adjourned, by the way, to wait for reports.'

Tobin fished the letter out of his back pocket, flattened out the creases and slowly held it out to her. 'Read that.'

She read it through several times as they sat on the settee and Tobin related the events of the previous day after leaving her flat.

'That's typically Alan. He's dated and timed it; and that's not long after you phoned me yesterday. So, he could only just have missed me. He must have then gone somewhere and written that and come back and dropped it in. It doesn't sound as if he came with it already written, does it?' She shook her head, biting her lip.

'So,' Tobin continued, 'he was here in broad daylight. It's a wonder no-one saw him. I just hope he didn't go to Julie's.'

'Or at least wasn't seen.'

'I hope he didn't go at all!'

'We're presuming she was murdered, we don't know yet.'

'That's true. But, I'd put money on it. With her lifestyle there'll be some men out there with guilty consciences. Look at the hold she seems to have got over one, otherwise, very rational man that we know.' Tobin said, indicating the note. He got up from the settee and walked back to the window. 'Well, he was rational once.'

There was a police car drawn up at the kerb opposite. The lights in the café were still off and the 'closed' sign still on the door. His gaze rose to the windows above and he could see Mrs Harton sitting on the sofa. She looked distraught, biting the knuckles of one hand as PC Murdoch sat next to her looking concerned. As he watched the café owner's eyes met his across the street. She sat up and pointed across the street at him saying something to the policewoman in an agitated manner, her finger viciously stabbing the air in Tobin's direction. Murdoch, too, was looking straight at him as he turned away, a lead weight forming in his stomach.

To pass the time they continued clearing up the office. Tobin had great difficulty keeping Teri's nose out of his work. Eventually he had to abandon the job as she kept reading bits. In different circumstances he would have felt flattered, he rarely invited examination of his work preferring to trust his own judgement, but, the stream of questions and flattering comments merely irritated him and just increased his sense of anxiety. He could not understand why the feeling of foreboding had suddenly descended on him. It wasn't Alan now; it was the sight of the police over the road. Something was wrong, somehow, somewhere. Another schooldays analogy came to his mind; it was like standing outside the head's office; you hadn't done anything wrong, but you still felt guilty.

It was a relief when the doorbell finally rang and Tobin admitted PC Murdoch.

'Mick Harton's disappeared,'stated the policewoman, with no preamble, as she entered the front room. 'Oh. Good morning.' She said, surprised at seeing Teri emerge from the office. Tobin could see the policewoman's imagination working.

'Teri's just helping me clear up after last night.'

'Of course. Exactly what were you talking to Mick Harton about last night, Mr Tobin?'

'I asked him if he would help me write a piece about trucking and road transport, from the time when he was driving.'

'Nothing to do with Dale Transport, by any chance?'

'No!' His reply was too quick. 'Certainly not. Er... why?'

'He was a bit agitated after you left him. But, before his wife could settle him down Brian Dale barged in, took him outside and said something. After that she could do nothing with him. This morning when she woke he was gone and so was her car. He hasn't driven in years, doesn't have a licence any more. Naturally, she's worried sick and associates you with him running off; partly, anyway.'

'No. No. That's all I said to him. And that I'd contact him today to arrange a time, that's all. Really.'

The policewoman considered that for a moment.

'Something else Mrs Harton remembers; immediately after Dale left their place she saw Alan Harper come out of your door and make off down the street!' She stared him straight in the eye. 'That wouldn't be who you disturbed up here last night, would it?'

Tobin spluttered in astonishment.

'Rubbish! That was... .' Teri's interruption had been instinctive and Tobin's warning glance too obvious.

The policewoman looked from one to the other, one eyebrow raised, quizzically. 'That was... who?' She settled on Tobin.

'That wasn't Alan Harper.' Tobin said, resignedly.

'Then, who was it?'

'This is going to be a bit difficult to explain,' began Tobin. Murdoch was already getting out her notebook.

'Carry on.'

'For some time now, since around the time that Alan Harper disappeared, there's been a man, who looks just like Alan Harper, snooping around the area.'

'Really? No-one else has reported seeing him.' She countered.

'Well, perhaps not. They probably didn't think it very important.' More likely they didn't want to get involved, thought Tobin.

'Mmm,' her doubts were plain to see. 'I think you had better save this for the D.S.. He's on his way.'

For an hour Tobin tried to relate the broader picture, as he saw it, without giving away too much to the detective as they sat in the living room going over the events of the previous few weeks. He reluctantly handed over the most recent note from Alan Harper. Finally, he sat head in hands, elbows on knees as the detective reviewed what he had just heard.
'Mr Tobin,' he began, ominously. 'A man, a close friend of yours, goes missing and a week later his wife turns up dead, a suspicious combination, you must admit, and you omit to inform us of a communication that you received from him.

'The flat of their daughter is entered and searched, very professionally by the sound of it, and you omit to inform us.

'You do tell us about your own flat being broken into, but, you omit to tell us of an 'alleged' assault on yourself.

'You omit to mention that the missing man is in your flat and seen leaving by a witness, and, subsequently, the missing man's girlfriend, one of several, apparently, also turns up dead.

'And, now you tell us that it wasn't the missing man at all, but someone who looks uncannily like him! Although the missing man must have been here, as well, as you have yet another letter from him. You'll pardon me if I suggest that you've spent a little too long, perhaps, with your own fiction!' He snapped shut his notebook and, with heavy irony, said, 'don't go too far away, I think we're going to have to go over this again!' With a nod to Murdoch he left.

'It's all true!' Tobin said to Murdoch, with a gesture of despair, once the detective was gone. 'Look, you saw that note, why would he risk coming back here again the same day?'

'Perhaps he thought you would help him get away again.'

'Again!' Tobin exploded. He looked to Teri for support. She just stared at the carpet and said nothing.

'What else have you not told us, sir? Just what are we to believe?' asked Murdoch.

They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs. Symmonds appeared. He stood in the doorway and, with a jerk of the head, said to the policewoman, 'Going to need you over the road, again.'

As they left the room Tobin heard Symmonds say, 'They found him, in the car, on a golf course at the coast.'

'Dead?' asked Murdoch.

'Oh. Yes.' Said Symmonds, quite matter-of-factly. 'Hosepipe from the exhaust.' He added with a sigh, a trace of regret in his voice. Their voices faded down the stairs and the door slammed.

Tobin stared despairingly into space. Teri stared out of the window, expressionless.

\-------------------10\-------------------

Tobin rose early on Tuesday morning unsure of just how long he had actually been awake. He felt tired and a bit irritable as he poured some coffee from the previous night's pot and put it in the microwave; at least the kitchen hadn't been smashed up.

He had sat the previous night, with that pot of coffee, in front of the useless television and indulged in some serious self-analysis. There had been a great temptation to go out with Teri for a drink, but sensing the black mood that had descended on himself he cried off. Quite literally, when he was finally on his own; his emotions overwhelmed him.

His life could hardly be described as an inspiration to others. He had sat and thought about all the times that he had taken the easy option, or what had appeared to be the easy option at the time. Over the years it had become an easy habit. The irony of it was that, in the few instances where he had taken control he, still considered others first!

At about ten-o-clock he had gathered some scrap paper and made a list of the important points in his life.

The last few entries were all the same name, Alan Harper; from the job that he was now supposed to be doing, to the flat he now sat in, to the business that had been a success, but he had abandoned, because he didn't want the responsibilities. He had run away from that, like he had from so much else in his life. Now that he looked back, he couldn't understand why he had run away, but it was too embarrassing and quite pointless to go back now. But, was it? Events could not be undone, but they could be evaluated honestly. His one wish in all the world would be to be able to go back and erase those little portions of his life that followed him around, embarrassing to his memory and his confidence.

Even the university he had attended had been chosen for its convenience to home and the course he had taken had appeared to be the easiest of the options available. He wondered if that was why he hadn't finished it!

As he thought back, even the choices at school, those that he could remember, had been taken out of his hands; his own ideas had been over-ridden by those who supposedly knew better. They had been wrong and he knew, then and now, that he had been right in his selection of what he wanted to do, but they were inconvenient for others. He had allowed himself to be talked round and had done what was easier for others to cope with; which had been the norm then, he now understood. If you are not given the opportunity to make decisions for yourself, and suffer the consequences or enjoy the benefits, how were you ever going to learn? He had lapsed into a long period of philosophical speculation.

Reading back through his list again and examining the more clumsy of his life's choices he had begun to see them in a new light, some were still mildly embarrassing to remember but a lot more understandable.

In the early hours he had gone to bed, head swimming, marginally less depressed from the day's revelations, but deeply frustrated with himself. He was not at all sure what he had achieved by all that, but he had slept very well, until his early wakening.

The microwave pinged at him and he retrieved his coffee, he would have to drink it black again, the shops weren't open yet. He turned on the radio in time to hear the seven-o-clock news.

By the time the nine-o-clock news came round he had started his day, albeit with a great effort. He had showered and shaved, done some of his ironing, which he was now wearing, and been to the shops. He had then sneaked into the newspaper office to use the phone. He didn't need to sneak, there was no-one else in, yet.

The first number on his list was ringing. 'Good morning, Norrises.'

'Good morning, Norrises, could I speak to Mr Norris, please? It's John Tobin here, in Northumberland.'

'Hallo, Mr Tobin, I'm afraid my brother's not in yet.' How could he have not recognised that voice? 'Can I help?'

'I'm sure you can Angela. I, I should say we, were wondering how you were getting on looking into that identity.'

'Yes. Well, we sent a report to Miss Shaw last week. Has she not received it?'

'Oh! Not that I was aware of.' Unless she's playing games, again, he thought. 'She's been away for a week and I think there was some mix up with her mail...well... actually, it could have been stolen.' He thought aloud.

'Oh, dear. It was confidential stuff. I hope it's OK.'

Tobin was thinking just the same thing. 'So do I. Are you able to give me the gist of it?

'I suppose that would be OK.' She paused just long enough to gather her thoughts. 'Basically, the boy, Alan Harper, was born in Nottingham on 1st. September 1955; mother local, father is shown as being in the army; their wedding certificate shows them as marrying in May 1955, there's a little story there, I think! Interestingly, the mother only died a couple of years ago, in Nottingham. We've found some ex-neighbours and between them pieced together quite a lot of what happened. The father was posted abroad so was home very little and mother and son lived with her mother in Nottingham. That was until 1959. They then moved down to south London to live with the father's family, for work reasons, we think, but no-one's too sure. Sadly, he, the father, was killed. However, the little boy started school in south London at the age of five, but six months later was killed. A collapsing building hit the bus he was travelling on with his mother. She and the bus driver were hurt, but not badly, he was the only fatality. His body was brought back to Nottingham and buried here. That's the bare bones of it. The report has the precise details, which I can't recall right now.

'We've not gone beyond that for the moment. We were going to wait for Miss Shaw's reaction to the report. Is that of any use?' She enquired brightly.

'To be honest, I'm not sure,' said Tobin, scribbling down the last of the details. 'Can we get back to you after we've sorted ourselves out a bit?'

'Of course.'

Tobin would have liked to continue the conversation with that nice voice, but the office was now coming to life. They said their good-byes and he hung up. He did not know what to make of it and it was for Teri to instruct the Norrises to continue, if she wanted them to. He wrote 'Teri?' at the bottom of the notes, folded them and put them in his pocket. What had become of that report? He reached for the phone to call her but was interrupted.

'Hi! Long time, no see!'

He looked up to meet the smiling gaze of Heather Millin.

'How are you?'

'Bloody busy! Where have you been?'

'Busy, too.' He had time for Heather, she was a worker, and didn't normally complain. She would get on in life. She should have got on by now, but seemed happy to take her time. Can't criticise that, he thought! 'There's been a lot happening.'

'You're telling me! And I've been doing it all!'

'Really? Where's Nicola?'

She gave him a wry look. 'Even more absent than usual. Daddy's possibly pulling out so she's lost what little interest she had in the first place.' That was the first time he had heard her talk of her colleague in that manner. 'Pauline's trying to find a way of easing her out sooner, but, meanwhile, I'm running around like a blue-arsed fly!' She smiled, mischievously. 'Even Pauline's doing bits and pieces!

'Actually, you could help me with some of this background stuff. Would you mind? On Julie Lambert and Mick Harton; your name has cropped up in connection with both of them.' She gave a knowing, quizzical look.

'Really?' He feigned surprise. 'I'll swap you. Full story so far for background.'

'OK.'

'Julie first.'

'Right. Her friend,' Heather consulted her notebook, 'Sylvia, was supposed to pick Julie up for work – they take it in turns, week about – but couldn't get a response from the doorbell. She tried phoning, no good. She knew Julie must still be around as the milk was on the step and there was mail on the floor inside the door – you can see through the glass. So, she phoned the police.'

'Intuition?'

'Yes! Naturally! The police arrived and hunted about a bit. They found the cat outside the backdoor unable to get in through its catflap, there was something in the way.'

'Julie.'

'I'm telling this! Yes. They broke the door down and found her lying in a huge pool of blood. She'd been stabbed several times. 'A frenzied attack' according to your friend McColl.'

'Not my friend!'

'The immediate neighbours say they heard a row the previous day, but didn't see anything. However,' she paused for effect, 'some others, particularly a lady over the road, saw your friend Alan Harper coming and going. And, someone else saw him come back again, later, not long before dark.'

'And go?'

'I don't think so. It would appear that he was a fairly regular visitor, and not the only one! Some of the more upright citizens in the street are most disapproving of her, I might add.' She gave Tobin that knowing sort of look, again. 'She's been the subject of much gossip for a long while in that street with opinion well divided; most of it based on envy or admiration. She is... was... a very charming person, I know.

'Anyway, quite a few people it would seem saw your friend. A friend of one of the neighbours actually saw him arrive and depart outside her house, around the corner, in a small red Nissan car. But, get this, when he got out of the car he put on a crash helmet!' Tobin looked at her in disbelief. She asked, 'Not his style?'

Tobin shook his head. 'Neither a crash helmet nor a small, red Nissan.'

'A man in a crash helmet was seen walking down the road, and, of course, the woman over the road saw him take it off as he went in Julie's house, and put it back on again as he came out.'

'They only saw him in the car once?'

'I think so, I'm not really sure.'

'The second time he was only seen walking?'

'Uhuh. I think so.' She said, slowly, thoughtfully.

'And with no crash helmet?'

'I don't think so.'

'You're not certain?'

'I hadn't realised there was so much importance attached to it, at the time. He was seen, that's it. That's all the police were interested in. Especially as he wasn't seen leaving, again.'

'We need to be certain. Clothing is important, for one thing. I'd bet the first Alan was wearing something quite different to the second Alan.'

'First, second?'

'Uhuh. The second will be wearing a leather bomber jacket and light trousers and actually looks older than Alan Harper if you get close.'

Heather looked a little doubtfully at Tobin. 'I had heard of this other person,' she said uncertainly, 'but, I think there are those who are rather sceptical about him; like the police, for instance!'

'Well, I can give you the names of three other reliable people, besides myself, who have seen him. One works here, Linda in reception. And there's ..'

'OK. OK!

'What about Mick Harton?'

She flicked through her notebook to another page. 'The police reckon he left home shortly after he and Mrs Harton went to bed. The car was found at the coast by a dog walker, the engine was still running. They've worked out that timing from the amount of fuel left in, roughly. Apparently he had been in a really good mood that day, for him, helping in the café and talking more than usual about the family and the grandchildren. Then you talking to him got him quite excited, you know, happy excited. It seems he hasn't spoken to anyone outside the family for years.'

'Yes. I did rather trap him, he couldn't avoid me.'

'Anyway, his wife was just trying to get some sense out of Mick when in barges Brian Dale and drags poor Mick to the kerbside and says something very forcefully in his ear and storms off. Mrs H. rushes out to Mick, who doesn't want to know and runs upstairs, when she sees Alan Harper coming out of your door, where you have just gone in. She didn't think much about it at the time, as she was more concerned about her husband. This has happened before, apparently, and they both hate the sight, sound and everything else about Dale.' She looked at him enquiringly. 'Mick has been physically sick over it in the past, so there's obviously some strong feelings there. The police are looking for Dale 'to assist them with their enquiries'.'

'How's Mrs Harton? Did she see a motorcyclist at my door?'

'Yes, she did. Twice. Not long after you went out at lunchtime,' said Heather, trying to put two and two together.' I tell you, she knows your every move and habit, that lady.'

'Nothing better to do standing behind that counter all day,' muttered Tobin.

'So, background, then.' She turned to a fresh page in her notebook.

Over several plastic cups of coffee Tobin found himself being quite expertly quizzed about the pasts of Alan Harper, Julie Lambert and Mick Harton. Heather seemed quite happy with the story of the second Alan Harper and Tobin had to make her double check with Linda the receptionist. It reassured him to have his story corroborated, and Heather agreed to speak to the others who had met him; also Tobin remembered Davies the milkman and his sightings of a man in a car. Heather agreed to follow them up immediately and departed full of enthusiasm.

Talking things over with someone else hadn't really helped as much as he had hoped it would. Everything was a bit of a jumble in his mind and seemed to exist on two planes. One in which he was directly involved, such as flat break-ins and assaults and the other, the third person aspect where he was trying to assimilate a history that was incomplete and, to a great extent, hearsay that was probably inaccurate. Making sure he made no references to Nottingham and private detectives had complicated matters, as well. He had found himself in danger of losing the thread of his story with Heather, as he had with the police, while trying to avoid any hint of their discovery.

It was turning into a nightmare into which he had blindly rushed. Or had he been dragged?

He turned to his list of 'things to do' that sat on the desk before him. On the right were a series of phone numbers, he crossed off the first one, 'done'. After a moment's thought he underlined the last one and dialled.

Tobin heard the phone ring twice and then rattle as it was grabbed from the cradle. The familiar, rumbling tones just repeating the Hastings phone number was so reassuring. He knew he had made the right decision, as long as it was acceptable at that end.

'Hullo, Uncle Russell.' It was faintly absurd this forty-year-old calling someone 'uncle,' but, he had always been 'uncle' and no other form of address seemed right.

'Hello, my boy!' Boomed from the phone, he had obviously forgotten the forty years, as well. 'You coming to see us?' Straight to the point, as always.

'Please.' That saved him having to ask. 'If that's OK?'

'Whenever. You just turn up. The bed's made! Where are you?'

'I'm still in Northumberland. Tonight?'

'Don't take too long, see you when you arrive.'

'Thanks... .' But he had gone already.

The next call was to a local handyman to arrange repairs to the flat while he was away.

The third call was to Teri. She sounded a bit distracted.

'John, you remember when you were helping me tidy the flat on Sunday?'

'Yes.'

'And you looked at the photos I was going to put in the album?'

'Yes!' Get on with it!

'Did you take one?'

'No. What's missing?'

'A really nice enlargement of Alan. I printed it specially to go in the front of this album and now I can't find it.'

'Maybe it's with the report from Norris.'

'What report?'

'The report they posted to you, last week?'

She was silent for a moment. 'I haven't got a report.' There was another short silence. 'Oh. No! The post!'

'What about the post?'

'When I went away I left most of the post unopened. And, when I came back,' she was speaking slowly as she thought aloud, 'there was none. I remember, now, even the post I left behind wasn't there!'

'Do you remember seeing anything from Nottingham?'

'No. But, I was in such a hurry... .'

'So. Whoever did your flat has a good photo of Alan and the report on his false identity. Whoever did my flat has seen, and probably copied, all my notes from the detectives and a good contact list. I hope they are different people!' He was thoughtful for a minute.

'Are you still there?' Demanded Teri.

'Yes. Sorry. Look, I'm going away for a few days, to see family, can I leave my car at your place when I get the train?'

'Yes.' She sounded suspicious.

'Great! I'll see you then.' He hung up before she could say any more.

Before leaving the office he sought out Heather Millin once more. 'I forgot to ask you, what did forensic find at Julie Lambert's?'

'Nothing.'

'Wiped clean was it?'

'Yes. How did you know?'

'Just a guess. Thanks. I'm going away for a few days' rest, with family. If anything interesting crops up, you can ring me at this number, the mobile's not too reliable.' He copied the Hastings number from his list for her. 'Thanks again. Bye.' He escaped before she could ask whatever she was obviously going to ask.

Pausing only to superficially tidy his flat and fill a bag he headed for Newcastle. He had argued with himself over the value of taking his notes with him, after all, he was going to get away from it all. However, the fear of losing them in some way won the day and they lay on top of his clothes in his grip. The bag was stuffed full as he couldn't be bothered to decide what he wanted, he had just taken handfuls of everything and bundled them in. Consequently the bag was a ton weight.

The temptation to divert past Intercon Cuisine was too great and when he got there the gates were open. He drove across the yard and parked next to a small red Nissan. Delving through his disturbed notes he found the name given him by Vince Chapman, Mrs Gould. Looking at the disordered notes he wondered if anyone had been there before him and if so who.

Inside the plain, red painted door was an aluminium wall plaque inviting visitors to climb the stairs to the office. Beside the plaque was another door through which Tobin took a quick peek into the warehouse. He was surprised, what from the outside appeared to be several small warehouses, with separate doors, was all one inside, stacked high with pallets of goods. The unmistakable smell of stored dried food wafted out. He closed the door and turned to the stairs, observing for the first time the little TV camera watching the small lobby. The stairs led to a small, but plush suite of offices on the first floor at the side of the building with windows looking out on to the side yard. These were the windows that Tobin had seen lit when he had last called by.

It was strangely quiet, the reception office was unattended and extremely tidy, however it was lunchtime. Through the glass partition behind the reception desk a larger office was open to view. It contained two desks and associated furniture and showed signs of work, papers and folders left neatly stacked with empty coffee mugs and pens set neatly about. A further door behind led into a darkened room, a dim glow showed at the back.

As he entered the first office the dim glow moved and showed itself to be light reflecting in a pair of spectacles that were looking back at him.

'Hullo!' He called, giving a tentative wave. There was no response. He moved into the office and the spec's rose and met him at the second door. They were huge lenses on the face of a small, attractive but determined looking woman with red hair. 'I'm looking for Mrs Gould,' he continued.

The glasses continued to stare back up at him. She was a good nine inches shorter than Tobin, smartly dressed in a fitted, two piece business suit. The red hair was cut short and accentuated her fine, angular features. He thought that he should expect nothing less than such an attractive lady where Alan Harper was concerned. Her face changed, the jawline hardened and her full lips drew thin.

'Yes?'

'Mrs Gould?'

'Yes.'

'My name's John Tobin. I'm a friend of Alan Harper.

'Really?'

'I'm trying to help him; somehow.'

'Does he need your help?' He could detect a slight Scottish accent.

'He said so, yes.'

'Really? When was this?' She turned and Tobin followed her into the darkened room. Behind the door was a bank of security monitors, the blinds on the windows had been drawn to keep the sunlight off the screens. Tobin could see that his arrival had almost certainly been monitored.

'He left me a note the other day. Unfortunately the police have it, now. But, he's given me no clue; just saying he'll be in touch. But, it's all piling up against him now and I don't know what I can do. So, as I was passing, I thought I would look in and see if you could help.' It was feeble. She obviously felt the same, making no reply. Tobin stumbled on. 'I've not been here before because I didn't know it existed, but, we, that's Alan's stepdaughter and I, reckon he's gone to France, and... well, I thought this is a link with France,... isn't it?' He tried his best disarming smile.

'It is.'

He tried again. 'Look. The note was hand delivered; if Alan didn't deliver it, who did? Someone else from here who wears a crash helmet and drives a small red Nissan?' Her gaze finally left his face and settled on the desk in front of her. Did he detect a flicker of a smile?

'Just how do you propose to help Mr Harper?'

'However I can! But, unless I get some concrete suggestions, I can't really do anything! It's not just the police who are looking for him, there's a very unpleasant character who's been around for a while asking questions.' Her emotionless stare had returned to his face, her eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses. 'He's uncannily like Alan to look at.' Was there a glimmer of recognition behind those spec's? 'He could be a murderer!' But now he was getting ahead of himself. 'You've heard of a Julie Lambert, have you?'

'Yes. I have. Now.' Tobin felt himself on uncertain ground.

'Well, you don't think Alan did that, do you?'

'I do not,' she replied through tight lips.

'Neither do I,' this was becoming hard work. Something had changed since Vince Chapman had said she would be on his side. He had a sudden thought. 'How did you hear about Julie Lambert's death?'

'This morning's paper,' she pushed a copy of the morning paper toward him.

There, across pages one and three, were the now familiar photos and a rehash of Rosemary's death backing up a short report on the murder 'in a quiet Northumberland town'. Julie was referred to more than once as 'the missing man's girlfriend' and references were made to her lifestyle and good looks. In the middle of the report Tobin found a reference to the latest note. Without mentioning the note specifically it was reported that 'a recent communication from the missing man' had stated 'his desire' to take Miss Lambert away with him. Where had that come from?

'This was all news to you, was it?' That was a crass question Tobin!

'Yes. Is it true?'

'Well,... .'

'I do know you, Mr Tobin. You're a newspaper man, is that report correct?'

'Well,... basically... . Yes. I'm sorry, I can't tell you anything else. Alan's a complex man, I'm discovering, and if there is some other purpose behind this, I don't know what it is. But, it wouldn't surprise me. Is there somewhere in France where he... I could leave a message for him, perhaps?'

'There's the head office in France.' She took a With Complements slip from a stationery draw and handed it to him.

'I thought this was the head office. Does Alan not own this business, after all?'

'That end of the business is run by M. Martin,' her French pronunciation was quite precise, 'Mr Harper's partner; who I haven't met!'

'Really?'

'They each run their own end of the business and meet regularly.'

'I see.' Did he? 'Thanks very much. I'll see myself out.'

She followed him to the door and watched him descend. As he reached the bottom he heard her shut the door. He ducked through the warehouse door and quickly shut it behind him before he had consciously thought of the move, and before Mrs Gould could get back to the security monitors.

Keeping close to the wall he made his way to the back corner. He could see to the far end from here and he moved on again. The aroma of foodstuffs, herbs, spices, vegetables and even the sacking that contained them surrounded him. There were labels in French, Italian, Spanish and hieroglyphs that he could only guess at. Each roller shutter door at the front of the warehouse served a separate loading bay. In the first one was a white van, of the type that he had seen on his last visit. Parked next to it was a large motorcycle, resting on the saddle was a crash helmet bearing the logo of the motorcycle manufacturer.

In the far loading bay stood a curtain sided articulated trailer, partly unloaded. A pallet of Italian olive oil rested on the forks of a fork-lift truck, suspended in mid-transfer. Tobin could hear the beat of rock music and rounding the end of the trailer saw a portable office in the corner of the building by the furthest roller shutters.

Inside the office a youth had his feet up on the desk, twitching to the beat of the music from a radio; he was engrossed in a tabloid newspaper.

Tobin rapped on the door and entered without being asked as the lad all but fell off his tilted chair. 'Sorry, did I disturb you?' Tobin shouted over the music, which was very loud now that he had opened the door.

'We're not back till two.' Said the boy, sullenly. The paper had fallen and revealed that he had been studying page three. At Tobin's glance he gathered it up, embarrassed.

'You shouldn't be in here.'

'Oh. It's OK; I was just on my way out from the office and popped in to say Hallo. Is that your bike back there?'

The youth nodded, proudly.

'Did I see you coming in on it last Sunday?'

He thought for a moment and then nodded.

'Overtime, eh?' No response. 'I was looking for Mr Harper. You know Mr Harper, the boss?' A slight nod and a suspicious look. 'Anybody else been looking for him?' He asked, casually, looking round.

'Police.'

'Really? Anyone else? Big man, white hair, looks like Mr Harpers older brother?'

He nodded, again.

'When was that?'

He shrugged. 'Two or three weeks.'

'Two or three weeks ago? Nobody else?'

He shook his head staring over Tobin's shoulder. Tobin turned to see Mrs Gould standing by the fork lift.

'I thought you were going!' through those tight lips, again.

'I am. Right now.' Out of the corner of his mouth he said, 'Thanks, lad.' As he passed Mrs Gould he said loudly, 'That's a good lad you've got there. Bye.' He strode out of the warehouse, not daring to look back.

\-------------------11\-------------------

Seven hours travel brought Tobin back to his hometown. The taxi from the station, where he had left the last train from London, was climbing away from the town centre to The Ridge that overlooked Hastings, and in the distance the English Channel. It was a clear night and quiet and he leant back in the seat to stretch his travel weary legs.

'Long day, mate?'

'Yes; very.' And what a day!

He had made his escape from Intercon Cuisine and the glowering Mrs Gould and, after fifteen minutes fast drive, had parked near Teri's flat in a redbrick street in the Jesmond area of Newcastle, overlooking the great green area of the Town Moor.

After handing Teri the keys, with a warning not to try to move the car, but, find a mechanic, they had caught the underground Metro system to the station. Over a cup of coffee, for the fifteen minutes waiting for his train, he had brought her up to date.

She had said nothing, but there had been an imploring look in her eyes as she gave him an unusually fond farewell. Was she just thinking of herself? Or him? Or Alan? Or all three of them. He suspected, cynically, that it was the first, but hoped it was the last.

As the taxi approached the turn for the old house with all its childhood memories he became aware of all the new housing, the place was changing. He had visited it many, many times since, but the memories were always those of childhood. The lane that he remembered used to be dark and scary with not many other houses near, this road was made up and streetlights shone brightly. He was about to question the taxi driver when he saw the street name board and realised just how long it had been since he had last made this journey. The final two hundred yards were down the familiar rough track he was glad to see and he paid the driver off at the gate by the lights of the car.

He walked up the long, curving drive and stood at the front door. With his back to the house he could see the sea twinkling in the moonlight beyond the woodland that masked out the near part of the town below. He dropped his bag, took a deep breath of fresh air and blew it out again. He was tired, hungry and thirsty, in no particular order, but happy.

He turned back to the door, there was a new illuminated bellpush, 'Mr & Mrs R.B. Foy.' He pressed the button and heard a distant chime. The light in the hall brightened as a door opened and a figure was silhouetted behind the glass as the hall light was switched on. Hazel Foy was Russell's second wife and twenty-five years his junior. The door opened.

'Nick, nice to see you.' She took him by the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. She sounded genuine enough; he had hardly got to know her after their marriage and they had only met a couple of times since. He thought her voice had deepened in that time and he wondered if it was the effect of being around the sonorous tones of his uncle; which he now heard from somewhere within. 'C'min, m'boy.' He could feel the voice as much as hear, it rolled down the hall and enveloped them. Hazel smiled at it, shook her head with a laugh and led him down the hall and into the living room. Russell was stretched on an enormous settee, the picture of contentment.

Despite his sixty seven years and bulky form he sprang to his feet and strode across the room and pumped Tobin's arm with a massive hand. 'Good to see you, Nick. Long trip? Come and sit down.' The heavy bag was taken from him and cast aside as if it was nothing more than a coat and he was propelled to a seat. 'Here this is what you need. Gets rid of all those tensions!' An expensive brandy was sloshed into a vast glass and pressed into his hand. 'I was just working it out, it's five years since you were here last. Too long!'

'Yes. But, it was just after your wedding, so I didn't want to stop long and then, with one thing and another, I've been busy. Time flies!'

'Whatever the excuse it's too long and I think you should promise now, before we go any further, that you will visit us again in the very near future!'

'I promise. I promise.' He laughed, he just felt so safe, so welcome and secure in this house. He didn't need the brandy, the company was instantly relaxing, he felt as if he had been there only a week before rather than five years. This was the man he had hoped to emulate in his youth, not that he wanted to follow the legal profession, but he had always been greatly influenced by Russell's presence, his character and his confidence. His personality so dominated everything and without any hint of arrogance, although he could turn that on as well and crush a person flat, if he wanted to. He had been famous for that in many court appearances, turning expert witnesses into mumbling wrecks. Fortunately, he kept that side of his nature just for work, the only trait that spanned private and working life was the wicked sense of humour, a truly cutting wit. It was quite childish hero worship, Tobin knew, but he still fell under the spell.

Russell was studying him over the top of his half-moon reading glasses, the twinkling, mischievous eyes generating a mass of laugh lines. He could still make Tobin feel like a small boy.

'Don't you think he looks better, now that he's finally agreed to retire from that ghastly business?' Asked Hazel, pointedly.

'Yes... .'

'Hah! A "ghastly business" that kept you in frocks and in the manner to which you rapidly became accustomed!' His hand enveloped the brandy bottle and he splashed some more into his glass. 'Hmmph!' A huge smile spread across his face and he grabbed for Hazel as she passed by. She shook her head and rolled her eyes up at Tobin in mock despair at her husband.

'Have you eaten?' She asked Tobin.

'Not much, actually.'

'Good.'

Hazel was right, Russell looked a great deal better than Tobin remembered. For one thing his face had colour which did a great deal for the ready smile, displaying a full set of bright, white, original teeth and accentuating the lines on his face. He had always appeared relaxed, but, now he was positively carefree.

It was Tobin's turn to watch now and he could see the genuine affection that they had for each other, Russell's eyes followed his wife around the room and she regularly contrived to touch him whenever she was close. Tobin reckoned that Hazel was the rejuvenating factor in Russell's life as much as the retirement.

Tobin thought of Aunt June, Russell's first wife, and a greater contrast he could not imagine. June had always seemed older than her husband, whether she was or not he didn't know, and had always maintained a very severe countenance. The atmosphere in the house had always been restrained when she was about, it was when she was away that Russell changed; and Tobin had spent a lot of time there. At first he had not liked her, but, as he got older he came to realise just how kind she really was and that the hard exterior hid, as so often was the case, a soft heart. Tobin had come to look upon the two of them as second parents, which the childless couple had worked hard to encourage, and he had been deeply saddened by June's early death. He had been equally upset by family talk of Russell having driven her to her early grave by his increasingly high profile in the courts, and some of his outspoken comments in the press, which he loved to give just to watch the controversy. But, to June, all the attention was too much. It seemed to be crushing her with its intensity and she became more and more withdrawn and frail while Russell went from strength to strength. The truth was that she was very ill and encouraged him to get out and away, to stop him moping about the house, as he fretted about her and his inability to make right the one thing in his life that he didn't want to lose. As the only really successful member of his family he was regarded with a combination of great pride and deep jealousy. Tobin could remember his own father being quite disparaging about Russell when reading a report of another successful court case of his brother's.

Tobin's mother had been quite tight-lipped about him; it was hard for him to do right in her eyes, too. As her husband's big brother, the middle of five siblings, he was a monster for being successful – 'he must have done it on the backs of others' – and 'deserved' to fail when occasionally he lost a case. She was almost gleeful when one of his cases failed, fortunately, a rare occurrence.

Russell sailed through it all, but with less and less contact with his family, Tobin realised now that the family had backed away from Russell rather than him leaving them. It had been saddening when Tobin had to persuade his family members to attend June's funeral. And then afterwards he had tried to keep the peace, in this house, where he had always enjoyed himself, and was once again enjoying himself.

After June's death Russell had buried himself in work for a few months and then burst back into the public life representing an actress in a well reported, and most said ill-advised, case. He had won her an apology from a national newspaper and modest damages. As the informed opinion at the time had been that he was on to a 'dead cert. loser', Russell's image revived; much to the further disdain of his family.

When Russell announced that he was to marry Hazel Attaway-Smith, TV personality and great friend of the fortunate actress that Russell had just successfully defended, that sealed the future of his family relationship. There was an immediate outburst of sympathy and mourning for the once disliked June. Russell Foy hid his disappointment and went ahead and married his new love and had never been spoken to by his family again; except for Tobin, who was the only one to understand, and who, in return, had continued to be welcomed to his favourite home. For home was what it had been as he worked his way through university and drifted away from his own family. He, also, had changed, now.

Hazel had been, and still was in an occasional capacity, a minor TV personality and presenter. They had a whirlwind romance and were married and, despite all the gloomy predictions of being 'on the rebound' and 'the age gap is too great', they had made it work, with obvious success. She was far from shy and had no difficulties in coping with her extrovert husband and he in turn relished the challenge of the age difference. He had never really grown out of his twenties, anyway.

Tobin was slumped on the settee with his head back staring at the ceiling when he realised that the room was quiet and that the pair of them were watching him, Russell with a big grin on his face and Hazel standing in the doorway holding a pot of coffee. He sat up blinking with embarrassment.

'You were off somewhere nice there, lad. Your face was a picture!'

'Have some coffee before that stuff goes straight to your head, if it hasn't already.' Hazel sounded disapproving. She produced a tray of sandwiches and snacks to eat with the coffee and placed them on the table between them. Satisfied that they were all catered for she sat beside Tobin with a big smile. 'We don't see much in the way of family these days, and you are his favourite family, did you now that?'

'You've been around a long while, haven't you, Nick?'

'Russ!' She turned to Tobin. 'You know I've always wanted to meet Nicholas Foy.'

'Well, in a sense you won't!' said Tobin, hesitantly. 'He doesn't really exist anymore; he died with his books and childish ambitions; he's called John Tobin now. That's what everyone knows me as. I don't think anyone up our way has ever heard of Nick Foy!' He paused, embarrassed. 'Did Russell tell you about him?'

'No. I was a mature student and we had a lecturer at university who was nuts about 'The Delicate Agent'.'

Tobin grimaced at the memory of it. 'That was an awful thing,' he said, embarrassed that part of his past that he most wanted to forget was being dredged up again. 'That was a load of rubbish that was sold on the back of a load of hype. The reviews were terrible, and rightly so, but I think they helped, in a perverse kind of way.'

He gave a deprecating little laugh. 'I couldn't tell you what it was all about now, you know. I spent the minimum amount of time on it. I took the themes of about three popular books of the time, mixed them about a bit and put it into a trendy setting. Ugh!' He shook himself. 'I'm embarrassed thinking about it.'

'Well, you shouldn't be,' interrupted Russell, loudly.

Hazel waved down the annoying interruption. 'I got the impression that it was very successful for you.' She paused. 'You know, you have to make mistakes to learn by them.' That was a Russellism if ever he heard one. 'What became of the other two books?'

'You know about those?' It was getting worse! 'They were no better, were worse in fact! The technique was a bit better perhaps, but the content was abysmal. I never really found out what became of them because the publisher folded.' Hazel frowned, interested. 'The publisher of 'Agent' was a little fly by night company; none of the true publishers would touch it. Anyhow they struck lucky; with some cute marketing and a lot of luck, I believe. They made quite a bit of money, of which I didn't see my fair share, I later discovered. They then wanted another two books, 'to make a package', they said. I knocked them both out in a year and was knocked out by it myself. I had never had a job before let alone worked alone and I couldn't pace myself properly, it was either abject panic or total complacency.' He laughed at the memory. 'Terrible! I only got a part of the advance that they promised and none of the profits, if there were any! I was very green, very trusting in those days, I still am, I suppose. I had my head down, busy working away and never checked what was going on. Mind you if I had checked I probably wouldn't have realised anything was going on. Anyway, they grabbed what they could and folded the company while I was away somewhere. I did get some money from the reissue of 'Agent', and TV rights that came to nothing, and that's my nest egg, hardly touched. I live a simple, single, quiet life now and I'm comfortable not being Nick Foy.' He stretched back wearily, not wishing to look at either of them.

'That's the first time I've ever told that story.' He admitted, after a long pause. He might as well finish it. 'So, after that I teamed up with a friend and the two of us worked on many things like copywriting for adverts and promotions, odd scripts for broadcast, comedy sketches, but, eighty per cent was copy for one ad. agency. But, my friend was restless, thought we should be earning more, have more recognition. So, one day out of the blue he announced that he had contracted with another company and would I go with him? "We'll show them what we're worth; I'm never working for the other lot again!" All that kind of thing. I have to admit, the prospects were much better; but the money was crap! However, I really enjoyed it, but he got restless again. It involved a lot of travelling and he didn't like that, so he negotiated for us to return to the first ad. agency, "just like the old days". He assured me it was all arranged and I finished off the old contract with a terrible rush. He disappeared off on holiday and when I went to sort out about returning I discovered that I wasn't, only my 'friend' was going back, they wanted to keep on one of the replacement people, a nice dolly blonde. I don't mean that nastily, she genuinely was nice.

'Well, he claimed he knew nothing about it, but I've been told different things by other people since. You can imagine what that did for my confidence. It took an awful lot of getting over, if I have got over it. Having your trust, your loyalty, betrayed like that hurts so much; it is like a physical pain. I had placed so much faith in that 'friend'; I didn't know what to do. Fortunately, someone wanted a driving job doing almost immediately and that was a bit of distraction. But, I was left high and dry because I relied on that one person for all the work, he had all the contacts and I just trailed along.' The similarity to Tobin's current situation did not escape him, he hadn't learnt any lessons after all!

There was a pause while Russell and Hazel pondered on the burden that Tobin had just released. The dam had obviously been cracking for some time and had finally given with just the slightest push. Tobin suddenly felt very insecure; a trouble shared could be a weakness exposed.

'So. What brings you down here then, m'boy?'

'Russell!' Her gaze rolled heavenwards. 'Tomorrow!'

'We understand each other, don't we lad?'

She gave an exasperated sigh; Russell just gave a great big grin. It was infectious, all three of them were laughing.

'Alright!' He said holding up his hand. 'Tomorrow. But, before bed, the News!' Russell picked up a bunch of remote controls and flicked through the news channels on the television, eventually settling on the American CNN. Tobin looked on; he must get himself up to date!

Wednesday dawned bright and Tobin was awake early, due to leaving the bedroom window and curtains wide open. He crept about making himself coffee and toast, showering and dressing and leaving a note before crunching down the drive. He walked down the unadopted road through the woods, a wide dirt track in reality, and emerged into a residential area. From here he found his way down into Alexandra Park. Wearing only T-shirt and jeans he walked briskly in the early morning sunshine. The park was as beautiful as ever and already busy with walkers, dog walkers and joggers. Groundsmen were already out tidying and the green keeper at the bowling greens was preparing for a hard day's action. Beside the bowling green was a large timber shelter and Tobin could vividly remember tobogganing down the bank between it and the adjacent tree during schoolboy winters. It all looked so small now, and a little tame.

He left the park by the main gates and headed for the town centre. It was many years since he had walked down here and the changes in that time were quite dramatic. The gloomy gas works had long gone and there was a bright new supermarket, it's carpark yet to fill with busy shoppers. As the street rose slightly it became more familiar again and Tobin remembered some of the shops, the little timber merchants was still there and the tool shop, where was the record shop he remembered with such affection? He walked on and saw the biggest change yet. The gentlemanly sport of cricket had finally given way to commerce and the much debated shopping centre had taken its place. For how many decades had that been debated? Into the town centre, he missed the memorial now that it had been removed, what did people call this place now? He turned half right and continued past the department store, that had also changed name and ownership, and on to the seafront and the great memories of the underground swimming pool.

The shingle beach at this point had disappeared, scoured out by the sea, and looking to the east he could see how much the beach had grown in that direction. He had to decide now, walk east into the sun or west and warm his back. He turned west to do the long walk first. His decision was aided by a girl in minimal summer wear walking her dog in that direction who he soon overtook as he strode out on familiar pavement, choosing to stay on the upper promenade for its warmth.

'Hello, Hazel?' The phone had hardly rung before it had been picked up and answered with a perfunctory, 'Yes?'

'Nick! Where are you, I was getting concerned.'

'I'm sorry. I've walked for five hours solid and I'm exhausted. Which bus do I get back to the Ridge? They've all changed!'

'I'll come and meet you for lunch, Russ is out all day with some of his cronies. You know the big carpark by the fountain? Wait by the entrance. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.' She hung up.

The rest of the day was lost to Tobin's memory. A light lunch, with wine, in a small restaurant in the Old Town was followed by an afternoon stretched on a garden lounger in the heat of the afternoon sun, fast asleep. He woke up thinking the sun had gone in only to find himself shaded by a large garden umbrella. The next time he woke up the sun had gone, sunk behind the tall trees. He felt awful, but, some charming, cheerful company, some coffee and another shower had him feeling fine again, although his legs and feet were tired.

His fine feeling lasted until Russell burst back into the house bringing with him two friends and a haze of alcohol. He had to leave his car somewhere, being unfit to drive, and got a lift home. He was sure Hazel wouldn't mind the extra guests! She didn't. A lot of wine and Russell's favourite spirit flowed, together with a wonderful meal created by Hazel, amid the noise and hilarity centred on their host.

Thursday morning was a different matter altogether. Tobin rose late, feeling much the worse for the previous night's excesses and found that he had only just been preceded by Hazel, who was also a little quiet; heaven knew what time they went to bed!

Fifteen minutes later Russell breezed in full of the joys.

'Good morning all!' He beamed at the sound of his own bellow. 'You look awful!' He said, to no-one in particular. Hazel ignored him, except for one loving smile. 'Well, I've got work to do, letters to write and so on! Come into the study and tell me all about it, when you feel up to it, lad!' Scooping up the coffee pot and a mug he left.

'How do you cope with that?' asked Tobin.

'You get used to it. I've developed this isolation switch.' She tapped her forehead. 'He does it on purpose, anyway.'

Tobin didn't feel up to it till mid-day when he took Russell's and his own lunch to the study. He found his uncle in a large, light and airy room, built to join the house to the garage. At one end was a fully equipped modern office, all windows; at the other end was the kind of study he would have expected a retired lawyer to occupy. An old leather three piece suite was arranged around a fireplace surrounded by bookshelves full of heavy looking tomes. Russell was sitting in one of the armchairs reading. Tobin was shown the other armchair with remarkable restraint; Russell obviously respected the quiet of his own room. After a token protest Tobin fetched his notes and papers and reorganised them while they finished their lunches. Once settled with fresh coffee Tobin was taken through his story, slowly, bit by bit. Russell took no notes, demonstrating his famed ability for memorising detail, gained from a lifetime's experience listening to testimony.

They had just gone through it a second time, Russell this time making copious notes as he asked the most detailed and penetrating questions, when Hazel brought them afternoon tea.

'There you are. I meant to ask you, Nick, is there anything you don't eat?' She bent and fondled Russell's neck as she spoke.

'Oh! Anything.'

'Good. I'll make some dinner, then.' With a mischievous little smile and a flick of the hair like a shampoo advert she bounced out, leaving the tiniest trace of expensive perfume. Russell observed Tobin's gaze.

'Terrific woman, eh?'

'Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean... .'

'There you go apologising again! Don't! It's a complement. It does me the power of good seeing other men watching her!'

There was a discreet cough from outside the study.

'Right! Back to your intriguing friend, whoever he may be.' He began to enumerate points on his fingers as he spoke. 'My first thought is his use of an alias; you can use whatever name you like as long as you are not impersonating someone and gaining by that impersonation or causing them loss. Well, it's debatable whether the real Alan Harper would have lost by the impersonation, but, there are all those declarations that he will have signed saying he is Alan Harper. For a start there's Inland Revenue and Customs and Excise, his passport, driving licence, credit cards and a whole host of others that we all just take for granted and never even look at when we sign them. He must have gone about this very thoroughly to have survived this long. I think he's been very clever and more than a bit lucky.' He looked to Tobin for his agreement.

'However, that's not so much your concern as these deaths and his possible involvement. But!' Russell's finger was waving in the air. 'It doesn't need my experience to make me wonder why he has been living this extraordinary existence for so long. And, the very fact that he has been capable of such deception certainly makes me wonder if he is not capable of more.' He paused again. 'Was there a danger of exposure, and if so, has that driven him to kill to protect himself?' He held up his hand as Tobin began to protest. 'Hard to believe, maybe, but possible, nevertheless.'

Tobin had to agree, grudgingly.

'If you stop and think about it rationally, why go to such lengths? It can't be because he's hiding from some irate father or something, can it? It has to be something criminal.'

Tobin thought for a moment. 'He could have begun it for a relatively minor thing and it's just grown, overtaken him.'

'True! What springs to mind is some comparatively, minor crime followed by a family feud. If these two men do look so alike, then perhaps that's a possibility. But, perhaps you have worked that out for yourself.' He said, generously.

'Sort of, but it's good to talk it over with someone else. That's what I've lacked so far, someone sensible, trustworthy, to talk to. It was all getting a bit bewildering, I didn't know how much further I could safely go; how deep I was getting myself in.'

'Safely go and deep in.' Ruminated Russell. 'You're already 'in', in that you are an accessory, you know what he's done and you haven't informed the authorities despite being given the opportunity. That could expose you to charges of obstruction or similar. So going any further safely becomes a debatable matter. However, not that I want to encourage you in a life of crime, I can understand your curiosity. I think I'd be the same, given the circumstances. But, there's one aspect that you do have to face,' he sat forward and tapped on Tobin's knee with each word, 'and that is, are you truly sure he is not capable of murder?' He again stifled Tobin's response with a raised hand. 'You came to me for advice, remember? So listen to it before you ignore it!'

'OK. Sorry.'

'Stop apologising! I raise the question because you cannot deny that a man who has successfully deceived you all for at least twenty years has to be suspect. After thirty five years practising law I'm a little cynical, that's all.' Tobin sat in deep thought, Russell was quite right, of course. He had been so intent on defending his friend that he had ignored the question of 'was he defensible?' and should he be defending him? He shuffled the papers about in his folder to cover his uncertainty.

Russell leant over peering at the papers. 'Is that a photo?' He reached for it, paper-clipped inside the front cover.

'Yes. That's Alan in the middle.' He saw Russell do a double take at it.

'Good Heavens! When was this taken?'

'A couple of months ago,' said Tobin. 'He hates photos. I took that as the wife of one of those others on there was taking a snap. I popped up over her shoulder and took it. That's the one that was published and Alan made all the fuss about.'

Russell was staring at the photo. 'It's uncanny.'

'What is?'

'How old are you... forty? You would have been one year old.' He was thoughtful for a minute, Tobin waited, avoiding the temptation to ask the obvious. Russell had gathered his thoughts.

'Early Seventies.' He began, slowly. 'The Mitchell boys; bunch of fools, really.' He waved the photo gently, thoughtfully, in front of them. 'I need to sort out some papers.' He strode to the door at the garage end of the study taking a bunch of keys from his pocket. Tobin saw for the first time that it was a steel door. As Russell opened it, after unlocking two high security locks, Tobin heard the warning sound of an intruder alarm. Russell stepped inside and the alarm went off as he put on the lights out of sight. Inside, the back half of the four car garage had been walled off, the only access being the way they had just entered. Tobin hovered at the door gazing in awe at the floor to ceiling filing system that completely filled all four walls, even surrounding the door.

Russell walked straight to a particular cupboard and opened it, it was full of archive files, all marked with colour coded labels. He selected one set that occupied two shelves and began removing them to the table in the centre of the room.

'This will take me a few minutes, lad, ask Hazel for some more tea and find out what time dinner is.' Tobin was dismissed.

By the time he returned bearing the tray of tea Russell was back at his desk and the archive door was closed again. Several of the archive boxes sat by his feet as he waved a sheaf of papers and indicated for Tobin to prepare tea before anything further was to happen.

Happily sat with his cup of tea and knowing that there was two hours to dinner Russell waved the sheaf of papers at Tobin again. 'These contain privileged information, so I can't let you read it for yourself. I'll spin through the bare bones of it and then I'll copy out the bits that you can have. OK?'

'Fine.' Tobin felt a shiver of anticipation run up his body from his stomach, ending in a pins and needles sensation around his jaw and neck.

Russell spread his papers in front of him, adjusted his half-moon reading glasses and began. 'Right. It was the week after the Whitsun bank holiday, what is now called the Spring Bank Holiday. The Mitchell brothers, William Henry and Sydney Francis, together with their nephew Bernard Arthur broke into some banking premises on the edge of the City of London. The bank was undergoing modernisation and expansion onto a bomb site next door. The builders in their chaos broke partly into the strongroom complex in the basement, but, for whatever reason hadn't got the materials available to make good the alterations and kept quiet about it. Except, that is, for one labourer who told the Mitchells about it in the pub. Apparently, when the builder looked through the small hole into the vault on the Thursday night there was not very much in there, in fact they weren't one hundred per cent sure it was the vault. But, when the Mitchells got there the following Sunday night, it was stuffed with money! No-one ever satisfactorily explained that, but, whatever, there was more than the Mitchells could carry. In their desperation and greed to get to it they made so much noise they attracted the night watchman, and shot him. Which of the older brothers pulled the trigger we don't know; we only know that Bernie didn't. The watchman survived, just, you'll be glad to hear.' He sifted through the papers a bit further, cleared his throat and continued. Tobin noticed that he hardly actually looked at the notes, but took inspiration from the window behind Tobin's head.

'In their desperation to get away they not only abandoned the wounded night-watchman, they left so many clues they might as well have signed the visitors book! Somewhere they split up and Bernie, the nephew, took the money with him and disappeared for a couple of days. He was found and arrested at an aunt's house in Leytonstone, but had no trace of the money with him and would not say where he had hidden it, and never has. The two uncles where traced to here,' he waved his right arm generally in a Westerly direction, 'to a council house in Hollington. There was a big operation to arrest them on the following Sunday morning, but they came meek as mice. There was so much bitterness between the two brothers and their nephew that it wasn't hard to put the story together. Except that is for the whereabouts of the money. There was some doubt as to how much was actually taken, but that was kept quiet and what I think was an underestimate was given out. All three got hefty sentences, mainly because of the wounding of the night-watchman.

'The mystery that never got into the papers, or not much, was that of a younger nephew. James Charles, 'Jimmy'. He disappeared at the same time and has never been heard of to this day, as far as I know. There was a suggestion that he had been a second getaway driver, and even that he had been bumped off for some reason, but no-one knows for certain, except perhaps Bernie, who's never said a word. The two brothers accused Bernie of giving them away and young Bernie was just plain frightened and very bitter about the whole thing.' He put down the folder and looked at Tobin.

'Now, that photo you have there looks so very much like a young version of Bernie Mitchell, the last time I saw him. The whole family is very similar in looks, the two older brothers could be mistaken for twins they were so alike.'

'So what happened to them all?' Tobin was intrigued.

'Hah! Bunch of bunglers to the end! Bernie is still around, or he was when I retired. He was in and out of prison for quite a while, went very bad he did. He went from a shy retiring lad to a vicious mobster in gaol; over the period of time he got very bitter. Eventually he came out and stayed out, but you could hardly call it going straight. He worked around the clubs in the West End as a heavy. I used to see him from time to time around the courts, sometimes as a minder and, sometimes he would appear with bail for some unwholesome character, all that kind of thing.

'Of the two older brothers, William got himself into further bother with builders. He was moved to a gaol well outside London and hated it and planned an escape. It would have been a tough one even for a younger, fitter man. It was well planned except for the weather and the road works. He climbed up some building works on the inside of the prison wall and ran along the top of the wall. However, it was raining, hard, and he had to go slower than intended and he was spotted. He made it to the corner of the wall, never-the-less, and here he was meant to jump into the back of a lorry which had a tarpaulin stretched over it for him to land on. The one thing that William hadn't bargained on was the road works,' Russell was savouring the story, he couldn't hide the little smile as he recounted it, 'which had started on the corner of the back lane. It was a tight fit for a lorry at the best of times and as William arrived at his jumping off point the vehicle was still trying to negotiate the obstacle and reverse in. He didn't wait, or couldn't on the wet wall, and leapt for it, missed the truck altogether, splattered himself on the road and for good measure the truck then reversed over him! Sad but true!' He chuckled. 'Then the younger brother just lost all heart and became very ill. Within two years he died, too. The end of the Mitchell dynasty! Or maybe not!' He tapped the photo of Alan thoughtfully.

With a final flourish he pulled a collection of newspaper cuttings from the folder. They were photographs and, when put with Tobin's picture of Alan Harper, they made a set of four. There could be no mistaking the family resemblance.

The Thursday evening meal had been every bit as good as the previous night's and with a lot less alcohol. They were on to the coffee when Tobin returned to his seat frustrated that both the phone calls he had tried to make had ended at answering machines. Russell and Hazel both looked at him enquiringly. He put his phone back in his pocket, shook his head and sat down.

'It'll have to wait until the morning, one answering machine says to leave a message, the other just gives a message and takes none. I have to presume that no news is good news, that's all. I'll see you in the morning. Good night.'

It wasn't a particularly good night, however. He was tired but could not sleep. The Mitchell family history was churning around in his head. Had he, had they, found the real Alan Harper? Tomorrow would reveal... what?

\------------------12\-----------------

Tobin was back on the phone the following morning as soon as he thought there would be someone awake to answer. He just heard the same two voicemails, but this time they both took messages. He left a message each for Teri and Heather Millin, and then dialled a third number. At ten past eight he got a response from that number in Nottingham. The gentle tones of Angela Norris answered and quickly gave him the answer he was seeking.

With the aid of Russell's tattered London road atlas they ascertained that Bernie Mitchell's address, from Russell's notes, and the address of the original Alan Harper, given by Angela, were within two streets of each other. They both thought it very likely that Jimmy's address would also have been close by, families never wandered far in those tight communities.

Russell rushed Tobin to the station for the next available London train. By mid-morning he was on a tube train to south of the Thames, but then ran into difficulties finding a taxi to take him the last couple of miles. He ended up walking it, in the increasing heat of a bright summer day, regretting not taking Russell's advice to take a cab from the mainline station.

By late morning he was standing on the corner of Bernie Mitchell's street. The terraced houses on each side of the street were a continuous line of London brown brick, of the type found all over the city. Similarly, behind him, across the main road, was the other kind of housing found all over London; not nice, solid, brown brick houses but stained, red brick and concrete flats built around patches of threadbare, brown grass. He counted down the houses on his right, the odd numbers, until he saw Bernie's house. It was in the middle of five very similar houses with clean, bright, white paintwork. Either way up and down the street the houses varied wildly in their décor. A few were in dire need of attention, a couple were completely boarded up; others were painted in the most unsympathetic colours, a lot of them primary.

He stood watching for ten minutes and observed nothing. Feeling conspicuous standing where he was he risked walking down the street. He crossed over and passed immediately in front of the house to minimize possible observation, he hoped. Two thirds of the way down on the opposite side there was a side street that he hadn't seen before. The junction provided another good observation point. After a further ten minutes standing there he began to feel uncomfortable, kids on bikes were watching him. They should be at school! He plucked up courage and approached the house. He crossed over the street and walked round a car that had obviously never moved that year, the thick layer of grime on it matched the 'D' shape of dust on the road left by the road sweeper being forced to detour.

The Mitchell's house in the middle of the five was nearly identical to its neighbours, similar net curtains, similar ornaments on show and identical front doors. There was no bell push so Tobin rapped on the knocker. His heart rate rose with the beat of the metal. He had rehearsed many opening lines coming up in the train. However, the one that he had found impossible to imagine was what to say if Bernie himself answered the door.

There was a sharp click and the door opened. Tobin caught his breath and spluttered; it wasn't Bernie. But, the person standing there had to be his sister; she would have fitted in perfectly with the collection of photos on Russell's desk the night before.

He regained his breath and cleared his throat.

'I'm sorry to trouble you. I'm trying to trace a little bit of history.' He tried his winning smile with the approach he and Russell had worked out the night before, and failed. 'I'm trying to trace a Mrs Mitchell who lived here in the nineteen fifties and before. I was hoping, on a long shot, that she might still be alive, and still here.' Russell had agreed that Bernie's mother still being alive was quite possible. There had never been any mention of a father in any of Bernie's life history.

'Yeah? Why's that then?'

'I was hoping to find someone who might remember a young boy called Alan Harper.'

She shook her head, screwing up her nose which turned down the ends of her mouth further than they already were.

'Oh! Well you're probably too young!' Flattery might work, although Tobin was unable to tell if she was Bernie's older or younger sister.

'Remember from when?'

'Nineteen sixty?'

'I was around then.'

'Really? But you're not Mrs Mitchell are you?'

'No.'

'Is that Mrs Mitchell still around?'

'Oh, yeah. That's my mum.' Thank heavens! This was hard work!

'And you are... ?

'Her daughter!'

'Er. Yes. I meant your name.' She eyed him suspiciously. 'Are you Bernie's sister, by any chance?'

'Yeah! You know him?'

'Er. Yes. We bumped into each other the other day.'

'Come in,' she instructed, closing the door behind him. Tobin followed her through to the back of the house into a neat, tidy, but dark room. Heavy drapes at the window were only half open and this side of the house never saw direct sunlight. A slight figure was sat in a large, winged arm chair.

'Mum. This is a friend of Bernie's.'

'Eh? Really?' As if she found it difficult to believe her son had friends. She straightened up in her chair and put down the magnifying glass she had been using to read the newspaper. Her hands shook with a slight tremor which she tried to hide by fidgeting. Thin grey hair was scraped back into a small bun on top of her head making her features more gaunt than they might have been, although there was a slight chubbiness in the cheeks. Her whole body, beneath a light summer frock, was thin and bony.

'When did you meet him, then?' She asked, suspiciously.

'Quite recently. We bumped into each other in Northumberland.' He couldn't resist repeating the private joke..

'Good God! What was he doing up there?'

'On holiday I presumed,' lied Tobin. 'Anyway, one way and another, it turns out you may well know something about a young boy who was killed around here. His name was Alan Harper and he lived just a couple of streets away, I think.' He paused and waited for her to respond. He couldn't tell if she was thinking or waiting for him to continue. 'I believe he was killed in a bus accident.' This time there was a glimmer of memory. She looked at him hard. 'Harper was it?'

'Yes, that's right.' He heard a noise from the front door and the daughter reappeared.

'Mrs Craggs is here, I gotta go mum. Bye!' She gathered up her bag and a cardigan and rushed out. As they heard the front door slam a perky little lady entered the room.

'Allo, Marie. Oh!'

'It's alright, he's a friend of Bernie's'. Well, that was more hopeful.

'Hullo.'

'This is Isabella, she's my home help.'

'Allo.' Tobin could detect an accent. He presumed it was something Latin, with a name like Isabella. She was a cheerful little figure, in her early sixties, Tobin guessed. She carried a bag of shopping which she held up for Mrs Mitchell to see and went out to the kitchen.

'Right. Alan Harper.' She had Tobin's immediate attention. The departure of her daughter had brought about a noticeable change. 'Yes, we knew him. Bernie was chuntering on about him, too.'

'Really?' He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, feigning innocence.

She hitched herself upright in her chair and looked Tobin directly in the eye. She had a very prim, schoolmarm look. She smoothed the dress over her knees and shuffled her feet into her slippers.

'What are you really after, Mr... .?'

'My name is John Tobin. I live in Northumberland.' He was unsure how to broach the subject. He took a deep breath and dived in. 'When I met Bernie,... I think he was looking for someone.'

'Oh! No!' She cried.

Isabella's face appeared around the door, looking accusingly at Tobin. The old woman saw her and indicated to Isabella to sit next to her. She pointed at a chair for Tobin. He brought it closer and continued. 'I think he's looking for someone who is a close friend of mine, but who I know under a different name.'

'He is looking for Jimmy.' stated Isabella to the older woman. She nodded.

'That would be James Charles Mitchell, his cousin?'

Another nod.

'Well, I think he found him, or very nearly.'

Mrs Mitchell's hand went up to her mouth, smothering a little gasp.

Isabella asked. 'Are you... policeman?'

'No. No. I'm just a friend trying to help someone out of trouble. Though the more I look the more I find.' He leant forward, his elbows on his knees, hands almost touching Mrs Mitchell, and, using a kind-but-firm manner asked her directly, 'Was Jimmy involved in that robbery?'

The old lady seemed to shrink before him. She swallowed and, summoning up considerable courage, said very quietly, 'Yes.'

Isabella's eyes widened as they flicked between the old lady and Tobin. She gasped and made a gun shape with her fingers and stabbed at the air with them. 'He... ?'

'No!'

'Oh!' She was greatly relieved, then she realized, 'Bernie?'

'No! It was those stupid brother-in-laws, Billy and Sid. How much do you know of this, young man?'

'Quite a lot.' He patted his shoulder bag and the file within it. 'But, only from after the robbery, nothing from before.'

'Has he been calling himself Alan Harper?' She had just made the connection.

'Yes. They were friends weren't they?'

'Oh! You couldn't get a fag paper between those two boys. Jimmy broke his heart when his little friend died. He was never the same again. If he hadn't been off sick that day he would've been there and all. 'Course he wasn't proper sick. His mother got too drunk the night before and couldn't get up to take him to school. 'Appened a lot that did.' She sniffed her disapproval and looked away. 'Now, that Mrs Harper, she was a gem. Worshipped that little lad, 'specially after his dad was killed. That was tragic, right at the end of his overseas service. He was only a driver, you know? His truck went off the road in the dark and he was killed.' She shook her head, telling the story more to Isabella than to Tobin. 'Anyway, she sometimes got little Jimmy ready on those mornings, but that morning the door was locked and she couldn't get in. And that was that!

'Poor Jimmy never really got much of a chance. Never knew his father, if that was his father! Don't think she knew for sure! Anyhow, he left early on, when Jimmy was a baby. Then, when the lad was fifteen or sixteen, she left! Went to America I think, no-one knows for certain. He used to stay here sometimes. It was Bernie what led him astray.' Isabella's head shot up in surprise. 'Well, it's the truth, I can't deny it. He was a wild boy. He had no father to keep him in line, either. He left me when Bernie was just a month old. Ran off somewhere and never heard of again, as well. Well, not by me anyhow! Billy and Sid helped out a lot and we got by. They was tough times then, lot of poverty, not much work.' She stopped again and took a hankie proffered by Isabella. She looked at Tobin; he gazed back, patiently waiting.

'He worshipped his uncles; the wasters!' There was venom in that voice, the thought of them obviously stirred deeply buried, bitter memories. She shuffled a little in her seat, sighed deeply, dabbed her eyes and continued. 'They was always into something shady. Right through the war they was at it; never got called up. Used every trick they could; 'reserved occupations'; 'sickness'; 'flat feet', you name it! And, they got away with it and bragged about it. 'Course, they was heroes in the eyes of them what think like that. So, Bernie would do anything for them and dragged Jimmy along with him. Well, if he did get away with their money, well, good luck to him, that's what I say!'

'Ooh! Marie!' Isabella gripped the old lady's arm.

'Yes. Yes. Yes!' She pulled away and looked at Tobin. 'So, Bernie's found him?'

'I don't know how, but, yes.'

'I think I know.'

They both turned to look at Isabella. She bit her lip at the admission.

'Well?' demanded Mrs Mitchell.

'We all go to pub, same pub. One day Bernie's friend, he work at Kings Cross station cleaning trains, he come in with picture in magazine he find on train.' Tobin's eyes rolled heavenwards. 'He not nice to Bernie and say he has brother who is better lookin'. Bernie very upset, he angry. He took picture and went away. Bang!' She mimicked slamming a door.

Tobin took his photo of Alan from the folder in his bag and showed it to Isabella.

'Ah. Si! That is it!' She pointed at Alan. Tobin turned the photo to the older woman. She reached out and carefully took it from him and stared at it. Isabella began to cry and hurried from the room.

'I don't know what'll happen if he meets him. I really don't.' She handed back the photo. 'He's thought of nothing else for forty years. At first he hated them all; Billy, Sidney, Jimmy, but then Billy went and then Sid, now there's just... .' Her hand went up to her mouth and tears finally appeared, rolling down her cheeks.

'Where does Bernie work now?'

'Up the West End for one of them casino places, he's an assistant security manager. He works funny hours.'

'When did you see him last?'

'See him or hear him? I don't see much of him, he hardly speaks, but I hear him about the place. He leaves his money, he's good that way, and sees her.' Meaning Isabella, who came back in with a cup of tea, her eyes red and wet with tears. 'He was home last night.' She regained her composure, lifting her head with a little sniff, but the shaking hands betrayed the inner turmoil. 'Where's Jimmy gone? Do you know?.'

'We think he's possibly, probably, in France.'

'Ho! Never liked them Froggies, this family!'

Tobin rose saying, 'I'd better try and find him first, then.'

'You be careful, very careful.' There was genuine concern on the old lady's face. 'If you get in his way, he can be terrible,... you know?' She found it difficult to talk of her own son in this way.

Tobin took her hand. 'I'll be careful.' He, awkwardly, took out one of his cards, balanced it on the chair arm and wrote the Hastings phone number on the back. 'That's where I'm staying for a couple of days, if there is any... development. OK?' Isabella took it and hid it behind the clock. He extracted his hand from the surprisingly strong grip of the old lady and gave her a reassuring smile as the tears continued to trickle down her cheeks. Isabella walked to the front door with him.

'I never see her cry before.' She said.

'Goodbye.' Said Tobin and stepped out into the bright sunshine. He turned and headed for the main road, deep in thought.

He was tired, footsore and depressed by the time he arrived back at the Hastings house. It had taken him more than an hour to find his way back from the Mitchell's to the station, only to see his train leaving as he ran in. The hour and a quarter wait had been spent over an expensive pastry and coffee that had consumed the last of his cash. He was too tired to look for a cash dispenser and gave up the idea of phoning anyone when he saw the size of the queues at the credit card phones. He must buy a new battery for his mobile phone.

Tobin stumbled onto the train, slept almost all the way to Hastings and woke feeling irritable and even more depressed. He had imagined that when he finally discovered the real identity of Alan Harper, or perhaps he should call him Jimmy now, he would be flushed with success. It was, in fact, a huge anti-climax. He had lost interest and could only think of returning home and sorting out all the mess he had left behind him; his home; his work; the police; Teri!

With no money in his pocket he had to ask the taxi driver to divert via a cashpoint in town to get some money to pay for the ride home.

He trudged wearily up the drive to the big house. The sight of it however cheered him up a bit and he was thinking of a drop of Russell's favourite. They must have been watching out for him when they both appeared at the door.

'Where have you been?'

'There's been all hell on the phone since you left, lad, you'd better come in quick!'

\------------------13\-----------------

Having been dragged indoors and had the list of phone calls thrust in his hand, Tobin could not, now, reach anyone in Longalnbury. He had left messages, again, and was sitting waiting.

He brought Russell up to date on the visit to Mrs Mitchell's and his certainty that he had now discovered the real identity of Alan Harper. As he explained more about Alan he also found himself opening up to Russell and Hazel and relating his long concealed feelings; the fruits of his nights self-analysis. Having found someone with whom he could be quite frank, he couldn't stop himself. They in their turn, though much taken aback by this further outpouring, were doing their best to cheer him up and be positive. Russell was turning to his faithful standby in moments such as this and was plying Tobin with food and drink when the phone rang; it was Heather Millin.

'Where have you been?' Was her greeting.

'I couldn't begin to explain.' He said, wearily.

'Well, you've completely blown it up here! Sandra's hopping about tearing her hair out; the office phone has never stopped; we're absolutely overwhelmed. You've probably missed the biggest thing to happen in these parts, ever!' Tobin closed his eyes and let out an audible sigh.

'Dale's has been raided, there's been arrests and seizures. It's fantastic!'

'Slow down, slow down. Give me the details.' He rummaged around and found some paper and a pen. 'Right. Go ahead.'

'This morning, at about four-o-clock, Dale's was busted by the Drugs Squad. It was a bit last minute, 'cos my Steve was dragged out of bed. Hey! I didn't tell you that bit!' she realised what she had given away. 'The original plan had been to wait for two of Dales' trucks to arrive back some time during the day, they were being followed up the country, then they were going to turn him over. But, the trucks diverted off their route somewhere near the top of the M1 motorway. So, the two drivers were grabbed down there while everything up here was brought forward in a bit of a panic. But, one of the drivers still managed to phone a warning to Dale and he got away. But, they arrested Mrs Dale, and, hey, she was spitting fire apparently, and they took two security men from the depot.' She finally paused for breath. 'That was this morning's message.' He heard the sound of paper being screwed up.

'At lunchtime I had this for you. I can't use it myself without giving away Steve, my boyfriend, my source, and you're way down there out of touch!

'Another of Dale's drivers has been talking to the Squad for a couple of weeks now, it seems, and tipped them off about this trip. Apparently it's a fairly well known route, but it's the first time any of Dale's men have done this trip. They were returning from Turkey through Bulgaria so they would automatically have been noted and watched, it's a suspicious route, I'm told.' Tobin recalled that Heather's latest boyfriend, Steve, was a police officer at a neighbouring station, and had obviously told her all this.

'Now, this driver has worked for Dale for years and, seemingly, they've all been 'at it' for years, but, not touching drugs. Dale paid them a kind of commission depending on what, and how much, stuff they were bringing in. Cigarettes, drink, fake goods, all that kind of thing, but until recently, no drugs. However, Dale raises the stakes by venturing into drugs but doesn't raise their payoff and the drivers, who are now taking bigger risks, are pretty pissed off about it. Somewhere along the line, in the last few months, apparently, Dale teamed up with a bigger organisation and that is where the trouble has come from.

'They all found themselves under the cosh from London, including Dale. The driver reckons that Dale's lost control of his own operation, somehow. Anyway, there's a lot of ill feeling and, I understand, that the two drivers picked up last night can't co-operate fast enough, now. They're desperate to tell everything! It's like a competition!' He heard more paper sounds down the phone.

'Phew! It's all happening up here! Now, tonight's notes. You'll like this, I think. Your mystery man has turned up! Not in the flesh, but in the investigation. I've managed to get to talk to another driver, nobody cares anymore now the game's up. He's a heavy, your man, an enforcer, for this London Mob, according to this driver, and first appeared on the scene about three months ago, maybe a bit more. Pretty nasty piece of work, too, by all accounts. Three of the drivers had an 'interview' with Dale and 'some smooth guy from London' who brought with him your man and a couple of others. The other two have been around regularly since then, keeping an eye on things for their masters, but your man only reappeared once. And, when he did, he was looking for Alan Harper! He went through the whole depot with this photograph tackling everyone he could find. The drivers were intrigued 'cos Alan Harper worked with Dale for a while didn't he?'

'Yes.'

'So, now the police want to know what connects Alan Harper with a London drugs gang. So, be careful, John. I have a feeling that there is more to your friend Alan than meets the eye!

'Anyhow, the funny thing is, the Squad only discovered Dale's Transport when they were tailing your man from London and followed him up here last month. If he hadn't come looking for Alan Harper Dale would probably still be operating. He doesn't know that, of course. But Mrs Dale has been bailed and is still spitting blood and fur in every direction. She's blamed the whole thing on Alan Harper, saying that he's set her husband up after he was fired. That doesn't strike me as being very likely, does it you?'

'No.' How much should he tell her?

'Any way, that's it for the moment. I'll get another update shortly and let you know. OK?'

'Yes. Thanks, Heather.' They both hung up.

Tobin sat for a moment, dazed. He realised Hazel was standing beside him holding a mug of coffee. She said nothing but looked concerned, her eyebrows raised. He took a deep breath and blew it out sharply through pursed lips.

'Thanks.' He said, thoughtfully. He looked at his scrap of paper and was about to explain the phonecall when the phone rang again. He leant back to allow Hazel to answer it, she immediately handed it over to him.

'John!'

'Yes, Teri?'

'You must come back! There's all manner of stories flying round up here. You won't have heard down there yet, but... '

'I have actually. Dale's has been done by the Drugs Squad.'

'Oh!' Her disappointment was obvious.

'We,... you, have to find Alan.' He tried to distance himself from it all, without much hope. 'He's in great danger. The guy who looks like him is a cousin carrying a grudge from years ago. And, I have heard some of the stories from up there and we need to let Alan know about Dale. You must try and phone everywhere you can think of in France to find him. OK?'

'Does that mean you've found out who Alan really is?'

'Er... Yes. But, it's far too complex to start explaining now and particularly not over the phone. We need to find Alan and warn him, fast.'

'Well, you tell me first who he is then I might... '

'Teri!'

'Well, how did you know what was happening up here? I've been trying to get you all day and all I get is that smooth woman. Who is she?'

'You have been talking to Hazel, she's... my uncle's wife. And, I know what's happening up there because Heather Millin from the paper has kept me up to date. Her boyfriend.... Well, anyway, let's not worry about that, find Alan, will you? Please!' He thought how unwise it would be to tell her about Heather's boyfriend while Teri was in her current petulant mood; he had made that mistake before. 'Where are you, now?' There was a silence at the other end. 'Teri! Are you in Newcastle or Longalnbury?'

'Newcastle.'

'Good. Now will you see if you can find Alan? I'll pay the phone bill, if that's a problem. Just use International Directory Enquiries. But you'll have to be quick, it's getting late in France, now.'

'OK.' The phone went dead.

'That sounded like hard work.' said Hazel, standing behind him.

'Very. She can be one spoilt brat when it comes down to it. That's Teri, Rebecca, Alan's stepdaughter. Well, put it this way, she is the daughter of the woman who last married someone calling himself Alan Harper! For once I'm going to ask for a drop of Russell's best, I need it!'

Over the glass, and a further two in quick succession, Tobin brought them up to date on his phone calls and the finer details of the day's trip to London.

His earlier weariness disappeared when Tobin finally got to bed and he paced about unable to sleep and unable to decide what to do. Russell's brandy had taken effect. He sat by the window, staring out at the night and forced himself to concentrate.

If Teri couldn't locate Alan should he try and find him? But how? Or should he just go home? If bigger things were happening, maybe his little misdemeanours would attract less attention. And, after all, going back to work was more beneficial in the long run than the wild goose chase he had embarked upon. He couldn't change anything. Alan Harper was still Jimmy Mitchell, he couldn't change that; he had fled the country, that couldn't be changed; and, he was being chased by someone that Tobin had no control over. He had spent a lot of time and energy, and lost a lot of work and money in the process, achieving what? Alan could look after himself; his head told him to return north, home.

But, his heart had different ideas, go south.

He wandered down to the kitchen and made himself some hot milk in the microwave. Standing in the dark kitchen he was watching the nearly full moon lighting the treetops behind the house when the telephone rang, deafeningly. He instinctively grabbed for the instrument on the wall beside the back door.

'John?'

'Yes, Teri! Do you realise what time it is?' He demanded looking at the clock on the microwave to check himself.

'Yes. It's one-o-clock. You wanted me to do this!'

'OK! OK! Did you find him?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

'But...' She paused, for effect.

'Yes?' Bloody infuriating woman!

'There's no need to be like that!' She stopped again.

'I'm sorry.' He gritted his teeth. 'Carry on.'

'I think I was being put off. It just sounded strange. Know what I mean?'

'I know what you mean. Look stick close to your phone tomorrow, we'll have to work out what we're going to do. OK?' He laid great emphasis on the collective 'we'. 'I'm suddenly very tired.'

'OK.' There was an exaggerated resignation in her voice. She hung up.

On his way back to his room Tobin met Hazel in the dark on the stairs.

'Just what I was going for,' she pointed to his drink. 'Too much brandy before bed. Who was on the phone?'

'I'm sorry about that. Teri can't find Alan, but thinks she's being put off. I'll see you in the morning.'

Tobin was dreaming about trying to photograph a woodpecker when Hazel shook him awake.

'Nick! Wake up. I've been hammering on your door. There's an urgent phone call for you! I can't make sense of who it is, but she's very agitated.' He stumbled from his bed into a dressing gown and padded down the stairs barefoot.

'Hallo?'

'Mister Tohbeen?'

'Yes.'

'Is Isabella.' He was caught off guard and had to think for a moment.

'Oh! Yes! I'm sorry, Isabella. What's the problem?'

'Is Bernie. He gone, Marie very upset.' Isabella's accent had become much stronger over the phone. She was under obvious stress and her voice broke as she explained. 'He come home from work at six this morning and pack his bag. A car come for him and he go.'

'He got a taxi?'

'No. He drive. He sign a paper for car.'

'A hire car?'

'Yeah! Yes. I check his room. He has took passport and licence and Marie very sorry she not tell you about France map, he take that, too.'

'Well, thanks for telling me this, Isabella. Tell Mrs Mitchell I'll look after things. It will all be OK. All right?'

'OK.' She didn't sound too convinced, neither was Tobin, she hung up.

Tobin wandered into the kitchen and slumped into a chair at the table, he rubbed his eyes hard and yawned. Russell and Hazel were watching him when emerged bleary eyed from behind his hands. 'It looks like Bernie has left on the trail of Alan Harper, or Jimmy Mitchell. And we can't find him to warn him.'

'Has he gone on his own account,' Russell pondered aloud, 'or has he been sent by his bosses because they believe the idea that Harper has informed on their operation?'

Tobin sat up sharply, he hadn't thought beyond what seemed obvious, to him; that Bernie was after his cousin Jimmy.

'How does he know where to go?' asked Hazel.

'He's obviously managed to pick up the information, somewhere. He's got a French road map. So he obviously knows where he's going.' Thought Tobin, aloud, and thinking further about Teri's flat. 'He must have got it from Teri's flat. I don't think he could have got it from anywhere else, or he wouldn't have come all that way north in the first place. And, I can't think that anyone else would know of Alan Harper, unless there is someone else is on a parallel trail to us that we haven't come across, yet.' He dismissed the thought. 'No. Who else would have need or cause to find out? I'm sure there can only be me and Teri who know; plus you two and the Norris's detective agency.'

'There are two more,' added Hazel, 'whoever broke into your flats, Bernie being one of them.'

'I think there is one more person that you are overlooking, Nick, Rosemary Harper. Something caused her to go looking in Nottingham. What? And how close had she got?'

'She couldn't have known, she died before the Norrises could tell her anything,' declared Tobin, confidently.

'You are presuming she knew nothing when she went there, but she must have known something or she would not have gone specifically to Nottingham. What made her suspicious in the first place?' Said Russell patiently, emphasising each word with a tap of his forefinger on the table.

Tobin chose not to hear. 'I'll bet it was Bernie who broke in to Teri's flat. There were only two places where that kind of information was available, our flats!' He nodded to Hazel, acknowledging her contribution. 'He didn't do mine, because he was standing outside watching. But, Teri's would have given him all that he needed to start looking.'

'He could have got information from the Harper's house,' added Russell, 'if he had been there.'

'Do you mean he could have killed Rosemary?' Asked Hazel, showing she wasn't far behind in the argument.

'That's possible, too. It might explain why the place was wiped clean.'

'If that is the case, then your friend Alan is in grave danger,' said Hazel, regarding Tobin with a look of concern.

The phone rang. Hazel stepped into the hall to answer it and returned with the cordless handset for Tobin.

'Your reporter friend.'

'Thanks. Hallo, Heather?'

'Hi! Have I got news for you!'

'There's more?'

'You bet. Dale's still missing but they're stepping up the hunt this morning. He's wanted now in connection with the deaths of Rosemary Harper and Julie Lambert! It was his thumbprint on the glass in Rosemary's dishwasher, and, 'a very observant police officer',' she said with great pride, 'while checking Julie Lambert's house, wondered why the toilet seat was up in a house occupied by a single lady. When it was checked there was the same thumbprint on the underside! Comparisons with prints from Dale's place threw up a match. It was him, in both places!'

'That very observant police officer wouldn't be your Steve, would it?'

'Well, as it happens... , anyway, further searches have found a neighbour over the back of Julie's house who saw Dale sneaking in during the afternoon, timed between the two visits of Alan Harper.' Tobin was deep in thought, staring out of the window. 'Are you still there? You don't sound particularly thrilled!'

'I'm sorry, I was thinking about Teri and if she's safe up there on her own.'

'Ah! Well, there's the next surprise. Mrs Dale was bailed yesterday by her sister. Who most people know as Mrs Mayhew.'

'The neighbour?'

'The same!'

'And Dale's still missing?'

'Yes. Apparently the police did make that connection and check the Mayhew's house last night but there was no sign of him. And I had a little snoop there this morning; I thought I would check on your friend for you.' Did he detect a little irony in her voice there? 'I don't know where she was, she couldn't have been far away as her car was in the unlocked garage still warm.'

'What kind of car?'

'A red Vauxhall hatchback.'

'That's not her car. Was there only one car in there?'

'No. There was two cars, that one and a dusty Mini'

'So where is Alan's car? Teri wouldn't drive it. I think you had better tell your policeman, and he can earn himself some brownie points telling McColl. Alan's car is missing, it's a Mercedes, and I would lay money on it not being with Teri; who I think you will find is at home in her flat in Newcastle.' He repeated the number from memory. 'I'll phone her now as well. I'm worried, Dale's a wild man and if he can't get to Alan Harper he's quite likely to go for the next best thing. Especially now he has nothing to lose.' But, there was no answer from Teri's phone when he rang.

The Mercedes slid into a parking space outside the large stone built house. Brian Dale checked the address on the scrap of paper on the passenger seat and got out. He had obtained the address from the office of Intercon Cuisine after he had kicked down the door. It was a shame that the young warehouseman wouldn't help him and that he had to be so rough with the boy, but there was a lot at stake; principally Dale's life! The curtains at a window on the top floor twitched back and a pale face under red hair looked down at the car. He rang one of the bells on the plate by the door and the buzzer sounded immediately, releasing the security lock. Dale entered and ran up the stairs as fast as he could, barging through the flat door as Mrs Gould began to open it.

Bernie Mitchell sat in his hire car queuing for the ferry at Dover reading the inside cover of his French road atlas. His driving experience was minimal, but he had not dared to mention that when his boss had instructed him to find and silence Brian Dale. He had quickly reasoned that Dale would try and follow Jimmy Mitchell and that the trail would take him to France. He had gambled on getting ahead and finding Jimmy, then dealing with Dale when he caught up. He was quite proud of his reasoning and had every confidence in it.

But Bernie had less confidence in his driving and was now having second thoughts as he sat, waiting, reading and thinking. He spoke no French at all, his mastery of his own language was pretty poor and he had been brought up with a dislike of all foreigners; his driving experience since leaving gaol had been limited to an occasional weekend, and was non-existent for the previous few years. The car he had been given was far bigger, and more powerful, than anything he had ever driven in his life before, it was also automatic; and now he was trying to understand French driving rules; giving way to the right, in some circumstances only, had him baffled. And, how he was going to cope with driving on the wrong side of the road he did not know. The queue began to move.

Tobin tried to reach Teri at her flat again and then tried the Harper's house in Longalnbury with the same result. Heather's phone was engaged. He sat in the kitchen, frustrated, trying to make casual conversation with Russell and Hazel. He was restless and obviously concerned for Teri's safety.

Russell disappeared into his study to sort and copy his notes from the Mitchell brothers case. Tobin sat at the table and wrote up his notes from Heather's phonecalls and his London visit.

The phone rang and they all grabbed the nearest receiver to them and answered at the same time.

'Hallo.' 'Hullo.' 'Hello.'

'John?'

'I'm here Teri. Where are you?'

'I'm at my mother's. John, someone has been in the house, I can tell.'

'Did they break in?'

'Not that I can see.'

'Have you looked in the garage?'

'No. Hold on.' He heard her opening a door and walking outside. Why on earth hadn't he called her mobile phone? What a fool. 'Ooh! Where's that come from? Did you know? How?'

'Someone was concerned for you and came to look for you this morning and found it. Look, it's not safe for you up there. We think you would be better off down here, for the time being at least. Or,' He said, thinking aloud,' if you still can't find Alan by phone we should go and look for him ourselves.' He looked to Russell for his agreement as he thought. Russell's eyebrows rose, but, he just shrugged with a compliant gesture. 'Have you got the phone numbers with you?'

'Yes. I'm not leaving anything lying around these days!'

'Good. Try each one once more, just once. If there is no luck ring me back. OK?'

'OK.' He hung up before she started asking anymore awkward questions.

'She won't find him,' Tobin declared. 'He's decided to disappear and in a place the size of France that's probably quite easy.' Then why was he proposing to go himself? He paced about for five minutes. The phone rang. He didn't bother waiting for someone else to answer.

'John? There's no reply from the office, but his friends at the house nearby say they haven't seen him. And, the café in Les Deux Alpes haven't seen him either, though they were very abrupt.'

'Never mind. Pack up and secure the place there. I'm going to phone and arrange for you to get the key to my flat, I need some things collecting. George Ibbotson has the key to do some repairs, so, when you pick up my key you can leave yours and we'll get all those locks changed, too. Ring me when you're ready to go. Bring your passport, fancy a trip to France?'

\-----------------14\-----------------

Dusk had just given way to a clear, moonless night as they swapped Tobin's bags from Russell's Jaguar to Teri's Ford. Russell and Hazel had driven Tobin to Folkestone to meet Teri at the Channel tunnel.

They adjourned to a café and brought Teri up to date on events so far. She grudgingly acknowledged that she was unable to add anything. Tobin was feeling guilty, knowing that Heather could not make use of her own information because her source was too good. He decided to give Heather one final call before leaving the country and went in search of a quiet spot to phone her.

'Sorry, John, there's not much new. That car in the Harper's garage is registered to Brian Dale, but that doesn't surprise you, does it?'

'No.'

'McColl has put out a call for Alan Harper's car, and is trying to get a watch organised on airports and so on, but he didn't seem too confident. Between you and me I think he's a bit peeved that this was all happening on his patch and he was in the dark.'

'Yes.'

'You're very quiet. Are you feeling peeved as well?'

'Sort of,' he deflected the subject a bit. 'I'm going to France with Teri; to search for Alan. He's in danger. Not just from Brian Dale but also from the 'heavy', as you call him. He is a relation of Alan's who's crept back from the past, hence the similarity. I'll have to explain it all when we get back; it could be a good story.' He thought for a moment. 'Can I ring you regularly and keep in touch?'

'Of course,' he noted down the series of phone numbers that she gave him and hung up. He began to feel apprehensive again about what he was embarking on.

He turned back toward the table, took a deep breath, pinned on his most convincing smile and returned to the others

Back at the table Teri was telling Russell and Hazel, 'There are so many places he could have gone. Most of them I haven't been to since I was little when he stopped taking us.' She began to list them on her fingers. 'Apart from the Alps, there's Paris; and just outside Paris there's Champs-sur-Marne,....'

'That's the head office of Intercon Cuisine.' Tobin interjected.

'Yes, but his friends also live there, I was th... .' She stopped, suddenly.

'There last week?' asked Tobin.

'How did you know?'

'It took me a while to work it out, but Alan was obviously up to date on what was happening at home. How could he know? Who was telling him?' He gestured toward Teri, both hands unfolding as if revealing something secret within. 'It had to be something extremely important for you to throw up a good job like that; and when you returned your whole attitude had changed. I thought then that something, or more likely someone, had caused that change; then when I got Alan's note that confirmed it.'

'Very good,' chipped in Russell. 'I think you will find it a lot easier if you don't keep anything else from each other like that. You were saying Teri, where Alan could have gone.' The children had been admonished.
She resumed counting on her fingers. 'He's also got friends in Denmark, Belgium, Spain and Germany, that I know of.'

'He can also speak the languages,' added Tobin.

'But, I haven't been to any of them,' continued Teri, 'But, somewhere I know he goes to quite regularly is in the south of France between Marseilles and Toulon, Aub... something, Orb..., Oh, I can't remember now. But, he hasn't taken us there for a very long while now, either.'

Russell looked at Tobin. 'Got your work cut out, then.' He said sceptically.

'I know.' Tobin took a deep breath. 'Right now, I don't know what else I can do, but I'm determined to do something.' With a sudden rush, he added. 'I've buggered about all my life and relied on others to do everything for me for so long that it's time I did something in return. I know that he might turn out to be a murderer, although to me that's impossible, but, even if he is, he's never done me anything but good and so at last I'm going to try and repay some of that. I admit I don't know how I'm going to do it, I just can't sit here and let it all happen around me, that's all!' His arms were waving and his shoulders shrugging as he made his point, finishing with a thump on the table.

Teri stared at him; the other two had heard these outbursts before and weren't so surprised.

'Well, anyway, come on, let's go.' He continued, suddenly standing up, embarrassed.

Tobin awoke to the blast of a car horn nearby. He opened his eyes; he was in Teri's car. She was driving and drifting over to the left. The horn blew again, he sat bolt upright and grabbed the wheel with his right hand and guided the car back over to the right side.

'Teri. TERI!'

Her head rose slowly, she blinked and gasped with fright. She regained control and pulled further over to the right onto the hard shoulder. Two cars shot past blasting their horns.

'Bloody French!' She shouted after them. 'God, I'm sorry. Where are we?'

'Coming up to Boulogne, I think.' He studied the atlas that had fallen into his lap and compared it to the GPS. 'We've not got very far.' He held up the book in the glimmer of the interior light to confirm his estimate. 'Shall I drive a bit?' The request sounded a bit grudging, he had not been looking forward to this, his first drive on the right, and he had hoped to start it in daylight. But he had had more rest than Teri; she had also driven for most of the previous day in England. He read the remaining distance on the GPS; too far. They had hardly covered any distance and they were struggling already!

He took the driving seat and ventured tentatively onto the road.

Once the strain of driving had been removed Teri woke up and navigated and tried to keep cheerful. He began to relax, the road was quiet and they pushed on as far as they could before he announced that he needed a break. They found a rest area and pulled off the road.

'Just give me a few minutes and we'll get going again. Where to from here?'

'We're near the N1 junction, just before Amiens we rejoin the A16 toll motorway, get your credit card ready, which takes us almost into Paris. It becomes the N1 again and we turn off East at St. Denis and look for the N34 and then the N370. I had to memorise all those numbers when I came to meet Alan, I didn't have the French maps on there,' she indicated the GPS.

'You know, I'm puzzled that you never said anything to Alan about knowing he wasn't Alan.'

'I didn't believe it, then. I'm not convinced even, now.'

'Well,... oh,... never mind.' Tobin gave up before he even started.

'Why haven't you told the police, then? If you are so sure, surely you should tell them!'

'OK. Point taken. But I am sure! Now.' They got back in the car and headed off into the early morning on an uneventful journey. Tobin was pleasantly surprised at the clear, fast road system, but he annoyed Teri at the tollbooth by insisting on getting out of the car and running round to use the credit card himself. Fortunately there was no queue.

They took a long breakfast stop outside Paris after which Teri took over to negotiate the complex of roads around the north east of the city. Tobin tried to navigate but his lack of understanding of French hindered more than helped the journey. Teri gave up following his directions as he kept confusing the turn-offs, following the map using the left of the road as if he was in Britain, while the French went off to the right. His understanding of the road signs didn't help either. He found it hard to remember that the French arrow for straight on pointed left or right not up, as at home.

After one particularly confusing junction Teri pulled in to the side and got out. She stalked around the car as horns blew and ordered Tobin into the driving seat. Terrified, he did as he was told, precisely. He grudgingly admitted afterwards that they arrived at their destination much more easily with her directing. They pulled up outside a pair of large, wire mesh gates leading to a compound. A sign by the gate contained several company names; second on the list was Intercon Cuisine.

'I don't know if this place will be open this morning. The French don't have heavy transport moving at weekends like we do. I'll go and ask at the gate.' She got out and approached a gateman who was peering from his hut. After a quick conversation she returned. 'You wait here, I won't be long!' She turned on her heel and walked briskly into the compound. Tobin waited a minute or two and ambled to the gates after her. The gateman nodded to him. He looked as bleary-eyed as Tobin felt and was even more unshaven.

'Bonjour m'sieur.' Tobin tried to remember what little French he had picked up, not having studied the language at school.

'Er, Bon-jour. Anglais, huh?'

'Pardon?'

'You – are – English?' Said the gateman, in a loud, mocking voice; his impression of the Englishman abroad.

'Oh. Yes.'

'Good. England – good.'

'Er. Yes.'

'I go... England... .' He indicated himself and held his hand a small height from the ground.

'As a child?'

Ah! Oui. London... Hoh!' He did a rheumaticy attempt at the twist. That dates his visit thought Tobin. The gateman was certainly in his sixties and looked as though he had spent most of his life outdoors. Shrewd eyes gazed out from beneath shaggy brows and studied Tobin. He was six inches shorter than Tobin and stockily built, swarthy but clean except for the stubble. 'You...?' He indicated the departing Teri and Tobin with a rocking hand and a suggestive raising of an eyebrow.

'No!' Tobin shook his head furiously. The old man was much amused. 'We are looking for a man,' said Tobin with great emphasis on the last word.

'You look for a man. Yes?' Suddenly the English was a lot better.

'Yes,' Tobin retrieved the photo of Alan from his bag in the car, 'This man.'

'Ah. 'Oui.'

'Alan Harper,' said Tobin, pointing to the figure in the photo.

'No! No. No. Alain Martin,' said the gateman, pointing at the same figure. Tobin tried to hide his surprise. 'You are not first. Two men, also.' He held up his thumb and forefinger in the continental manner to emphasize the number. 'Looking!' He nodded his head, sagely.

'When was this, please?'

'One,' he looked at his watch, 'one hour, one hour one half.' He shrugged, time was not important, to him.

'Hour and a half, ago?'

'Oui.

'Can you describe this man?'

'Oui. Hair – er... Gris... ?'

'Grey?'

Ah. Oui. Hair... grey.' He mimed thick flowing hair. His hands waved about and indicated a big man. Tobin nodded as the man's hands went to his throat and he puffed out his cheeks. There was no mistaking a description of Dale's jowls. Tobin nodded again.

'And the second?'

'Second?... Ah, deuxiéme! Ah, oui... Past - evening.' He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

'And what did he look like?'

'Ah. He look... ,' he pointed at the photo.

'He looked like Mr Martin?'

'Oui.'

'Thank - you - very – much,' said Tobin, using his best Englishman abroad manner.

'Merci boucoup, m'sieur,' instructed the gateman.

'What is your name?'

'Henri, m'sieur.'

'Merci boucoup, Henri.' Tobin was basking in the smile of the older man as Teri appeared striding across the yard.

'No-one's seen him,' she said, as she strode haughtily past, ignoring the gateman.

'Bon journee, mam'selle, m'sieur.' He winked at Tobin as he leered at the rear of Teri and burst into raucous laughter.

'What's all that about?'

'Don't worry about that. The important thing is that we're third in a three horse race. Dale was here less than two hours ago and Bernie was here last night. So, I think the only other place they can possibly know of is Les Deux Alpes. I think that should be our next stop.' He said opening the car door.

'Do you realize how far that is?'

'I can soon work it out.'

'I know how far it is! A bloody long way!'

'Well, there's two of us. If we take turns we might be able to overtake Dale, but Bernie's well ahead. We might still be too late. Except neither of them knows that we're here or that we know they're here. Do you know a route?'

She was trying to catch up with his reasoning. 'Er... yes,' and she pointed at the GPS. 'We have to head south east first and then pick up the A6 and that goes all the way, I think.'

He opened the atlas at the route finder page and studied it. 'You're quite right. I'm not used to those things. You don't need them in Northumberland, you just follow the signs.'

'Well, now you'll see how useful they really are.' She gave him a smug little smile and ushered him round to the driving seat. He headed off in the direction instructed, around the Peripherique, through a maze of lesser roads, across a river, 'that's the Marne,' he wasn't interested, and onto the A4. Then he missed the motorway junction. He took the next exit, was confused by the roundabout and turned the wrong way. They drove twice round the airfield at Emerainville before they were under the N104, which they took southbound, Tobin grudgingly accepting that the GPS did know the way to go.

'Phew!' said Teri. 'Only another five and a half hours to Grenoble!'

The motorway through Melun and Fontainebleau was pleasant enough and somewhere near Nemours they swapped seats. Tobin grabbed some sleep as Teri cruised fast down the A6 until a petrol stop made a call on his wallet. They bought some cans of drink and bars of chocolate and a pair of sunglasses for him in the kiosk and Tobin proffered his charge card.

'Hey! What are you doing with a gold card?' She demanded, staring at him. She pestered him all the way back to the car and he found himself in the driving seat once more.

'Look. I've got a little private income, that's all.'

'Not so little if you've got a gold card.' She said, thoughtfully, to herself. To his relief she soon fell asleep as he motored south. Tobin was quite enjoying the driving, now. But, he became concerned as they approached Beaune and the big motorway junction. But the nice lady on the GPS kept him right and he saw the signs indicating A6 'Autoroute du Soleil'. That was south and he gratefully followed.

Teri woke shortly after as he slowed in a torrential rainstorm and the rain hammered on the car body. 'Where are we?' She sat up looking around. Even the French drivers had slowed to below the compulsory reduced speed limit. He found a rest area and pulled over into it. It was packed with cars as many others took the opportunity for a rest.

'We've not long passed a sign for Chalon-something or other.'

'Not bad.' She said consulting the map. 'You've had your foot down. You mind my little car!'

'How much further?' He produced some chocolate and the last of their cans of drink.

'Well.' She added up the distances on the atlas. 'It's another one hundred and twenty to Lyons and then a hundred and fifty one to Grenoble.'

Tobin grimaced at the thought.

'That's kilometres, in miles it's about a hundred and seventy five.' She smiled to herself at his expression.

'Then how far?'

She looked at the GPS and did some mental arithmetic, 'about another seventy five, but they'll be slower. It'll be dark when we get there.'

'Right. It's your turn.' They ran round the car in the rain, changing places. Tobin settled himself down in the passenger seat using jumpers from the back seat as a pillow. 'Wake me in a couple of hours.' She just stuck her tongue out at him. Tobin ate some chocolate and finished his can of Coca-Cola. The chocolate had an almost instant effect as his blood sugar level rose. But, after fifteen minutes he was asleep. He didn't get his two hours as Teri had not heeded her own advice to mind the little car and had flogged the poor vehicle flat out down the motorway. By the time they reached Lyons she was exhausted and had to hand over to Tobin.

They left the A6 finally and skirted the city to the north and east picking up the A43. Thirty-seven kilometres later they branched of onto the A48 for Grenoble. Forty minutes driving brought them to the turning off the motorway and Tobin paid the last toll.

He sat in the car putting away his credit card. 'Do you realize how much we've spent on tolls? It's incredible!'

'You've spent.' She corrected him. 'Did you mean what you said back there, in Folkestone?'

'What do you mean?

'That stuff about Alan and repaying him.'

'Certainly. I feel very strongly about it. He's not only been a good friend he's also been a great example, I've just been stupid not to follow. In some ways we're very similar but in others we couldn't be more different. I prevaricate; he just gets on with it. You have to admire that. I don't really care what he is supposed to have done. I admire him. He's still the same person whatever name you call him by. That's what counts with me.'

'Very noble.'

'Don't mock what you don't understand!' He told her sharply.

'Ooh. I'm sorry.' She said, surprised. There was more to this big, amiable, man than she had realised.

'It's often scoffed at these days, but there's nothing wrong with good old fashioned loyalty. I've misplaced it in the past and been badly hurt, but I would rather look for the good in people and be let down a few times than spend a lifetime of cynicism and end up looking sour like some people!'

'Like my mother?'

'I wasn't thinking of anyone in particular.'

'Maybe not, but my mother would certainly fit.'

'You know her better than me.'

'Mmmm.' She said, contemplatively.

'I'm sorry. I tend to suddenly let go in bursts like that these days.'

'Don't apologize. It's really interesting. I've not really had much experience of other people's emotions; and my mother's were always so contrived. She had an emotion for every occasion. She just turned them on and off as required.' They settled in silence for a few kilometres.

Tobin enjoyed the driving on the slower main roads, he had come to dislike the French habit of slipstreaming and driving right up his exhaust pipe, he had seen several near-accidents as they had travelled south.

They were following the N1091 now with the Alps all around, according to the atlas. It was spectacular as the sun dipped behind them and shone golden on the highest, snow-capped peaks. Tobin was feeling particularly tired and desperately hoping for a stop.

'I know what you mean by loyalty.' She declared, suddenly, harking back to their previous discussion. He doubted that she did but said nothing. 'I admire him a lot, too. I just didn't realize it at the time. In fact I couldn't have been more ungrateful, probably, but he did do a lot for me. More than I deserved, I suppose. He filled the gaps in my upbringing, though again I didn't realize there were any, my mother had carefully avoided them. I know, it sounds harsh, I don't know if she did it consciously or whether she was trying to bring me up as she thought she should have been brought up. Either way it was a disaster! She tried to bring me up in her own image; but she never thought to question that image.

'You see, my mother had ambitions, aspirations, for me that were quite unreal. They would have been out of place in her childhood but she never realized that. She just slavishly copied, carried on what she thought of as 'tradition'. You must have realized that she never really lived in the real world. As soon as real life appeared she'd go on a drinking binge to escape.' Suddenly, it was Teri's turn to unload her conscience, Tobin tried to concentrate.

'She honestly thought that I could get by like she had done; taking or destroying. She never gave anything back. She actually warned me against returning favours as it could expose your weaknesses. She would warn me almost every day, so I believed her, of course.'

Tobin glanced across at her strong profile momentarily silhouetted by the evening light; it had changed as she had matured, he had seen that profile before but in different circumstances. It was very familiar in a strange way. The full lips and strong jawline were reminiscent of someone, but from somewhere else. Perhaps it was just déjà vu. Teri was still prattling on. 'I can't imagine why Alan married her. She absolutely hated him for as long as I can remember. I suppose there was one reason they got married; she had quite a reputation, you know, as a girl. Had you heard that?'

He most certainly had, but he said. 'I don't think Alan would have paid much attention to that, if he had heard it, that is.'

She reached across and put her arm around his shoulder, pulling him over towards her and planting a big kiss on his cheek. The car swerved amid horn blasts from passing cars. 'You are so alike, you two. I love you both!'

Tobin negotiated a roundabout as they turned into le Bourg D'Oisans, irritating the GPS. Some tour coaches were pulled up at a café as they approached the town. Tobin pulled up as well; he'd had enough!

The food was adequate and the café busy so they didn't stay long. At a filling station nearby they replenished their stock of drinks and sweets and filled the car with petrol. Teri took the wheel to start the final part of their journey. She drove slowly in the dark as the road climbed up the valley. It was only fourteen kilometres to the turn off to the resort and the start of the real climb. Tobin was twisting in his seat watching the night sky reflected in a large lake or reservoir and was taken by surprise at the sharp turn.

The mountain road snaked back and forth as they crawled up and up. After five or six kilometres Teri pulled in to the side and they stepped out of the car for a breath of fresh air and to look at the view. The fresh air was a shock and Tobin realized why Teri had put on a jersey before leaving the car; and they had a lot more to climb yet. The view in the dark was beautiful, twinkling lights spread out in groups before them showing where the villages were and disappearing in the distance in the clear, dark night.

They finished the last six kilometres of the climb at the slowest speed of the last two days, a measure of tiredness more than of the gradient. Teri pointed out places as they entered the town; the lit up apartment blocks of Village Mont de Lans and the square; the administrative centre on the left. They entered the one-way system and Teri pulled in to the right by a sports shop.

'We can walk from here. Micks Bar is just down here on the left on that two way street. It should still be open.'

'It is Sunday.'

'I know. But somebody will be in. They shut when they want to over here you know!'

They walked past the lit up Bistro and looked in the window. Two customers sat at the bar talking to a man behind it.

'That's Arnaud.' Said Teri. One customer rose, putting on a jacket and left as they watched. He took no notice of them and headed off into the dark. They loitered around the immediate area glancing through windows as they passed to and fro.

'I don't think he's here,' declared Teri. 'Heh! We haven't got anywhere to stay, you realize.' She looked around her. 'There's lots of hotels, let's try a few.'

'I haven't seen any sign of Bernie or Dale, either. It all looks calm, doesn't it?' Added Tobin, wearily, but hopeful.

After trying six different hotels they gave up and returned to the car.

'I thought they were supposed to be friendly here!' said Tobin.

'Hmmph.'

They drove back to a car park at the entrance to the town and parked. Teri wrapped herself in jumpers and curled up on the back seat leaving Tobin to make the best of the front. He was so tired he hardly noticed the discomfort.

However, when he woke at four-o-clock in the morning he felt more than discomfort, where he could feel anything. His hands were frozen as were his neck and shoulders from the window slightly open beside him for ventilation. He shifted in his seat and could feel nothing in his legs. He started the engine and put the heater onto hot. After fifteen minutes of massaging the blood back into his extremities he wrapped himself up like Teri, turned off the engine and returned to a fitful sleep.

\------------------15\-----------------

It was light, Tobin opened his eyes and could see nothing outside the car; condensation was running down the inside of the windows. His head had fallen to one side on the headrest and was now at a painful angle on his right shoulder. His mouth was dry as if he had been snoring. Whatever he had been doing it hadn't disturbed Teri who still lay wrapped up on the back seat sound asleep. He wound down the window to let in some fresh air. It was just as grey outside, a thick blanket of fog lay over the town and the cold damp fingers reached into the car causing him to shiver.

He quietly opened the door, his legs needed help to swing out of the cramped confines of the front seat and he had to lift them out one at a time. The long tense hours of driving the day before and the cold night curled up in the car had turned them to rubber, and his back was set in concrete. He stood up unsteadily, resting heavily on the open door, stretched painfully and looked around him. He could see for the width of two cars in each direction before the fog closed in. He tottered round to the boot, quietly opened it and found his bag. He pulled on some extra clothes and stretched again.

His watch showed him that it was five forty five. He tried a couple of steps with painful pins and needles in his feet and lower legs. From the front of the car he remembered that they had parked five bays in from the road, he turned and shuffled in that direction.

There was not a sound to be heard as he reached the road and turned left up a slight gradient. His legs were stiff but coming to life as he walked toward the town centre. After fifteen minutes walking, feeling better with every step, he came to where they had parked the car the previous night and paused to look around. He was in front of a sports shop, beside him was a rail protecting the foot of a flight of steps up to a hotel. There was still no sign of life, the fog in amongst the buildings was thinner and as he looked up he could see traces of blue sky directly overhead and felt a slight breeze brush down the street. A cat appeared on a balcony across the road. It strolled arrogantly along the handrail one white paw delicately placed in front of the other, its tail held erect like a crook. It crouched at the corner of the rail and stared down at him. Tobin stared back.

He hunched deeper into his jacket, pushed his hands deeper into the pockets and continued up the street. It was a bigger town than he had expected. He walked past the street they had taken the night before and followed the curve of the road as it wound round to the left and then the right. The area became less commercial and more residential as he came to a fork in the road. He picked the left turn, feeling the breeze become stronger, walked past a school and came to a cable car station. It was closed, unsurprisingly, and he walked past one side and headed for the edge of the cliff, he could see the cables descending ahead. The breeze changed direction and was flowing over the edge taking thick blankets of fog with it. He could now look out over the thick white cloud and see the mountains beyond to the south of the valley. Tobin stood and drank in the sight until the temperature prompted him to move again.

He turned, sad to leave the sight and silence, and returned the way he had come. Over the town to his right, as the fog began to disperse with the morning breeze, he could see the shoulder of the mountain with the pylons of the lift system sticking out of it like matchsticks. His walk back was much more brisk. The cat was gone and he saw a human and heard his first sound, a grunted 'Bonjour' from a passer-by.

Teri was still fast asleep when he returned, but stirred when he opened the door to retrieve a bag of peppermints from the dashboard. Cars were moving on the road now and the fog had sunk further down the valley revealing the surrounding mountains and leaving the town veiled in only a thin mist. Sunlight was visible behind the mountain range to the east, on his left as he looked toward the town, but the sun still had a long way to climb before it showed itself directly in the town. He was very hungry, the smell of baking bread as he walked back had been wonderful and now his stomach was churning and making sounds in the stillness of the carpark.

He chewed on some mints to freshen his mouth and studied the road atlas, reliving the previous day's journey. After a further half-hour of aimless wandering to kill time he purposefully disturbed Teri.

She woke bright and cheerful. 'You look dreadful!' were her first words.

They set off in search of the bakery. 'Boulangerie', she corrected him. 'Isn't this fabulous? It's always so bright and clear!'

'It wasn't an hour ago.' He grumbled. 'I've been stumbling around for an hour and a half while you snoozed.'

'Aah.' She patted him playfully on the cheek. 'Ooh! You need a shave.'

'We,' he said, pointedly, 'need a bath and change of clothes as well as my shave.' He pointed to his rumpled trousers and the shirt collar poking out from above the two jumpers he was wearing.

She nodded, 'but first, food.'

He had to agree.

They made a detour past the bar, they were not surprised to find it shut, and had a look around in the daylight. The door from the street led past the kitchens and into the café area, which they could see quite clearly through the large windows on three of the walls. Two large sets of glass doors led from the café onto a large sundeck at the back with tables and chairs laid out under furled umbrellas. From the deck a broad set of wooden steps led down to a rear street about six feet below. Teri led the way down the side street to the rear of the deck and they climbed the steps.

'If you sit there,' she pointed to her right as she mounted the top step, 'you get the sun all day long. A great sun tan spot.' Tobin looked to where she was pointing to the corner of the deck, in the angle of the high handrail. It was the north-east corner, facing south-west, and they were far enough away from the building for the sun's only obstruction to be the mountaintops around the town.

When they returned to the road Tobin could see that they were not alone in their quest for bread. Several children passed by clutching armfuls of long French loaves. They joined the shop queue.

With their own arms full of warm bread and pastries they walked along the bottom of the slopes and sat by the swimming pools and ice rink.

'Those are the cable cars you saw in the photos,' said Teri, between mouthfuls of crusty bread, 'that has the name of the resort all over it.' She pointed across to her right as they looked up the mountain. 'It's called the Jandri and zooms you up the mountain. This is the bottom of a floodlit piste where you can ski in the evening. Look at the state of you!' She laughed, as Tobin brushed off a shower of breadcrumbs. They moved on again, passed a nursery and regained the road as they finished off the croissants and pain-au-chocolat that Teri had insisted on buying. Tobin still said nothing as he devoured the food. He couldn't remember feeling so hungry as he had when waiting in the baker's shop.

'I've an idea.' Teri suddenly announced. 'I've stayed in that hotel we parked by last night, let's go and see if there's anyone I know.'

'I thought you already tried?'

'That was last night.'

Tobin stood and inspected the sports shop window again and waited while Teri ran up the steps to the hotel above. The cat reappeared across the road and haughtily made its way back home along the handrail, tail still held high. He watched the traffic passing as the town became busier. Tobin had almost forgotten why they were there when a shock of white hair went past in a car and pulled up further down the street. Tobin ducked under the handrail beside him and climbed the steps for a better view of the car. The far door opened and a tall, thin, tanned man emerged. He should have realised that the car was French and kicked himself for being so jumpy.

He was aware now of his heartrate and sudden shortness of breath. He needed a drink after all that bread; his mouth was quite dry. The white hair moved off down the street out of sight. Tobin had suddenly been brought back down to earth, with a considerable bump and he leant on the rail contemplating the day ahead. He was totally unprepared, he knew. He was a stranger in a strange land, quite lost without the aid of Teri, and embarking on an unknown task that involved people who were perfectly willing to kill. He felt worse now than when he had made the discovery of Alan's real identity. The chase to get here had been fun, to a certain extent; being here had been interesting, to a point; but, going on any further was a different prospect. He could get killed, he hadn't thought of that before. He had persuaded himself that all that was needed was to tell Alan to be careful and then depart; whereas, in reality, they were one of three parties after the same man, but all for different reasons. The other two were probably already here and they had something far worse in mind and, if they found him in the way, Tobin knew that he was only a minor obstacle, easily overcome.

'Right!'

'OH!'

'Jumpy! We can get changed here if we're discreet about it. OK?'

'Yes.' He took a deep breath and relaxed back against the rail from which he had jumped so quickly.

'You OK?'

'Yes. I was miles away.'

'Well, it's nice enough here, isn't it? You get the bags, I'll meet you back here.' She turned and ran back into the hotel.

'Where have you been? It's taken you ages.'

'I had to drive twice round the block before I could find a space.' Not to mention trying to check out several English registered cars he had seen on the way. Teri was talking to a tall, slight, very pretty blonde girl when Tobin entered the hotel lobby lugging Teri's heavy bag. He had sorted his own bits and pieces into a carrier bag.

'We've got forty five minutes before the owner returns. This is Sara, by the way.' She pointed to him, 'John.'

Sara nodded, 'Bonjour, Monsieur.'

'Bonjour, Sara.' It was like a language lesson. He headed for the stairs leaving the girls to have a giggle over something; he didn't want to enquire what. Teri followed to the first floor, led the way down the corridor to a back room and opened the door.

To Teri's amusement Tobin had been a gentleman and let her use the shower first while he stretched out on the bed. When he caught up with her downstairs, feeling clean and fresh at last, the two girls were giggling again. They fell silent when he approached, still lugging Teri's heavy bag.

'Don't worry about me, I can't understand a word you're saying.' He said, trying not to sound huffy. 'I'll put these in the car.' He stomped on through and down the steps. Teri didn't follow and he returned to find them drinking coffee. 'We are supposed to be in a hurry.' He reminded her.

'Sara says that Mick's doesn't open yet.' There was more chatter and tapping of watches. 'But, Arnaud will be there preparing to open.' She repeated. 'We'll get breakfast there, too.' Her face brightened. 'Petit dejeuner!' She instructed him. 'Breakfast.'

Tobin nodded tolerantly. Sara gazed at him with large blue eyes, which he found disturbing. He nodded toward the door and turned to leave.

'Au revoir, monsieur.' Said a sad voice behind him.

'Good bye.'

Teri caught him up on the steps. 'Slow up. You made a hit there, you know?'

'Mmm?' That was the last thing he wanted right now.

He strode to the café with Teri in tow. She banged on the door attracting Arnaud, who, even Tobin could tell, was quite alarmed to see her. There was an animated discussion during which they both mentioned 'Papa' and consulted watches. She took Tobin by the arm and dragged him in.

'Alan's not here yet. He's been away on 'business' for the last few days and is expected back this morning.'

'Where's he been?'

'Arnaud says he doesn't know. You open that door and I'll do this one and Arnaud's making us some breakfast.' He did as instructed, unbolting and swinging back the large glass doors onto the deck. But, they decided to sit inside in the corner diagonally opposite the front door. 'It's too cold still to sit out there till the sun gets up, then it's too hot!' She said squeezing round the table to get right into the corner. Tobin sat on her right with the window and doors to the deck on his right. Coffee appeared almost immediately. They sat and drank in silence till Teri said, 'Arnaud is a French name, but he isn't French. He speaks it fluently, better than me, but I can tell he isn't French.'

Now that she mentioned it, he didn't look French either. Well-tanned, fair skin covered slightly gaunt features below straight, light brown hair. He was quite tall and slim; his loose clothes hung on him; his off-white T-shirt flapping over the spare frame and slim hips. He wore cut-off jeans and sandals, displaying well-tanned legs. Dark eyes watched everything; Tobin was aware that Arnaud was constantly on the alert.

Trays of breakfast appeared. He was not sparing the food for Teri that was certain. Plates of ham and cheese, eggs, bread and a kind of sponge cake arrived on one, while cereals, yoghurt, fruit and fruit juice and preserves came on the second. Tobin offered to pay.

'Non! Non. Non.' Arnaud turned his back and returned to the counter. He was back in a moment bearing some English newspapers dated the previous Saturday.

'Ah. Merci, Arnaud,' said Tobin, cockily.

'M'sieur.'

They settled down to their food and reading the papers. It was all so civilised and a million miles from Tobin's fears of an hour earlier. The sun appeared and began to warm the room; Teri opened the window beside her that looked down onto the side street. More customers arrived and Arnaud, who worked alone, steadily pattered in and out as most of the visitors now chose to sit outside. Tobin yawned and straightened himself in the chair; he was feeling sleepy again. Teri couldn't concentrate on the papers and threw them onto an empty chair.

'You've never talked about your father, real father,' ventured Tobin.

'Not a lot to mention, really. I don't know if I would know him if I met him, now.' She said quite calmly. 'I have thought about him a bit more, recently. He left when I was quite young and mother kept no mementoes; just his money. I don't know what visiting rights he was supposed to have but I never saw him after the first few months. He kept paying for me, though, that's why I'm still called Shaw. He's called Roland Terence Shaw, same initials, see? Mother hated him, never wanted to hear his name or any reference to him. So, he was soon forgotten. It's all beginning to sound a bit too familiar, isn't it?' She looked at him with a wry smile. 'She took him for every penny she could get and bragged about it, to me. He's quite a wealthy man, I believe. I know Alan met him a couple of times, just by accident, I think it was. They could probably compare notes, although it was some years ago now; things weren't quite as bad as they became. She was about to do the same to Alan, you know, but thinking about it now, I wonder if he saw it coming. If he was sort of warned by my father. That would possibly explain her extreme bitterness, if he had thwarted her efforts.' She said, dramatically. 'Recently, she did get very strange. Quite obsessive, really. Then about a month ago she went very quiet. Actually, almost smug.'

'Really?'

'Mmm.'

'That's about the time she contacted the Norrises in Nottingham.'

'That's what I was thinking.' Teri agreed. She drifted off on another memory. Tobin waited patiently. 'You know she actually tried to blame Alan for the drinking. Probably because she couldn't find some other way of getting at him. I think the way she would have liked most to get at him would have been to get another man.'

'I thought she didn't like men.'

'She didn't, according to her. But, there have been too many around in the past for me to believe that. When I was little, after my father left, there was a string of men. It didn't mean anything to me then, I was only six or seven years old. They were all different, as I remember. Some I met and some I didn't. Some I liked and some I didn't. Some I can remember, but most I don't, you know, visually. I still see some around town. They're married, now, and a couple I'm sure were married then. But, at the time they were all 'Bastards' or worse, my mother made a point of destroying every one of them to me. The ones I can remember were the ones who tried to get to know me, usually by bringing presents or giving me money or something, like taking me on trips at the weekend. My mother hated that, really resented me being there. I used to look at these men and wonder 'are you going to be my new daddy?' Or more often I would pray that it wasn't going to be this one or that one after my mother had had a go about him behind his back.

'Then, along came Alan. Even to a nine year old he was attractive. He made no concessions; he was the first person to ever treat me as an adult. Sounds funny, doesn't it? But, I mean he treated me like an equal, it was very strange. He would ask me what I wanted to do, and what I thought of something, and took notice. My mother hated that, too, and would tell me off after for undermining her authority. But, of course, she was jealous. That's what it was. She fell head over heels for him when he first appeared, I can remember. I had never seen her like it before. Then she would remember she was supposed to hate him and it would start all over again. But, she married him!

'She never liked going anywhere with him, never liked what he liked, always considered his pleasures as competition and the only way she could combat that was to try and destroy it or force a choice between herself and whatever it was that interested him.

He always supported me and whatever I wanted to do, sports, dancing, music, art, I tried them all, and enjoyed them all. I could have taken up any of them and been good, you know.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. Except for mother. Alan never understood why I didn't stick with anything. But, my mother always destroyed it. 'Girls didn't do that'. Or 'the teacher's just telling you it's good, it's awful!' That was my art; I met the art teacher a few years ago, he's retired now, and he asked me why I never continued it, because I was so good, and he'd wanted me to join his art club, but my mother had told him how much I hated art. That actually had me crying in Northumberland Street when he told me that. That was the last straw. As soon as I could I moved out, with Alan's help.

'The only thing she did encourage me with, for a while, was drama. Because she liked the atmosphere; she really joined in, as well. That was probably the undoing of it all; she became so overpowering and domineering, I think we were asked to leave. Those were the taunts at school, anyway, and thinking back I can see the truth in them. You see, she was always an embarrassment! I ended up hating them both when I was at school, I was so screwed up. She wouldn't let me do the things he wanted me to do, and I wanted to do; and I hated the things she wanted me to do and he wouldn't support me, openly.' She was gazing at the ceiling, lost in the memories of her childhood. Tobin poured some more coffee and waited, intrigued, for her to continue.

'Alan used to be away a lot on business then, and she liked that, not having him around. I don't mean she misbehaved or anything. Mind you I was very innocent then, so I might not have realised if I had seen anything. Actually, she had lost her looks by then, I think that caused a good part of the bitterness. She couldn't pull a bloke.' She laughed bitterly at the thought. 'But, he was successful and kept her in the manner that she expected. I know now that it wasn't 'just luck' but very hard work that got him there. He earned every penny. But, of course, she wouldn't see it that way. I can remember some terrible rows about work. 'Why did he have to go?' 'Couldn't they do it for him, that's what they're paid for?' 'Sack them!' 'You're the boss, they should do whatever you tell them!' As if he could do whatever he wanted, whenever.' Tobin could see where some of Teri's attitudes came from.

Teri took a deep breath, paused and blew it out with a whistle. 'She's a large part of why we're here, you realise? Or, at least, why I'm here. I need to make up for my mother. I thought it would be a fairly straightforward job to put things right, I didn't foresee all of this. I should have known better. If it's to do with mother, it's complicated!'

'Me too,' muttered Tobin.

'Moi aussi.'

'Pardon?'

Moi aussi. Me too.'

'Ah. Moi aussi.'

'Good. Your accent is quite good. Have you never learnt any languages?'

Tobin shook his head. 'Non' he said, with a smile.

'This coffee's cold. Is Arnaud out there?' She pointed to the terrace.

Tobin half rose from the seat to look round the side of the window. He shot back into his seat.

'What's the matter?'

He pushed her back into her seat as she tried to rise and look for herself.

'Bernie's out there! He's sitting in your favourite seat with a perfect view inside and out. This is the only bit he can't see and as soon as we move he'll spot us. So, we're stuck here.'

'We could climb out of this window.'

Tobin carefully leant over her to look out, he couldn't see what was immediately below, but couldn't remember there being any obstruction. 'First we need to get hold of Arnaud, to tell him to warn Alan.'

As he spoke a rattly little, diesel powered Renault van pulled up beneath the window and a head of white hair got out of the driver's door immediately below. Before Tobin could say anything the hair disappeared from view and they heard the kitchen back door slam loudly. As Tobin sat back in his seat Alan appeared behind the counter.

'Arnaud! Arn... .' He saw Teri and Tobin at their table and stopped open mouthed. Before he could say anything or Tobin could utter a warning Alan's attention was drawn to the sundeck outside. Tobin looked round his window and saw Bernie standing behind his table; a small revolver was in his hand. His arm began to straighten in aim as footsteps clattered up the stairs behind him. Bernie swung round and saw a young man in the uniform of the municipal police trotting up the steps. He stopped, wide-eyed at the sight of the gun. Bernie's arm continued to straighten and the gun fired, the sound of the shot echoing off the surrounding buildings with a shattering CRACK! Crack .. crack... crack.... crack. The young officer crumpled and slid down the stairs the thump-thump-thump of his body the only sound in the eerie silence that followed the gunshot.

Tobin heard a noise in the café and looked round, Alan was gone. Moments later Bernie came thundering through after him. As he reached the counter he glanced into the corner and his step faltered as he took in who was there. In his surprise he misjudged the gap through the counter and caught the corner with his ribs and left arm. He cried out in pain and, still staring at them, hobbled out after his long lost cousin, holding his injured left side with his gun hand.

Uproar had broken out in the back street, meanwhile, as people milled around the fallen policeman. Four young people, two boys and two girls, were in hysterics as they had been sitting right next to the young officer as he had been hit and had looked down the barrel of the gun as it traversed across them before firing.

Tobin was first down the steps and forced his way through the throng of people circling the body; not one of them attempted to help. He grabbed some coats from bystanders, amid loud protests and covered up the young man; hardly more than a boy to look at. Teri was shouting behind him, 'Ambulance! SAMU! Secours! Agh!' She waved her hands in frustration at the gawking mob.

The injured man lay on his back, moaning and clutching his right side with both hands. Blood was seeping from under them, staining his blue shirt and dripping onto the ground. He groaned as Tobin prised his hands away, some members of the crowd gasped in horror and stepped away. The bullet had torn through the side of his abdomen, entering just beside his navel and exiting at the side above his hip, tearing through the muscle layer. He felt the man's pockets and pulled out his handkerchief, fortunately clean and fresh, unlike Tobin's own. He folded it into thirds pressed it to the wound. The policeman was only too willing to hold it in place as Tobin ran his hands down his arms and legs checking for any further injuries from the fall down the stairs. He appeared to be all right other than the wound.

'The gendarmerie is just round the corner,' Teri told him, 'help will be here any moment.'

'This lot are no use, are they?' He said, gesturing in disgust at the crowd. As he spoke there was a pounding of feet and shouting nearby and he could hear the wailing of a siren approaching. The crowd behind was roughly pushed aside amid more shouting and two more policemen landed on their knees beside him. Something was demanded of him in French, he looked to Teri for help. She said something in return as the ambulance screeched to a halt at the end of the lane and a stretcher was rushed down. Tobin allowed himself to be lifted out of the way as the paramedics took over.

The crowd had fallen silent and parted before them as he and Teri headed for the steps, his blood smothered hands held out in front of him. Arnaud ushered them through the crowd.

'Monsieur! Monsieur!'

Teri tugged at Tobin's arm to draw his attention to the policeman who was calling to him. Tobin looked round. The wounded man was on a stretcher and being carried away already as one of the other policemen called to Tobin. 'Merci, Monsieur, Merci.' He just waved wearily and turned to mount the steps.

Tobin washed and dried himself while Teri fetched him a clean shirt from the car. By the time he had finished there was a senior looking police officer waiting in the café.

'English?' Demanded the officer.

'Yes.'

'I must thank you for assisting my officer.'

'That's OK. It was the least I could do.'

'I must have your passports.' He held out his hand in demand.

'It's in the car.'

'So's mine. I'll fetch the car shall I?'

'You must stay!' He ordered Tobin.

'Don't worry. I'll come back.' Said Teri.

'Please sit and wait.' He instructed and indicated the table they had occupied earlier. Tobin watched him go and try and organize the remaining police force herding potential witnesses on to the terrace outside. He leant his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel a bit shaken and cold.

He didn't know how long he had sat like that before he heard the scrape of a chair and Teri's voice beside him. 'Alan's car is still there, I've just parked behind it.'

'Where do you think he went?' Tobin opened his eyes, Teri and Arnaud were gazing down at him. Arnaud proffered a cup of coffee. Teri asked him a question in French and even Tobin could tell that the answer was reluctantly given.

'Arnaud says he lives in Venosc.'

'Ah. I've seen the cable car that goes down there. It's right at the end of the village.' His hand gestures obviously overcame the language barrier as Arnaud nodded in agreement.

'And, as we haven't heard anymore, he must have made it without Bernie catching him,' added Teri.

'I don't think Bernie is going to catch anyone. He caught his ribs on the corner of the counter as he rushed out and it hurt him badly. Alan's extremely fit, I doubt if many people could catch him and Bernie would soon realize that. He must have had a car parked near here, which he's got away in. Has Arnaud seen him before?'

Teri repeated the question, her eyebrows rose as she listened to the answer. 'Apparently, Bernie was here late yesterday afternoon asking for Alan, using a photo.'

They heard the sound of a helicopter arriving as the senior policeman returned. Arnaud left them alone.

'I must thank you for your assistance, again. My officer will not die!' They were glad to hear it. 'What is your relation to M. Martin?'

'He is my stepfather.' The policeman looked puzzled. She tried again. 'Mon père. Ah, non. Umm.' She racked her memory for the expression Alan had taught her, but she had never had to use till now. Tobin watched, lost. 'Ah! Erm, Beau-père?'

'Ah. Oui. Beau-père.' He looked puzzled.

She looked smugly at Tobin and chattered on in French. Tobin sat quietly and drank his coffee. Teri turned back to him and condescendingly explained. 'Monsieur l'agent,' she indicated the policeman with a sickly smile, 'was not aware that I was related to Alan. They are old friends apparently and he is very worried that someone is chasing his friend. Unfortunately, we must remain here while he registers our presence and consults with those above him.' She looked back at him with the same smile; the officer returned it with a nod of agreement. 'So, basically, we're stuck!'

'I am sorry. I will be as quick as possible. But, I think our friend is gone.'

The rest of the morning was spent window shopping, returning to Arnaud's for lunch.

\---------------------16\-------------------

Bernie Mitchell had discovered the benefit of automatic gearboxes; he didn't have to use his injured arm to change gear. But, on the other hand, he hadn't been able to fit his seat belt. The power steering was good, too; he was able to swing the big car about with only one hand.

As soon as he had got outside the backdoor of the café he had given up trying to chase Jimmy. It was obvious that his younger cousin was so much fitter and having collided with the counter Bernie knew the chase was lost. The sharp corner of the bar counter had caught the lower part of his left arm, just above the elbow, and then driven into his lower ribs on the same side; consequently, it was almost impossible to bend his left elbow and raise his lower arm and any sharp or deep breathing sent spasms of pain through his chest.

Bernie approached the top of the steep mountain road with apprehension. He leaned forward to reduce the reach to the gear lever and locked the transmission into a low gear. The pain and effort involved using his arm caused him to swear out loud and the sharp intake of breath only made matters worse. Tears formed in his eyes and blurred his vision slightly as he glanced in the rear-view mirror.

Shooting that stupid young policeman had been a serious mistake, he should have had more control over himself, he had panicked. Now all of France would be looking for him.

Seeing that young couple in the corner as he ran out had been his undoing. Their being there had to be a coincidence, Bernie knew he hadn't been followed, he had checked regularly as he drove. And, besides, they didn't know him anyway. The only thing he could think of was that they were on holiday there together. In which case did any of them realise why he was there? Well, they would, now! And Jimmy certainly would.

He couldn't really get to grips with the reasoning, his ribs were beginning to hurt a lot and swaying around in the car was becoming very painful, worrying about how or why they were there after what had just happened was pointless. He needed to get away now, as fast as possible and he was starting to feel most unwell. He pulled into the side of the road, away from the terrifying drop off the mountain, and put on his seat belt, painfully reaching across with his right hand.

The sun had risen high enough to shine on the road and the dark car was becoming hot. He wiped the perspiration from his face and opened the window. But that made him feel cold and he could feel how wet his shirt was. His back was soaked and cold when he rested back against the seat. His mouth was dry and his eyes ached. A series of sleepless nights in the car was taking its toll.

He pulled out of the little lay-by and continued his descent of the mountain, wandering from side to side, steering with one hand. A car appeared coming up the hill, round a bend, head on. He just managed to regain his side of the road as the other car swerved away before they collided; the occupant's shocked, white faces, mouths wide open, flashed past as he rolled on down the steep descent. He tried a deep breath to control himself, but it merely made him jump with pain and nearly lose control again.

He steadied himself and drove a little slower.

He reasoned that he wouldn't be chased from the top of the mountain; they would probably wait for him at the bottom. But, did they know who they were waiting for? He had got out of the café and into his car without drawing a lot of attention to himself, he thought; everybody had been running the other way. With a bit of luck they would not know his car number, but they might have a description. That couple, the writer and the girl, must have seen everything and would certainly have told the police he was English, therefore, they would look for an English car. A few hundred yards further down the hill, as he rounded a bend, he got a clear view to the valley bottom and saw blue flashing lights. He pulled into the side again and, with great difficulty, recovered his road atlas from where it had fallen on the car floor. He could just make out a tiny road on the map, marked in white, leading off to the west from the main road. He couldn't remember passing a turning so it must be further down, toward the blue lights.

He obviously couldn't go back so he had to venture forward. He almost missed the turning it was so small; he had stopped so close to it and not seen it that if he had been driving on the 'normal' side of the road he would have moved off and missed it all together. He reversed back and turned down it.

Bernie's heart was in his mouth, together with his stomach and several other of his organs; he had made a big mistake. The road was carved out of the sheer mountainside and was no wider in many places than his car; the drop on his side was so steep he couldn't even see the bottom; and for much of the way along there was only a small retaining wall. He passed through a couple of small hamlets where the road looked more like an alley going to the back yards. His good right hand gripped the wheel till his knuckles went white. His left hand gripped the corner of the seat and his speed fell to a crawl. Thankfully he met no one coming the other way.

As he rounded one particularly sharp, but marginally wider, bend he saw a blue van pulled in at what passed for a lay-by or passing place. The driver obviously was not expecting to meet anyone either, as he stood on the edge of the precipice casually urinating into mid-air. Bernie was not stopping for anyone and rolled slowly on as the man leapt for the safety of his vehicle, barely managing to close his trousers.

Bernie lost track of the number of hairpin bends he took, he had almost stopped breathing, some people would no doubt call it a breath-taking view, but to Bernie that was too painfully accurate a description. He ventured on. The road narrowed! He almost closed his eyes.

Bernie's life had flashed before him several times as he descended from the mountaintop and gratefully passed through the tree line. His right arm had become locked as he gripped the wheel and one final hairpin bend caught him out and he narrowly avoided running into the forest. He made a painful three point turn, from the tyre marks on the road he was glad to see he wasn't the first, and eventually regained the main road deep down in the valley at yet another hairpin junction.

He didn't look back to view his spectacular route; he just wanted to put as much distance between himself and the Alps as he possibly could. He was exhausted and couldn't remember a time when he felt so bad.

Tobin studied the chalkboard menu. 'What's that?' He asked Teri. 'At the bottom.'

'Andouillette?'

'That sounds like it.'

'Andouillette, Monsieur?' Asked Arnaud in surprise.

'Non! Non.' Cried Teri. 'You wouldn't like it. Even some of the French find it an acquired taste. Just have a crêpe.' Grudgingly he did.

They both ate hungrily as Arnaud plied them with more bread and cheese and pastries, still refusing to accept payment.

The table was just being cleared when they were joined by 'Monsieur l'agent', as Teri said to formally address the police officer. He sat down opposite them, produced their passports with a beaming smile, placed them on the table in front of him and folded his hands over them.

'Coffee?' Offered Tobin.

He nodded his acknowledgment and Tobin signalled Arnaud who promptly added another cup to the tray and brought it to the table.

'I have been in touch with my superiors and they are looking for the assailant as we speak. It is a very serious offense and the man when he is caught will be in great trouble. In France it is a very bad thing to shoot policemen.'

'As it is in England,' agreed Tobin. He could tell that this was going to be a long and time consuming lecture, the officer was settling down to stay. 'We have no interest in what happens to the man.' He continued.

'What was the young policeman doing here?' Tobin asked.

The policeman sat forward, looked Tobin directly in the eyes and thought for a moment. Then he said. 'I sent him to tell M. Martin that there were people looking for him.' He thought again for a moment. 'We are curious because when this man is looking for M. Martin he say is a... relative. If he is a relative then you must know him. Non?'

'No,' they said quickly in unison. Tobin added, 'We don't know anything about Alan's past or his family.'

'It is strange to us that this man is English – and M. Martin has... er, English... er... step-daughter? This was not known by anyone here. Arnaud!' Arnaud had been innocently cleaning a table within earshot behind the policeman's back thinking he had not been seen.

'Oui, monsieur?'

There followed a swift interrogation which Tobin could tell Teri was having trouble following. Arnaud was plainly negative in his responses, with much head-shaking and upturned palms in answer to the queries. His eyes rolled heavenwards with a flick of the head as the policeman's attention returned to Teri and Tobin.

'I am trying to find out for you where M. Martin may have gone, but, I am not getting the help. I think he may go to Paris, he has friends and business there.'

'Oh! Thank you,' said Teri, unable to hide her surprise.

'Here are your passports.' He opened each one of them and automatically checked the name and photo as he returned it. 'Miss Shaw.' He smiled at her. 'Monsieur... Foy?' He queried the pronunciation of the name.

'Yes, that's right.' Tobin could feel Teri's stare from beside him.

The policeman rose and bid them, 'Bon journèe.'

As soon as he was out of sight Teri grabbed the passport from Tobin's hand and opened it at the photo. 'Why are you traveling under a false name?' She demanded in a loud stage whisper.

'I'm not.' He sighed. 'If you look at the full name you will see the answer.'

'Foy, Nicholas... John Tobin!'

'Yes.'

'Oh! Is that for writing?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.'

Before she could think of any more awkward questions, he said. 'Right! We must get moving. Where in Paris would Alan go? Back to where we were yesterday?'

'Possibly.' She was still thinking; watching him.

'Well. Let's get going and head that way.'

'Mmm.' She followed him as he again tried to pay for the food and was refused.

'We are going to find Alan.' He said, slowly and deliberately to Arnaud. Teri stepped in and translated for him. Arnaud looked grim and merely nodded his response.

Outside Tobin checked the little van that Alan had arrived in. The keys were still in the ignition and an overnight bag lay on the passenger seat. He looked up and found Arnaud watching him from the café window. He gave a wave and climbed into the Ford with Teri.

'Right, Oh wise one! Where are we going?' She stared straight ahead sitting behind the wheel, engine running, waiting.

'Well, if you have no better ideas, Paris.'

She ground the gears and moved off with a jolt, bouncing him around in his seat.

'Hey! Gently! You were the one telling me to look after your little car.'

She did it again grinding into a higher gear as she turned into the main street.

Five days growth of grey beard did nothing to improve Brian Dale's appearance. He carried his suit jacket, because of the heat and his tie knot was pulled down to undo his top button, exposing the grimy inside of the collar. His once sharply creased pinstripe trousers were now dusty and baggy and his shoes scuffed and dirty.

He rose from the table on the hotel terrace where he had sat and watched the excitement at Mick's bar and signalled the waiter for his bill. The waiter eyed him cautiously; this scruffy Englishman with the wild, staring red eyes had been very sharp with him before, for not bringing the coffee quickly enough. The bill changed hands and was paid with a handsome tip. So handsome that the waiter knew the Englishman didn't understand the money.

Dale descended to the road level as he saw the small blue Ford draw away from the side of the café and out into the main street.

He had been badly shaken when he had seen Bernie on the terrace of the café earlier. They would have met face to face if Bernie had not been ordering something from the waiter. Dale had turned on the bottom step and walked swiftly away, circling the block looking for a vantage point from which to survey the café. He had just taken a seat on the hotel sun terrace when he saw Bernie Mitchell stand up and shoot the young policeman. As he disappeared into the café out of view, Harper had bolted from the side door of the cafe, which was just out of Dale's view, and disappeared away down the main street like an Olympic sprinter. Moments later he had seen Mitchell appear from the same door, but, by now, obviously hurt. He had paused at the corner and walked hurriedly, but awkwardly, in the opposite direction, below Dale's terrace and got into an expensive, English registered car. If Bernie had looked up he would have come face to face with the man he had been sent to silence. He didn't and Dale survived another day.

Dale couldn't see much of the street where the shot policeman lay, he could just see a few heads milling about and the blue lights appear. But, when, after ten minutes, John Tobin and Harper's daughter appeared he began to wonder what was going on.

Dale had pondered on the turn of events since. Had Mitchell followed him there? Or had he followed Harper there? How else could he have found this place? But, why was he here, anyway? True, he had displayed an interest in Harper before. But, who had he come here hunting – with a gun – Harper or Dale? What was Harper really doing here? Perhaps he wasn't missing at all, merely on holiday, and his stepdaughter and friend joining him. He did come here regularly, Dale had learnt that. No. The police were looking for him and his wife was dead. Tobin and the girl knew that, too. But, still they were here. Perhaps all three of them were in on something together; the other two just pretending to look for the missing man, but knowing, all along, where he was hiding. Had he been right after all and guessed that they were up to something. It had to be money from the business. He'd swindled the punters in Longalnbury after all!

Dale dreamt up many plausible scenarios as he sat and watched and drank coffee, and dozed in the warm sunshine. He had seen them go shopping and had followed at a discreet distance, but they had shown no fear of being followed. He had returned to his table in time for lunch and enjoyed the first real food for three days.

As the blue Ford disappeared into the traffic in the one-way system he strode briskly in the same direction, walking in the road to avoid the crowd.

'Maybe my mother was right all along!' Teri was still fuming at the discovery of her friend's duplicity.

'Really?'

'All men are false!'

'Ah! I see.'

'Do you?'

'I think so.'

'Do you.' She gave a blast on her horn as she nearly mowed down a family waiting to cross the road.

'It was a nickname I picked up at school. You know, like JR. I was JT. Then there was a character in an American series called John-boy and JT became John Tobin. And it stuck. For other reasons, I'll try and explain them later, I wanted to stop being Nick Foy and my two middle names came to my rescue. It's as simple as that.'

'Nick Foy,' she repeated, thoughtfully. 'I know that name. I've seen it somewhere.' She safely negotiated the rest of the town and speeded up as they left the shopping area.

'Stop! Stop!' Tobin suddenly shouted. Her reflexes were commendably sharp and a motorist following close behind just missed them and passed with blaring horns and a lot of shouting. 'Back into the carpark,' ordered Tobin. She grudgingly complied until they were in front of a green Vauxhall car with an English registration plate. Tobin opened his door and stood on the sill to look around. He hopped down and inspected the car.

'Empty.' He said as he got back in.

'There's lots of English cars around. There's nothing suspicious about that!'

'Mmm. Not with Northumberland registration plates.' He sat in thought while she drove down the mountain. He knew where he had seen that car before. He checked the road behind regularly once they were down into the valley bottom. Teri's temper had not moderated from earlier. She was still being hard on the car and snorted and huffed every time he turned in his seat to look back. As they passed through le Bourg d' Oisans once more they topped the car up with petrol and bought another stock of sweets and drinks at the filling station.

Bernie's only concern, once he was back to normal roads, apart from driving on the wrong side, was to get back to home shores as quickly as possible, without getting caught and without being discovered when he returned. He was very tired, very hungry and very, very thirsty, but he needed to put as much distance behind him as he could. The petrol tank was half full, he had made sure of that the night before, he just had to stay awake and stay on the road. He wondered if he dared use the motorway system. If anyone was watching for him, surely they would watch the motorways? Maybe the answer was to join the motorway a bit further away. He pressed on, but kept his speed low to avoid drawing attention to himself.

It wasn't speeding that attracted attention, rather the opposite. His plan was fine in theory until he missed the turning for the A480 North and drove into Grenoble. Coping with the traffic in a strange city, while driving on the wrong side and reading a road atlas was more than Bernie could manage. He frequently had to pull up to consult the map as he approached direction indicators; the disapproval of local drivers was plain to hear. When a policeman approached him Bernie had just about had enough and was ready to give himself up. But, in perfect English, the young policeman set the desperate, sweating Londoner on the right road and Bernie was away again, feeling more awake than he had done for some time.

Once clear of the city he was able to navigate slowly across country, but it was too slow for his liking. He was still having trouble with road signs and his tiredness was such that now he even had difficulty remembering names between reading the signs and looking at the atlas. His eyes wouldn't focus either. He decided to compromise on his plan a little and join the motorway earlier, as, he reasoned, the longer he took the more likely it was that any spreading search net would catch up with him.

He passed over the A42, but decided against taking it to Lyons as that would have been a backward step. Instead he aimed more north-westward than his previous north to try and regain the A6 that he had come down on. On his map he saw that he could join the A40 which led to the A6 at Macon. He got lost several times on the tiny roads he tried as a short cut, changed his plan again and eventually crossed the A6 motorway on a minor road. His atlas told him he had missed the D933 that he had wanted and the town of Belleville and that he was too far north. He needed to head south again; he must have taken the wrong road out of Chatilon- something-or-other.

He had stopped again on a small roundabout, when a large truck appeared behind him and sounded its horn. He pulled forward and took the second exit from the roundabout, knowing as he did so, that he had made another mistake. The truck followed him and, with nowhere to pull over, he was forced further and further into the countryside, navigating by an instinct that was letting him down by the minute. He was low on fuel, but, he hoped, getting near to the town. Not wishing to repeat his previous experience of towns he turned right to rid himself of the pressure of the following truck and crossed a main road running parallel with the A6. He decided to head on until he found a small town and buy petrol there.

The little petrol station was easy to find as it had a huge tanker drawn across the front and was closed for a delivery. In frustration, Bernie furiously gunned the motor past and up the little street abandoning any idea of avoiding attention. Outside the village he hauled the car round a right turn hoping for another right turn that would lead him back to the motorway. He raced down the tiny lane and met a van coming the other way. There was no space to pass each other. The van stopped, but Bernie couldn't and hit the van and the right-hand bank at the same time. The car shot up the four-foot bank, over the top, bounced end over end once and came to rest the right way up. Steam rose from the crumpled bonnet as dust and dirt inside and outside the car settled in an eerie silence. Bernie's left ribs and arm had no sense of feeling in them, until he moved to undo his seatbelt. He let out a cry of pain when his ribs tried to move as he twisted to undo the belt.

He fell from the car almost crying, trying not to breathe too deeply. The car was a write-off, but even if it had not been there was no way to get it out of the field. He stood up as best he could, shaken but thankful to have survived, and staggered off down the field in the direction he had been driving.

The lane he had been following only led to a 'T'-junction and then became a track that ended at a railway line. However, he could now see the main road from where he was and beyond that had to be the motorway. He walked wearily on toward it across several more fields and another minor road.

Sweating and cursing and nursing his ribs he climbed an embankment where a minor road crossed the motorway. The traffic was going the wrong way; the northbound carriageway was on the other side. Further up on that side he could see a service area and decided to head for it. He followed the minor road over the motorway and round toward the service area cutting off across the fields to take the direct route and avoid any passing vehicles. He had made the journey from the crash to here without seeing another person so far and preferred to keep it that way.

He emerged from the bushes behind the parking area. The picnic site was deserted and he flopped down on a bench, rested his head on his arms and, despite all the aches and pains, was instantly asleep, the bright sun hot on his back.

Tobin took the driving seat and they began the long journey back to Paris. He left Teri to cool off for an hour and once they were on to the motorway system again he tried to explain, as simply as he could, some of the reasons behind his name change. He didn't feel he could trust her with the more personal details that he had confided to Hazel and Russell so he confined himself to the basics. The explanation allayed the worst of her suspicions, but Tobin could tell she was not entirely convinced. For the moment, however, it stopped her asking questions.

Having to concentrate on driving when it was her turn distracted her further. They were both very tired and changed places more frequently. Tobin still insisted on checking behind them every few miles.

Bernie came to feeling a hard pressure on his chin and his face smothered; it was also a lot cooler. In his deep sleep his body had slumped and his head had slipped off his arm and onto the slatted wooden picnic table. His face had become buried in the crook of his elbow and the cold wet feeling against his left eye was where he had drooled onto his sleeve. He raised himself in disgust and grunted as he felt the tug of his seized up rib cage. He had become set in the hunched position and was unable to move; he lifted his head right back, even that pulled on his ribs, and saw that the sun had sunk below some high trees across the motorway. He began to recall where he was and why he was there.

He shouldn't be there!

He slowly and painfully began to straighten himself up; it felt as if each rib in turn was trying to tear itself free from the others. He inched his body back until he could sit upright, trying not to breathe too heavily. He took a breath, gathered his courage, rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way toward the restaurant block beyond the carpark. His shoes and his trouser bottoms were caked with dried earth and seeds and bits of grass from his trip through the fields; as he looked more closely at himself he realised the mess he was in. An image confirmed when he saw himself in the mirror in the toilets.

Among the machines on the wall was one that sold a disposable wash kit; Bernie hunted through his pockets for change to operate the machine.

Shaving, washing and cleaning his teeth had never felt so good. He used his soiled and un-wearable shirt as a towel, threw it away and zipped up his jacket to hide his bare torso.

While sorting out his money at the cash desk in the restaurant he realised that he hadn't only left his clean clothes in his bag in the car, he had also left his passport. The improvement in his morale, brought about by the meal and the wash, was tempered with the thought that he was not only marooned in a foreign country, but that his identity was now known for certain. The search for him could only be a short distance away, as the wreck of the car must have been discovered. And, he suddenly thought, what about the van driver? Bernie had been so keen to get away from the crash that it had never occurred to him to check on the other vehicle.

He was still hungry and needed to think, he bought a second plate of pasta and returned to the window table. He watched the vehicles coming and going and considered hitching a lift. Would anyone pick up a hitchhiker looking as he did? He doubted it. He could steal a car, but he had lost faith in his driving and he wouldn't get very far. The one thing he had noticed about the French motorways was the scarcity of junctions; he would be caught before he got to the first one, the way his luck was running at the moment.

He played with the last of the pasta on his plate as he watched an English registered car drive in and park. An idea began to form in his mind, stowing himself away in the back of a car. If he could get to a ferry terminus without being caught he could loiter around and hopefully climb in to some unsuspecting vehicle. The occupants of the small blue Ford got out and Bernie jumped back in his seat with a cry of pain. It was Alan Harper's stepdaughter and her friend the writer! They headed for the main door of the service station. Bernie hid himself in the corner by the exit door and watched as they went their separate ways to the lavatories and Bernie hurried outside.

Avoiding any windows from the public part of the building he took the long way around the back and past the picnic area in order to approach the car from the far side. As he neared the entrance from the motorway another English car pulled in and parked immediately, the driver switched off the engine but remained in the car. That made it awkward for Bernie, as he would now have to pass close to that car with the driver still in it. He stepped back into the bushes to size up the situation. The driver solved the problem by opening the door of the green Vauxhall and getting out to stretch.

Bernie crept forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun into the flesh behind Brian Dale's right ear.

Nine p.m. was showing on the car clock as they pulled up outside the compound at Champ-sur- Marne. Teri got out to speak to the gateman; Tobin followed.

Teri drew herself to her full height which, with her figure, was quite impressive. The gateman did not look impressed. She demanded something in French and the old man's bushy eyebrows rose with a look of contempt.

'Bonjour monsieur.' Tobin greeted him.

'Ah! Bonsoir, monsieur.' The old man corrected him with a smile.

'Oh. Pardon. Bonsoir, Henri.'

'Bonsoir, m'sieur. You have not... your man found, eh.' It was a statement not a question. Tobin shook his head, sadly. 'The police look, also,' Henri added.

'The police have been here? When?'

'Oh. Err...before me... err... .' He held up his right hand with all five digits extended.

'Five-o-clock?' The old man nodded, carefully avoiding eye contact with Teri.

Tobin took her arm and led her away. 'Merci, Henri. Bonsoir.'

At the car she tugged free of him, furious.

'If you speak to people nicely most of them will answer nicely.' He lectured her, good naturedly. She wasn't impressed.

'He's not here then, you've cleverly found out! So I shouldn't think he's at the house either, if the police are looking for him.' She collapsed into the driving seat and rested her elbows on the wheel, burying her face in her hands. 'I've had enough! I'm not doing anymore till I've slept.'

'Where?'

She thought for a moment and rummaged around the car for her bag. She found a page in her address book and looked at him triumphantly. 'Here!' and she stabbed a finger at the open page. 'You drive!' She clambered into the passenger seat. Tobin reluctantly complied.

It was the worst nightmare of a drive that he could have imagined. Teri directed him to the roundabout on the _peripherique_ at Vincennes and he followed the fast flowing traffic with Teri yelling at him to look for a particular road number. With her and the woman on the GPS Tobin was getting more and more wound up. He wasn't taking his eyes off the traffic as it sped along frighteningly close together. Suddenly she yelled at him and pointed at a slip road, but it was too late, he was past. As he was negotiating with a fast-moving queue of joining traffic he saw another off slip and took it at speed. It was a very sharp turn off and had the tyres howling and motorists honking as he hauled the little car round. The maps shot from Teri's grasp as she grabbed at the handle above her head.

'City centre! City centre.' She yelled as he arrived at a road junction and shot into the main road. Behind him he caught a glimpse of a pair of headlights turning up the slip road at speed. He settled into the flow of traffic trying to keep an eye open for the headlights. Not being able to see the make of car behind the lights he had to give up trying as the traffic began to slow. Teri started barking directions as they passed through Montparnasse. Thankfully, the hotel proved to be fairly close by. The next problem was parking.

There were moments during the drive when Brian Dale felt not just tired but ill. His head had nodded often as sleep threatened to overcome him, but Bernie Mitchell's revolver behind his left ear kept him awake. How Mitchell kept awake he didn't know. He was in obvious pain around the chest area, but said nothing, just prodded with the gun. Dale's shock at meeting him in the service area had been so great his hands had shaken for half an hour after. But he was in control now.

The increase in traffic required increased concentration and trying to keep track of the Ford's rear lights, while staying far enough behind to avoid detection, had his eyes popping from their sockets. He had the drivers of the other cars perplexed with his antics of overtaking and slowing, but he had realised early on that this in itself might be a give-away and so kept back. When close he could see the occupants of the Ford look back regularly and on a couple of occasions pulled right up close to reassure himself that he was following the correct car.

He saw a car suddenly swerve off the main carriageway up a slip road and just managed to join the stream of cars on his right in time to follow, praying all the time that it was the Ford. He cursed himself for falling in to the trap of having to make last minute copycat manoeuvres.

He had to wait for a gap in the traffic at the junction where the Ford had forced its way in. The taillights were just in sight as he joined the flow and decided that he might as well close up as much as possible as the Ford driver had obviously seen him. He followed quite openly from there and saw the interior light come on in the small blue car and the agitated arm waving of the passenger. They were obviously nearing their destination.

Dale realised that they were circling as he passed the Metro station for the third time. After the fifth time he began to wonder if he was being set up. But, the little car suddenly disappeared as Dale tried to drive on nonchalantly. A group of reversing lights came on ahead as several cars prepared to leave and he slowed and let them out.

The ruse didn't work. Bernie had realised that he had lost them. The barrel of the revolver caught Dale on the side of the head and Bernie muttered something from the back seat. Dale had had enough; the blow had no force behind it and caused only a dull ache that was just a minor irritation compared to the tiredness that now swept over him. Cursing his captor he rested his head against the side window and instantly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Within seconds Bernie's head began to loll and a long, uncomfortable and disturbed night began.

It was a quarter to eleven when they finally lugged their bags into the lobby of the little hotel, having found a parking space within walking distance on their fifth lap of the area.

Tobin was ready to lie on the floor and go to sleep, Teri had woken up.

She banged her hand on the counter bell to attract attention from the office behind. They could here two voices murmuring in the office, a man and a woman. Through the glass partition there was a little movement and then stillness again. Teri hit the bell again. This time there was scraping of furniture and more movement could be seen. A young woman appeared at the office door.

'Oui, Madame?' She said, wearily. Then with a gasp and her hand to her mouth she exclaimed something which Tobin didn't catch, but it drew the attention of the other occupant of the office.

'Qu'est-ce que c'est, Barbara?' Alan appeared at the door. Startled, they stood and stared at each other.

\------------------17\------------------

Alan did the introductions. Barbara spoke very little English, but she could smile charmingly. Tobin saw that in fact she was older than she at first appeared; she was in her mid-twenties, he thought. Slim, attractive, with brown hair worn long and straight, strong features. She looked back at him with a very direct gaze; her eyes were pale like Alan's. Teri cleared her throat noisily.

They were sat round a coffee table in the small lounge of the hotel. Barbara had brought them coffee at Alan's request while he sorted them out rooms and moved their luggage.

Alan disappeared into the office and returned after a few minutes carrying a thick, battered manila folder fastened with two heavy rubber bands. He leant across and dropped it into Tobin's lap.

'You will need that in the days to come, Mr Foy.'

Tobin's head came up sharply and then he glowered at Teri. She looked equally surprised.

'Don't blame her, I've always known,' continued Alan. 'From the time you arrived in Longalnbury. I've always taken an interest in people who don't use their real names.' He smiled at his own joke. Barbara, aware that the conversation would now be conducted entirely in English, rose with a sigh and began clearing up around the hotel lobby. 'And, so, if you know my real name, then you must know some of the family history, I suppose.'

'The basic outline, yes,' agreed Tobin, he took a deep breath and decided to plunge right in. 'What went wrong with the robbery?' He asked, bluntly. 'How were you involved?'

'Aha! Because I was family,' replied Alan quite candidly. 'It was expected, and I was quite happy to go along with that. Didn't know any different.' He gathered his thoughts for a moment; Tobin was content to wait, just. 'I had no father, you see? Don't know where he went, I think there was a certain amount of doubt as to who he really was, anyway. The men in my growing years were my two uncles, Billy and Sid, and, of course, my cousin, Bernie. They were my heroes!' Heavy irony there, Tobin noted. 'I knew they were up to all sorts of things, mostly illegal, and I was too young to get involved. But, it had a sort of glamour. Then, one day, my mother disappeared, 'she felt I was old enough to cope'. I pieced that much together later, remembering odd things she'd said; she'd planned to leave. Bernie suddenly came to me one Friday night and said 'did I want to earn some real money?' I knew what he meant straightaway and jumped at the chance, it meant I was a real man, now! I had come of age!

'All I had to do was meet them in the early hours, driving this van they'd borrowed from another uncle. I would follow them from a certain point and meet in a derelict back lane, take what they gave me and drive off. I was to keep 'the stuff' and they would get in touch in a few days and I would meet them again and they would pay me.

'Simple, eh? But, what a total cock-up!' He shook his head, he still couldn't believe it.

'They'd heard of this bank where the vault had been pierced accidentally by building works next door, that the builders had kept it a secret and that there was a bit of money inside. I don't know yet quite how it came about, but when they got there, Billy, Sid and Bernie, there was so much money they couldn't carry it all. It was shortly after a bank holiday weekend, whether that was part of the reason I don't know, but, for whatever reason, there was a lot of money in there, more than they'd been told, and they couldn't carry it all. A lot of it was coins, anyway.

'Anyhow, they broke through the wall and discovered this lot, got so excited and made so much noise in doing it they attracted a night security man. One of them, Billy or Sid, no-one ever found out, shot the poor old fellow. So they all piled out, carrying what they could, leaving behind enough clues to write the story, and drove off. I met them, as arranged, and as I was driving off with the sacks Bernie leapt into the front of the van. I remember his face as he fell in.' Alan was re-living the scene. 'So Bernie ended up in a heap on the floor staring up at me, white as a sheet and sweating like a pig. He told me to drive off fast. I could see Billy and Sid running after us, so, I did as I was told. We drove to this bombed out building and down into what had been the basement garage. There were still parts of London that hadn't been rebuilt after the Second World War then. I can remember it so clearly, it was wet and it stank down there. Bernie was in a hell of a state about everything, crying and beating hell out of the side of the van. He was really worried because they had left the old bloke lying there, dead or alive, they didn't know which, and hadn't done anything to help him.

'Bernie was physically sick, out the door of the van, he was in such a state. We sat there till nearly dawn, Bernie moaning, till I said we'd have to move before we were found. So I drove him home and sat and waited for him on the corner over from his house, but he never reappeared. It was starting to get busy and I thought I had better move, so I drove round the back and went in to the house, but he'd gone. I didn't know what to do, the house was open so I thought I would wait for a while, he might come back. But, after a few hours there was no sign and I was worried that someone in the family might come home. So I drove off. I drove around a bit, killing time until the evening paper came out. There it was, in a big headline, but, the night-watchman was alive, just. That was a relief! If he had died I certainly would have given myself up. Anyway, I knew where they were hiding, I wasn't supposed to, of course, but they were so stupid they couldn't keep a secret.

'I drove down to Hastings the next morning and hung around near them all week, driving out of town at night and sleeping in the van and driving back in, in the morning. I followed the story in the papers and knew they were not looking for me, at first. Then they caught Bernie outside his aunt's in Leytonstone and my name began to crop up in some of the reports, because I hadn't been seen. That had me panicked, Bernie will have shopped me, I thought.

'Then that following weekend I saw the police build-up around the estate where Billy and Sid were hiding. As I drove back into town on the Sunday morning I just got to the top of the hill as they were taken away. I was devastated. What was I going to do? I was a wanted man! It all just seemed like the end of the world. I hung around the town for a while, but I was a sad and sorry kid.' He laughed bitterly at the memory.

Barbara reappeared with some supper. Teri was looking very sleepy and Tobin was struggling to absorb all the detail as Alan talked.

'I was wondering what to do and where to go next, I thought, 'I can't run any further I've reached the coast', when I picked up a paper somewhere. It was the Daily Telegraph, I can remember that clearly as I wouldn't normally read it, even now, but it was on a café seat, I think, or somewhere like that, it was a week old anyway. On the front was a headline about France and I suddenly realised that there was somewhere to go, over the Channel! That's how naïve I was! I tidied up the van and abandoned it on the sea front and headed for Southampton. But, on the way there, I began to think I was such a wanted criminal that they would have all the major seaports watched, so I stopped off at Newhaven!

'There was a little Liberian registered, Greek coaster tied up there, called I think the Martina, you couldn't read the name properly as the paint job was so bad. I talked to the Master, he was the only one who spoke English, and gave him some story about running away and wanting a place on a ship. I told him I could pay and showed him a wad of money to prove it! How stupid, eh? I'd kept a little bit of the money from the robbery; they were supposed to pay me after all. He agreed and we sailed that night. And, Christ! It was awful! I was treated so badly, all the filthy jobs and knocked about by the crew.

'Anyhow, I thought I could survive to the Mediterranean, somehow, and thought I would slip away at the first call at Marseilles. But, for some reason, we made an unscheduled call at Cherbourg. I was told that I couldn't go ashore, obviously, and that they would bring me back some drink if I gave them some money. Which I did and much to my surprise they were back quite soon with a load of drink. We had a great party and I relaxed a bit. The next thing I knew I came too being sick in a back alley in town the following day.

'I had nothing, bar the filthy clothes I stood up in, no money, no documents. I scavenged and begged for a couple of days, but I was no good at it and getting desperate. I was just thinking about giving myself up and coming home to do my time and whatever else was waiting when this man tapped me on the shoulder. He had seen me several times around the dockyard entrance and wondered what I was doing. He was a Dane, in his early thirties and had arrived in a similar way to me the day before, but intentionally in his case. He reckoned he could look after me and was heading for Paris, could speak French quite well and didn't seem troubled about my lack of money and identity. Great!

'He got us into a hostel, cleaned up, new clothes for me and some hot food. He was my hero. So when he came back from a 'shopping trip' in the town centre and handed me a wad of money I didn't query how he had come by it! It got us some spare clothes, a bag each, and train tickets to Paris. I hadn't a clue what I was going to do, or how I was going to do it, I just knew I couldn't go back. So, I followed him and...,' he laughed, 'ended up signed up in the French Foreign Legion!'

'NEVER!' exploded Tobin.

Alan stood up and walked to the window laughing to himself and rubbing his eyes.

Tobin was pouring them more coffee, 'the Foreign Legion? The Foreign Legion!'

Teri was asleep and Barbara had disappeared to start laying up for breakfast in the adjoining café.

Alan resumed. 'Yes, and if I thought that ship was awful then I had just committed myself to hell! It really was. It was many times worse than any punishment I could have received at home. I really didn't think I'd make it. The Legion was brutal! It does occasionally reject a recruit, but that's considered a failure and the Legion does not fail. You could go absent, but you couldn't get far as by the time you realised that you needed to escape you were in deep. You'd learnt what would happen if you did. They always seem to find you, and then they punish you! I fought against it... oh... for months; I did desert, I couldn't take it anymore. Of course, I didn't get very far at all, and, was given yet another chance, not that it was a choice.' He returned to his seat, yawning as he sat down.

'I wouldn't learn the language that was the problem. In our family we were always brought up to hate the French, or anyone foreign, come to that. And in the Legion you have to speak French, and learn to sing the marching songs.' A wistful look flicked across his face.

'Then, during yet another 'eight days', that's a Legion standard punishment, I met this Belgian who'd joined up after me. He was five years older and an accountant on the run from this girl's father. He was desperate, he had thought about it and decided that the Legion sounded romantic and he could lose himself in it! Well, he was right about the second bit. But, otherwise, he was worse than me. Anyway, we teamed up. His English was good and he taught me French. I didn't have to help him with his English, thankfully, because mine was atrocious at the time. But, in the end, through that, I discovered that I was actually very good at languages and, as you know, I can speak quite a few now, passably, as long as I keep up the practice, he even taught me better English! Anyway, from then on I never looked back; and neither did he. We looked after each other, he had the brain and I had found that I had the brawn.'

Teri by this time was sound asleep and they lifted her feet onto the settee and covered her with a blanket. Tobin was mesmerised by the story and wanted him to continue, tired as he was, it was far too good to stop now. But Alan insisted on a break; they adjourned to the small café attached to the hotel and sat in one corner watching Barbara. Alan was thoughtful.

'This is all in that folder I gave you, which was probably my downfall. I was gathering all that stuff together for you, I thought it might make a good story. There's a lot of newspaper clippings in there. Which is what I think gave the game away when Rosemary got into my study one day and read some of it'

'Really? I,... we... wondered if Rosemary discovered something from the Brian Dale direction, somehow. Teri reckoned her attitude changed at or very soon after the time when Bernie first appeared on the scene looking for you. Bernie was a minder for some London mob moving drugs into the country who took over Dale's firm, if you didn't know.' Alan shook his head. 'That's the link and Dale's was busted last week, but he escaped, vowing vengeance on you. You didn't set him up did you?'

'No, he's done that for himself, I would think. He was into all manner of things when I was there. That was probably one of the most stupid of ideas I've ever had in my life, tying up with him, I don't know what possessed me.' He shook his head again, in disbelief at his own foolishness. 'I had nothing concrete on him when I left, but it was plainly obvious from the books that the business wasn't making money legitimately. So, he was financing things from somewhere else. And, it was well financed. It was crazy; he had trucks travelling around empty, supposedly, for no purpose. Drivers were working over hours without complaint, fiddling their tachographs. Ugh! I got out as soon as I could.

'I was approached by Customs and Excise, but they already knew more than I did, they'd been watching him for ages and still couldn't hang anything on him. It was luck, as much as anything on Dale's part. Anyhow, I couldn't afford to risk getting mixed up with them or any other official body! Unlike you I couldn't justify my change of name.'

Tobin broke in, 'my information, which comes from a pretty good source, has it that the Drugs Squad knew nothing of Dale until they tailed Bernie there when he was looking for you. There's been an unholy row, apparently, when the Squad busted the Dale yard under the noses of Customs and Excise.'

'That's interesting,' said Alan, thoughtfully. 'I did hear that someone was looking for me a few weeks ago and just laughed it off. But, I guessed the game was up in some way and began to prepare to get out. I always knew it could, would, happen, eventually.

'I only needed a few more days when I actually saw Bernie in Newcastle Central Station and I knew then I had to go that weekend. I abandoned any attempt to clear up matters in any detail with anyone, finalise any transfers that were needed, all that sort of thing. When you're in a rush all those last minute jobs suddenly seem less important. It was a shame that I couldn't get that done though, as I reckoned there might be a risk of confiscation, or at least a freezing, of any remaining assets. There's not that much left in England, in fact. It's all safely hidden away; but, ironically, I hid it from Rosemary's grasp. So make sure you tell people, will you? And if you let me know the details I'll try and square it up for them. All being well.'

'Anyway,' Tobin was anxious to get back to the story, 'you and your Belgian friend got yourselves sorted out.' He prompted.

'Yes. That's about it really. I settled down in the Legion and did quite well; saw a lot of life and a lot of places and found a new family. It sounds a bit trite, perhaps, but the Legion does become your family, I found the true loyalties there that I'd not had in my previous life, I went from no brothers to many.' That wistful look came over him again as he dawdled with his spoon in his coffee. This was a side of Alan Harper that Tobin hadn't seen before.

He waited, but no further information was forthcoming. 'So where did Alain Martin come from then?'

'Oh. That was the name the Legion gave me, it was just an invention. The legion, if they want to, will protect you and not let on that you are there, if any one comes looking and if that's what you want. I was interviewed several times by the Dieuxieme Bureau, we all were, they don't want serious criminals in their ranks and will refuse you, or throw you out into the arms of the waiting law, if they find out. Otherwise, they've got you! That was what happened to my friend the Dane, 'Dan'. He just disappeared one day after a round of these interviews. So, a month after signing up, and they did try and put me off, by the way, there was just me and eight of the others left. Most were turned down at the signing up and the medical, one left before we left Marseilles, and then Dan.

'There weren't many Brit's in the Legion then, I didn't come across many for the first year, but then, I didn't want to! I decided that I had to be someone else and some other nationality. So, with the typically pragmatic French offer that after so long in the Legion you are eligible for French nationality, under your Legion name, I was only too willing to become French. Jimmy Mitchell, Englishman, ceased to be on the same day as Alain Martin, French citizen, was born.

'In the end I did fifteen years, three lots of five, and came out as a sergeant of 2 REP., Regiment Etrengére Parachutist. I was deeply disillusioned by then. A lot of us were. Times had changed quicker than we had. There were a whole load more Brit's joining as well. Times change. But, that is a whole different story. The Legion was different to the one I joined, so I left. But I still miss it, you know; I've been out now longer than I was in, but it truly was the best part of my life. At least the last fourteen years were!'

'Then what?'

'It's all in there!' Said Alan, wearily, pointing at the folder.

'Maybe, but your voice is far better than any piece of paper. I'll understand this far better having heard it first. You weren't going anywhere were you?'

'Not at four thirty in the morning.'

'Well, then.'

Alan continued. 'I bummed around the south coast, of France, working in the yachting harbours for a couple of months till the end of the summer. I heard more English then than I had heard for the previous fifteen years! I'd forgotten a lot of it. I actually had difficulty with my own native language.

'From there I wandered up into the Alps for the winter and worked teaching skiing. I couldn't work for the national school, but joined one of the little ones and that's how I came to be in Les Deux Alpes. I've kept a place near there ever since.'

'Down in the valley?'

'Yes, in Venosc. You have been hunting, haven't you? Arnaud is one of only two who know of my two lives. He's Dutch, ex-Legion, of course. The other person who knows is Bernard, my Belgian friend. He only did his five years in the Legion and left and went back to the girl he'd left behind and married her. Isn't that a happy tale? They're still together, with three more children and he works for her father who is a very wealthy and powerful man in industry. Bernard is his business manager, having been accountant to the company for many years.'

'He started you with the exciting life of accountancy?'

'It's not done me any harm!' Tobin looked suitably contrite. 'Yes, along the way he did. Strangely, I developed the interest while in the Legion, not in those first five years while he was there. He forecast to me then that 'accountants would take over the world'. I laughed like everyone else, but made a note of it. And wasn't I right to do so, because he was almost right back then.

'To continue. I left the Alps and found Bernard and began working for his father-in-law's firms as a truck driver. You see? I learnt a lot of useful skills in the Legion! And, I'll tell you something that only Bernard knows; I got married!'

'You what?!' Cried Tobin.

'Yes. Fabulous she was, till we were married. It only lasted six months. She disappeared, we eventually got divorced. But, we're friends, now. I spent a year working in Belgium, based in Belgium. I was driving over to England a lot; truckloads of imported food. A lot of it went to Scotland from Italy; and one of the routes went near Longalnbury. That's how I found it.' He stood up and stretched. He looked about the café. 'Seeing as it's getting light let's walk and buy a paper and see if there are any new developments.'

As they walked Alan chatted about life in France and how he was set to return to it. 'You see it is so relaxed. Even the rush hour has style!' They walked past several shops that sold newspapers, or would when they were available, it was still very early. Alan enjoyed giving Tobin a guided tour of his favourite city. They strolled past the Ecolle Militaire and on under the Eiffel Tower and out on to the banks of the Seine. The walk relaxed Alan and the fresh morning air, before the city came to life, seemed to wake him up. As they walked he began to talk of the Legion once again.

'It probably took me about a year to sort myself out in the Legion, to redeem myself in some eyes. But, I did it. The training was harsh, unnecessarily so really. Certainly the boys these days don't realise how lucky they are!

'After signing my five year contract, which I did after they had played a tape in English to explain that there was no turning back after I'd signed, I was bundled in with several others, all different nationalities and we spent a night in a barren dormitory. Then we took the train to Marseilles. Bas-fort Saint-Nicolas. There was quite a large number, they weren't quite as choosy then! They accumulated in Marseilles and every ten or so days were shipped out. People knew I was English and all English are called 'Johnny'. There was no risk of confusion, though. I was amazed that I was the only Brit there, at the time. Out of all that lot. I didn't want to be English of course, but that was going to be a long way in the future. Alan Martin was actually meant to be an English name, they were the first names of two boys who I knew well. What gave me the idea of being French eventually was when I discovered my first name had been filled in in the French style, Alain. And then the surname was always pronounced in the French, as well, 'Martang'. So I was on the way to becoming French. Though it was my friend Bernard who had the idea.

Basic training was unbelievable once we started. We lived in a ruin, by today's standards, but had to keep it as if it was a palace! Inspections were hell, intentionally. If the NCO's couldn't find a fault, it was even worse because they would make one by throwing someone's kit out of the window and then the whole room was punished, viciously. Training was hard physical labour, the food was abominable and quite insufficient. If you weren't in the first few to get to it there was nothing left, or nothing fit to eat. Anyway, I got through it, by being physically harder than the others, or most of them, and I took my friend along as well. Not that he was soft. He was very tough and incredibly fit, but, not instinctively aggressive enough. But, he was well liked, because he could help the thicker ones with all sorts of problems, including their fitness. He was also able to make up the shortfalls of the medics as he was very well read in so many ways that his amateur knowledge far exceeded that of the so called professionals! So, we got by. I was still rebellious mind. And then one day I was called into the office and it was suggested that I might like to try another course, my French was still atrocious, and so I didn't really know what I was agreeing to until Bernard explained that I signed for the parachute course! He had to sign as well, by volunteering. But, it was flattering in a way that he followed. As it was when two of the others then decided they'd like to come with us. So, four of us, English, Belgian, German and a Spaniard set off, thinking we were getting out of that hell hole. Ha!!'

They were walking on the left bank of the Seine, now, and daily life was beginning to emerge, the first workers hurrying along the pavements, with the smell of bread in the air. Tobin thought he would forever associate the early morning smell of bread with France. They stopped and, elbows resting on the railing, gazed over the river in the early morning light.

'Anyway, to cut a very long story short, I made it. I did the parachute jumps, no hesitation, the combat, the forced marches, the whole lot! I suppose they guessed right. If I had so much to think of I would just have to get on with it and stop being a pain in the arse. I graduated from there in the top six. I had arrived and was sent to the 2éme REP.'

'Did you do much parachuting? Jump into any battles?' Asked Tobin.

'No! Just training jumps really, we just ran around the mountains chasing shadows. Wills-o-the-wisp most of them. There were two campaigns in Africa... .' His voice faded as memories returned. ' Well, it's different, now.

'By the time I'd finished my first five years, I'd been through corporal school and passed out high again. That was even worse than basic training, but I did it. What else could I do? Quite a few left around the same time, they had done their five years and that was enough. It would have been for me, too, but nowhere to go, so I signed on again. Another five years. But, it was slightly, easier in some ways, experience and promotion helped. And so it went on. There was a change in policy with the arrival of a new commander and that made things a lot more interesting. 2eme REP was to become an elite regiment with all manner of specialities. I became Caporal Chef, that's when you wear a black Kepi, then made sergeant just before the end of my second term. So I signed on for a third. I shouldn't have, really, as I wasn't entirely happy. Things were changing, life was changing. I was changing! But, I did it. My French identity was beckoning by this time and I was ready for a change. Bernard had some things lined up for me, if I wanted them, but I just wanted a break.'

Tobin was enthralled. They turned and walked back, in silence, the way they had come. Alan eventually bought the newspaper and scanned the pages quickly. 'Nothing new there.' He said and folded the paper under his arm.

Brian Dale woke dreaming of his boyhood boxer dog. Bernie, slumped in the back seat, was snoring, making spluttering, gurgling sounds as he slept. Dale checked his watch and glanced out of the car at the awakening streets around him and saw Tobin standing outside a shop. He sat up sharply; Bernie heaved a deep, guttural snort as the motion of the car disturbed him. As Dale watched Tobin was joined by Alan Harper. Dale looked round at the man in the back seat and found he was still asleep. The gun was resting in his lap. There was not going to be another opportunity, Dale reached across gently as he watched the two men walk off down the street. Bernie's eyes opened slightly and saw the reaching hand in front of him, his sharp intake of breath was too noisy and Dale's attention immediately turned into the car. The reaching hand became a fist and, propelled by Dale's straightening body, struck Bernie in the face below his right eye, causing him to recoil back against the car, all the injuries and pain that he had carried for the past twenty four hours causing him to cry out and rendering him helpless.

As the two friends crossed the first carriageway toward the hotel and stood by the vegetable seller setting up her stall in front of the Metro station stairs, Tobin thought aloud, 'So, where to from here?'

'That's something you'll have to work out for yourself. Enjoy some independence, John, start something new!' Tobin just frowned.

They crossed the second carriageway, Tobin remembering to look the correct way, and entered the hotel. They could hear girlish chatter and laughter from the back. Tobin caught Alan listening with a smile of real contentment on his face. He wiped it away as soon as he was aware of Tobin's gaze.

'Coffee or tea?' He asked as he ducked behind the counter. ''Ullo!' He called to the back room.

'Hallo!' Came in unison and the chatter continued.

Settled back in the armchairs in the lounge Tobin tried one final prompt for some more history.

'I had a really busy year working out of Bruges,' explained Alan. 'I had regular trips to England and while I was back at base I was studying, with Bernard's help, for accounting qualifications. Fortunately I don't need much sleep. That was when I had the idea of becoming Alan Harper.

'While in Belgium I was approached by an ex-Legion officer who was recruiting mercenaries for various places and he had traced me. I wanted no more of it, I'd done my share; although the last thing you call a Legionnaire is a mercenary! But, we met quite often while he was there, socially, for drinks and so on, and he was the one who told me how to go about getting a false identity in England. This was a Frenchman, remember! So, I did it. Every time I went over the channel I raced to my destination, usually Scotland, and then spent some time on the business of creating Alan Harper. It was quite easy then, but the regulations have been tightened up since.

'I finally made the move to Britain and finished my qualifications in Nottingham and moved to my favourite little backwater of Longalnbury. It was just a game to start with. If anything went wrong I could always dissolve into my 'real' persona of Alain Martin and run. But, nothing went wrong. Quite the opposite in fact and before I knew it I was settling in. Mind you, I made that mistake again; getting married! I shan't try to tell you what that was like, although something,' he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the chatter from the back room, 'has worked out all right, in the end.

'Sadly there's still loose ends that I can't get at now to tie up, that's my regret. And, I suppose, I'll find myself facing a string of criminal charges if I should set foot back there.'

'Can't they extradite you?'

'I'm a Frenchman, don't forget!' The accent returned and he gave a typically Gallic shrug. 'What benefit would there be? Everything I've done as Alan Harper is perfectly legal.'

'Except being Alan Harper.'

'Well, yes. True. But, other than that...... and a minor involvement in a robbery. And, as I told you, I've paid my dues many times over.'

'Except you didn't pay them to the right country!'

'That's also very true!' They both laughed. 'You know, when that expression 'get a life' became popular I used to think that you and I could give them a few lessons. It's not quite what they might think!'

It was so relaxing, Tobin thought, being in this city and in the company of the one man who had shown any kind of empathy. He knew why now, of course. They had had more in common than Tobin would ever have realised three weeks before.

'Where's that coffee?' muttered Alan as he rose and went to the office. Tobin ambled after him to the reception desk by the main door and listened to the mild remonstration from within the office. Although he spoke no French it was quite clear what the subject of discussion was, as Teri came out of the office laughing and joined him on his side of the desk. Barbara appeared with an irate look upon her face followed by Alan with a wry smile on his. They all stopped and looked at each other as they saw the silliness of the situation.

The first movement came from the girl behind the counter, Barbara's eyes suddenly widened as she looked over Tobin and Teri's shoulders. The front doors burst open, slamming into Tobin's back and pushing him into the front of the counter. He dropped to his knees crying out as he rolled onto the floor. Looking up he saw the rumpled figure standing in the doorway. It was Brian Dale, his face pale and covered in several days' stubble. The eyes were bloodshot, staring wildly and sunken deep into grey sockets. His normally immaculate hair was unkempt and his clothing, also normally a source of great pride, was crumpled and grimy. He was staring straight at Alan, his breath heaving in his chest, as his right arm came slowly up from his side. Tobin knew he had seen that small silver revolver before, he had heard it, too. The arm was extended now, swaying up and down with the heavy breathing. As it swung up Alan dropped behind the counter, pulling Barbara with him. Dale's reflexes were slow; the gun came down and fired. The bullet ploughed into the counter top. The recoil from the gun caught Dale off balance and he rocked back pulling the trigger again. This time the bullet hit the wall high up near the ceiling. His left hand reached out to steady himself on the edge of the open door. As he gripped it Tobin, still lying at its foot, kicked the door shut with a powerful shove, his back braced against the counter. Dale was trapped momentarily in the doors and dropped the gun. Tobin grabbed for his arm as the gun fell and tried to pull him down, but the closing door had pushed Dale outside the threshold and Tobin found himself lying on his back swinging on the end of the big man's arm. He maintained his grip of the hand as he rolled over and Dale was forced to follow to avoid having his wrist badly twisted. Tobin lashed out with his feet at the looming figure coming back through the door, but Dale was already off balance and landed on Tobin's chest knees first.

The force of the air expelled from his chest caught the back of Tobin's throat and made him cough and retch. Dale stood up gasping for breath, reached down for the gun and grabbed Teri, who was standing at the counter, rooted to the spot, eyes wide with terror and both hands to her mouth. He dragged her to the door and opened it. Tobin tried to crawl after him.

'Leave him, John. He won't hurt her,' ordered Alan, standing again behind the counter. Barbara was nowhere to be seen. Tobin watched from the open doorway as Dale backed to the top of the steps with Teri clamped in the crook of his left arm, the gun resting on her shoulder pointing at her head.

A figure appeared on the pavement behind them, both hands drawn back to one side. Bernie had a short piece of scaffolding tube gripped in both hands and Tobin watched, horrified, as the tube appeared from behind Bernie's head, as if in slow motion. It swung horizontally, with all the force the big man could put behind it. He grimaced and grunted as the effort hurt his damaged ribs and the trajectory of the pipe dropped a little as Bernie bent at the waist. The pipe clipped Dale's right shoulder and lost a bit of its force before connecting with the base of his skull.

The pipe bounced off Dale and narrowly missed Teri as his grip of her eased. Bernie gave another cry of pain and released his grip to clutch at his injured side. The tube sailed up into the air, hitting the side of the building and a balcony and clattered to the pavement some distance away. Bernie was groaning, clutching his injured ribs, his eyes squeezed shut and sweat breaking out on his ashen face. Teri was trying to crawl out from under the collapsed body of Dale. Alan rushed out on to the pavement as Bernie opened his eyes, panicked, turned and began a loping run across the pavement. He squeezed between two parked cars at the edge of the busy street as Tobin shouted at him. He looked to his right and ran out into the street. The big, fast moving old Citroën saloon, coming from his left, had no chance of avoiding the running figure. It gathered him up in a scooping motion, rolling him over the bonnet and up the windscreen before the limp figure slid sideways over the passenger door and down between the Citroen and another parked car rolling him along till he fell between two more parked cars.

Alan hauled Teri out from beneath Dale and carried her into the hotel. Even at that early hour the pavement began to fill with sightseers standing in a small huddle staring at the bleeding figure on the path. Tobin could hear sirens approaching and crawled back into the lobby and sat with his back to the door as tyres screeched outside and urgent commands could be heard amid raised, excited voices.

\-----------------18\-----------------

Tobin closed the folder and looked around the table. It was nearly Monday lunchtime and he could see Russell Foy getting fidgety, they had been over all this detail so many times since returning from France. Teri, on the other hand, was listening intently as she was hearing a lot of the story for the first time, as was Detective Sergeant McColl, across the table.

He had been a bit suspicious when Tobin turned up with Russell Foy QC (retired). McColl had grudgingly agreed to a meeting in a phonecall the previous Friday. He had been all set to hit Tobin with everything he could over the Harper affair, but then found himself outnumbered and outgunned around the table. The fourth member of the party was Roland Shaw, the late Rosemary Harper's ex-husband.

Russell's voice rumbled from the corner. 'Mr McColl, can you definitely charge Brian Dale with the murder of Julie Lambert?'

'Yes. Definitely. That's if he ever survives, its touch and go, I understand. He's lucky to be alive. Bernard Mitchell couldn't use his full strength or swing properly and caught him slightly on the shoulder, which is very badly bruised, before hitting his head, and that took some of the force out of the blow.

'The simple evidence of his blood stained clothing found in his garage with the murder weapon wrapped up in it is pretty conclusive. There was also a jacket with blood stains on the inside showing where it had been worn over the blood stained clothing. Also, stains in the inside pocket look pretty much as though that was where he carried away the kitchen knife he used on her. All the blood is Julie Lambert's and the knife is one of a set from her kitchen. Its discovery also caused Mrs Dale to change sides pretty quickly, too. She's been telling us a lot.'

'What about Rosemary Harper's death?' asked Russell Foy.

'That's not quite so clear. We can place Dale there, but we can also place Alan Harper, or James Mitchell, there at some time. We can also place Bernard Mitchell there over that weekend. Our guess is that Dale was there, for whatever reason, at or very near the time of her fall, and it might just have been a fall, we cannot be certain. Sometime afterwards Bernie Mitchell enters the house, for whatever reason. He starts searching, for whatever reason, and discovers Rosemary's body. He then wipes all the areas where he has been, to hide his presence, which are pretty much the same places as Dale has been. So, at the same time he wipes out all of Dale's traces as well. But, he misses the glass in the dishwasher, which he couldn't possibly have known about. This is all a hypothesis because the only two people that we have so far found who saw anything that went on around that house that weekend aren't too reliable. One's a part-time gardener, who is also on the dole, and therefore not too happy admitting just how much time he spends there. But, we know it's a lot, so with time we should find out a lot more detail. The other is the next door neighbour, Mrs Mayhew. However, she is the sister-in-law of Brian Dale and all she does is keep on accusing Harper and saying she saw him several times over that weekend. What was interesting was a comment of her husband's, no love lost there I think! It was his confirmation of all the extra milk they had that week. The milkman who delivers there commented that for the first time ever when he delivered to the Harper's there were two sparklingly clean empty bottles waiting for him every morning. Whereas, the norm would be a dozen or two unwashed empties every so often. So, she obviously knew something was going on and, presumably, thought she was doing her bit covering for her brother-in-law. And then, she leant him her car, in which he drove to France.

'However, back to Harper. With the timing of his car hire, as Alain Martin, which now explains how he could come and go across the Channel, and other sightings around the town near his office, and then his trip south, we also know now where he stayed on that Sunday night, in his French guise, would seem to rule him out altogether on the Sunday. We're certain that Rosemary Harper went shopping on Saturday night; we have credit card details from the off licence being confirmed. So out of that we think we've got the timing pretty well sorted and can rule Harper out of his wife's death.

'Similarly with Julie Lambert. Once you cut your way through the gossip, we have Alan Harper calling at lunchtime, wearing a crash helmet of all things, although he may have done himself a favour there by making himself more conspicuous. We then have Dale sneaking in the back way; not the first time either, it would appear. He left the same way about forty five minutes later, and in a big hurry. Then Bernie Mitchell turns up that evening. We have a witness that saw him apparently let himself in through the front door, which led them to presume it was Alan Harper, whereas the door may well have just not been locked. He enters the house and must wonder what on earth's happening when he finds the second dead woman. He frantically wipes down everything that he's touched again and hurriedly leaves, witnessed again. Fortunately for us he never went for a pee and so never cleaned up in the toilet, leaving Dale's best print on the loo seat. Subsequently, we also found prints in the cutlery drawer. There were prints on the outside of the kitchen window, too, where he climbed out, the body and pool of blood was obstructing the door, and then shut the window behind him.'

'Thank you,' said Russell, in his best bar manner.

'Of course,' continued McColl, 'this could all be theory if Dale doesn't survive. Bernard Mitchell, who is badly injured, but can talk, is saying nothing, I understand. The French want Mitchell for the attempted murder of one of their policemen. So getting him back might be a problem, fit or not. I'm glad to say that I don't have to make any of those decisions. I just tie up the paper work and pass it up the line to the Crown Prosecution Service.'

'There's one thing which might help,' Tobin dropped in, casually, 'and you can add into the Rosemary Harper case if you want. She was blackmailing Dale. And had been for twenty five years!'

'For what?' Asked McColl, suspiciously. Teri looked incredulous.

'Well,' said Tobin, enjoying the moment, 'we think Dale searched the house for Rosemary's bank statements and found them; Teri couldn't find any of her mother's accounts when she cleared up the house. Somebody had removed them, probably Dale. However, he wasn't to know that Rosemary had maintained an account in her previous name of Shaw.' At this point he drew in Roland Shaw sitting next to him and Teri.

'You are Miss Shaw's father,' stated the detective.

Shaw said nothing.

From the bottom of the folder in front of him, Tobin pulled a second one and opened it. It contained photocopied bank statements.

'This is up to the time Alan left Dales Transport. There are years of bank statements in here and all they show are payments made by Dale to R. Shaw. Five hundred pounds every month for all that time! Alan stumbled onto this when he was at Dale's. He didn't know what the payments were for or who to at first, but, followed it up out of sheer nosiness, because he wasn't meant to know about it. The cheques came from a private account that Dale kept as a slush fund; he found that out later. Alan thought the cheques were going to either Roland Shaw or Rebecca Shaw.' Teri sat up shaking her head. 'But, after a bit of digging, mainly asking Roland, he discovered the truth. So, he and Roland met up again and between them worked out that it had to be blackmail.'

'Why?' Asked Teri and McColl together.

'Well,...,' began Tobin, awkwardly.

'It's OK,' butted in Roland. 'I'll tell it.' He turned to Teri. 'The final straw that caused me to split with your mother when you were only little was when I found out that... I was sterile.' A little embarrassed, he stopped and waited for the full meaning to sink in.

Teri stared at him for a moment and then said, slowly. 'So you are not my father.'

'That's right.'

'So who is?' But, she knew already what the answer would be.

'Brian Dale.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'Well'. Russell took out an envelope and spilled the contents onto the table. There were a large number of photos of Dale from varying angles that Tobin had asked Heather Millin to sort out from the newspaper office. There was also a picture of Teri. By shuffling them around he surrounded Teri's photo with a selection of Dale's and there to see was what should have been obvious from the beginning. The paternal resemblance was quite striking.

Teri looked for a moment as if she was about to burst into tears, but instead burst out laughing. There was a puzzled and embarrassed silence around the table.

'I'm sorry. But, that's three of us who aren't who we thought!'

There was a pause, broken by McColl. 'Yes, that's something I want to have a word about, Mr Foy. Nicholas John Tobin Foy.' Russell looked enquiringly, and a little threateningly, at him over his half-moon specs. 'But, it can wait.'

'So what now, then?' asked Russell.

'As I said, sir, I just pass on the papers.'

'And Alan Harper?'

'You mean James Mitchell?'

'Well, actually, I mean Monsieur Alain Martin.'

McColl shut his eyes and shook his head at the thought of trying to sort out that tangle. He stood up to signal the end of the meeting. 'As I said I just pass on the papers. And, as for his part in the robbery, well... .' He shrugged. Then he remembered something. 'One moment! There is one all important question here which everyone seems to have avoided. In all this talk there's not been one mention of the money from that robbery. What did Mitchell, or whatever names you want to use, do with all that money? That could put a very different light on this whole thing!'

Tobin and Russell shared a grin. 'I thought no-one was going to ask that. It has been thought of, quite a lot,' said Tobin. 'When young Jimmy drove the getaway car round to the back of Bernie's house to look for him he found he had gone. So, thoughtful young man that he was, he thought he would leave it for him. All this time Bernie and his family have been living beneath it! Jimmy spread it around the loft of Bernie's house and, as far as we know, it's still there!'

'That's five steak pies, then?'

'Yes, please, Austin.' The landlord passed the three plates he was holding along the table in the Northumberland Arms and took two more from Eric the barman standing behind. The cutlery came wrapped in white serviettes.

Nothing broke the silence except the chink of cutlery on crockery. Hazel watched Teri pick at her meal. She had volunteered her services to watch over the younger woman after having been forewarned of the revelations of her parentage that were to come that morning, in case they proved too much for her. Teri had tried to accept that they could say nothing until they were one hundred per cent certain. And, they hadn't been one hundred per cent till that morning, when Roland Shaw, after returning early from a business trip, had met them for the first time. But, it had obviously been a great shock to her. Perhaps, Tobin thought, as he watched her, he could have found a less dramatic way of making the revelation. But, they had all been so carried away with the excitement of the moment that such considerations were forgotten.

Roland Shaw was the first to speak. 'We've done one part of the urgent message you left me, what's this investment opportunity you spoke about?'

All eyes turned to Tobin. 'Well, ...' He began, in an uncharacteristically confident manner. 'With Alan gone and two of the backers pulling out of the paper, I've agreed to put my money into 'The Mid-Northumberland Reporter'. Russell and Hazel here have agreed to come into it with me and that very nearly covers the shortfall. Now, we could go to the bank and borrow or, what I think would be great, is if you would put in as well. You are local, after all, although you currently live away. And, of course if you brought another one or two with you that would give us enough to get the thing onto a solid footing again and maybe even expand.'

Teri was quite taken aback at this development; she was seeing another side of Tobin that she hadn't known existed. 'How much money are you putting up?' She demanded.

He told her.

'That's a lot of money! When did you work this out?'

'It's everything, all I've got, including the flat. It's been going around in my mind for a while now.'

'That's a terrible risk.'

'So, I'll just have to make it work.' He turned back to the others. 'I'm hoping that Sandra Hickman, the editor, will agree to stay on. But, if she doesn't I'll step in and I know a good young lady reporter who will come along as assistant.

Teri's head rose sharply, her mouth pouting, at the mention of Heather, for that was surely who he meant.

Tobin saw the expression. 'One other phonecall I managed to make on Friday was to Prentice Partnerships, a Mr Murphy, who said that if we couldn't afford them as PR representatives he could recommend a very good young lady who is currently unemployed.'

It looked as if Teri was going to get all emotional again. 'But, before we get carried away, a lot depends on Roland here. We don't expect an instant decision, Roland, but we haven't got too long, either.'

Roland Shaw sat back took a deep breath and exhaled. 'No need for time. It's a good idea. Yes!'

Tobin thumped the table. 'GREAT!'

\------------------END\-----------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE. Since Alain/Jimmy served in the Legion many things have changed, some for the better, some for the worse, opinions differ, but particularly the qualification for French nationality.

