

SAM'S SONG

Hannah Howe

Goylake Publishing

Copyright © 2014 Hannah Howe

All rights reserved.

The moral right of Hannah Howe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

http://goylakepublishing.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

To my family, with love

# Chapter One

I was sitting in my office, tapping my fingers on my desk, waiting for my computer to start. As usual, my fingernails were bitten to the quick – it was an annoying habit, one I was trying to break – and, as usual, my computer was having one of its 'moments'. Like most of the items in my office, the computer was a refurbished model, the best I could afford. Today, I was in luck and the programme opened. I selected the appropriate file and was about to type up a report for a client when a man walked in carrying a silver-tipped cane in one hand and a felt fedora in the other.

"Samantha Smith, enquiry agent?" he asked.

I looked up from my keyboard and nodded. "Do you want to hire me?" It was a question I asked everyone who entered my office – money was tight – I needed their patronage. In the early years, my voice had an almost desperate edge to it when I asked that question, a desperate edge that matched my pleading look. Recently, I'd modified my tone and look, but to my ears, I still sounded frantic.

"Can I come in first?" the man with the fedora asked patiently.

I waved a hand towards my client's chair and mumbled, "Oh, sorry. Yes. Take a seat."

The man with the cane and the fedora looked around my office. He gazed at the apple-white walls, which I'd recently painted, my coat rack, my cream trench coat – I like to dress the part – and my battered oak desk, acquired on the cheap from a second-hand market. In truth, apart from a couple of iron-grey filing cabinets, there was nothing else to look at so his eyes alighted on me.

"Nice office," he smiled politely.

I nodded.

He glanced over my shoulder to a rain-streaked window, the only source of natural light in my first floor office. Maybe he didn't like the view because his top lip twitched into an Elvis Presley snarl. "Lousy district."

I shrugged. My office was located in Butetown, Cardiff, near the docks. It wasn't a salubrious district. In fact, I plied my trade from a distinctly seedy street, but it was all I could afford.

He shuffled in his seat, then brightened, his smile revealing a gold filling on his right eye-tooth. "As a matter of fact, young lady, I would like to hire you."

"You have a name?" I asked.

"Milton," his smile intensified. "Milton Vaughan-Urquhart." He leaned forward and offered his right hand. I shook it. His handshake was a trifle limp. I noted that his fingernails had been neatly manicured and that his hands were as smooth as a baby's skin.

"Okay, Milton, so you want to hire me."

"On behalf of Derwena de Caro."

He paused for dramatic effect.

I flicked my hair over my shoulder. I picked up a pencil. I sat back in my faux-leather chair. I twirled the pencil between my fingers. I offered Milton a polite smile. I was playing it cool, as though managers of multi-million pound pop stars walked into my office every day of the week.

"You've heard of Derwena de Caro?" he frowned.

"Sure." I'd heard of Derwena. I'd heard that she could be a five-star pain in the arse, a pop diva who sent her fellow musicians and hangers-on climbing up the walls. I needed the money that was painfully true. But did I need the emotional baggage that came with Derwena de Caro? I thought not.

"Didn't she have a hit a few years back?" I searched my mind for the name of the song. "Love Bullet, wasn't it?"

"Come up to me, baby, hold me real close, you know I'm the one who loves you the most, and I wanna shoot all my love bullets into you," Milton sang. He had a terrible voice, akin to chalk scratching on a blackboard.

"They don't write them like that anymore," I sighed.

"Actually, they do," Milton corrected me. "Woody, Derwena's guitarist and lover, wrote that lyric and he's put together a series of classic songs for her next album, Midas Melange. Okay, Derwena's gone through a fallow period – it's all about hip-hop and rap now, beats per minute, it's difficult for a chanteuse like Derwena to break through – but she'll be back big time with Midas Melange."

Milton sat back in my client's chair. He placed the silver tip of his cane on my office floor. The floor was bare floorboards – I was saving up to buy some carpet. He twiddled the bulbous crown on the cane between his flaccid fingers. He gazed at me through soft, brown, expectant eyes. Then a cat jumped in through a gap in my side window and landed on my desk.

"Shit!" Milton put a hand to his throat, caressing his cravat in an effort to compose himself. "What the hell's that?"

I stroked the cat and he purred, rubbing his damp head against the back of my hand. "This is Marlowe. And don't shout like that, he gets nervous." Marlowe, a mean looking, battle-scarred alley cat, had adopted me. I'd walked into my office one morning and there he was. He'd jumped in through my open side window via the roof of a ground floor shed. I gave him a saucer of milk and next day, he was back demanding food, meowing like a badly tuned violin. Three months later, we were still together, which was a record for me when it came to recent male relationships.

Marlowe sat on the edge of my desk. He opened his legs, leaned forward, and licked his balls. Don't do that, Marlowe, I groaned inwardly, at least, not in front of potential clients. But Marlowe licked away. I guess a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

I glanced at Milton and noticed that he'd raised his right eyebrow in inquisitive fashion. He nodded with approval. "If only I were that dexterous."

I blushed. I blush easily. It's symptomatic of having freckles and auburn hair.

Marlowe continued to lick his privates. Then he wandered around my desk, found a suitably vacant spot and curled into a ball, purring his way into a catnap.

"Derwena thinks that she's being stalked." Milton was back into his linguistic stride, leaning forward, resting his arms on his cane, which was planted between his legs.

"And is she?" I asked.

Milton shrugged a well-rounded shoulder. In his early forties, he was flabby around the middle with short legs. Clean-shaven, he had a comfortable double chin and soft jowls. His hair was wavy and brown, parted on the right, reaching to his collar, revealing a high-forehead. He flicked his hair away from his collar in a foppish manner then offered me a thin smile. "Derwena's an artist," he explained, "she's given to flights of the imagination."

"So the stalker's all in her mind."

He shrugged again, offering me a tight, polite, yet painful smile. "Or he could be real. The music industry attracts a lot of fruitcakes."

Like Derwena de Caro, I thought, but I was being unkind. After all, if my life appeared in the Sunday newspapers, people would hardly regard me as Housewife of the Year.

"Why hire me?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Milton Vaughan-Urquhart stared at his fingernails. He blew on them then polished them on his tweed waistcoat. "There are not that many female enquiry agents around."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." If I sounded sarcastic, that's because I'd been having a difficult time lately. In fact, I'd been having a difficult time for the past thirty-two years, but you muddle through, don't you, hoping that the sun will shine, one day.

"And Derwena insisted that we hire a female enquiry agent," Milton continued. "And I checked you out amongst your male peers and they said you're the best."

That would be Mickey Anthony, a fellow private eye. He was always quick with a kind word about me, but he was a womaniser and I suspected an ulterior motive. Accept the compliment, the little angel inside my head said, you work damned hard, you're conscientious and you never quit until your client is satisfied. But I couldn't accept the compliment; I've always found it hard to accept praise.

"Divorce is more my line of work." There I go again, being defensive; it was a coping strategy, and being a female alone in this game, I needed plenty of them.

"Do you want to stay in this dump forever?" Milton glanced around my office. He glared at me. His tone was surprisingly harsh. "From what I've heard you've got a good reputation amongst your peers. You're trustworthy, meticulous and very resourceful. But a good reputation alone doesn't put carpets on your floors or curtains on your windows. So I ask again, do you want to stay in this dump forever?"

It was a dump. But I liked my office. I liked the people in the neighbourhood. Even so, I was mildly ambitious and I knew that I had to challenge myself and move on. Besides, I had a string of bills to pay by the end of the week – I needed the money. Beggars can't be choosers, so I shrugged, "I charge £25 an hour, plus expenses." I knew that I was undervaluing myself. Indeed, if I had a twin sister I'd probably advertise as 'hire one, get one free'.

Milton stared at the gold rings and gold wristwatch, adorning his left hand, and the gold identity bracelet dangling from his right wrist. He smiled, "I think we can stretch to £25 an hour. We are ensconced in Castle Gwyn, living and recording on site. Do you know the castle?"

I nodded.

"Meet us at noon; Derwena should be up by then."

"She likes her bed."

"Recording sessions can go on into the early hours. Her voice is often at its best after dark."

Milton Vaughan-Urquhart stood. He placed his fedora on his head then straightened the seams on his trousers. His trousers were brown with a fawn pinstripe. He also wore spats, I noticed, tan and white. He checked his pocket watch, then returned the watch to his waistcoat. A pocket watch and a wristwatch – either this man had Swiss ancestry or he was obsessed with the time. "We'll see you at noon."

I glanced at Marlowe. He was still asleep, no doubt dreaming of mice. Maybe in the next life, I'd come back as a cat. I nodded. "I'll see you at noon."

Milton left my office. I stared at my desk. There were two drawers in my desk; one contained a bottle of whisky, the other a gun. I had a strict rule – the whisky was purely for medicinal purposes and, as with all medicines, you must never exceed the stated dose. My stated dose was two fingers a day, maximum. I'd seen my mother consume gin like water. In fact, my earliest memory of my mother is of her slouched drunk in a chair, an empty bottle of gin in her limp hand. I must have been three or four at the time. I'd been to some dark places, but I had no wish to go there. Two fingers, maximum. That was my stated dose. The second desk drawer contained a Smith and Wesson .32. I'd fired the gun in anger, though I hadn't killed anyone. I thought about the gun. I thought about a potential stalker. I opened the drawer and slipped the gun into my shoulder bag. Okay, so it clashed with the make-up, the tissues, the panty-liners, but hell, better to be safe than sorry. I had an hour to kill. Enough time to complete my report and deliver it to my client. So I crouched over the keyboard and with Marlowe stretched over my desk, I earned some bread.

# Chapter Two

I travelled north-east, to the outskirts of Cardiff. I was driving a modern Mini. Okay, the car had me up to my eyeballs in debt, but I needed something reliable in case I had to chase the 'bad guys'. More to the point, I needed something reliable in case the 'bad guys' decided to chase me.

It was a dull, dank, drizzly day, a day when autumn was drifting into winter. I was in the countryside now, peering through the windscreen wipers, searching for the signpost, the signpost that said 'Castle Gwyn, thataway'. I found the signpost and a turning that led to the castle. The road was narrow, one lane only, but smooth, covered with a fresh layer of tarmac. I travelled half a mile along that road, then the castle appeared before me, rising majestically out of the trees.

Castle Gwyn was a Victorian folly, a castle with a drawbridge, a dry moat and towers suggestive of white knights, princesses and fairytales. The round turrets had been whitewashed – gwyn is the Welsh for white – and they shone like beacons against the backdrop of dark woodland. Nowadays, patrons used the castle as a film set, as a location to hold wedding receptions and parties, and as a recording studio. Thoughts of wedding receptions reminded me of my own 'special day' and my honeymoon spent in A + E, but that's another story.

I parked the Mini and got out of my car. I was still looking around when Milton walked over the drawbridge, an umbrella replacing his cane. He had something in his left hand, an 'access all areas' badge.

"You'd better wear this." Milton presented the badge to me and I slipped it over my head. "The castle has got its own security people who patrol from time to time and we don't want them jumping on you now, do we?"

As we crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, I studied the badge, gazing at my picture. "Where did you get this photograph?" I asked.

"The Internet. Remember the Beatrice Black case?"

I nodded. I did. Beatrice was a prostitute from Cardiff. She'd been murdered and after six months of investigations, the police had drawn a blank. Her relatives came to me and asked if I could help. I nosed around, got lucky and, to cut a long story short, secured a conviction. For a couple of days my face was splashed over the local newspapers and the Internet. I enjoyed the satisfaction of solving the case, but I hated the publicity. Since childhood, I've loathed having my picture taken.

We crunched our way across the shingle of the courtyard and entered the building. The interior was mind-blowing with every inch of wall space and ceiling decorated. Scenes from Arthurian literature ran around the walls – Arthur on his horse, Lancelot kissing Guinevere, Bedwyr throwing Excalibur into the lake. Above them bees, birds and butterflies swooped all over the ceiling in a display of energy and colour that had my mind spinning. In truth, it was too much, too garish, too over-blown. But bear in mind, this comes from someone who lives in a modest flat overlooking the gas works.

Milton placed his umbrella in a brass stand while I hung my trench coat in a closet as big as my apartment. Then we entered the main hall.

We found Derwena in the hall – another garish room, though offering the relief of lightly decorated tiles running from dado rail to ceiling. Derwena was reclining on a chaise longue, watching daytime television. She was in her late twenties with long, frizzy, bottle-blonde hair. Her eyes were green, I guessed, but it was hard to tell because they were so bloodshot. If I'm honest, her face contained more character than beauty. Don't get me wrong – she was attractive, but she looked nothing like her magazine pictures. Just goes to show what a bit of airbrushing can do for you. She had a curvaceous figure, maybe a few pounds overweight, and I guessed that she was around my height – and I had somewhere to go to challenge Elle Macpherson.

Derwena was dressed in an ankle-length silk dress – I'd hate to iron that – that had a V-shaped jewelled panel on the bodice. The dress was peach and sleeveless. She wore no rings on her fingers, although large Iceni-shield earrings dangled from her ears. I considered that she was over-dressed for lounging around indoors at just after noon. But then, my wardrobe runs to smart-casual with barely a nod towards glamour and sartorial elegance, so who am I to talk.

Derwena glanced up from the television. She viewed me through her red, bloodshot eyes. "She's too beautiful." The songstress waved a dismissive hand in my general direction while glaring at Milton. "Get rid of her. Get someone else."

I frowned. Me? Beautiful? Okay, I had long auburn hair reaching down to the middle of my back, which I liked. My eyes were dark brown, offering the suggestion that I had large pupils. My cleavage resembled Mount Snowdon rather than the Himalayas, but that's fine because my boobs were balanced out by a petite rear. I was below average height, nothing special, and I had a waist that would sneak into a Victorian corset. My waist was thin partly because I skipped meals on a regular basis and partly because when I did eat, I worried away any fat. Men found me attractive and maybe I'd been blessed in the looks department, but whenever I caught sight of myself in a mirror, I wanted to look away or close my eyes.

"You wanted a woman, didn't you?" Milton was having a hot flush – his cheeks were as crimson and as luminous as the walls that ran below the dado rail. "Well, I've got you a woman. She's the best available, I've checked them out. And we only have the best for Derwena, don't we, dear?"

Derwena turned away in a huff. She picked up the remote control and adjusted the volume on the television. Needless to say, the volume went up.

"Can you believe that?" Derwena gasped, while waving the remote control at the television. "He had sex with his sister and with his mother-in-law, and he reckons that his wife is sick for running off with their daughter's rapist! Some people, eh?"

Milton went from crimson to purple. He snatched the remote control from Derwena's hand and turned the television off. "Derwena, stop filling your head with that rubbish and come and meet Sam."

Derwena gave me a long, sideways look, then she gazed at the vacant television. She folded her arms across her breasts. "I don't like her. Get rid of her. Get someone else."

I shrugged at Milton then smiled politely. "I'll get my coat..."

"No, Sam, you're staying." Milton took a step towards me, obstructing my passage to the hall door. "Let me have five minutes, I'll talk Derwena around."

Meanwhile, Derwena had turned her attention to a pile of hair, beauty and fashion magazines. She pushed the magazines to one side, picked up a piece of paper, then waved it at Milton.

"Have you seen this?" she demanded. I peered over Derwena's shoulder and viewed the piece of paper. It depicted a scantily clad model caressing a bar of gold. The words 'Derwena de Caro' and 'Midas Melange' were emblazoned across the top and bottom of the image. I guessed that this was the draft cover for her new album. Derwena glared at Milton and complained, "This woman's got no clothes on."

"She's wearing a silk shift," Milton mumbled, defensively.

"You can see her nipples!" Derwena yelled.

"That's the pattern on the fabric," Milton replied, patiently.

But Derwena was having none of it. Like a snowball tumbling down a mountain, she was on a roll. She insisted, "It's see-through, I'm telling you." She threw the piece of paper on top of the magazines. "I'm not wearing that. I'm not posing in the nude. I'm a singer, not a Playboy model!"

Milton circled Derwena, waving his arms around in an attempt to placate her. "We'll modify the image," he promised. "That's why we took these shots, to see what works and what doesn't. Listen, baby, we won't get you to do anything you don't want to do. But remember, sex sells. There is a direct correlation between the amount of clothes you wear and your album sales. Basically, the less clothes the higher you go up the charts."

Derwena sunk into the chaise longue. She pouted, pushing out her bottom lip. "But I want to be loved for my voice. I want the respect of my peers."

"And they do respect you," Milton enthused. "Think of the Whistle Test Music Awards. Prestigious, high-status awards. But that was four years ago. We need a cover with a bit of pizzazz, something that will catch the eye. And when the teenagers buy the record for the cover they'll get to love your music. Trust me, baby, I've got you this far, haven't I?"

Derwena's mind went clicking through the gears and her expression changed from a sulk to a look of delight, via a gamut of other emotions that a Shakespearean actress would have been proud of.

"You're a darling!" Derwena gushed, throwing her arms around Milton.

"Trust me," Milton smiled, while accepting her embrace.

"Oh, I do, Milton dearest, I do."

The unlikely couple were still locked in an embrace when a thin, effeminate man with a mousy moustache appeared in the hall. He gave Milton the eye and the manager pulled away from the singer with a look of relief.

Milton mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. Then he checked his pocket watch before glancing at me. "Excuse me, Sam; I've got to see Tim. Back in a tick."

That left yours truly and Derwena alone in the hall. A large, foursquare oak chair sat beside the television. I smoothed the back of my skirt, then plonked my neat posterior upon the chair.

"Maybe I can ask you some questions?" I ventured optimistically.

Derwena eyed the remote control. She eyed me. Her resigned gaze acknowledged the fact that I had taken my pen and notebook out of my shoulder bag.

"You're not going away, are you?" she moaned. "Okay," she waved a dismissive hand in my general direction, "fire away."

I crouched over my notebook, my pen poised. I enjoyed this part of the job – asking questions, making notes, then trying to piece together and make sense of the answers.

"When did you last see the stalker?" I asked.

"Last night, after recording. It was 3 a.m. and I was undressing, getting ready for bed. I looked out into the night and there he was, staring at me, standing below my window in the castle grounds."

"What did you do?"

"I closed the curtains and ran to Milton's room." Derwena shrugged as she made her reply. She looked at me as if I were stupid, as if the answer was so obvious it barely begged the question.

"What happened then?"

"Tim opened the door. He was naked." Derwena rolled her eyes. She fanned herself with her left hand. "Tim at 3 a.m. is not a sight that any woman would want to see." She frowned, leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "Why can't men control their bits, you know?" She made an obscene gesture, then she sat back with a sigh. "Anyway, I insisted that I had to see Milton and I told him what had happened. Milton put on a robe, followed me back to my room and looked out of my window. Of course, the stalker had gone by then. Milton poured me a drink, vodka and orange, to calm my nerves. He told me to get into bed and he'd sort everything out in the morning. I told him to hire a private eye and it looks like he's hired you."

I made a note in my notebook, then asked, "Where was Woody, your boyfriend?"

"He was with Nerd in the recording studio downstairs, mixing my vocals. The backing tracks are complete. We only need to re-do a few vocals, mix them and the album's finished."

"Who's Nerd?" I frowned.

"Our engineer. He's a wizard with knobs, I can tell you."

I made another note, and not the one you're thinking. "Nice to be a wizard at something," I smiled.

"I guess so, yeah."

"Was anyone else in the castle last night?"

Derwena shrugged. She adjusted the thin strap on her left shoulder. "Just me, Woody, Milton, Tim and Nerd. For the next fortnight, we've got the castle to ourselves."

"And the security guys," I probed, "could any of them be the stalker?"

"Nah," Derwena shook her head dismissively, "not the right build. And I get on fine with the security guys."

I made another note, then asked, "How many times have you seen the stalker?"

Derwena frowned. She was concentrating. Hard. She counted on the fingers of her left hand while silently reciting the numbers. "It must be five times now," she replied, her generous lips swathed in a smile, as though pleased with herself, pleased that she'd counted to five.

I made another note, though in truth, I had the feeling that if she'd had six fingers on her left hand her answer would have been six.

"Why didn't you hire someone sooner?" I asked.

"Milton put it down to my imagination." Derwena withdrew into herself. She dipped her head and eyed me with suspicion. "Okay, I've got a vivid imagination and as a child I had a lot of imaginary friends. And okay, the scene with Bongo the Bear did get a bit out of hand and my mother had to take me to see a child psychiatrist, but this stalker is real and he's scary."

"What does he look like?"

Derwena peered at me from over her right shoulder, her face hidden in shadow, her eyes furtive, glancing around the room. "It depends on the light."

"Give me a broad outline."

After a minute of deep thought, Derwena brightened and replied, "He's tall, dark. Swarthy. Piratical."

I scribbled in my notebook and smiled. "Has he got a hook, one eye and a parrot?"

Derwena hitched up the hem of her dress. She jumped up from the chaise longue and flounced around the room. With her pout on maximum, she moaned, "You're not taking me seriously, are you?"

"If a man is threatening you, I'll take it very seriously." I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and removed the Smith and Wesson .32. "I've brought this along. Isn't that serious enough?"

Derwena's mouth and eyes opened wide. She walked over to where I was sitting and gazed at the handgun, her face frozen in awe. The moment melted, then she licked her lips and whispered, "Have you fired it?"

I nodded.

"Wow!" She reached out, her fingers hesitant, hovering over the barrel of the gun. "Can I touch it?"

"Sure," I shrugged.

I swear that she purred as she ran her fingers over the barrel of my gun. She licked her lips again then murmured huskily, "Can I hold it?"

"I'd rather you didn't." I withdrew the gun and returned it to my shoulder bag. The thought of Derwena de Caro waving a loaded Smith and Wesson around did not appeal, somehow.

"Milton was right," she took hold of my hand and guided me over to the chaise longue, where we sat, side by side, "you're the real deal, aren't you."

"I'm the real something," I sighed.

"Do you think we could be friends?"

"Have you got many friends?"

"In this business?" Derwena curled her top lip into a disgruntled snarl. "They're all two-faced. They'd shaft you as soon as look at you. It's all about the bottom line, the mighty dollar. You make them enough money and it buys you a lot of friends."

I turned away from Derwena and made another note in my notebook: Derwena – no friends.

"Have you received any direct threats," I asked, "messages, strange phone calls?"

"Milton handles all my messages and phone calls. He hasn't mentioned anything to me."

I tapped my pen lightly against my forehead, as though trying to get the cogs in my head turning. What to make of her story? Was the stalker real, or a figment of her imagination? I concluded that it was best to assume that he was for real, at least until proved otherwise.

I was scribbling in my notebook and Derwena was adjusting her dress, staring at her cleavage, when Milton returned to the hall. "Woody's ready," he announced. "He'd like you to re-record the chorus of 'Fire and Ice'. Are you up for that, baby?"

"Sure." Derwena took hold of my hand and marched me over to Milton. "Can my new friend...er...what's your name?"

"Sam."

"Can my new friend Sam come along?"

Suddenly, we were best friends. And I thought that I was manic-depressive.

"Of course," Milton shrugged. "In fact," he added graciously, "I insist."

Derwena let go of my hand. She threw her arms around her manager. "I love you, Milton." She slobbered over his left cheek, planting a wet kiss.

"Everyone loves dear old Milt," Milton sighed, extricating himself from her embrace, mopping his damp cheek with his silk handkerchief.

Milton allowed Derwena to wander from the hall. I was set to follow, but he placed a gentle hand on my arm, holding me back. "You got what you wanted?" he asked.

"I'm on the lookout for a pirate."

Milton rolled his eyes. He puffed out his cheeks. "We're seven miles from the coast. The last pirate seen around here was Captain Morgan in the seventeenth century, but don't mention that to Derwena."

# Chapter Three

I followed Derwena and Milton into the basement down a flight of irregular, uneven steps. In the basement, I saw Tim wandering around in the background, his slender frame disappearing behind stone columns, only to reappear moments later, like a phantom walking through walls.

The basement resembled the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise – everywhere you looked, there were knobs and faders, and bright lights, dancing to the sound of music. The basement was lit by a series of bright, electric strip lights and one of those lights illuminated the man sitting at the controls, a young man in his early twenties. He had round, wire-framed spectacles and a mop of curly hair. He looked as if he'd just left university. Indeed, he was wearing a faded University of California tee-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. He was nodding in time to the music, a rhythmic beat pulsating behind a screeching guitar, while twiddling some knobs. I assumed that this was Nerd.

A tall man in his late thirties stood beside the controls, overseeing the production. I assumed that this was Woody. He too was dressed in ragged jeans and a scruffy tee-shirt. Woody's tee-shirt had a sexist comment emblazoned across the front, though thankfully the comment had faded with age. Woody had long, permed hair, bottle-blond, lively blue eyes and a long, craggy face. His skin was leathery and suntanned, and it contained an orange, artificial glow. Lines and wrinkles dominated his features and although ruggedly handsome, he had a face that had clearly seen a lot of high living.

Derwena entered a booth. She placed headphones over her ears then nodded in time to the music. She gazed through the glass panels of the booth, waiting for Woody's cue. And when he raised his index finger, she started to sing.

Derwena had a bluesy, sultry voice, quite sensual if you like that kind of thing. However, 'Fire and Ice' was a fast-paced pop number and she struggled to reach the high notes. After three re-takes, she ripped off her headphones and stormed out of the booth, clearly agitated, distressed.

"How am I supposed to sing this?" she complained, waving a lyric sheet at Woody. "This line has got double-glazing in it. How am I supposed to sing a line with double-glazing in it?"

"Sing it, baby," Woody growled, "and sing it good, because if this album isn't a hit we'll be reduced to making jingles for double-glazing. So sing it. One more time, baby, with feeling!"

Derwena returned to the booth. She placed the headphones over her ears. For the umpteenth time the backing track to 'Fire and Ice' started up. And, once again, Derwena struggled with the high notes. Clearly, the song was not suited to her voice.

"I can't sing in here," Derwena complained as she stepped out of the booth. She threw the headphones on to the flagstone floor. In places, the basement floor was covered in carpet. Idly I wondered if the loud, vibrant pattern of the carpet would suit my office and concluded that I'd go for something plain. Once I'd gathered together my savings.

"My stars said that the moon is in the seventh house and that Jupiter is aligned with Mars, and therefore it's not a good idea for me to sing today," Derwena insisted. "And anyway, there are too many distractions."

"Such as?" Milton sighed.

"The wind. I can hear the wind." Derwena sidled up to Milton and placed her arms on his shoulders. With his shoulders taking her weight, she swayed seductively in front of him. "Can't you do something about the wind, Milt my sweetness?"

Milton removed Derwena's arms from his shoulders. He paced the basement, not exactly like a tiger – I don't think Milton had it in him to be ferocious – more like a disgruntled alley cat.

"We're in a basement, chiselled out of solid rock," he explained patiently. "There are no windows. There are no outside distractions. There is no wind."

Derwena pouted. She looked on the verge of tears. Tim had disappeared behind one of the columns while Nerd was still nodding in time to the music though, bizarrely, the music had stopped. Meanwhile, Woody had his hands in his trousers and was adjusting his wedding tackle. I felt like I'd wandered into a circus and was standing among the clowns. I hate the circus. I hate clowns.

"Now you're just being mean!" Derwena blurted before storming out of the basement. Milton gave Tim a well-practiced nod and Tim ran after the diva. Tim's role appeared to be all round gopher and comforter. Whatever his salary, he earned his corn.

While Nerd fiddled with the controls, Milton attempted to restore some semblance of order. He ushered Woody in my direction and made the introductions.

"Sam, this is Woody. Woody, this is Sam. Sam is helping us out on the stalker."

"Hey," Woody gave me a cheesy grin, "you're cute. Why don't we go and sit on my couch?"

Thankfully, the couch was a generous three-seater and I managed to squeeze myself into one corner while Woody reclined in the seat furthest away from me.

"You know who I am, don't you?" he asked, his rugged face still swathed in a vulgar grin.

"Derwena's lover."

He nodded while crossing and uncrossing his legs. "I'm her lover, writer, arranger, producer...I'm the main man."

I smiled politely while glancing around the recording studio. For some reason, I wondered if rats found their way into the basement. Probably not; after all, for all its Victorian creepiness, the building did have all mod cons. All the same, I was tempted to raise my legs and place them on the couch, offering them to Woody's lecherous gaze. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. In the event, I kept my feet firmly on the ground, concluding that the rats offered the lesser threat.

"You know how I got my name?" Woody leered.

"I can't imagine." I turned away, my face a picture of wholesome innocence.

"I've got this reputation, see," Woody continued. "I'm always ready. Quick to get wood, you know what I mean?" He tapped his crown jewels with his open palm, in case I should miss the point. He leaned over towards me and whispered, "There's a fantastic four-poster bed in the west wing. Have you seen it?"

I shook my head. "No."

"I could show you the bed." His leer intensified. "I could show you a good time." His hand wandered over my thigh. "You look as if you could do with a good time."

"Tell me about your music," I mumbled, easing his hand back into his lap.

"Are you a dyke?" he frowned. He tilted his head to one side and eyed me quizzically.

"Just call me old-fashioned."

Woody beamed, his right hand returning to my thigh. "I like old-fashioned chicks."

"I don't fool around!" I slapped his hand with my open palm. The crack caught Nerd's attention, though after a quick glance, he returned to his knobs.

"Jeez." Woody was appraising me, eyeing me with a look of confused sympathy. "I was only trying to be friendly. No need to go all ape-shit on me." He leaned forward and stared at my forehead, as though trying to peer into my brain. "You got some monkeys dancing around in there?"

I inclined my head, allowing my hair to fall over my face. It was one of the reasons why I wore my hair long, so that in moments of embarrassment I could allow my hair to fall over my face.

"Tell me about your new album." My voice was quiet, strained.

"Midas Melange."

"Yeah."

"It's gonna be huge, a number one with a bullet. I called it Midas Melange because Midas means gold, right, and a melange is a concoction of various styles. On this album, we've decided to mix a lot of musical styles, a jazz track, some prog, heavy metal, a ballad, folk, blues, reggae, hip-hop, pure pop, trance, even a punk track. What do you think, sounds like a winner?"

Sounds unlistenable. I nodded politely. "Sounds great."

"Yeah. This album will really showcase Derwena's voice, her versatility." Woody reached over and picked up an acoustic guitar. "What do you think of this?"

He played a few notes and I recognised the tune. My moment of discomfort had passed, so I swept my hair away from my face, allowing it to cascade over my shoulders. "Sounds like Ode to Joy."

"It is Ode to Joy. I've paired it with a Shakespearean sonnet, Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day. It'll be our classical track on the new album. I'm pushing for it to be the first single, but Milt isn't so sure."

Milt has taste. But I kept that thought to myself. Instead, I said, "Tell me about the stalker."

Woody shrugged his broad shoulders. He looked nonplussed. "What's to tell?"

"Have you seen him?"

"No." He thought for a moment, then replied, "Though I did see something strange moving in the shadows the other night."

I made a note in my notebook. I was Sam the enquiry agent again, not Sam the object of desire. I was back on firmer ground.

"You want to know my thoughts on the stalker?" Woody asked enthusiastically.

"Share them with me."

"I reckon the stalker is a ghost from medieval times, a ghost that haunts this castle."

I folded my notebook. Why did I bother? Woody reckons that he earned his nickname through his sexual prowess, though the phrase 'as thick as two-short planks' came to my mind.

"The castle is Victorian," I explained as though talking to a very young child.

"Yeah." His enthusiasm remained undiminished. "But the ghost wouldn't know that. To a medieval ghost all castles are medieval. I reckon we need a ghost buster, not a private eye."

I slipped my notebook and pen into my shoulder bag and threw my bag over my shoulder. "Thanks for your input." I stood and walked towards the stairs.

As I set foot on the stairs, Woody bellowed, "I tell you who's seen the stalker."

I paused, turned and raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Deke Spencer."

"Who's Deke Spencer?"

"Deke's an old friend of Derwena's; their families were close at one time; they go way back."

I took a step back into the basement. My notebook and pen were in my hands again. I prepared to write. "Where will I find Deke?"

"He lives out down St Hilary way, Tusker Hall, a big house."

"I know it."

Woody put two fingers together and mimicked smoking a joint. "If you see him, tell him we need some love."

Rock 'n' roll, a sex maniac and now drugs. I was living the dream.

# Chapter Four

I drove west, along the M4. I turned off the motorway at junction 34 then made my way past a vineyard, a sewerage works and lots of farmland before arriving in the Vale of Glamorgan. Tusker Hall was on the road to St Hilary, though located a few miles short of the village itself. I was driving past a forested area and the rain was streaming down. In fact, it was raining so hard I nearly missed the junction that took me towards Deke Spencer's country pile.

I parked my Mini, adjusted my trench coat and walked towards the ornate gates of Tusker Hall. There was an intercom on the gates, so I pressed a button, stated my business and, to my surprise, was granted access to the driveway.

The rain was matting my hair and I was feeling dishevelled and in need of a bath. But I ploughed on, past the sheep and cows, which appeared to roam free in the grounds of Tusker Hall, along the driveway to the front door. Like Castle Gwyn, Tusker Hall was another Victorian folly. Castellated turrets and a swooping concave parapet linking two solid square towers dominated the building. The arrow slits were presumably fake and the battlements were plainly for show. I'm not a 'pink' girl – I prefer darker hues – but I was touched by the pink plaster, which covered the walls.

Five low steps led to a white, arched door. I skipped up those steps and rang a bell, positioned at the side of the door. Large arched windows flanked the door, and this pattern was repeated in the upper storey of the building, with another window replacing the ground floor door.

I could feel the rain running down the back of my neck and I found my mind wandering to what I could throw into the microwave for dinner when the door opened and a man greeted me. He was in his mid-forties with smiling blue eyes, bushy eyebrows and dark, collar length, wavy hair curling around his ears. He possessed an aquiline nose and a charming, white-toothed smile. He was in reasonable shape with no excess fat and he stood on his doorstep with his hands in his jeans pockets, thumbs exposed, his shirt open at the neck. His open shirt revealed a medallion and a lot of chest hair. The medallion carried an inscription, possibly a fertility symbol, maybe his initials, badly engraved. Like so much of life, it remained a mystery to me.

"You're the enquiry agent?" He had a slow drawl, a mid-Atlantic accent, suggestive of ample time spent in the USA. As he spoke, a devious twinkle appeared in his deep blue eyes. Watch this one, he might be slippery. "How can I help you, lady enquiry agent?"

"You're Deke?"

He nodded.

"I'm Sam, Sam Smith. I'm working for Derwena de Caro, investigating the possibility that she has a stalker." I flashed my 'access all areas' badge. "I understand you might have seen the stalker. Can I have a chat with you about him?"

"Sure, lady, step inside, get out of the rain. You can have a chat with me about anything."

I entered Tusker Hall and Deke Spencer led me to his library. In truth, I was in awe. I love books and the solid wall of bookshelves took my eye, almost blinding me to the crested wood panelling, the brass fittings of the large, open fireplace and the ornate glass chandelier, dangling from the vaulted ceiling.

"Great place." My eyes were still on the books, then I noticed a series of pictures, modern portraits of an attractive, thirty-something lady. "Your wife?"

Deke grinned, revealing his pearly-white teeth. He nodded. "Married five years next month and I've been faithful to her since the day. Free love's a great thing, but I've done all that in the naughties. Now I'm strictly one on one and I tell you what, you can't beat it." He studied my hands and noted the lack of finger rings. "Are you in a relationship?"

Did Marlowe count? Probably not. I shook my head, "No."

Deke frowned, his malleable features creasing into a sombre glower. "You should be with someone. A girl as pretty as you shouldn't be on her own. It's not right, it goes against nature."

"Are you big on nature?"

"Yeah. The greenery, the planet, anything natural, I'm big on that."

I turned my attention back to Deke's library, running a finger over the spine of a book – Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. I loved that book as a child. Maybe because I spent so many hours alone, in my own world, I could identify with Robinson Crusoe.

"I love your library," I enthused. "Have you read all these books?"

Deke nodded, and the thoughtful look on his face hinted at sincerity. "Most of them. I'm working my way through Descartes at the moment – 'My senses lie to me. They inform me that straight sticks in water are bent. There is no conclusive way to prove that all my experiences aren't just dreams or hallucinations'. Have you read Descartes?"

I shuffled my feet and gave Deke my empty-headed blonde smile. "I struggle with Cosmopolitan, that's about my limit."

"No it's not," he replied firmly, his face serious again. "You're a smart cookie, I can tell. And I know I'm right because I'm a good judge of character." He was talking to me while gazing at his wife's portraits. I felt a little uncomfortable, but I accepted the compliment and concluded that I liked the man. True, there was a mischievous look in his eye, a look that said, be wary. But forewarned is forearmed and I felt easy in his company.

I decided to be cheeky. "I hope you don't mind me asking but, how did you get hold of this place?"

"Hard work. And luck. I'm a businessman."

"What line of business?"

"Import-export."

My mind slipped back to Woody's comment about 'needing some love' and I jumped to a conclusion. "By import-export, do you mean drugs?"

"Now you've offended me." Deke pulled a long face. He furrowed his brow. He looked suitably offended. But the playful nature of the man would not be denied and a smile soon returned to his lips. "If I placed my hand on the Bible and swore that I'm not a candyman, would you believe me?"

"Are you religious?"

He shrugged. "I believe in a Higher Power."

"Do it." I returned his smile. There was something about his personality that made me feel mischievous.

Deke walked along the wall of books. He selected a large Bible from a bottom shelf and placed it on a richly polished mahogany table. Then, he intoned, "I swear on this Bible that I, Deke Spencer, am not a drug pusher." With his declaration complete, he gave me a wide grin. "Convinced?"

I laughed. "Not really."

Deke echoed my laughter. "You're good. You make me smile. I like you."

Great, we'd established a mutual-admiration society. And I could have gone on, admiring his books for the rest of the evening. But matters were pressing and I was here to discuss Derwena's stalker, so I moved the conversation on to him.

"You've known Derwena a long time."

"Yeah, our families go way back. I'm older than Derwena, but I knew her when she had holes in her shoes and her mother used to boil her nappies in a pot. My family were not much better off. I had holes in my trousers and used to scavenge on the coal tips for coal to warm our house. We had nothing but each other. By that, I mean we had a sense of community, togetherness, all for one, one for all."

"What was Derwena like as a youngster?"

"All she wanted to do was sing. In school concerts, Sunday at chapel, impromptu shows in her mam's front room. At sixteen, she was doing the clubs. She told the booking agents that she was older and with make-up on, she could pass for twenty easily. Then one night she was spotted and whisked off to the wicked city that is London. Sadly, it didn't work out. Her manager was more of a pimp than a music man and she had to work her passage, if you know what I mean. But still she kept on singing – she worked Soho top to bottom. Then she got her big break when Milton heard her voice. Milt is a genuine music man; he's in it for the songs. He held her hand and walked her through all the publishing houses in the wicked city. Eventually, he found someone who'd take a chance and he paired Derwena up with Woody. Woody's a bit of a cement-head, but he's got talent and he knows how to write a song. He penned a string of hits for Derwena and with her looks and his musical ear, they cleaned up. Milt kept a tight rein on them in those days, but with success came more pressure and pressure needs its own balm. Woody had affairs, Derwena hit the booze and even Milt split from his long-time boyfriend. It all got crazy and when it got crazy, the hits dried up. Milt got his act together and tried to steer them into calmer waters, but Woody still has trouble keeping his trouser snake zipped and Derwena will sit up and beg the moment someone pops a cork. They're my friends, don't get me wrong, and I like them. But I think their glory days have gone."

"It all sounds very sad."

"That's showbiz, honey. They chew you up and spit you out. Why should the executives worry, there are hundreds more like Derwena out there. A pretty face, a decent voice, a catchy song...two years in the limelight, another bundle in the exec's bank account and it's time for champers in the Bahamas. Chin-chin, what-what."

"You sound cynical."

"I don't like double-standards; I don't like people who rip other people off. I don't like to see my friends getting hurt."

"And where does the stalker fit into this?"

"Who knows?"

"You've seen him."

"I saw something. But I'll be honest with you, I like a joint. I was in the castle relaxing. Maybe I saw something; maybe I saw shadows in the smoke. Maybe we're all shadows, maybe this is all a dream and the reality is locked inside our heads. Maybe we need to find our peace with nature before we can find the golden key. Maybe the trees are our masters and subconsciously we're working for them."

I grinned. "And maybe the planet is travelling through space on the back of a giant whale."

"Yeah." Deke nodded his head, slowly. He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. He pursed his lips and stared into the middle-distance. "Now that is a thought."

"I was joking."

He shot me a serious look. "I'm not."

I walked away from Deke's mansion with my head buzzing, as though I were surrounded by a swarm of bees. I was deep in thought, so deep in thought that I wandered on to the grass and trod in a cowpat. At least that's reality, I thought, at least I knew for certain that my right foot was sinking deeper and deeper into cow shit. And after a day spent in the surreal world of Derwena de Caro, I was grateful for that reality, whatever its form.

# Chapter Five

At noon the next day, I was back at Castle Gwyn, in the recording studio watching as Derwena sang her way through a sexy, bluesy number, 'Got You in My Groove'. She was in fine form today, at her sassy best and I enjoyed her performance as she tore into the song inside the recording booth.

Nerd and Woody were at the controls while Milton and Tim looked on with approval. All was serene in Castle Gwyn until a man walked into the studio. In his late thirties, he was tall and slender, with short, dark hair, dark eyes and a lean, deeply tanned face. He had a high-forehead, a thin nose and thin lips. He wore a sharp, dark blue suit with four buttons on each cuff, a crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie. The tie had a shield motif, running diagonally, and a Latin motto, possibly from his old school or one of his fancy London clubs. Gold cufflinks flashed from his shirt while a gold wristwatch encircled his left wrist. His shoes were black and highly polished. In fact, you could see your reflection in them. Indeed, the strip lights of the basement bounced off them as he strode towards Woody. The guitarist turned around and the music stopped. There was a pregnant pause and menace in the air. I had a nose for violence and now my nose twitched like the devil.

I knew this interloper, at least by reputation. I recognised his face from his newspaper column. He was T.P. McGill, lover of antiques, Ancient Greece and all things Victorian. He was a gambler who would toss away money like confetti. Indeed, he had a reputation for walking up to beggars and burning fifty-pound notes in front of their faces just for the hell of it. His father made a bundle out of the 1980s privatisations and he had all the 'right' connections. Those connections helped to fuel his newspaper column, which specialised in vitriolic, exposé pieces. Many people were of the opinion that T.P. McGill wrote with acid, not with ink. McGill's salacious revelations about the rich and famous were very popular despite a steady stream of lawsuits. In addition, he was a noted Lothario who would bed anything in a skirt. And, more to the point, it was rumoured that he'd had an affair with Derwena de Caro.

"Who let this cretin into the building?" Woody was on his feet, looking for a weapon, for something to swing.

"Calm yourself, squire; I'm here on business, not pleasure." T.P. McGill had a plummy accent and a sickly smile. He adjusted his cuffs and gazed nonchalantly at Woody.

"Get out!" the guitarist growled.

"I'd like a word with Derwena." McGill craned his neck, looking over the control panel to the recording booth. Derwena had removed her headphones and was gazing at the scene with some apprehension. She placed a thumb against her bottom lip and started to suck. Meanwhile, McGill smiled at Derwena. "Got five minutes, dear?"

"I said, get out!" Woody walked up to McGill. He placed a hand against the journalist's chest and pushed him. McGill continued to smile. He did not budge.

"Tush-tush." McGill mocked. "You're not going to get violent, are you, not in front of witnesses?" He waved his right hand in a grand gesture, acknowledging our presence.

Woody snapped. He picked up an acoustic guitar and swung it at McGill. The journalist took a step back and the guitar cleaved thin air. Woody took a step forward. He swung the guitar again. On this occasion, Milton tried to intervene, but Woody was so enraged he did not see him and the guitar caught the manager in the ribs. Milton went down with an "ouch" and Tim appeared from behind a stone column, fretting and fussing as he knelt at Milton's side.

"I thought that old hippies still believed in peace and love," McGill grinned. Clearly, he was enjoying the moment. Clearly, Woody was not. The guitarist swung his guitar again and McGill ducked. Woody lost his balance as the momentum behind the guitar swing threatened to sweep him off his feet. He collided with the mixing desk and Nerd jumped to his feet, replacing Derwena in the recording booth. The chanteuse was looking on with fascination now, enthralled at the prospect of two men fighting over her.

"Okay, squire," McGill removed his jacket and draped it carefully over the back of a chair, "if that's the way you want it. Put 'em up." He raised his fists, planted his feet and adopted a boxing pose. "Marquess of Queensberry Rules, eh?" He jabbed a fast right and a fast left, stopping short of Woody's nose. "It's only fair to warn you that I'm a black belt in judo and I was school boxing champion three years on the bounce."

Woody snarled before emitting a primeval groan. He swung his guitar again, missed McGill and collected a right boot on his behind as he stumbled, off-balance. Dropping the guitar, Woody fell to the floor.

McGill circled Woody. A bead of sweat trickled down the journalist's brow and he brushed it away with a casual flick of his index finger. "The Marquess wouldn't approve of that," he admitted, acknowledging his underhand tactics and the use of his boot, "but neither would he approve of your guitar swinging nor your guitar playing."

"Bastard!" Woody yelled. He ran at McGill and the journalist picked him off with a right hook to the jaw. Poleaxed, the guitarist lay on the floor, gazing sightlessly at the basement ceiling. "That's the trouble when you hit someone with a glass jaw," McGill shook his hand while clenching and unclenching his fingers, "it tends to hurt your fist."

I glanced across to Derwena. She had a strange look in her eyes, a look that said 'my hero' when she gazed at McGill and 'oh Woody' when she glanced at the guitarist. I received a few flashbacks from my own life and a feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach.

"Maybe we should desist and aim for something more civilised." McGill adjusted his shirt cuffs, pulling them down to his wrists. He picked up his jacket and threw it casually over his left shoulder. "How about something more refined, how about pistols at dawn?"

Woody shook his head, as if to clear it. He noted that McGill was standing over him and he reached out, grabbing the journalist by the ankle. Woody bit McGill's leg and the journalist howled. McGill kicked out, aiming for Woody's head, but he missed. Sensing that McGill was off-balance, Woody seized his chance and tipped him to the floor.

McGill scrambled to his feet. The smile still played around his lips, but the look of total confidence was now absent. He brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead, then squared up to Woody again.

"My-my," McGill muttered, "we are the animal, aren't we?"

Woody drew his right fist back as far as it would go. He delivered a roundhouse right, and it connected with McGill's jaw. McGill jerked his head back and a hairpiece shot from his head and landed at my feet. I stared at the hairpiece. What do the social graces say about hairpieces landing at your feet? Should you turn away and pretend that you haven't seen the furry creature? Should you surreptitiously kick it under a cabinet? On the other hand, should you stoop and retrieve the toupee and hand it back to its embarrassed owner? Not for the first time in this case, I felt out of my depth.

"You're finished!" McGill spluttered angrily. "I'll make sure that you'll get not one favourable review for your new album." McGill retrieved his hairpiece and placed it on his head, askew. His face was red, from his exertions, from anger and from embarrassment. "I'll be back. I will talk with Derwena. And you, Woody my old son, will not stop me."

"Just try it, sunshine." Woody thrust out his bloodied chin, exuding confidence and machismo, "next time I'll be swinging my electric guitar."

In a huff, T.P. McGill left the recording studio.

Meanwhile, Derwena was swooning over Woody, examining his hand. "You're all bruised. Oh, what have you done to your hand, my sweetness?"

"Badges of honour." Woody kissed his bruised knuckles. "For my lady. I hope they stay there forever to let the world know that Woody Larson protects his woman."

"Oh, Woody. You're a hero!" Derwena draped herself over the guitarist. She was wearing a purple and white number today, a similar design to yesterday's dress – ankle-length, sleeveless, with thin straps over her shoulders. I guessed that the dresses helped her to get into the mood for singing. She rubbed Woody's knuckles, tenderly, then kissed them. "Maybe when the bruises fade you can replace them with tattoos that look like bruises."

"For you, sweetheart," unwisely, Woody attempted a Humphrey Bogart impersonation, "I'd have bruises tattooed on my arse."

"Oh, Woody," Derwena swooned, "I love you."

Woody winced. He examined his fingers, flexing them, as though playing an imaginary guitar. "Better get some cream on these knuckles. I don't want my fingers to stiffen up, interfere with the way I play guitar."

With Derwena clinging to his arm, Woody left the recording studio.

Meanwhile, Milton was propping himself on to his elbows, the faraway look in his eyes and the confused expression on his face suggesting that he was still seeing stars.

I adjusted my shoulder bag, then squatted beside Milton. "Are you okay?" I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Help me up," he moaned. Tim and I took an arm each and we guided Milton to a leather armchair. Milton removed his silk handkerchief and dabbed his brow. He was sweating profusely and his skin was very pale. "A sherry, Tim, if you will."

Tim disappeared, up the stairs into the castle to fetch the medicinal sherry.

"I think he's broken my ribs." Gingerly, Milton prodded his left side, exploring the area that had taken the full force of the swinging guitar.

I looked across the floor to the damaged guitar and shook my head. "What was that all about?"

"McGill and Derwena had an affair awhile back. It's over now. Woody forgave her. He wrote 'One Man, One Woman' as their make up song. Personally, I think McGill gets bored. He calls on Derwena from time to time just to wind Woody up."

"Could he be the stalker?"

Although it pained him to do so, Milton shook his head. "McGill is more direct. I don't see him hiding in any bushes or shadows for anyone."

Milton was still fingering his ribs when Tim returned with a glass of sherry. The manager tilted his head back and swallowed the fortified wine in one gulp. "Another, please, Tim." Milton extended a quivering arm, holding up his empty glass. "Better still, bring the decanter." Then he closed his eyes and eased his head into the soft leather of the chair.

As Tim scurried up the stairs, I ran a sympathetic eye over Milton. He was clearly in pain and suffering with his ribs. But a nurse, I am not, and I felt a need to get away from the claustrophobia of the castle. So I squatted beside Milton, and shared my thoughts.

"Listen, Milton, I'm grateful for this gig or at least I'm grateful for the money, but I could be sitting around here for days and be none the wiser about the stalker. We need to establish if he's real or a figment of Derwena's imagination. Ideally, I need to talk with someone who understands Derwena's mind."

Milton opened his eyes. He stared at me with a measure of perception. "Like her shrink?"

Now why was I not surprised to learn that Derwena had a therapist? "She's seeing someone?"

"Dr Storey, the eminent psychologist. She sees him every week."

"Can you arrange a meeting with Dr Storey?"

Milton sat up. His mind was working and, temporarily at least, he'd forgotten about his bruised ribs. "I tell you what," he suggested, glancing at his wristwatch, "I'll phone Dr Storey and ask if you can take Derwena's slot this afternoon."

I sensed that Dr Storey would be reluctant to talk about his client, as I would be, if questioned about one of my clients, but it was worth a shot.

Tim returned with a decanter of sherry. Milton sampled a glass, then climbed carefully to his feet.

"I think I need a lie down," the manager declared, and while leaning on Tim's shoulder, he shuffled from the studio. At the stairs, he paused and glanced over to me. "When you get ten percent of Derwena you get ten percent of everything."

I smiled and nodded. Ten percent, eh. It's a damn good job you're not on a higher percentage.

# Chapter Six

That afternoon I drove west to Cyncoed in the heart of Cardiff. At 4 p.m., I arrived at Dr Storey's office. Dr Storey ran his practice from a Victorian villa overlooking Roath Park. The villa was a splendid example of Victorian architecture, reflecting an age of pride and confidence.

I climbed a short flight of steps and entered the building. A tall, lean receptionist with a mass of greying hair, piled high on her head, asked me to wait. As I stood in the reception room, I could hear her heels clip across a parquet floor and then the creak of a hundred and fifty year old woodwork as she climbed the stairs to the first floor. A few minutes later, she was back in the reception room and I was climbing the creaky staircase; permission had been granted and I was on my way to see Dr Storey.

I knocked on his office door and a confident voice said, "Enter." I opened the door, entered the office and stood dead in my tracks. For some reason I expected Dr Storey to be in his early sixties, maybe a little fat, definitely bald. I envisaged someone wearing rimless glasses and a stern, censorious expression. But Dr Storey was in his early-forties with dark brown, wavy hair, dark brown eyes and handsome, even features. At a guess, he was over six foot tall and his body was built in proportion – athletic, muscular, trim. His skin had a light tan and combined with his build it suggested plenty of outdoor activity – maybe walking, climbing, that sort of thing. He was wearing a smart, dark, three-piece suit with a fine pinstripe. His shirt was white and crisp while his tie was neat and matched his suit. He looked up from his desk and offered me an engaging smile. I guess I smiled back but, in all honesty, I don't remember. Dr Storey struck me as a double for James Garner, circa The Rockford Files, albeit a James Garner with a neatly trimmed goatee beard.

Dr Storey placed his gold fountain pen on a blotter. He inclined his head slightly to the left and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Sam Smith," I muttered. I fished in my shoulder bag for a business card and placed it on his desk. My business card was plain with my name and business details upon it. In idle and light-hearted moments, I'd thought about adding an emblem, maybe crossed revolvers at the top and crossed lipsticks at the bottom, but rejected the idea as being too crass. "I've got an appointment," I explained, "Milton Vaughan-Urquhart phoned your office..."

"Oh, yes." Dr Storey studied my card then glanced down to his notes. He smiled at me when he looked up. "I was expecting someone else."

"It's the shortened version of my name," I apologised, "it can cause confusion."

Dr Storey stood. I was right – he was just over six foot tall. He offered his hand and I shook it. His handshake was firm, assured. Ever the nosy enquiry agent, I glanced at his desk and noted a picture of a smiling, attractive woman and a nine-year-old girl. The woman and girl had similar looks. Probably mother and daughter. Probably Dr Storey's wife and daughter. Another picture was more recent. It showed Dr Storey with his daughter. She was around sixteen now, very pretty with large eyes and dark, curly hair. There was no picture of Dr Storey and his wife together. Why was that, I wondered. Maybe they'd divorced and he'd kept her picture because he still loved her. Or maybe he loved that photograph of his daughter. Or maybe...my mind was racing now, seeking possibilities and answers. Cool it, Sam, I heard the little voice in the back of my head say, Dr Storey's pictures have nothing to do with you. I know that, I replied, but there's a gap there that needs an explanation, there's a detail missing and I need to find an answer. It was the kind of obsessive thinking that wore me out, the kind of detailed thinking that made me good at my job.

"Your coat is wet," Dr Storey noted. "Here, let me take it for you." I unbuttoned my coat and he placed it next to his, on a coat stand. Then he waved a hand towards his client's chair. "Take a seat."

I smoothed my skirt and sat. I crossed my legs. Little Miss Prim. From his chair, Dr Storey peered over the edge of his desk and looked at my legs, but not in a salacious or lecherous manner, more like someone admiring a work of art. Let him admire them, loosen up, after all, he's not Jack the Ripper. Indeed, he had a kind, gentle face, a face you could trust. And his office – tastefully decorated in pale green with a range of indoor plants – had an air of calm and serenity, a quality that emanated from the man himself.

I delved into my shoulder bag for a pen and my notepad. "Do you mind if I take notes?"

He shrugged a broad shoulder. "Go ahead."

I sat poised, my pen hovering over my notepad. "Milton explained why I want to talk with you?"

Dr Storey nodded. "Something to do with Derwena and a stalker." He pursed his lips while his fingers toyed with his pen. "I'll help you, if I can, but you appreciate that I am bound by client confidentiality; I can only say so much."

"Same in my business," I smiled. "Admittedly, I've only been with Derwena for a day, but I've seen no sign of a stalker and my instincts tell me that she might be making him up."

"Are your instincts normally sound?"

I paused, searching for an honest answer. With my head bowed, I replied, "I'm learning to trust them."

Dr Storey appeared satisfied with my answer. He leaned forward and spoke in a confident, assured manner. "Obviously I can't say ye or nay in regards to the stalker, but I can offer you my personal insight. Derwena's had many problems in the past and they have been published in the press, so I don't mind discussing them with you. When she's under stress, she does have a tendency to dramatize. These dramatics are a way of reaching out for love and support and given her situation who could blame her for that. I wouldn't dismiss her stalker story out of hand because she's had problems with such people in the past. But she's also going through a very stressful time at the moment in terms of relationships and her career, and other issues which I am not at liberty to discuss."

"So the stalker could be real or he could be a figment of her imagination."

Dr Storey shrugged. He gave me an apologetic look. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"Thanks anyway." I scribbled in my notebook –

none the wiser, then I placed my notebook and pen in my shoulder bag and threw the latter over my shoulder.

"Before you go...," Dr Storey hesitated, "tell me, how did you get into this line of work?"

I gave him a thin smile and glanced down to his thick, shag pile carpet. I shook my head. "You don't want to hear my story."

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. "I do," he insisted. With an earnest look on his face, he brought his hands together and made a bridge with his fingers. Then he placed his chin on that bridge and gazed at me with his soft, brown eyes.

I fell under his spell, that's the only explanation I can think of, because I allowed my shoulder bag to sink into his carpet, opened my mouth and started to ramble: I told him things that I'd never told anyone before. "Well...I was having problems with my ex." I started to well up. Get a grip, you fool, he's used to hearing sob stories – don't embarrass yourself. "He used to hit me, you know."

Maybe I imagined it, but I swear I saw pain in Dr Storey's eyes. He nodded, slowly, "I understand."

I swallowed. Hard. "Black eyes were a weekly occurrence. One time he broke my jaw, another time he fractured my skull." I paused, then hurried on, "But don't get me wrong, Dan is not a monster. In fact, if you met him you'd regard him as charming, charismatic, good-looking."

"What's his line of work?" Dr Storey asked.

"Journalist. Freelance. The job had many pressures and when Dan felt under pressure, he'd drink. Sometimes the alcohol would solve the problem, sometimes the tension would stay with him and then he'd erupt..."

"And hit you."

"Yeah." My throat felt tight, my voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else, from another room. I noticed a carafe of water with an upturned glass on the desk. Dr Storey reached for the carafe and poured me a glass of water. I accepted it with thanks.

"And how long did this go on for?" Dr Storey asked.

"Throughout our marriage. Four years."

"Why didn't you leave him?"

"I thought about it, many times. But he was always very apologetic, mortified when he'd seen what he'd done to me. He promised he'd change, and for a short time, he did. Then the pressures would build, he'd drink, he'd hit me. In the end I thought, it's all my fault, I deserve this, so I stuck around. Also, I had my pride – I didn't want to show the outside world what was happening. And Dan's a nice guy, to the eyes of the outside world."

"But you left him."

"Yeah. But not because of the beatings. I suspected him of having an affair. So I went to a private detective. He was very busy at the time and asked me to do a bit of background work on the case, take some pictures, establish places, dates, times. To cut a long story short, I did the whole case and I used the evidence I'd gathered to get a divorce. Angus, the private eye, was very impressed and he offered me a job, a sort of secretary-assistant. It all went well for the best part of a year. Then, one day, Angus walks in with a bunch of flowers and tells me that he loves me. He's a decent guy, good-looking, dedicated to his work, but he's married with three kids and I'm thinking, I can't be doing with any of this, so I quit. I went back to typing, agency work – I'd done a secretarial course at night school, but that's another story – and gathered together some funds. But, to be honest, I missed the buzz of the detective agency work, I missed the sense of satisfaction I got from helping people straighten out their lives. So I set up as an enquiry agent. It was hard going for twelve months. I used up all my savings, I got into debt, but gradually I built a reputation for reliability and competence and I managed to make enough to survive."

Hell, I thought, what am I doing talking to this man; I haven't discussed this with anyone, no one at all. It was a taboo subject, something I kept to myself. Of course, at work people in the office would notice that I had bumps and bruises. It became a running joke, 'clumsy Sam has walked into the door again'. The broken jaw and fractured skull took some explaining, but with the fractured skull I said that I'd taken a very hot bath, got out too quick, hyperventilated, stumbled and fell down the stairs. People seemed to believe me. Or maybe they wanted to believe me, to avoid any embarrassment and discussion of the truth. My past was a secret I kept to myself. I told no one about Dan and the violence. Yet, here I was, pouring my heart out to this man, a stranger I'd met barely a few minutes previously. I felt agitated, confused. I picked up my shoulder bag and stood. "You didn't want to hear all that," I mumbled, "I've got to go." I reached for my coat and struggled into it.

"Thank you." Dr Storey stood. He walked over to me and helped me with my coat.

I frowned. "What for?"

"For coming to see me today. For talking with me. For being so frank and open with me."

I felt my face start to flush. My chest was tight and I was beginning to hyperventilate. I took a step towards the door. "I've got to go."

Dr Storey opened the door. He stood calmly at my side. He was looking at me, maybe assessing me, I don't know because I was looking the other way, avoiding eye contact.

"Stay in touch, I'd like to know if the stalker is for real, or not. And if I can be of any further assistance..." His voice trailed off. I glanced up and noticed a look of admiration – surely not – on his face. "You're a remarkable lady. I admire your courage, I admire your determination. It can't have been easy; I admire you for what you've done."

His voice was sincere, genuine. This man was sincere, genuine, and that's why I ran from his office. I ran out of the building and jumped into my car. In my car, I slumped on to the driver's seat, exhausted. I felt drained, like I hadn't slept for a week. I wound the car window down and placed my elbow on the ledge, my head resting against my open palm. The rain splashed on to my face. It cooled me – it was welcome. I looked up to Dr Storey's office. He was standing in the window, his handsome features creased with concern. Maybe he was worried about the rain ruining his golf day. Did he play golf? Hell, how should I know? I was confused, agitated. I've already said that, I was repeating myself, that's how upset I was. Calm down, I told myself, for once in your damned life be truthful and honest with yourself. Okay, I'd just told a stranger the most intimate aspects of my life, but I'd lived with them for five years, since the divorce. Those personal aspects were over-familiar to me and it was cathartic to share them with someone else. That was a truth. Another truth – it wasn't the confession that really bothered me, the unburdening of my soul – after all, he must hear similar stories half-a-dozen times a day. No, what bothered me was that he was still looking at me through his office window; he didn't want to break the connection. Moreover, I was looking at him and what bothered me was a part of me had no desire to put my car into gear and pull away. What really bothered me was – I felt an attraction. Love hurts, I told myself – put your foot on the pedal and get out of there. Fast. And with a sigh, I did put my car into gear and I did pull away. But I glanced over my shoulder, up to Dr Storey's office window, before I did so.

# Chapter Seven

It was early evening when I caught up with Derwena. I was calm again, in control. The hiatus of the afternoon had receded into the past. Derwena was doing an interview at Radio Rhoose, a local radio station, and Milton suggested that I should tag along. I kept my eye open for stalkers as we drove to the studio and again when we entered the building, but no one suspicious was hanging around.

Tim was Derwena's driver – of a very smart Bentley – and he stayed with the car as we entered the building. The building, a modern red-brick affair, was situated in Rhoose, just outside Cardiff. Radio Rhoose was a commercial station offering a mix of entertainment, news and features for the local community. I tuned in occasionally, but my musical tastes drifted towards the 1960s and 1970s. Like I said before, I'm an unconventional girl.

A man with a bald head wearing jam-jar thick glasses guided us into a studio. The studio was like a hi-tech living room with a settee and two armchairs grouped around a table. There were microphones strategically positioned on the table, in line with the settee and chairs. A glass panel separated this half of the studio from the control centre, the area where the records were played and where someone pushed all the buttons and knobs. A highly capable looking woman with buckteeth, a turned up nose and a prominent V-shaped chin was in charge of this area. I was tempted to think that this woman had a good face for radio – meow, Samantha; you can be so cruel, sometimes. The man with jam-jar glasses joined Radio Face and we – Derwena, Woody, Milton and yours truly – were introduced to our host, disc jockey, Drake Jolley.

Drake Jolley was sitting in one of the armchairs, awaiting our arrival. Drake was in his early thirties. He had ebony skin, a bald, shaved head, and dark eyes that looked huge behind large, black, horn-rimmed spectacles. His cheekbones were high and a very fine goatee beard framed his lips. He was short, around five foot eight, and his small frame was wiry with no excess fat. On seeing Derwena, he smiled, rose and walked over to greet her. She accepted his embrace in a half-hearted fashion, then slumped on to the settee and stared at the walls.

From behind the glass panel, Jam Jar gave Drake a cue and the disc jockey leaned forward into a microphone. "Hi, that was '69 Kisses' by up and coming band Rubber Whale. You're listening to Drake Jolley, DJ the DJ, on Radio Rhoose and I'll be right back with some special guests after this break."

Radio Face pressed a button and the radio station cut to a series of advertisements. Meanwhile, Drake shook Woody warmly by the hand.

"Woody! Nice to see you again. How's tricks?"

"Cool, man. The new album's nearly in the can. Things are groovy."

"We'll talk about the album on air." Drake held up his hand, to silence Woody, then looked over to Jam Jar for his next cue. When Jam Jar nodded, Drake, in a deep, rich baritone, breathed into the microphone, "Hi, it's DJ the DJ here with you right up till the witching hour of midnight. It's wet enough to submerge an elephant outside so why not stay snuggled up to your radio and listen to me till then. And this evening I've two special guests for you, none other than songstress Derwena de Caro and her guitarist Woody Larson. Hi, Derwena, Woody, how's tricks?"

Woody sat on the sofa, next to Derwena. Milton occupied one of the armchairs while Drake returned to his chair. That left yours truly standing in a corner looking like an unwanted lamp stand.

"Hi, DJ," Woody replied. "Great to be with you again."

"I understand that you're at Castle Gwyn Studios cutting a new album. Maybe you can tell the listeners about some of the tracks."

"The album's called Midas Melange..."

And as Woody repeated his spiel about the album tracks, I drifted off. I thought about Derwena. She was subdued this evening, hardly saying a word. Maybe she was tired. Maybe it had something to do with her mood swings. To the outside world, she was rich and famous with a glamorous lifestyle and a sexy boyfriend. But when she went to bed at night she was probably wondering who Woody was sleeping with, who she could trust in the music business and if she could reach the high notes on 'Fire and Ice'. No doubt, it's great to be loved by a partner and by a family, but even with them you need your own space. To be loved by millions of strangers seemed unnatural somehow. You never met them, but somehow they knew all about you, or at least they thought they did. My personal life was a mess, I was in a constant state of emotional turmoil, but I knew that I'd rather be me than Derwena de Caro.

"Okay," I could hear Drake saying, "let's play a track from the new album. This is 'Ode to Love'." And as the track started, I swear I could hear Beethoven and Shakespeare turning in their graves.

"Classic," Drake smirked as the track faded into the ether. "I understand you're playing a concert next week. Maybe you can tell the listeners about that."

"Yeah," Woody enthused. He stretched out his long legs and placed his hands behind his head, leaning back into the sofa. "We're playing a concert for a friend, Deke Spencer. Deke is opening a new nightclub in Cardiff, Gigolos, and he asked us along to cut the tape. We're getting the old band back together for the night, Buzz on bass, Hammock on drums..."

"He really swings," Drake interjected smoothly.

"He certainly does, DJ. And Crispin will be on keyboards. I'll be playing acoustic six string, twelve string and electric guitar. I might even dust off my old mandolin for 'Bees and Honey'."

"That will be cool."

"It should be a cool evening, DJ. There's a few tickets left so maybe your listeners would like to snap them up and join us."

"Make sure you do that, listeners. I've received my invite and I look forward to seeing you there."

An excessively cheerful jingle plugging Drake Jolley's radio show and Radio Rhoose filled the airwaves then, on Jam Jar's cue, Drake leaned into the microphone again.

"Okay, I understand our switchboard has been buzzing with listeners phoning in, so let's take some calls."

Drake handed Derwena, Milton and Woody a set of earphones apiece and they slipped them over their ears. Then he offered a set to me. I thought, why not; I accepted the earphones and listened to the calls.

"Hi," Drake crooned, "who've we got on line one?"

"This is Roger."

"Hello Rog. What's your question for Derwena and Woody?"

"This is for Woody...on your last album, Moon, Stars, Sun you had a track called 'Moongirl' and in the lyrics you mentioned an astronaut called Samson. Is this a biblical reference and is the song really about the creation of the universe or is it about something even more profound?"

Drake raised an eyebrow and offered Woody an expectant glance.

In response, Woody stretched his legs, yawned and shrugged. "It's just a song about getting laid."

In his armchair, Milton was turning puce. He loosened his cravat, then removed his silk handkerchief and dabbed spots of perspiration from his forehead. He was there to control the controllables and we'd both listened to enough radio phone-ins to know that the callers were far from controllable.

Meanwhile, Drake sailed on serenely. "Thank you, Woody. And now for our next caller...who's on line two?"

"Hi, Derwena," a female, teenage voice bubbled enthusiastically.

"Hi," Derwena replied, as though in a trance.

"Love your songs."

"Thanks."

"I just discovered that my boyfriend, Gav, has been having sex with my best friend, Steph. Should I stick with Gav and dump Steph, or should I forgive Steph and dump Gav. Or should I do what Gav suggests and enter into an open relationship with the two of them? I'm very confused..."

Derwena cast a jaundiced eye towards Woody. She leaned into the microphone, "Follow your heart, dear, that's all we can do."

"And our next caller..." Drake adjusted the gold identity bracelet, dangling from his right wrist. He also wore gold rings on his middle and little fingers and a gold chain around his neck. He looked over to me and winked. The gleam in his eye said 'sex'. He might have been thinking about sex, but as I eyed his ultra-cool satin shirt, my mind was on washing powder and the price of toilet ducks. I wondered if I should tell him that.

"Hi, Derwena," a thin, nasal voice came on to the line. "I've written a song about you. Can I sing it? 'Derwena looks like a million dollars, when she sings all her fans holler, because she knows how to sing the blues. Derwena is a superstar, and when she swings her hips all her fans go 'ah', because Derwena's so sexy in those high-heeled shoes'."

Behind the glass panel, Jam Jar raised his index finger and made a slicing movement across his neck and the crooner faded from the airwaves. It was left to Drake to fill the void. With a smile in his voice, he intoned, "Don't call us, buddy, we'll call you. And unfortunately that's all the calls we have time for this evening. But before you go, Woody, maybe you could tell our listeners what happened to your hand. If only this were television, ladies and gentlemen, though you'd need 3D for the full effect."

"My hand..." Woody held up his right hand and studied his bruises, his 'badges of honour', as he so proudly called them. "Oh, that was a DIY accident. I hit myself with a hammer. I like to relax in my spare time by doing some cabinet building, putting up some shelves..."

"Well, take care next time, those fingers must be worth a mint. Are they insured?"

"For ten million bucks. Each."

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," Drake murmured into the microphone, "Woody Larson, the man with ten million dollar fingers."

Jam Jar made another slicing motion, Radio Face pressed a button, filling the void with yet more adverts, and we removed our headphones.

"That was great, Woody," Drake enthused. He cast a disenchanted eye towards Derwena. "Shame Derwena wasn't more with it, though."

"Next time," Woody grinned. He stood and slapped Drake on his back.

"Yeah," Drake replied, stumbling, regaining his balance.

With his equilibrium restored. Drake glanced in my direction. He gave me the eye. Inwardly, I cringed. It's not that I'm particularly beautiful, but men always seem to be looking at me. Or maybe it was my over-active imagination. Maybe I should take to wearing a paper bag over my head. Me and Radio Face. Stop it, Samantha; you're being very wicked tonight!

"Hello, good looking," Drake smirked, "didn't know you were part of the band."

"I play triangle," I smiled politely. And with my shoulder bag slung over my shoulder, I followed Derwena, Woody and Milton out of the radio station with not a stalker in sight.

# Chapter Eight

It was midnight when I drove back to Cardiff, to Grangetown and my second storey flat overlooking the gas works. It had been a long day and I was very tired, ready for my bed. I'd climbed the two flights of stairs that led to my flat and inserted the key into my front door, when a shadow fell over me. I turned on my heel and stared at the tall, powerful figure of my ex, Dan Hackett. I tensed and felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach.

Dan smiled his charming boyish smile. He was big on charming boyish smiles. He reached over and took the keys from my hand. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Go boil your head in a bucket of oil."

The smile remained fixed on his face. Indeed, it broadened. "I'll take that as a 'yes'." He opened my door and entered my flat. Meekly, I followed behind.

Dan walked into my living room. He opened a cabinet and removed a bottle of whisky, along with a plain whisky glass. Then he splashed some whisky into the glass. "Still two fingers, isn't it?"

I felt like giving him two fingers, and a lot more.

"Maybe you should try three fingers," he suggested. "Better still, maybe you should get blotto, loosen up, let go. Get drunk and you'll wake up a new woman."

I'll wake up an alcoholic. Dan handed the whisky glass to me. I perched on the edge of my sofa and stared down, into the amber liquid. I sipped the whisky. I didn't really like the taste, but I liked the mellow feeling it produced, albeit that feeling was fleeting, a taste of honey, but not Elysium.

I took another small sip of whisky. "Look, Dan, I'm very tired, I've had a long day, I want to go to bed."

He glanced towards my bedroom and leered, arching a suggestive eyebrow. "Good idea."

I felt two spots of red burn deep into my cheeks. I was very tired, but I was also very angry. "Get to the point and get out!"

"Okay, okay, cool it." He held up his hands, displaying his open palms. Then he sat opposite me, in an armchair. He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Haven't you noticed something?" he smirked.

I looked up from my whisky glass, focusing on Dan. He was in his mid-thirties, four years older than me. He had black, tousled hair, touching his collar and dark eyes with deep crow's-feet at the corners. His face was rugged and handsome, with a pugilist's nose and a dimple on his chin. He wore an open-necked shirt, a denim jacket and denim jeans. He also wore finger rings on his right hand, which were like knuckledusters when he used to beat me, and a leather thong around his neck. A pendant hung from the leather thong and nestled in his chest hair. Did I notice anything different about him? No. So I shook my head.

"No drink for Danny-boy," he grinned. "I've cleaned up my act. I'm on the wagon. I'm a new man. I've got a job with the Chronicle, with good prospects and a steady income. I'm writing a book about Welsh boxers. The publishers have given me an advance. There's talk of adapting the book for a TV series. I've bought a new place overlooking the Bay, much better than this joint."

My anger intensified. Okay, my furniture and fittings were basic, but I liked my home; it suited my needs.

Maybe Dan read the anger on my face, because he continued, "I'm not denigrating your pad. I know times are tough and that you get by on what you can afford, I'm just saying that I'm moving up the ladder, making new contacts, making a name for myself and I thought maybe I could share some of that success with you."

"Congratulations." I took a gulp of whisky. "Now get out."

He smiled. He was so charming, so charismatic, so innocent. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Come on, Sam, you don't mean that, do you?"

"Don't play games with me; I've had enough of you. More than enough!"

Dan shook his head. He sighed. He gave me a wounded look, the look of a child who'd just been scolded. "You can be cruel, do you know that?"

"I can be cruel?" I was on my feet, pacing. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you fracture my skull?"

"That was an accident. That was six years ago. I apologised, didn't I?" Dan climbed to his feet and joined me in the middle of the room. Automatically, my eyes went to his hands and I started to tense. Were his hands clenching into fists? Not yet. "Look, Sam, can't you see, I'm a new man. Have I done anything to hurt you in the past five years?"

I stared at my carpet and shook my head.

"Have I laid a finger on you?"

I gave his hands a quick glance, then shook my head again.

"I've changed." His tone was so reasonable, so considerate. "People can, you know. But one thing hasn't changed – I still love you."

I groaned. Not that bullshit again. "Leave me alone, Dan, I'm tired." I walked out of my living room. I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

"What are you playing at, Sam?"

"Leave me alone!"

Dan rapped his knuckles on my bathroom door. "Come out of there. I want to talk to you. I want to start again, recapture the good times."

I placed the lid on the toilet pan and sat on it. "There were no good times."

"You stuck around for four years."

And why on earth did I do that? What did I see in this man in the first place? He was handsome. He was charming. He smiled at me. And I was so vulnerable and insecure I thought that if a man smiles at me I'd better grab him because another man might never smile at me again. I was an idiot. I was naive. I was weak. I was pathetic. I'm hiding in the bathroom of my own house. I'm still pathetic. Stop it, Sam; this was you five years ago. You've moved on. You're a different woman now. You run your own business. You're independent. You don't need to punish yourself anymore. I flushed the toilet as though flushing away my past. If only it were that simple.

"I stuck around," I shouted over the gurgling water, "because when I met you I was emotionally shipwrecked and you were the only wreckage I could cling on to."

"If you want my honest opinion," Dan yelled through the bathroom door, "you still look lost; you still look as if you need someone to cling on to."

"I don't need anyone to cling on to. I get by on my own, relying on myself. I run my own business. I'm doing well. If I decide to enter into a relationship I'll do so on my own terms, as an equal."

"Poor deluded Sam." He was sitting on the landing carpet now; I could sense his weight against the bathroom door. "Do you really believe what you're saying? You're not a businesswoman, Sam; you don't have the intelligence for that. And as for a relationship...you're damaged goods. Who in their right mind would want you?"

"You would, apparently." I flushed the toilet again. It was childish, but that's how it went when I argued with Dan.

"I want you because I want to help you. I want to put right all that I did wrong. Come out of there, Sam." He thumped the door. "Talk to me. Give me one more chance. I promise, I won't hurt you."

"You've had a hundred chances. A thousand. Ten thousand."

"Then make it ten thousand and one, and I'll make sure that this is the chance I'll take. I love you, Sam. Being without you hurts me. Try to understand that."

I put my head in my hands and groaned.

"I love you, Sam. Never forget that."

A tear trickled down my cheek. I brushed it away. Love hurts. Leave love alone.

I screamed, "Go away!"

"I will go; I'll leave you to think about what I've just said. But one more thing – I've heard that you've got the inside track on Derwena de Caro."

I jumped up and opened the bathroom door. "What about Derwena?"

Dan grinned. He climbed to his feet. "That's better. Now I can see your pretty face." He frowned then stared into my watery eyes. "Have you been crying?"

I pushed past him and opened my front door. "You'd better leave before I make a scene."

He leaned against the door frame, shook his head and gave me a mocking smile. "Poor deluded Sam. Never make threats, sweetheart, unless you intend to carry them out. You're too introverted to make a scene; you never have, never will. But let's change the subject. Let's not quarrel anymore. What's going on at the studio; what's the story – sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll?"

"Derwena's my client. I can't talk about her. You know that I keep to the code of confidentiality. You have no right to ask."

"It'd be a boost to my career if I could get an exclusive interview with her. Maybe you could have a word with her manager, Milton Vaughan-Urquhart."

"I'll see what I can do."

Dan's grin stretched from ear to ear. "You're a princess, a real diamond." He entered the corridor that served the flats on the second floor. Then he blew me a kiss. "Sweet dreams, my princess."

I closed, and locked, the door using all three deadlocks tonight. Wearily, I went to bed. And of course, I dreamt about Dan. And all those dreams turned into nightmares.

# Chapter Nine

I woke up feeling as though I'd not been to bed. I soaked myself in the shower until my skin started to wrinkle. I thought about breakfast and settled on a glass of fruit juice – that would see me through to lunchtime, or maybe dinner, if it turned out to be a bad day. I dressed, slipping into grey, unassuming trousers, a black short-sleeved top with a modest scoop, a cropped, hip-length jacket and flat, black, sensible shoes – in case I had to run after the 'bad guys', or the 'bad guys' decided to run after me. Like I said, I'm not a 'pink' girl, I prefer something dark, though I could be moved to wear autumnal shades when the moon was in the right quarter and my hormones were taking a break.

I drove to my office and discovered that Marlowe had left a present. A dead mouse. Another dead mouse. Thank you, Marlowe; I love you too. I pinched my nose – I don't know why, there was no stench – picked up the mouse by its tail using the tips of my fingers and dropped him into the pedal bin. After thumping the tap three times, I managed to coax some water out of the antiquated plumbing system and I washed my hands in my office sink. Then I sorted through my mail and phone messages.

The mail was mostly junk mail, which I shredded, and bills, which I filed in my 'in' tray. Note to self – must get a bigger 'in' tray. The phone messages did offer hope of future employment – a large hotel chain asked if I'd be available in the near future to serve as their 'mystery guest', checking up on customer service, the general running of their hotels and staff 'fiddles'. I'd done this type of work for them in the past and, obviously, they were pleased with my efforts. It wasn't a glamorous assignment, but at least it would clear some of the bills. I phoned my contact at the hotel chain and said that I would be available. Then I drove to Castle Gwyn.

The castle was quiet, apparently deserted. I wandered around the gaudy corridors, feeling overwhelmed by the garish colour scheme and the larger-than-life decorations, and I found nothing, no one. So I meandered into the west wing, the private quarter of the castle. I poked my nose into some of the bedrooms and spied Woody's four-poster bed, but there was no sign of the man himself. However, I struck gold in the next bedroom – I found Derwena sprawled across her bed, her arms and legs extended, her sequined pink and black halter-neck dress scrunched around her midriff, her high-heeled shoes dangling from her toes, her tiara wobbling on her head at a rakish angle. I tiptoed to her bedside and shook her shoulder. No sound, no movement – she was out cold. I checked her pulse. It was racing. I lifted her eyelids. Her eyes were vacant and glazed. I examined her bedside cabinet and discovered an empty bottle of vodka and a packet of white powder. I licked my index finger and tasted the powder. My tongue started to tingle, then went numb – cocaine?

What should I do? Phone for an ambulance? But when the ambulance men arrived, they would know that Derwena had been using drugs and, though not directly from them, word might leak out to the press. A drug scandal was not what Derwena de Caro needed at this stage of her flagging career.

I thought back to my mother and the occasions when I'd found her comatose. I must have been about seven, the first time. Somehow, I removed my mother's clothing and encouraged her into the shower. Then I ran cold water over her until she revived. I had no idea what I was doing, but I did that repeatedly over the next sixteen years. I saw some sights a daughter should never see, but I turned a blind eye to them because she was my mother and I loved her, though she was too drunk most of the time to reciprocate or even care about me. I had no idea what I was doing then, and I had no idea what I was doing now, but I stripped Derwena naked and dragged her to one of the bathrooms.

Thankfully, the bathroom was large with a walk-in shower. I sat Derwena under the shower nozzle and turned on the water, adjusting the setting to 'cold'. She shivered when the first blast of icy water hit her, then she groaned. Then she threw up. At least the water would wash the vomit down the plughole. After five minutes, her eyes started to roll and she wandered in and out of consciousness. Then her eyes opened wide, as though someone had flicked a switch. She glared at me, without really seeing.

"It's raining," she complained, "make the clouds go away." Then, "I'm cold," she shivered, and I switched off the shower.

I offered Derwena my hand. "Here, lean on me." I'd removed my jacket and thrown it on to the bed. Nevertheless, my trousers and top were soaked. With my arm around Derwena, and with her legs like jelly, I helped her from the shower and back into her bedroom. I offered her a pink, frilly dressing gown and she draped it over her naked body. Then, with a groan, she collapsed on to the bed.

"Where am I?" she moaned.

"In the castle; in your bedroom."

"Who are you?"

"Your new best friend, Sam."

Her eyes rolled then refocused. She looked like a £1's worth of tripe, but that was 50p more than she looked before the shower.

"Sam..." Derwena placed her hand, somewhat theatrically, on her forehead, "I love you." She had no idea who I was or what she was saying. Then she started to sing. Then she rolled on to her side. Then she threw up, again. I wondered about the employment agency. I wondered if they had any openings for fifty-five-word a minute typists. Then I propped Derwena up on some pillows to make sure that she didn't choke on her vomit. Then I did what all ace detectives do when faced with this situation – I went to the kitchen and made us some coffee.

# Chapter Ten

I was sitting in Derwena's bedroom, in a high-backed wicker chair, drinking coffee. I was on my second cup. Derwena was on her fourth and she was just about with me. I'm sure that I read somewhere that paramedics give naloxone to people who have 'over-indulged' on drugs. I kept paracetamol in my bag for PMT and headaches, but no naloxone. A cold shower and coffee would have to do.

I leaned forward, to get Derwena's attention. "You okay?" I asked. It was a stupid question, but there you go.

"Yeah."

"Must have been one hell of a party?"

"Yeah."

"You went there after the radio station?"

"Yeah."

"Think you can reply with answers longer than one word?"

"Maybe."

"Where's everyone else?"

"Dunno."

"Still at the party?"

"Yeah."

"How did you get here?"

"Dunno."

"Maybe we should phone someone, get them over here."

"Forgot the number."

"In the phone book?"

"Ex-directory."

"Can you remember anything about the party?"

Derwena's eyes rolled. She allowed her head to sink back into a fluffy pillow. Then she placed the back of her left hand against her forehead and lapsed into deep thought. Her coffee cup rattled in its saucer and I extended an arm to steady it. She took a sip of coffee and, with more vitality than she'd shown all morning, she opened her eyes and replied, "There was some drink, drugs. Maybe sex."

I frowned. "Maybe?"

She shrugged a frilly, pink shoulder. "Sex is like that, don't you find, sometimes you remember, sometimes you don't."

"Er, maybe I'm being weird here, but I think you should remember."

"Really?" She shot me a quizzical glance. She looked genuinely surprised.

"Anything else happen at the party?"

"Yes!" Her eyes were like saucers now and she was wide-awake. "Troutbeck turned up."

I ran my fingers through my hair. Like the rest of me, my hair was still damp from the shower. "Who the hell's Troutbeck?"

"Troutbeck Phineas," Derwena explained. "T.P. – T.P. McGill."

How wise to go with the initials.

"There was an incident. Troutbeck got into a fight with Woody. Woody floored him." Derwena put her left hand over her mouth. Her coffee cup overturned in its saucer but, thankfully, it was empty. I took the cup and saucer from her and placed them on the bedside table. "Oh, Troutbeck!" Derwena exclaimed. "I must go and see him! I wonder if he's hurt."

Derwena staggered to the edge of the bed, where she met my restraining hand. "I think you should rest," I advised.

She pushed past me, showing surprising strength. "I must see Troutbeck!"

I shrugged. I knew a fait accompli when I met one. "You know where he lives?"

"Of course." Derwena gave me a withering look. "We were lovers, you know."

Lightly, I tapped my forehead with my fingers. "Somehow that slipped my memory." I glanced at the bedspread and the remains of a varied, yet interesting, meal. "I tend to be forgetful when I'm surrounded by vomit."

Derwena stared at the bedspread. She wrinkled her nose. "Did I do that?"

I nodded.

"I'm sorry," she muttered in a small voice.

I picked up my jacket and slipped into it. Then I threw my bag over my shoulder. "Apologise to your maid, because as sure as hell, Samantha isn't cleaning that up."

Derwena pouted. Maybe I was being too harsh. She was looking for Florence Nightingale and I was coming on like Cruella Deville. I felt sorry for her, so I walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Solicitously, I asked, "Do you think you can dress yourself?" Please say yes.

"I'll try," Derwena replied, her voice still small, uncertain.

Then I watched in painful fascination as she struggled into her knickers. How can underwear like that possibly be comfortable?

Suffice to say, it was Samantha to the rescue. Again. "Lean on me," I instructed. "Now the right leg goes in there, and the left leg goes in there, and the pattern tends to repeat itself until you've got yourself dressed. Got it?"

Derwena frowned. She was concentrating hard. Getting dressed required a mountain of effort. "It's difficult," she complained.

"Maybe we should go back to bearskins and caves."

"Huh?"

I left her question hanging in the air and watched as she zipped up her sequined pink and black halter-neck dress. The dress was wrinkled and she was overdressed for the early afternoon, but that's Derwena de Caro. At least, she left the tiara on her pillow.

Derwena's high-heeled shoes were a problem, and a broken ankle waiting to happen, but I helped her slip into them. From a wardrobe, she produced a raincoat, grey and plain, disappointingly drab when compared to the rest of her apparel, and arm-in-arm we walked to my car.

At the car, I paused. With a suspicious frown, I asked, "You're not going to be sick, again, are you?"

Derwena gave me a wan smile. She shook her head. "I'm fine now. Honest."

I returned her smile. Maybe, stripped of the false name, the alcohol, the drugs, the trappings of the music industry, I'd like the person behind that wan smile.

Derwena offered instructions and I drove into Cardiff, towards the Bay. T.P. McGill rented a flat overlooking the Bay, one of his many love nests dotted throughout the country.

It was a grey, overcast, late-autumn day. The clouds were heavy and would produce rain later. Nevertheless, for now, I'd dried out after my experience with Derwena and the shower. Moreover, Derwena was becoming more compos mentis – I read a lot, okay – as the afternoon wore on.

I parked my car in a side street and we approached a ten storey whitewashed building. The building was located on the waterfront with a splendid panoramic view of the Bay. A lift took us to the top floor and T.P. McGill's apartment. Derwena rang the doorbell. There was no answer. She tapped her foot impatiently while I glanced along the corridor and through a glass panel. I admired the dark-grey sky and the slate-grey water – after spending over thirty winters in Wales, you tend to develop an appreciation for all things grey.

"This is ridiculous," Derwena moaned. Then she dipped her fingers into her raincoat and removed her purse. From her purse, she extracted a key. "I forgot to give it back," she smiled.

With key in hand, Derwena opened T.P. McGill's door. She was about to bound into his flat, when I held out a restraining hand. When you've been snooping around for as long as I have you tend to sense when all is not well. And I had that sense now. It was a feeling akin to someone winching me into a corset when the corset is already way too tight.

"Trouty, it's me!" Derwena trilled. We listened hard, but there was no reply.

Quickly, I took in the scene – an open-plan lounge-diner with a modern kitchen, a balcony and French windows. The French windows were closed and apparently locked. A short passageway led to three doors, presumably two bedrooms and a bathroom. The living space contained white leather furniture, a huge wall-mounted television set, a large seascape by an artist I didn't recognise, a pale cream carpet and a large glass table with a vase of chrysanthemums positioned in the centre. Nothing had been disturbed; everything seemed in its place. The wall lamps were on. The afternoon was closing in, but it was not dark enough yet for artificial light. A laptop computer sat on a large desk. The computer was open, and flickering lights suggested that it was in 'sleep' mode.

"Out of my way!" Derwena had had enough. She pushed past my outstretched arm. "Trouty, where are you?"

Derwena was walking towards a bedroom while I was walking towards the computer, to investigate, when I heard her scream. I ran to Derwena's side and she turned and buried her face in my shoulder. Her shoulders were shaking and she was threatening to become hysterical. I glanced over Derwena's shoulder into the bedroom. Cold showers, coffee, not even naloxone, would help T.P. McGill now – because he was lying in the middle of his plush bedroom carpet with a bullet through the middle of his forehead.

# Chapter Eleven

I roused a neighbour and while I tried to comfort Derwena, he called the cops. A local patrol constable was the first on the scene and a duty officer, a photographer and the divisional surgeon followed him. The photographer photographed T.P. McGill's body and the flat in general while the divisional surgeon confirmed that McGill was dead. A crime scene was established and I was politely ushered away – the person who reports a crime is not supposed to enter the crime scene.

Later, a confused and shocked Derwena gave a statement to a female constable while I gave my statement to a detective sergeant. Then the man himself, Detective Inspector 'Sweets' MacArthur, entered the apartment.

Sweets had close-cropped, salt and pepper hair, which was thinning on top, playful blue eyes, fair skin and, like me, a rash of freckles. He also had a large gap between his two front teeth and a pot belly, which tended to make him look shorter than he actually was. Not the most sartorial of men, Sweets was dressed in a shabby trench coat, a brown two-piece suit and a yellow shirt. His tie was dark brown and askew while on his head, he wore his trademark trilby. He also wore a copper bracelet around his right wrist, which apparently eased his arthritis.

I'd known Sweets for four years, since my first murder case – I'd been hired to find a missing prostitute, and I found her, dead. I had no idea what Sweets' first name was – he was either Sweets when he was in a good mood or Detective Inspector MacArthur when he was in a bad mood. And to be fair to him, he was often in a good mood.

I was standing by the French windows, gazing at the boats, bobbing about on the water, when Sweets approached. I smiled and glanced at his pocket and the top of a paperback book. "What you got there, Sweets?"

Sweets popped a sweet into his mouth. As he chewed he replied, "Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey. You can't beat a good western." With his right index finger, he pushed his trilby up, away from his brow. "I have a fantasy, Sam. Do you have any fantasies?"

I rolled my eyes. "I have enough trouble with reality without allowing my mind to run away with the fairies."

Sweets chuckled. He offered me a sweet, but I declined. "In my fantasy I quit this game. I take the family off to Wyoming and we settle down on a nice little ranch, raise a few cattle, drink a few beers, sing a few songs."

I gazed at his pot belly and allowed my doubt to spread across my face. "You, on a horse, riding across the prairie, it ain't going to happen, Sweets."

He pushed his hat further up his brow. "It's a fantasy, I tell you."

Sweets cast an eye around the spacious apartment. Derwena was still sitting on the sofa, being comforted by a female constable, while detectives milled around, detecting, looking for a fragment of cotton or a tell-tale fingerprint, something that would identify the murderer.

Sweets popped another bonbon into his mouth and chewed. "What the hell are you doing here, Sam?"

"Lovely to see you too, Sweets." I offered him my finest saccharine smile.

"A man's been murdered," he pointed out.

"I know. I found him."

"So I ask again, what the hell are you doing here?"

"My client, Derwena de Caro..."

"The singer?"

"Yeah...and T.P. McGill were lovers at one time. T.P. got injured in a fight last night and Derwena insisted on coming over to comfort him."

Sweets fingered the brim of his trilby. He gazed into the middle distance. He was thinking, weighing my words, filing the information. "And how did you get involved with de Caro?"

"Her manager, Milton Vaughan-Urquhart, hired me to investigate the possibility of a stalker."

"And is there a stalker?"

"He must pass as a ghost if there is one because I haven't seen him, so far."

"Huh-huh." Sweets gazed at Derwena. She was shaking her head, wringing her hands, dabbing her wet eyes with tissues; my heart went out to her. "Tell me about the fight," Sweets continued.

"I wasn't there. I'm just reporting what Derwena told me."

"Who was McGill fighting?"

"Derwena's lover, Woody Larson."

Sweets pulled his trilby back over his brow. He sensed a clue. "So we have a suspect."

"Most murders are domestic, didn't you tell me that."

He raised his index finger and pointed in my direction. "You're a fast learner, kid."

"Have to be, to keep one step ahead of you."

Sweets popped another sweet into his mouth. By now, I guess you've worked out how he got his nickname. He offered the packet of bonbons to me. "Want one?"

I shook my head. "They'll rot your teeth."

"My teeth won't rot," he stated confidently.

"How come?"

"Because my heart is pure and my thoughts are clean." He chuckled, then gave me a glimpse of the packet. "And because these are sugar free." As he sucked on his sweet, he asked, "You got all your own teeth, Sam?"

"I'm thirty-two, Sweets, of course I have."

"Dentures," he replied sagely. "Did you know that as a wedding gift to their husbands, Victorian women would have all their teeth taken out?"

An image flashed through my mind, most unwelcome. I grimaced. "Do we need to go there, Sweets?"

He dug a playful elbow into my ribs. "Where's your mind going? Mine's on dental bills."

Sweets acknowledged his detective sergeant. Then he wandered towards the bedroom. Like a puppy, I followed.

"So," Sweets chewed, "we need to have a chat with Woody Larson; any idea where we can find him?"

I glanced over my shoulder. "Ask Derwena, I'm sure she can provide you with the details." We stepped to one side to allow a forensic scientist into the bedroom. As we watched him at work, I continued, "Woody and T.P. McGill did have a set-to at Castle Gwyn recording studios yesterday. I was a witness to that."

"The case against Mr Larson gets stronger by the minute."

"McGill threatened to blacklist Derwena's new album the moment it's released."

"Good motive for murder, you reckon?" Sweets examined the bedroom door and door frame. There were no scratches, no obtrusive marks of any description. "No doors forced," he reasoned, "so odds-on that McGill knew his murderer. Case as good as closed."

Again, we stepped to one side, this time as stretcher-bearers carried McGill out on a stretcher. One of the stretcher-bearers slipped and the stretcher tilted to the right. McGill's body shifted position and his wig fell off.

Sweets looked on, nonplussed. I shrugged, "That also happened at the fight yesterday."

In angry mode, the detective inspector pointed at the wig. "Give the man some dignity," he ordered. "I know McGill had a reputation as the piles on the arse of humanity, but even people like him deserve some respect."

I nodded approvingly, "You're such a poet, Sweets, and all heart."

"I put up with you, don't I, so I must be soft somewhere."

A stretcher-bearer replaced the wig on McGill's bald head and the victim was carried, with dignity, from the murder scene.

"Listen to this, Freckles," Sweets chewed as he eyed the bloodstains on the carpet. "What should a woman do if she sees her ex-husband writhing around on the floor in agony? Shoot him again!"

Sweets laughed, uproariously. I'd heard all his jokes before, so I just rolled my eyes.

"You think it's in bad taste to crack jokes at a murder scene?" he chided.

"If it keeps you sane..."

"It does keep me sane," he replied forcefully. "The more gruesome the scene, the more I need to joke."

From the carpet, Sweets moved on to the wall. Blood and pieces of brain were scattered all over the cream wall, in a gruesome, decorative pattern. In fact, I was anticipating that at any moment an art expert would walk in and announce that the wall had won first prize in a modern art competition.

"This is no place for a woman like you." Sweets took hold of my elbow. He guided me towards the door. "In fact, you shouldn't even be here."

"Why not," I sighed, "you afraid I might faint?"

He gave me a stern, fatherly look. "You know what I mean."

I nodded. "I know what you mean."

With his features softening and his voice mellowing, Sweets added, "Seriously, Sam, you should get out of this game before you get hurt."

"And if I do get hurt, who would care?"

Two flashes of red appeared on his cheeks. He was in angry mode again. "I'd care, that's who. You know that outside my family you mean more to me than anyone."

I dabbed an imaginary handkerchief under my eyes. "Stop it, Sweets, or you'll make me cry."

"You may mock," he chided, "but it's the truth. Someone's got to look out for you." He removed his hat and scratched his balding head. "You know my great fear - my great fear is that one day I'll be called to a murder scene and discover that you are the victim. And you know what, Freckles; I ain't got no joke that would cover that."

This time I took hold of Sweets' elbow and guided him to the living room. The scene was quieter now, though the female constable was still comforting Derwena.

We returned to the French windows and gazed at the Bay. Then Sweets turned and stared at me, his recent remark still reverberating in his mind, to judge from his stern expression.

"Have another sweet, Sweets," I advised, "and a sit down."

"Must be the male menopause," he shrugged. "Can't think why else I'd put up with a wise arse like you."

"Wise arse?" I frowned.

"You know what I mean."

My frown deepened. "I don't think I do."

"Smart arse, then." He waved a dismissive hand in my general direction, nearly catching me in the eye.

"I'll take that as a physical and intellectual compliment," I replied primly.

"Hmm," Sweets mumbled. He popped another sweet into his mouth and gave it a thoughtful suck.

Back at the sofa, and with the female constable's support, Derwena stood. Clearly, she was free to leave and it was time to take her home.

As I escorted Derwena to the front door, Sweets called out, "Hey, Freckles...before you go. A burglar is burgling a house when he hears someone say, 'Jesus is watching you'. To his relief, he discovers that it's just a parrot. The burglar says to the parrot, 'What's your name?' The parrot says, 'Moses.' The burglar says, 'What sort of person calls their parrot Moses?' The parrot replies, 'The sort of person who calls his Rottweiler 'Jesus'..."

I shook my head, sadly. "What does your wife think of your jokes?"

"She thinks I'm certifiable."

I led Derwena into the corridor, then called out over my shoulder, "Ever crossed your mind that she might be right?"

# Chapter Twelve

We returned to the castle. By the time we got there, we discovered that Woody was 'helping the police with their enquiries'. Back at McGill's apartment, Derwena's mind had cleared and she had recalled the location and address of the party. Acting on that information, Sweets had sent his detective sergeant along to interview Woody.

I was in the castle hall with Derwena. She was stretched out over the chaise longue when Milton staggered into the hall looking the worse for wear.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Where's Tim?"

Milton flopped into an armchair. He took out his pocket watch, gave it a quick glance, then placed his silk handkerchief on his head. "Tim is having a lie down. He has a migraine. Coke doesn't agree with him, so I don't know why he indulges."

"And Nerd?"

"Nerd met a forty-year-old mystic at the party. She promised that she'd enlighten him as to his past lives and teach him the techniques of tantric sex."

"So he might be gone sometime," I reasoned.

Milton sighed. "If what I've heard about tantric sex is true, then we'll be lucky to see him this side of Christmas."

Derwena roused herself from her stupor. She paced around the hall, then stood in front of the fireplace. Leaning forward, she yelled, "How can you joke at a time like this? How can you joke when Woody's in a police cell waiting to be hanged?"

Milton groaned. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and closed his eyes. "Derwena, dear, they abolished hanging fifty years ago."

She buckled at the knees while placing the back of her left hand to her forehead. "I might never see my darling Woody again."

"Pull yourself together," Milton growled. He was sitting forward now, his hands resting on his thighs, his bloodshot eyes glaring at Derwena. "The police only want to question him, that's all."

"But what if he gives the wrong answers?" Derwena persisted. Milton ignored her, which annoyed her intensely. Her eyes wandered around the hall, then they settled on a life-size suit of armour. She drew the back of her hand across her lips and headed for the suit of armour. "I need a drink."

Showing a surprising amount of agility, Milton leapt from his armchair and skipped towards the suit of armour. He stood in front of the armour performing a kind of two-step with Derwena as she hopped to the left, then to the right, Milton's twinkling toes covering her moves, blocking her access to the booze.

"No drink." Milton placed a firm hand on the helmet of the metal knight. "Drink and drugs have brought us to this point. From now on, no more drinks and no more drugs. We're on the wagon. All of us."

Derwena pouted, sticking out her bottom lip. Again, she placed her hands on her hips, then leaned forward and yelled at Milton. "Now you're just being cruel!"

"I'm being cruel to be kind," Milton replied with a long-suffering sigh.

Derwena pirouetted. She went on a circuit of the hall, slapping her hand against anything within reach. "How can I quit at a time like this? Someone's murdered Troutbeck, Woody's a suspect and I've got an album to finish."

With a rhythmic beat, Milton's podgy fingers drummed on the knight's helmet while his right foot tapped the flagstone floor. "Drink and drugs or Milton. You choose."

Derwena put her hands to her head. In frustration, she tugged at her hair. Her face turned puce. "Ooh! I need all of you. I can't choose!"

"Drugs and booze have wrecked the creativity," Milton continued like a Salvationist preaching to the depraved. "We've had no hits for four years. We're living off our reputations and our reputations are slowly going down the pan."

With her face still glowing and her right hand waving and pointing frantically, Derwena turned on her heel and rounded on me. "Well, why doesn't she do something about it?"

"What has Sam got to do with our music?" Milton asked patiently.

"I'm talking about Woody. She's supposed to be a detective, right. Well, why doesn't she get out there and do some detecting?"

"What about the stalker?" I asked in a quiet voice.

Derwena bit her bottom lip. She glanced at me through a veil of dishevelled hair, then she stared at the ground. "Um...I kinda made him up." With her indignation returning, she glared at Milton. "I needed the attention, right. Can you imagine what it's like being Derwena de Caro?"

One up for Sam's intuition. I must learn to trust myself more often. So, the stalker was a figment of Derwena's imagination and at least we didn't have to worry on that score. However, the droop of Milton's shoulders and the careworn expression on his face suggested that he was still carrying the weight of the world, or at least the weight of Derwena de Caro, which, on occasion, amounted to the same thing.

"And you're convinced that Woody is innocent?" I asked Derwena.

"He's a gentle, creative soul, isn't he, Milt?" Her tone was imploring, her look pleading.

Milton glanced towards the suit of armour, as though longing for a drink. I didn't blame him. There was something of the dervish about Derwena and when she went into a spin, everyone in the vicinity was sucked into her chaos.

"Woody can lose it at times," Milton admitted. "Drugs affect some people like that. But I don't think he'd go so far as murder."

"There we have it," Derwena stated confidently, as though Milton were judge, jury, the Almighty himself. "Woody is innocent. Now get up off your sweet fanny and prove it!"

Milton took a step towards me. He looked tired, drained by Derwena, drained by the trappings of the music business. "What about it, Sam," he asked wearily, "will you help?"

"Well..." I was a soft touch, but not that soft. I had my own sanity to consider.

"I'll double your fee," Milton cajoled. He gave me a doe-eyed look that threatened to melt my heart. "Treble it."

I thought about Milton's pitiful look. I thought about a carpet for my office, and maybe some curtains. I thought about my mountain of unpaid bills. If I worked for Milton, I'd be on triple pay. I smiled optimistically. "I'll see what I can do."

# Chapter Thirteen

Derwena retired to her bedroom; she was in need of a nap. I was slipping into my trench coat when Woody phoned to say that the police were releasing him without charges. However, he was still under investigation. Woody would be back at the castle shortly. So I removed my trench coat. I figured that I should get his version of events at the party and his thoughts on a possible murder suspect.

I was sitting by the fireplace, gazing at the logs in the grate. These days, the fireplace was only for show because the castle was equipped with modern central heating. I was thinking about T.P. McGill and his murder when Milton entered the hall. He had been to the west wing, to tuck Derwena into her duvet.

With a heavy sigh, Milton flopped into an armchair, opposite me. He glanced at his wristwatch, mopped his brow then moaned, "What a mess. I didn't get into the music business for this, I can tell you."

"Why did you get into the music business?"

"For the music. Sometimes, I think I'm the only one. Everyone else seems to be in it for the fame, the sex, the drugs, the money..." He shook his head sadly, then placed it in his hands. "It makes me depressed."

I allowed Milton a moment of reflection, then he continued, "When I was a youngster, I was on my own. I was sent to public school. I don't understand why rich people have kids, only to send them to public school for the rest of their childhood days. It's not natural. The other kids and the teachers bully you, or at least they did back then. At night, you'd hear the kids in your dorm masturbating or crying. Or both. And these kids grow up to become our leaders. And we wonder why the country is in a mess. I didn't fit in at school. I sensed I was different." He raised his head and gave me a cautious, sideways glance. "You know that I'm gay?"

I nodded.

"Music was my salvation, all types, all styles...Fats Waller, Bill Haley, Elvis, the Beatles, Bowie, Elton, the Floyd...If it wasn't for the music..." He shrugged and his eyes filled with tears. With his silk handkerchief in his hand, he blew his nose before settling back into his armchair, more composed. "The music pulled me through my teenage years, into my twenties. I was drifting. My family are wealthy – the Vaughan-Urquhart's are disgustingly rich – and they were bankrolling me, but I knew that I needed something; I needed a career. So why not music? I can't hold a note, but I'm a great organiser. So I got into management. I backed a few losers, the Drainpipes – they went down the drain – Chelsea May, Cleveland's Zygotic Circus...but then I heard Derwena sing and I knew that I could take her all the way to the top. My ambition is to crack America, then you know that you've made the big time. But success brings distractions, and along the way something, my dream, got lost."

"You'll find it again," I smiled encouragingly. "Maybe with Derwena, maybe with someone else."

Milton returned my smile. He reached across and patted me lightly on the knee. "You're a good kid, Sam. Can you sing?"

"I sing in the bath, and the neighbourhood cats join in."

He grimaced. "That bad?"

I nodded. "That bad."

There was a moment of empathy between us, a moment that touched me and, to judge from the wistful look on Milton's face, it touched him too. In that moment we were calm, serene, in the eye of the storm as it turned out because moments later the heavy oak door of the hall opened and Woody, dressed in a harlequin's suit, complete with prominent codpiece, bounded into view.

"Hey, dudes," he grinned, "why the gloom? The ego has landed! Woody's footloose and fancy-free and on the prowl ready to impregnate and make beautiful music!"

Milton's eyes were still tired and bloodshot. Nevertheless, they opened wide and with his jaw dropping, he gazed at Woody's apparel. "What are you wearing?"

Woody waved a hand over his colourful suit. "I saw this in a window when the taxi stopped at the lights. I thought, Woody, my man, that is just the outfit for 'The Jester's Tear'."

"And the codpiece?"

With a large right hand, Woody gripped his crotch and jiggled his codpiece. "Extra, extra large. Anything smaller tended to pinch. Only the biggest and best for Woody Larson!"

Milton shook his head and groaned. "It looks obscene."

"Give me a break, dude. It's not my fault that Woody Larson is well endowed." The frown on Woody's features morphed into a smile as he turned to face me. "What do you think, Peaches, do you think I look cute?"

I shrugged and gave my honest opinion. "You look sad, Woody."

"Ah, loosen up," he snarled. "You know what your trouble is, don't you. You need a good..."

Milton was on his feet and to my rescue. Before Woody could complete his sentence, Milton interjected, "Leave Sam alone. She's helping us with the murder enquiry. After all, you're still a suspect."

"But I'm innocent." Woody held his arms out wide at his side. He gave us a pathetic, guiltless look. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grinned again. "Where's Derwena?"

"She's resting," Milton replied. "She's upset."

"She's upset." Woody bounced around the hall like a kinetic spring suddenly released from its moorings. "That's great. Get her into the studio; we can capture the emotion in her voice. It'll be great for 'Lover Don't Go'."

"She needs her rest," Milton advised. "And you need to come down."

Woody bounced around the hall, completing another circuit. Then he rubbed a contemplative hand across his chin. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It was a hellava party." He nodded in acknowledgement towards Milton before turning to face me. "Sorry, Peaches, I was out of line. You're a cool chick. I like you." Then he went wandering through the hall like a drunk in search of a missing beer bottle. He muttered to himself, "I think I'll chill with Maybelline."

"Who's Maybelline?" I asked.

"My six string."

Milton – who else – found Woody's guitar propped against a free-standing candelabrum and he handed the instrument to the guitarist, who sat on a four-legged stool and began to play.

Say what you like about Woody, and he was several slices of ham short of a sandwich, he could play the guitar and he gave a beautiful rendition of Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez.

"Ah, that's better," Woody sighed.

Milton, who had listened appreciatively to the performance, stepped from the shadows and paused at Woody's side. "Sam wants to talk with you."

Woody picked up his guitar and pointed the neck towards me, like a rifle. "Shoot, Peaches."

"Derwena asked me to establish your innocence."

"Cool."

"So tell me, what happened at the party?"

Woody scratched his head. His roots were showing and, in truth, his long tresses looked as if they could do with a wash. "It's all a bit vague, man. There was a lot of heavy junk flying around."

"Did you kill T.P. McGill?"

He scratched his head again and frowned. "Don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"Like I said, there was a lot of junk at the party. Heavy duty. Industrial. It kinda fuddles the brain sometimes."

"But if you murdered someone," I persisted, "surely that would stick in your mind."

Woody's face brightened. A light bulb moment. How many guitarists does it take to change a light bulb? Three – one to hold the tuner, one to adjust the tuning pegs, and another to play the accompanying twenty minute solo. "Yeah, you're right," he admitted, "I didn't shaft the dude. Not saying he didn't deserve it though."

"Can anyone supply you with an alibi?"

Woody shrugged his broad shoulders. "Everyone at the party was stoned."

"Assuming you're innocent, and let's be generous for Derwena's sake and make that assumption, who do you think killed McGill?"

Woody pulled a face, akin to Popeye without the pipe. He scratched the end of his nose. He puckered his lips, Jagger-like. "The man was a jackass, that's for sure. You'd have a queue longer than for a Star Wars movie, the number of people who'd like to kill McGill."

"But do you have any theories?"

For a change, he nodded decisively. "Deke."

"Why Deke?"

"I remember now, he was arguing with McGill."

"What about?"

Again, a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Dunno."

"Have you told the police about Deke?"

"I only just remembered it."

"If you remember anything else, write it down, give it to Milton."

Woody winked at me, not a pleasant sight, but I let it pass. "Will do, Peaches." The wink turned into a leer as he leaned towards me, suffocating my nostrils with his alcohol and drug-fuelled breath. "Get me off the hook, baby, and I'll give you a reward. Know what I'm saying?"

I threw my shoulder bag over my shoulder. I had a lead, and it was time to follow it up. At the hall door, I turned and glanced at Woody. Optimistically, I asked, "Is there any time of day when your mind isn't in your pants?"

He grinned, broadly. "No."

I shrugged and walked out of the hall. Ask a stupid question...

# Chapter Fourteen

It was eight o'clock in the evening when I called on Deke Spencer. As before, I parked my Mini, adjusted my trench coat and walked towards the ornate gates of Tusker Hall. Except, on this occasion, the gates were open and the driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. A Ferrari, a Porsche, a Bentley, a Rolls Royce. Maybe I could sneak my Mini in alongside them, unnoticed. Maybe not. However, I did walk up the driveway, keeping to the shingle – no cowpats today, if you please – until I reached the front door.

I skipped up the five low steps that led to the door and rang the doorbell. Echoing my earlier visit, Deke Spencer greeted me with a brilliant, white-toothed smile. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and gaudy tie today and, obviously, he was entertaining.

"Now my evening's complete," he stated sincerely in his slow, mid-Atlantic drawl. A mischievous twinkle appeared in his deep blue eyes as he held out his hand, inviting me in. "Would you care to join us for dinner?" he asked. "I'm throwing a dinner party, for a few bankers, etcetera. You can be my guest of honour."

"Maybe we'd better talk in private. We don't want the bankers choking on their canapés when I bring up the subject of murder."

Deke rubbed his chin, caressing his five o'clock shadow. With some reluctance, he nodded slowly. "Give me two minutes. You can wait in the library."

While Deke tended to his guests, I studied the solid wall of books. Almost immediately, I found a leather-backed copy of Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. I read that book as a teenager and I wanted to be Ivanhoe, not Rebecca or Rowena. I was very confused as a teenager, not about my sexuality – despite my tomboy tendencies, I was attracted to boys, or I should say older males, maybe in a subconscious attempt to find a father-figure – but I was a confused, insular individual, lacking social confidence and belief in myself. And I guess that's why I fell for Dan and put up with the nightmare of our marriage.

Deke returned with his fingers adjusting the knot in his tie – the tie and dinner jacket didn't suit him: he was definitely a jeans and casual shirt man.

"The subject of murder...sounds heavy," Deke frowned, while straightening his tie.

"It is," I agreed. "But before we get on to that, you owe me an apology."

His frown intensified. Puzzled, he tilted his head to his right. "An apology? What for?"

"You said, indeed you swore on the Bible, that you were not a drug pusher."

"Ah!" Again, the mischievous smile and the twinkle in his clear blue eyes along with the butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth expression. "I don't push drugs, I deal in recreational substances."

I folded my arms across my chest. I tapped my foot on the marble floor. I gazed up to the glass chandelier, dangling from the vaulted ceiling. Okay, Sarah Bernhardt I am not, but I think I made my point.

"You don't believe me?" Deke grinned.

I continued to look at the ceiling. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Let me explain." Deke loosened his tie. He undid the top button on his shirt. He was getting down to business. "Let me begin by asking you a question...name the most commonly used drug in the world."

I thought for a moment, then replied, "Cocaine?"

Deke shook his head. "Not even close. The answer is coffee – that drug is in just about every home in the country."

"But coffee isn't addictive."

"True," Deke agreed. "Coffee causes physical dependency, not addiction." Now Deke removed his dinner jacket and draped it over the back of a chair; he was warming to his theme. "Name the three most addictive drugs on the market today."

"Heroin, cocaine and cannabis," I reeled off.

"Close. One – heroin; two – crack cocaine; three – tobacco."

I sighed and complained, "You're mixing illegal drugs with legal drugs."

"And why, when they are often safer, are these drugs made illegal? Because governments don't control and tax these drugs. Also, they regard them as immoral. Governments are two-faced and hypocritical. In the Victorian Age, the British Empire was the biggest drug dealer in the world. And while the Empire controlled the drugs, they were deemed acceptable. Even Queen Victoria took cannabis."

"Okay," I conceded, "so the whole thing is a screwed up mix of government and private cartels and public health is a low priority, but that doesn't justify your stance."

"I don't need to justify my stance," Deke insisted. "Governments need to justify their stance. I deal in cannabis – heroin and cocaine offer richer pickings but, believe it or not, I do have a moral code that guides me. Cannabis can ease the pain of multiple sclerosis, assist amputees and prevent seizures in epileptics. Cannabis can be of great help to society. Indeed, Henry VIII even passed a law requiring farmers to grow it! Now tell me which drugs cause the most deaths across the world."

I shrugged. "I don't know; you tell me."

"Each year tobacco kills 5 million people, while alcohol kills 1.5 million people. All the illicit drugs combined kill 200,000 people. Yet governments support the alcohol and tobacco industries because these industries have power and influence. Cocaine kills about 250 people in Britain each year, tobacco kills around 100,000. I've seen official statistics where drugs are rated out of 100, with 100 being the most harmful. Crack comes in third at 54, heroin second at 55 and alcohol is the runaway winner on 72. Yet, in your eyes, I'm the drug runner while the tobacco and alcohol merchants are businessmen."

"My eyes are glazing over; I think I need a drink."

Deke laughed. "You're a funny lady. But seriously, we've got it all wrong. We're guided by misplaced media-controlled morals and big business, not by the public good."

I raised a shoulder in acknowledgement, if not in support. It seemed the least I could do. "I can't change the world. Indeed, some days I have enough trouble changing my tights. All I want to do is assist Derwena and Woody, and drugs are not helping our cause."

"Derwena and Woody take a cocktail of drugs and that's misuse. I've warned them about it. I don't supply them."

"Who does?"

Deke gave me an enigmatic smile, the Mona Lisa writ large. "My lips are sealed."

"And what about your business," I asked, "do the police buy your line?"

"I run a sophisticated network, various companies, various industries, various countries. The paper trail, if they find one, is complicated. It would take years to unravel. The police don't have the time or resources. Give them a month and if they haven't nabbed a suspect most murders go on the back burner."

"Including T.P. McGill's, you reckon?"

Deke offered me his Mona Lisa impersonation. "You think I murdered McGill?"

"You were seen arguing with him."

"True," he acknowledged, "we had a spat."

"What about?"

"Epicurus. Now while it's true that I hold some strong views about his theory, that life is something to be enjoyed by indulging in pleasures and cultivating friendships, I don't think those views would stretch to murder."

I nodded. I was inclined to believe him. At least the argument wasn't over football, and a disagreement over philosophers did show a touch of class.

"Any idea who did it?" I asked.

Deke eased his dinner jacket from the back of the chair. He brushed the jacket with the back of his hand, to remove any stray hairs, then he slipped into the garment before adjusting the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. "Woody has the motive – ex-lover, jealousy..."

"Did he do it?"

Deke buttoned his shirt. He knotted and straightened his tie. He looked as comfortable as a man walking barefoot over hot coals, but I suppose if you want to acquire a house as grand as Tusker Hall, then you have to put up with certain indignities along the way.

"In a rage, maybe," Deke conceded. "In cold blood, no."

As we walked from the library, I was inclined to cross Woody and Deke off my list of suspects. The answer to the murder lay elsewhere, and it looked as though I would have to dig up some dirt before I would find it.

Deke escorted me to the doorstep. We gazed into the dark night sky, our eyes following a full moon as it ghosted behind the clouds.

While still gazing at the sky, Deke thrust his hands into his pockets and advised, "Leave this to the police. Don't get involved any further. You might despise my lifestyle and how I've earned my money, many people do. Even so, I like you. You're straight; I know I could trust you. Most of the people I've met in my life are as bent as corkscrews and they would shaft you as soon as look at you. And believe me, the higher up the greasy pole you go, the quicker they are to shaft you – wealth breeds greed. There are some big players involved in the McGill murder and they would crush you under their boots like they'd crush a snail. These people have no remorse, no sentiment, no feelings. They're in it to make big bucks and if you stand in their way they will pulp you."

I adjusted my trench coat, pulling the lapels tight to my throat. The evening had become chilly, all of a sudden, and I felt a shiver run up and down my spine.

While gazing into Deke's smiling blue eyes, I stated directly, "You know who murdered McGill, don't you."

His face slipped into its default expression and he offered me an enigmatic smile. "I have an idea."

Deke turned and glanced towards his dining room, listening to the alcohol-fuelled chatter and exaggerated laughter. He grimaced. "I'd better get back to my guests. Time for port, cigars and overseas bank accounts. One man's businessman is another man's crook, and vice-versa." He laughed, "One man's drug pusher is another man's recreational substance supplier..." Then his face and tone became serious. "Leave it to the police. Don't get involved."

# Chapter Fifteen

My morning alarm woke me at 7 a.m. I hit snooze, turned over in bed and pulled a pillow over my head. Ten minutes later, the alarm went off again. I groaned, switched the damn thing off then stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. In the shower, I thought about T.P. McGill's murder, to no great effect, I thought about breakfast and concluded that fruit juice would do and I decided that when I become Mistress of the Universe and Controller of All Things, I shall pass a law stating that the day shall not commence before noon. I ask you, 7 a.m. in late autumn – it's still dark, so how are we supposed to be awake?

After sipping my fruit juice and checking my pulse to make sure that I was still alive and not wandering around in a ghost-like dream – believe me, I am not a morning person – I drove to Castle Gwyn recording studios.

I parked my Mini, climbed out of the car and shut the door. Actually, I slammed it – the door handle was damp from overnight rain and it sort of slipped from my fingers – that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it. I threw my bag over my shoulder, set foot towards the castle, then halted abruptly and groaned. Dr Storey was walking across the drawbridge towards me. He's a married man, he's trouble, don't get involved. After Dan, my ex, he was the last person I wanted to see, so I tried to get my mind into gear and work out an escape strategy. Could I wander into the trees and admire them like an ardent nature lover? Could I wander into the bushes, casual-like, and pretend that I needed a pee? Could I...my thoughts were becoming more and more ridiculous and before I could work out what to do, Dr Storey was standing in front of me.

"Great to see you again," he smiled.

"Yeah." I averted my eyes, staring down to the damp ground. "You've been to see Derwena?"

Dr Storey nodded. "She's going through a crisis. She needed to talk."

I looked up and frowned. "How is she?"

"A little calmer."

"Did you give her anything?"

Dr Storey's smile broadened. He had a charming, good-natured smile. "Only my words. My words and my listening skills are my medication. I'm a psychologist, not a psychiatrist – I don't prescribe drugs."

I smiled impishly. "Probably got enough in her system already."

"Milton wants Derwena to go cold turkey. I advised against – this is not a good time. Though, in truth, there is rarely a good time to go cold turkey."

Dr Storey started to walk towards the trees, following a country path that wound its way towards a river. My initial panic at seeing him had faded and I felt more relaxed in his presence, so I followed him out of courtesy.

He ducked under a low, soggy, sagging branch, then lifted the branch to ensure that I wouldn't walk into it, or get wet. "Derwena told me about the shower routine. Where did you learn a stunt like that?"

"Sobering up my mother. She was an alcoholic. She needed a lot of sobering up."

He paused, his handsome features pensive, thoughtful. "That must have been tough on you."

"It was tough on a seven year old. By the time I got to ten, it was easier."

Dr Storey nodded, a simple gesture that revealed his understanding. "Your mother's illness must have had a debilitating effect on your upbringing, your schooling, your social life."

"I had no social life. Basically, I quit school at twelve to look after my mum. I tried to educate myself through books – I've always liked reading. I joined the local library and spent all my spare time there, reading. I spent so much time in the library, the patrons thought I was a member of staff! There is so much to learn, about the past, our planet, the universe. I know a little about most things but not a great deal about much, if that makes sense. I nursed my mother through until she died – her liver gave out – then I went to night school. I studied to become a secretary-typist. No one in my family had worked in an office before; they'd all been manual workers, so I thought I was doing well. Then I met Dan and you know the rest..."

"What about your father in all of this?"

I turned and stared at a tall, strong, oak tree. "I'd rather not talk about him."

"I understand."

"Do you?" I glared at Dr Storey. I was annoyed for some reason and I could feel myself losing it. "No you don't, you don't understand."

"It's okay." Dr Storey held out a hand, as though to touch me on the shoulder, to offer reassurance, but I pulled away. "Don't get upset," he pleaded.

"Easy for you to say," I mumbled, turning my attention back to the oak tree. We stood in uneasy silence as I reflected. This man was offering his compassion and I was being a bitch. I get like that sometimes, especially when I think about my father. And when I'm in this kind of mood, I'm not a nice person to be around.

Dr Storey shuffled his feet, kicking up the leaves. He pursed his lips. He sighed, and turned towards the castle.

"Dr Storey..."

He paused and glanced over his shoulder. His shoulders were hunched, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. "Alan. My friends call me Alan. And I would like to regard you as a friend."

"Alan..." I hesitated, then I took a step towards him. "I'm sorry, I lose it sometimes; you didn't deserve that."

His shoulders relaxed and his features softened. He gave me a laconic smile and shrugged. "Apology accepted."

We continued along the track, pausing by the river. The river was in full spate, restless after the overnight rain.

Dr Storey gazed at the river, his thoughts apparently lost in the turbulent water. "You've told me many personal details about your life, and I'm grateful. I'd like to tell you a little about mine."

I was still feeling edgy. I felt fragile, emotional. I replied tersely, "If you must."

"I saw you looking at the picture on my desk, of my wife."

"I don't want to know. No offence, but I don't want to go there."

You see, Sam, it's like this: I no longer love my wife, but I have to stay with her because of the kids/the cat/the goldfish. I was thinking that maybe we could have an affair. Although, affairs can become fractious and stale, so what about a one night stand? I would still respect you in the morning and we could still be friends...

"She's dead. She died seven years ago."

Oh, God. Ground open up, swallow me now. Did he know what I was thinking? Could he sense what I was thinking? He was a psychologist, after all, trained to read people's minds and emotions. I felt my face flush and two spots of red burn deep into my cheeks. I had never been so embarrassed. I felt like jumping into the river and allowing the cold water to sweep me away.

"I'm sorry," I apologised, tripping over my words. "I talk without thinking sometimes. My mouth just rambles on. I didn't mean any offence."

"It's okay," Alan replied easily, "you weren't to know. The little girl in the picture is our daughter, Alis, she's sixteen now."

I took a step towards him, my embarrassment melting into sympathy. "So you've brought her up, on your own?"

"With the help of family and friends."

"That must be tough."

He gazed at me, then at the river. A fallen branch went sweeping past, only to stall against the muddy riverbank. "We've had some difficult moments, but our love for each other pulled us through. For the past seven years, my main focus has been on Alis, tending to her practical and emotional needs. But she's sixteen now going on sixty and she needs more space for herself. And, to be honest, I have needs too. I think the time is right to create a life for myself." He stared at me as he made that statement, his eyes studying my face, like a painter searching for the finest detail. "Look, I guess you're not short of offers, but I'd like to invite you to dinner."

Yikes, he still likes me despite my menstrual moods.

I grinned. I guess I was flattered. "You reckon I could do with a square meal?"

He laughed. "Let's just say I reckon a few square meals wouldn't do you any harm."

And after dinner? Inwardly, I frowned. What's the social protocol? Does he jump on me, or do I jump on him? Do we hold hands? Do we kiss? Do we use tongues? I was so out of touch...

"If we arrange dinner for tomorrow evening, Alis has her still-life drawing class and I have to pick her up at ten."

Saved by an apple, a banana and an orange. "That sounds fine."

Alan gave me a broad, happy smile. "Until tomorrow at eight o'clock then, at Donadoni's on the waterfront. You can fill me in on your investigations."

I nodded. I looked at my watch. It was time to get back to the castle and crack on with them.

We walked back to the castle in easy silence, occasionally pausing to admire and comment on the beauty of our surroundings. As we walked the little devil in my head gnawed away at me, love hurts, Sam, he's a man, he'll hurt you, don't get involved. But my little angel asserted herself, he's not like Dan, he's a kind, considerate man; anyway, this isn't love, it's just two friends having dinner. Maybe I was deluding myself. Maybe I was desperate to free myself from the deep-seated fear instilled in me by my mother and Dan. Whatever the reason, subconscious or otherwise, I resolved to look forward to our dinner. After all, I'd given Alan enough reasons to push me into the river, and he hadn't. Surely, that had to count for something.

# Chapter Sixteen

At the castle, I talked with Woody and he recalled the events at the party, though most of those events were still shrouded in a drug-fuelled fog. My notebook remained resolutely blank, so I phoned Sweets to ask if he was making any progress with the investigation. We arranged to meet up at Cardiff Bay and I was standing in the drizzle, looking out at the Bay, in the early afternoon.

Cardiff Bay and the city itself had changed out of all recognition during my lifetime. It is possible to eat your way around the world at Cardiff Bay with restaurants serving food from many nations, along with traditional Welsh fare. From the Victorian era, we have the Pierhead Building, a striking structure with its red-hot brick and terracotta facade, to more modern developments, like the Millennium Centre, an iconic building and the premier arts venue in the country. The International Arena is another high-class entertainment venue and we mustn't forget the Millennium Stadium, where our red-shirted, mud-clad sporting heroes often punch above our small nation's slight weight – sometimes quite literally. Added to that we have Cardiff Castle, the National Museum, the National History Museum, a first-class shopping centre and the National Assembly for Wales – Power to the People! The city isn't perfect and it still creaks and groans in places, but it is an attractive blend of old and new. I'm proud of the city and happy to say that it's the place I call 'home'.

I was leaning on the railings, watching the mist as it rolled into the Bay, listening to the pleas of harassed mothers – "Johnny, don't do that; Johnny, listen to what I'm saying" – as little Johnny and little Joanna jumped in and out of puddles, when Sweets wandered into view. With his trilby tilted at a rakish angle and a briefcase swinging in his left hand, he walked up to me and groaned.

"What do you call 5,000 dead lawyers at the bottom of the ocean? A good start. And another...what do you call a lawyer with an IQ of 50? Your Honour."

I'm a polite girl when I'm on my best behaviour – and when I'm after something – so I smiled and commiserated with Sweets. "Not a good session in court?"

Sweets grunted, a non-committal sound. He placed his briefcase against the rusty railings, then fished a pasty from his trench coat pocket and held it in front of my face. "Want a bite?"

I wrinkled up my nose in disgust. "I only eat at the dinner table," I replied primly; "eating on the run gives me indigestion."

He took a bite of his pasty while eyeing my petite frame. "You should live with my mother for a weekend. She's in her late-seventies, but she still knows how to cook. She'd put some meat on you."

"I lead an active and sporty life, Sweets, that's why I'm this slim."

"Four square-meals a day," he munched, "detectives march on their stomachs, remember that."

I eyed his considerable paunch, protruding through his open trench coat. "If your stomach drops any lower, you'll be true to your words; you'll be marching on it."

With a snarl, Sweets took another bite of his pasty, then he sprayed indignant pastry flakes all over the quay. "Are you through with your insults?"

"Only thinking of your welfare, Sweets." I grinned mischievously. "And didn't your mother tell you that you should never speak with your mouth full."

He delved into his coat pocket and produced a boiled sweet. "Here you are, Freckles; put that into your mouth and allow me to enjoy my indigestion in peace."

I smiled as I unwrapped the sweet. Then I popped the bonbon into my mouth and sucked as Sweets chomped his way through his foul-smelling pasty.

The bonbon had melted and Sweets was about to belch when a newspaper drifted along the quay, blown by the moist western wind. The newspaper landed in a puddle revealing a front-page headline and a story about a politician. Surprise, surprise, the politician had been up to 'no good'.

"Where do you stand on the morals of our day?" I asked Sweets, as I stared at the newspaper headline.

He followed my eyeline, then tilted his trilby back on to the crown of his head before rubbing his chin. "I was brought up in a different era. Back then, you were taught to respect royalty, respect politicians, even respect the police. Of course, times have changed and the amoral behaviour of some, the abuses of power, have brought disrespect, and rightly so. People in power, with authority, can be deceitful, and that's where Joe Public loses respect, when he's told 'don't do as I do, do as I tell you'. If I have any credo, it's 'truth and justice'. Seek out the truth and get justice for the victims of crime."

"And what about our current victim of crime, Mr McGill – any justice for him?"

Sweets straightened his trilby. Then he allowed his eyes to wander. They followed an attractive, middle-aged woman as she swung her hips in a provocative walk towards the Norwegian Church.

"Sweets." I clicked my fingers, trying to recapture his attention.

"Huh?"

"I could get arrested for what you're thinking."

He grinned. "No harm in a wicked thought."

"McGill's murder," I repeated patiently.

"Woody still looks favourite, but we've got no evidence linking him to the scene of the crime." Sweets stooped. He retrieved his briefcase then opened it. With some difficulty, he removed a cardboard file. "We've been sorting through McGill's papers, and we came up with these – these are copies mind, and you're not seeing them, understand."

"I am blind before the wisdom of my true love," I intoned piously.

"Bronte?" Sweets frowned.

"I dunno," I shrugged. "I think I just made it up."

Sweets pointed to the cardboard file and its contents of miscellaneous McGill papers. "You're not seeing these, but we've spent hours studying them and got nowhere. You have a good analytical mind, Sam, look them over. If you have any ideas, come to me. Do not act independently and go running off half-cock. You clear on that?"

I gave Sweets a mock salute. "If I think I spot a clue, I report it to you."

He curled his top lip, grunted, then leaned on the rusty handrail. "I should be locked up for leading an innocent astray."

I thought back to my mother and my 'unconventional' childhood. "I lost my innocence thirty years ago, Sweets. It would take a lot to lead me astray."

He looked me up and down in paternal fashion, then shook his head. "I guess you did, kid."

I hugged the cardboard file to my chest, shielding it from the damp mist and drizzle. "Thanks for the file, Sweets."

"Yeah, have fun." He adjusted his hat and trench coat, popped a sweet into his mouth then set off along the waterfront. After four paces, he stopped, turned, and grinned. "A man approaches the Pearly Gates and seeks admittance. St Peter asks him if he's ever done any good deeds. 'Why, yes,' says the man. 'Once I saved a young lady from being attacked by a gang of Hells Angels. I ran my car over their bikes then kicked the chief biker in the nuts until he let the girl go.' 'Really?' frowned St Peter, 'that incident doesn't seem to be in our records; when did it take place?' 'Oh, about five minutes ago,' says the man."

I laughed. I was in a good mood. I was on the hunt for clues, something I enjoyed. Despite the grey, depressing weather, the day was looking up.

# Chapter Seventeen

I drove to my office. In my office, I made myself a cup of coffee – instant, decaf, black – fed Marlowe and sat behind my desk, ready to look for clues.

I opened the McGill file and removed the first sheet of paper, an A4 photocopy of various numbers and squiggles. I took out my pen and notebook and started to make notes. At one point, Marlowe decided to play detective and he walked all over my notes, so I opened the office window and encouraged him to jump out. He gave me a look of repulsion, as if to say, "pull the other one, lady, it's pouring down, there's no way I'm going out there". What can you do? I closed the window and Marlowe returned to my desk. Thankfully, he curled into a purring ball and I returned to my clues.

Half an hour later, and while sipping my second cup of coffee and scratching my head, I came up with a solution. The numbers and squiggles related to a card game, possibly blackjack, and McGill was trying to fashion a system to win when gambling at the game. Well done, Sam; you merit another cup of coffee. But no more – after four, you tend to get the shakes.

The second piece of paper was also A4. This contained a cipher, a code for writing and sending secret messages. I have a mind for such things and, in truth, I found the code simple and easy to break. But did it hold any significance to McGill's murder? Again, I scratched my head; I wasn't sure.

I was working on the third piece of paper when the outline of a male figure appeared behind the frosted glass of my office door. I looked up and frowned. A client? But my work schedule was already full. Nevertheless, think of the money...maybe this was my lucky day. Then Dan entered holding a bunch of flowers. He grinned. I dropped my pen on to my notepad and groaned.

"For you." Dan walked into my office, closing the door with the sole of his shoe. He thrust the flowers, carnations, towards me, placing them under my nose. Okay, the carnations smelt sweet, but I could have done without the interruption; I could have done without Dan.

"These won't get you anywhere." I took the flowers, stood and went in search of a receptacle.

Dan scowled, "Can't I buy you gifts now?"

"You never did in the past."

"Well I have now. I'm a different man, I keep telling you that."

I walked over to my office sink. Under the sink, I found a chipped vase, which saw occasional use when I was in a flowery mood. I thumped the tap and managed to coax some water out of the groaning pipework. I placed the water in the vase and arranged the flowers. Then I positioned the carnations on a filing cabinet; they were not going on my desk; they were not going to invade my personal space.

Dan walked over to me as I stood beside the filing cabinet, admiring the flowers. "Have you asked Derwena about my article?" he enquired.

I shook my head, "I haven't had a chance."

He grabbed hold of my left arm, above my elbow. "You promised me, Sam."

I tensed. Possibly, I was trembling, but I managed to give him a very dark, forceful look. "You're hurting me; let go of my arm."

He released his grip immediately and held up his hands in apology. "I'm sorry. But you promised me; you said you'd talk with Derwena."

"Woody's a murder suspect, Derwena is climbing the walls – I'll ask her when I get a chance." I rubbed my arm and returned to my desk. Marlowe had retreated into a corner where he was licking his paws. He eyed Dan with suspicion and I sensed that he was preparing to jump, to dive out of my office window.

"You do it, you ask Derwena," Dan persisted. He placed his hands on my desk. Then he arched his body, leaning forward. "You do it because you owe me, lots."

"I don't owe you anything."

"You owe me four years of my life."

I looked up from my desk and McGill's papers. I frowned, tilting my head to my left. "I owe you?"

"Four years with you was like spending four years in a monastery. Is it any wonder I had affairs."

I looked down to McGill's papers. I allowed my hair to fall across my face. I was shaking inside. "I was not a good wife," I mumbled. "In fact, I was a lousy wife, and in retrospect, I don't blame you for the affairs." I took a deep breath. I looked up, sweeping my hair from my eyes. My face was red and my skin burned, partly out of embarrassment, partly out of indignation. I was not superwoman, but I had gained some strength over the past five years. Even though I was still shaking inside, I was going to say my piece. I was not going to just sit there, or hide. "I don't blame you for the affairs, but the rest I cannot forget or forgive. You hurt me, not just with broken bones but also with scars that no one can see, scars that pain me every day. I owe you nothing, and nothing is what you'll get from me. Now leave this office and leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Dan squatted beside my chair. His tone was soft, contrite. "I was out of order. I know you're still hurting, but I'm hurting too. When you love someone as much as I love you, it hurts." He reached across to place his hand against my cheek, but when he saw the look of revulsion on my face, he had second thoughts and withdrew. "I want to make it up to you, Sam, bit by bit. Come on, let's put the past behind us. At least, let's be friends."

Marlowe jumped on to my desk. I ran my hand along his spine and he purred. Then he jumped on to my windowsill and I walked over to the window, to let him out. When I returned to my desk, I noticed that Dan was studying McGill's papers.

"What you got there?" he asked quizzically.

"Paperwork belonging to T.P. McGill."

"Where did you get that?"

"I have my sources."

He grinned, his dark eyes dancing, alive, mischievous, malevolent. "My, my, we are the little sleuthette, aren't we?"

"Don't mock me!" I slammed the palm of my hand down, hard, on my desk. My palm hurt, but the pain was worth it. "This is my job, and I'm good at it. So don't mock me."

"Don't be so touchy, Sam, I was only joking." Dan shook his head. He gave me a sad look, as though he were viewing someone with a feeble mind. "You're too sensitive, that's your trouble." He peered over my shoulder, at T.P. McGill's papers. "Can I have a look?" I sat back and moved my chair to the right, away from my desk, out of his reach. "Initials?" he speculated as he studied the detail on the papers.

Despite myself, I was drawn into the debate. "I was thinking that."

"Relating to whom?"

"T.P.'s friends, colleagues?"

"Or targets for his poisoned pen?" Dan switched on my desk lamp and held the paper under the light. He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. "Why the arrows linking all the initials to M.H.?"

"M.H. is the person in charge, the leader of something?"

"Or M.H. is a location." He grinned and raised his fist – a gesture of triumph. "Mansetree House. Look..." He took my notepad and pen and made a list of names from the initials on McGill's paper. "All these people are recent guests at Mansetree House."

"It's a bit farfetched, isn't it? The initials could relate to anything."

"They could," he admitted, "but I remember there was talk amongst my journalistic colleagues that T.P. McGill was working on a story centred on Mansetree House, a big exposé. In fact, it was so big his editor wouldn't touch it. Everyone assumed that he'd dropped the story, but maybe he was going solo?"

It was an interesting theory, I had to admit, a theory worth checking out. "Maybe I'll go there," I suggested, "and nose around."

Dan sat on the edge of my desk. There was a self-satisfied look on his face, a smugness that repelled me. "If you come up with anything, remember who cleared the fog and be sure to give the story to me."

I glanced down to McGill's papers before squaring them off and placing them in Sweets' folder. I was grateful for the lead, but I felt that I'd spent enough time in Dan's company; I was eager for him to leave.

However, he stayed, perched on my desk, his charming smile getting wider by the second. "I've got something else for my princess, another present." He pushed aside the flap on his raincoat and searched inside his trouser pocket. Then he removed a palm-sized jewel box. From the box, he extracted a string of pearls. Pearls didn't suit me. But, as with everything about me, he never bothered to learn that. "Let me put them around your neck."

I tensed every muscle in my body. I shook my head. "No, don't."

"Come on, Sam," Dan cajoled, "loosen up. These cost me a week's wages."

I swallowed hard as his fingers touched my neck. My fingers were holding my pen, threatening to break it in half. His touch equated to pain. His hands meant suffering. I closed my eyes, but not before a tear trickled down my cheek.

"Why don't you get this damned hair cut? Sit still, for Christ's sake! Let me fasten the clasp." Dan took a step back, and I could breathe again. "There, you look beautiful. Maybe a kiss for your prince?"

I panicked. I jumped up and tore the necklace from my neck. The pearls went bouncing across my bare floorboards.

Anxiously, I looked across to Dan. He was clenching and unclenching his fists. He was breathing hard – short, savage breaths, his nostrils flaring. He walked towards me and I closed my eyes. I turned my head, an involuntary action in anticipation of the expected blow.

"They cost me a lot of money," Dan ground out through clenched teeth. "A week's wages!"

"I'm sorry," I blurted, still with my eyes closed, my head turned, as though already struck by a fearsome blow.

"And so you should be. You'll make it up to me, right?"

I opened my eyes. I nodded. He was standing by the door. He had taken a step away from me. His hands were still clenched, but his breathing was under control.

"I'll make it up to you, Dan, I promise."

"I'm annoyed." The frown, the anger on his face, the irate look in his eyes, displayed that fact plainly. "But I love you, so I'll forgive you." He glanced at his wristwatch, then buttoned his raincoat. "I've got to meet someone in five minutes. I'll meet you at your place tomorrow. I'll take you to dinner."

"I'd like that," I lied. Anything to get rid of him.

"That's my girl." He grinned, all charming and erudite. "I love you, Sam." He blew me a kiss before closing my office door. "Until tomorrow."

# Chapter Eighteen

I was annoyed with myself. In a rage, I went down on all fours and crawled along my office floor, picking up the pearls. When I'd gathered them all in, I placed them in their jewel box then threw the jewel box in a filing cabinet and locked the drawer.

I sat and reflected – how could I be so weak and feeble? This was me five years ago. I've moved on since then. I'm a stronger, better person. Then the frightening thought hit me – maybe I'm not. Maybe I haven't moved on. Maybe I'll always be weak and feeble, a coward too frightened to stand up to Dan.

I poured myself a finger of whisky and sipped it slowly. I closed my eyes and drifted into the darkness of the late afternoon. I could feel the depression wrapping its suffocating fingers around me, around my neck, like Dan's fingers and his unwanted pearls. Then I put my arms on my desk, my head on my arms and had a good cry.

Like a summer thunderstorm after humid weather, the tears lightened the atmosphere and my head was now clear, my thoughts back in focus. I realised that sitting around in the darkness, wallowing in the cesspit of self-pity wouldn't help me, Derwena, Woody or Milton. So I resolved to bounce back and get on with my work. Bouncing back was something I did well – I'd had years of experience.

I dried my eyes and switched on my computer. I would create a business card. Who would I be today? It was like being a young girl again and exploring my dressing up box. That dressing up box kept me sane during the early years of my mother's illness, just as my job as an enquiry agent kept me sane today. Back then, I would escape by dressing up as an animal, a princess or a pirate. I was a tomboy so tended to go for masculine heroes, but all were fun and the fantasy was a welcome diversion from the strains of reality.

I concluded that journalism seemed to be at the heart of this case, so I decided to become a journalist for the day – a freelance journalist, working on a book about the grand houses in the district. I printed the business card, crossed my fingers and hoped that my plan would work.

I drove to Mansetree House. The building and its estate were situated in an exclusive district near the centre of Cardiff. The seventeenth century manor house was built on the site of a medieval structure, home to the lords of this particular manor. The building was set in numerous acres of green, tree-lined grounds. A high, red-bricked wall ran around the perimeter of the grounds while a large iron gate, resembling a portcullis, allowed access to the property, or kept riff-raff like me out. The building itself was a solid, square structure. Through the gate, I spied the austere facade, enriched by a front porch containing two tiers of doubled columns, crowned by a coat of arms in the pediment. The occupants had removed the top storey of the building in the eighteenth century, giving the side elevations a lopsided look. The numerous stone-mullioned windows were regular and severe. With its portcullis-style gate and muscular facade, the building was not so much a house, more a fortress. I was half-expecting bats to fly out from the belfry. Scooby-Doo, where are you!

There was an intercom at the gate, so I pressed the button and stated my business. For the purpose of this visit, I was Abigail Summer, a freelance journalist writing a series of articles and a book about the grand houses of Cardiff.

A woman replied to my request with a voice as severe as the building. "Go away, I'm not interested."

"That's a shame," I replied in a sweet, ingratiating voice, "because Deke Spencer at Tusker Hall has agreed to an interview, along with the owners of Castle Gwyn, Wenvoe Villa and Sully Hall. It will look strange if your house is the only one in the district not included. It will only take five minutes of your time..."

The heavy iron gates swung open and I was allowed access to the curving, smoothly tarmacked driveway. Neat lawns and flowerbeds flanked the driveway. I noted a summerhouse in the grounds, a number of benches, a croquet lawn and a series of small outhouses. Five low steps led on to the porch, which was illuminated by an overhead light. I climbed those steps and was searching for a doorbell when the heavy oak door swung open, revealing a very tall, powerfully-built man. He was in his late forties with a strong, brooding, menacing, intimidating countenance. He also carried a shotgun under his left arm, which I found a trifle disconcerting. His head was bald, exposing a number of prominent blue veins, while his eyes were dark, fixed and staring. His rotund face displayed a pallid complexion, along with a large mole above his right eye, on his forehead, and a strawberry birthmark on his right cheek. Standing around six foot six, he was brawny and muscular and I got the impression that if he'd auditioned for a part in a Hammer Horror movie he'd have been rejected for being too scary. I was willing to bet that his father had been a boxer. Come to think of it, I was willing to bet that his mother had been a boxer too.

With a Lurch-like grunt, Baldy invited me into the building. I smiled politely, kept an eye on his shotgun, then stepped into a long, ostentatious, entrance hall. Brightly lit panels and plasterwork celebrated the rich and famous who'd graced the house. I noticed images of Adam and Eve along with a frieze, crowded with heraldry, interspersed with mythical beasts. The walls were lined with Greek and Roman statuary, including one carving of a cat playing with a snake. Yuck. A large window, at the far end of the hall, offered light into the building and I was marched to that window where Baldy pointed his shotgun at a softly padded, velvet chair. After smoothing the back of my skirt, I sat and awaited the lady of the manor.

I didn't have to wait long. Her ladyship had clearly been out, horse riding. She was wearing jodhpurs, a riding habit and a frilly blouse. She was also carrying a whip, in her right hand. Immediately, I felt sorry for the horse. I knew this woman by reputation. According to the gossip columns, she had married into a wealthy family, divorced and run off with the spoils. Her name was Lady Fiona Grimsley and, on account of her love for jewellery, she was also known as Lady Diamond.

"Five minutes, no more," Lady Diamond moaned in severe, clipped tones.

Five minutes with you, dear, and I'll be screaming to get out. I smiled, "Thank you. Five minutes should be fine."

Lady Diamond was in her early fifties. She had iron-grey hair, parted in the centre, curving to meet under her chin, grey, cold, piercing eyes and an ugly face with no redeeming features whatsoever. She was comfortably built, not exactly fat, but lacking in feminine curves of any distinction. She was slightly shorter than me, standing around five foot tall. In her ears, she wore large, sparkling, diamond earrings while her fingers were covered with baubles equally as ostentatious and flamboyant.

I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but I disliked this woman instantly. She looked evil. She had the sort of look that gave good witches a bad name. I was tempted to look for her broomstick, but I'm too polite. You see elderly ladies in town, in the park, and there's a grace about them that tells you that in their youth, they must have been beautiful – no matter what the makers of beauty creams say, the longer the clock ticks, the more women lose their looks; it's a fact of life and my motto is, 'get over it' – but this woman had no beauty about her now, and probably had none in the past. I was willing to bet that there was no milk in the house because if she caught sight of it, it would curdle. As you might have gathered, I didn't like her, big time.

"What a wonderful hallway," I smiled ingratiatingly, waving a hand in the direction of the Greek statues. I must show you my porch sometime.

Lady Diamond nodded. She offered me a tight smile.

"Do you mind if I take notes?"

Her ladyship scowled. Clearly, her scowl was her default expression, so I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and removed my notebook and pen.

"When was the house built?"

"Sixteen eighty-eight."

"Any idea who built it?"

She gave me a withering, 'what a stupid question' look.

"Has the house always been in your family?"

"The house belonged to my ex-husband."

"And you acquired it as part of the divorce settlement?"

"He was unfaithful to me, he stifled my career in politics and damaged my business interests; he was lucky to get away with only losing the house."

I tried to look empathetic, one divorced woman to another. "It must have been a very difficult time for you, during the divorce."

Lady Diamond glared at me. So much for empathy.

"And now, I believe the house is open to the public?"

"Only the east wing."

"But you hold public events here?"

"Invitation only."

I scribbled a note in my notebook. It's libellous, so I'd better not tell you what I wrote.

"The upkeep on a place like this must be enormous."

"We get by."

I made another note in my notebook. I was about to ask my next, incisive, penetrating question when Baldy marched down the hallway, his shotgun slung over his right shoulder. He whispered something to Lady Diamond and she nodded. Then she glared at me. The glare said, 'get out'.

"Can I take some pictures?" I swung my camera gaily, and smiled brightly, like a young girl anticipating a trip to the seaside.

"Only in the public areas." She nodded towards the rooms on her right. "I've given you enough of my time, Miss..."

"Summer. Abigail Summer."

"Take your pictures, Miss Summer, then leave my house."

I waited until Lady Diamond and Baldy had disappeared from the hallway. Then I wandered around the house. Clearly, the public areas would hold no interest for me because they contained no secrets. I had to find my way into the private quarters and nose around.

I climbed a staircase, the kind you see in Busby Berkeley musicals, and discovered a bedroom. I eyed a deep blue, extremely thick, shag pile carpet, and was working out whether I should walk or swim across it, when I heard a sound. I pressed my slight frame against a wall – getting by on one cooked meal a day does have its advantages – and listened for footsteps or voices, anything to suggest that I should run. Thankfully, apart from the normal hums and groans of a building, all was quiet. And, with my breathing returning to normal, I set foot on the deep blue, shag pile carpet.

There were mirrors on the ceiling and pink champagne in an ice bucket. I wandered over to the king-sized bed. The bed sheets were purple, a shimmering satin, while the bed frame was metallic with large brass spheres at each corner. My eyes were drawn to the head of the bed and a series of scratches, caused by a heavy-handed maid with a duster or by something more sensual? The scratches suggested metal on metal and handcuffs sprung to my mind. Come on, admit it, that's what you were thinking as well. I shrugged, whatever turns you on, I suppose. I took some photographs, of the room and of the bed, and wondered, was this a private love-nest, or used for something more sinister? Does someone as ugly as Lady Diamond have sex? What about her male partner, does he wear a blindfold? Maybe that's where such practices originated, wealthy men copulating with ugly, rich women. I'm wicked, aren't I?

I was lost in my work, taking photographs. That and the deep pile of the carpet were my undoing and I failed to hear Lady Diamond as she appeared beside the bed.

"What are you doing in here?" she snarled.

"Sorry." I waved my hand around in absent-minded fashion. I gave her a vacant look, you know, the one normally reserved for women of a certain age and hair colour who appear on reality television programmes. "Your place is a bit bigger than mine. I guess I got lost."

Lady Diamond was not impressed. Her scowl deepened and with a savage grasp, she snatched my camera from my hand. "Get out!"

"Yes, ma'am, sorry ma'am." If I'd had a forelock, I'd have tugged it.

While sitting in my Mini, I reflected. There was something about Mansetree House that made me feel dirty, unclean. Maybe it was the ostentatious wealth. Maybe it had something to do with that bedroom. An involuntary shiver ran through my body. I felt in need of a bath.

# Chapter Nineteen

I decided to have breakfast. While sitting at my kitchen table, stirring my muesli, I reflected on Mansetree House. Maybe the sex room was an innocent playground used for private pleasure. Maybe. But my instincts told me that there was something going on at that house, something underhand. I decided that after breakfast I would return to the house and embark on a period of surveillance.

It was a damp, misty, chilly day, so I dressed in trainers, jeans and a hooded top, with a cagoule to keep out the rain. Line one, page one of the enquiry agents' handbook states that before you embark upon a period of surveillance there is one thing you must do – have a pee. Believe me, there is nothing more uncomfortable than sitting for five hours with your legs crossed knowing that you're unable to leave your observation post; it's a quick-fire route to cystitis, and we don't want to go there, do we, ladies. So I emptied my bladder, made a flask of black coffee, gathered together my binoculars and camera –unlike yesterday's simple, digital model, this was something more sophisticated with a telephoto lens – then I set off for Mansetree House.

After yesterday's reconnoitre, I'd learned that a tall, red-bricked wall ran around the perimeter of the grounds. However, there was one weak spot in the defences – an area of woodland that climbed on to a hill overlooking the house. So I parked in a country lane, tucked my flask under my arm, threw my binoculars and camera over my shoulder, and set off to yomp through the woods.

It took half an hour of shin-bashing, thigh straining, hip-swaying manoeuvres before I arrived at a clearing with an elevated view of Mansetree House. From my vantage point, I could see the front gate, a portion of the driveway, the summerhouse and a number of outbuildings, along with the rolling acres of neatly manicured lawns.

I was shuffling my feet, looking for a suitable vantage point, when I trod on a snail. I hate it when that happens – I feel guilty for the rest of the day. There he is, minding his own business, when Samantha comes along in her size fives and 'crunch' goodbye Snaily, hope you had a nice life, better luck in the next one. I sat with my back against a tree and reflected – if there is a God, he must be a relative of Satan: how else can you explain all the cruel things that happen in the world?

I had a sip of coffee. Then I focused my binoculars on Mansetree House. I saw gardeners and workmen going about their business with no suggestion of any wrongdoing. Then my binoculars alighted on Baldy and I followed him around the grounds. He still had his shotgun thrown over his shoulder – maybe he slept with it – and he appeared to be taking an interest in one of the outbuildings. I focused on the outbuilding, but could see nothing sinister and when I picked Baldy up again he was examining an area set aside for rabbits. The rabbits were doing what rabbits tend to do; rabbit porn isn't really my thing, so I turned away and refocused on the front gate.

Over the next hour a number of delivery vans arrived, emblazoned with recognisable logos advertising well-established firms. These vans were unloaded and seemed to contain a selection of everyday produce and I concluded that Lady Diamond was preparing to host a party.

I focused on one of the delivery drivers, a handsome, square-jawed hunk. I'm sure I read somewhere that women average one erotic thought a day. I adjusted my binoculars to get a better view of the hunk. Hmm. Interesting. I wonder if...okay, Samantha, that's your thought for the day, now get back to business.

By early afternoon, it started to rain and I pulled the hood of my cagoule over my head. I drank some more coffee and watched the raindrops as they splashed into the lid of my flask. As I sipped my coffee, I allowed my mind to wander. I thought about Dr Alan Storey and his dinner invitation. I thought about the picture of Alan and his daughter. There was a serenity about the picture, a suggestion that they had come to terms with the past. Did I have any right to interfere in their lives and shatter that serenity? I knew that I was a bundle of contradictions; at least I could admit that to myself. Deep down, what did I want out of life? I wanted to run a successful business and be in a steady, stable relationship. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to make my partner happy. And the barriers to achieving this goal? Sometimes the weight of my emotional baggage dragged me down. On good days, I could see and understand that not all men were like Dan, but on bad days, when my emotions and not logic took control, I was frightened of men, frightened of the feelings I could have for them, frightened of getting hurt, emotionally and physically, frightened of love. I didn't trust them. But more to the point, I didn't trust myself when it came to love.

The afternoon was getting darker and rain was dripping off my nose. Hyperthermia was imminent, but I'd stick it out for another hour; I was nothing if not tenacious.

And twenty minutes later I was rewarded with a possible clue. While focusing on the gate of Mansetree House I spied Drake Jolley, the DJ from Radio Rhoose. There was no reason why he shouldn't visit the house, I suppose, but thinking back to T.P. McGill's list of initials I recalled those of D.J.R.R. Nothing clicked at the time, but was it possible that those initials related to Drake Jolley? Hmm. I adjusted my binoculars for a closer look.

Then the distant figure of Baldy blocked my view. He was gazing at the woods, towards my position. He was walking towards the woods. Had he seen me? Had a sliver of light reflected off my binoculars and betrayed my position? He was running towards me now, shotgun in his hands. I gathered my things, turned on my heel and scarpered into the woods. It would take me twenty minutes, at least, to get out of there. In my favour, I had mobility and agility. In his favour, he had power, strength and speed. With all things being equal, he would catch me before I made it back to my car.

Five minutes into my run I was starting to pant, more from anxiety than from a lack of stamina. I glanced over my shoulder. I could hear him, but I couldn't see him. I pinned my ears back and ran as fast as I could.

After ten minutes, I sensed that he was close behind me. I was about to turn around to look when I heard the blast of the shotgun and, just above my head, saw the splintering of wood. Stumbling and gasping, I ploughed on.

As I ran, two thoughts occurred to me: one – he was faster than me and at this rate, he would catch up with me before I left the wood. Two – the fact that he was willing to use the shotgun revealed that he was taking no prisoners; he was shooting to kill.

I increased my pace and prayed that I'd catch sight of the country lane soon.

Then I tripped over a branch. I went sprawling into the mulch of the forest floor. I tried to stand, but my ankle gave way. I would need five minutes recovery time but at this rate, I had less than five minutes to live. Frantically, I looked around and saw a large stone, heavy, but not quite a boulder. I limped over to the stone and tried to lift it. It was heavy, but fear gives you amazing strength and somehow I raised the stone to shoulder level and on to a knot of branches. Then I started to climb the tree. It was slow, painful going but, as a tomboy, climbing trees was my speciality and I still had the elasticity and suppleness of youth. Occasionally I'd pause to reposition the stone, then I'd move up to a higher branch. From ground level, I was out of sight, but I had a clear view through the tree to its base and roots. With my ankle aching and sweat dripping off my brow, I raised the stone and steadied myself. It seemed to take an age and my arms were hurting now, but Baldy appeared at the base of the tree, shotgun poised, his beady eyes scanning the woods.

I had one shot at this; I knew that all too well. If I missed, Baldy would fire his shotgun and Samantha would join Snaily in that great detective agency in the sky. I took careful aim. I lined up the stone with the back of his head. Then I let it go and asked forgiveness for my – many – sins.

My aim was true. The heavy stone struck Baldy on the back of his head and his knees buckled. He dropped his shotgun and sprawled among the leaves. I paused, to make sure that he was out cold, then I climbed down from the tree.

A bruise the size of my fist was already forming on the back of Baldy's head. He was breathing, so I hadn't killed him, though doubtless I'd rearranged a few of his brain cells. Carefully, I picked up the shotgun and, using it as a crutch, limped away from the tree. When I reached the country road, I threw the shotgun into the forest. Then I climbed into my car, switched on the ignition and left tyre tracks on the road.

# Chapter Twenty

I drove to Castle Gwyn. By the time I arrived at the castle the adrenalin had worn off and my ankle was hurting like hell. I limped into the hall where I found Milton reading a book, a biography of Oscar Wilde.

Milton marked his place with a bookmark, glanced at his wristwatch, then looked up at me, his forehead creasing with concern. "Are you all right, Sam? You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge, backwards."

"That's just about the top and tail of it," I groaned, slumping into an armchair. I leaned forward and undid the laces on my right running shoe. "Ouch!"

Milton walked over to me. He stared at my swollen ankle and its colourful bruise. "I'll fetch you a bucket and some ice."

Five minutes later my right foot was resting in a bucket of ice and I was sipping coffee with a shot of sherry, kindly supplied by Milton.

"Feeling better now?" Milton asked solicitously.

I nodded. The coffee and sherry warmed me, though my foot felt like a block of ice. I glanced down to the bruise and the swelling on my ankle. In truth, it wasn't too bad and thanks to Milton's ministrations, I knew that I'd be all right.

"Where's Woody?" I asked, eyeing Milton over the rim of my coffee cup.

"He's mixing the album. The music is keeping his mind off the murder investigation."

"And Nerd?"

Milton sighed. He shook his head and offered a world-weary grimace. "Nerd is still wrapped in a tantric embrace."

I smiled over the rim of my coffee cup. Then Derwena entered the hall, looking a whiter shade of pale. She was dressed in a pink satin kimono emblazoned with a butterfly motif. As she spread herself across the chaise longue she moaned, "I need some coke."

"Be brave," Milton encouraged. "Be strong. Another day without means another day towards recovery."

"But Woody's still snorting," Derwena whined.

"You're stronger than him."

She placed the back of her left hand on to her forehead, closed her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes. "Oh, I think I'm going to faint."

"Have a glass of water," Milton replied, coldly.

"Can it be a glass of vodka?"

"Pretend it's vodka."

Derwena opened her eyes. She leaned forward and scowled at Milton. "You're a right bastard, you are, Milton."

"Yes," Milton agreed while gazing at the stars on the ceiling, "I'm the Devil himself."

Clearly, Derwena was not going to obtain any satisfaction from Milton, so she turned her gaze towards me. "What's she doing here?"

"She's working for us, remember," Milton replied patiently.

"I know that," Derwena scowled. "Do you think I've got air for brains?"

Milton and I stared at each other. We managed to keep a straight face. We managed to keep our mouths shut.

"I mean," Derwena continued, "what's she doing here, now." She peered around the arm of my armchair and frowned at my swollen ankle. "And why's she got her foot in a bucket?"

"What did happen to your foot, Sam?" Milton asked. "Did you do that working for us?"

I nodded. "I'll add my medical bill to my list of expenses, along with a confiscated camera." I placed my empty coffee cup on an occasional table and jiggled my ankle in the ice bucket, just to make sure that my foot hadn't dropped off. "I want to ask you some questions. Maybe I've stumbled on to something, maybe not. I'd like your thoughts on a few things."

"What have you stumbled on, Sam?" Milton asked while leaning forward.

"What do you know about Mansetree House?"

He frowned, then shook his head. "Nothing. We've never been invited there."

"You haven't attended any of their parties?"

"No. Mansetree House is out of our league."

I digested that information and concluded that there was no direct connection between Milton and company and Lady Diamond. All these people moved in social circles way out of my league but, even for multimillionaires, there was a hierarchy, and my employers at Castle Gwyn had yet to reach the top table.

"I saw a few things at Mansetree House; maybe they're innocent, maybe they're not."

"What things?" Milton asked.

I explained, in detail, about the sex room, and about Baldy and his shotgun chasing me off the premises.

"You've got to take more care, Sam." Milton wrung his hands. He stood and paced restlessly around the hall. "You could have been seriously hurt, killed."

"Handcuffs?" Derwena was still in the sex room. There was a strange look on her face, a look of fascination mixed with intrigue. "Are there any handcuffs in the castle, Milton?"

"Not now, Derwena! Tell us more, Sam, what, who do you suspect?"

"Maybe the house is holding a secret, or maybe my imagination is running wild."

I glanced over to Derwena. She was flexing her wrists, contorting her arms, as though they were manacled to the chaise longue. Clearly, her imagination was running wild.

"T.P. McGill was planning to write an article about Mansetree House. Maybe the owners were not too happy at that prospect. Maybe he stumbled upon their secret."

"And they had him murdered?" Milton went as white as a glass of milk. He took his silk handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and placed it to his forehead. Then his nervous fingers adjusted his cravat. "My, oh, my. What have we stumbled into?"

"There are many maybes in there," I qualified. "I need more facts, some proof." Perhaps I was clutching at straws, but I looked over to Derwena, hoping that she could offer some insight into the activities at Mansetree House. "Did Troutbeck mention anything about the house?"

Derwena shook her head. She was sitting upright now, the handcuffs forgotten. In fact, beads of sweat were trickling down her forehead. She was shivering and not looking at all well. "Troutbeck mentioned nothing, nothing at all."

"I've heard rumours about the house," Milton added. "The usual nonsense about outrageous booze and drugs parties. But then, a lot of very wealthy people throw a lot of very outrageous parties."

"Milton, dear..." Derwena raised her arms, holding them parallel to the ground. She looked like a character from a 1920s movie, a somnambulist, about to go sleepwalking. "I feel sick."

Before Milton could react, Tim appeared, ghostlike, in the hall. He took hold of Derwena's right arm and escorted her towards the bedchambers.

I glanced at Milton. "Maybe you should call a doctor; she doesn't look at all well."

Milton nodded. "I'll call Dr Storey. He's a good man; he'll offer sage advice."

I could believe that statement about Dr Storey; he was a good man and he would offer sage advice. I guess Derwena was fortunate to have him on her side. Returning to Milton, I asked, "Any idea why Drake Jolley would visit Mansetree House? I saw him there this afternoon."

Milton shook his head. He glanced at his pocket watch and the telephone. "Maybe you should ask Mr Jolley."

I wiggled my toes. The ice had done the trick. My ankle was feeling much better. I smiled. "I'll do that now."

# Chapter Twenty-One

I drove to Radio Rhoose and parked in the radio station car park. It was late afternoon and, in keeping with recent afternoons, the dark clouds were rolling in. I watched the first drops of rain fall on my windscreen, then brushed them away with my windscreen wipers. Moments later the rain became more persistent and I settled back to gaze through the rain-streaked glass. I was waiting for Drake Jolley and fifteen minutes later, he duly arrived driving a bright red sports car, a vintage Alfa Romeo. Immediately I wondered how a local disc jockey could afford such an expensive car. Maybe cars were his hobby and he saved all his pennies in a glass jar. Or maybe Lady Diamond subsidized him...

I jumped out of my Mini, pulled the hood of my cagoule over my head and ran across the car park. My ankle held up well and caused only minor discomfort.

With rain dripping off my nose, I smiled at Drake Jolley. "I'd like a word, if I may."

Drake held up his raincoat, covering his head and shoulders. After the initial frown, there was a wide, white-toothed grin of recognition. "The triangle, right?"

I held up an imaginary triangle and struck it with my right hand. "Ting."

"Sure, babe, step into my office and we can have a chat."

Like a gentleman, Drake held the door open for me and we entered the foyer. We shook the raindrops from our coats, then Drake said 'good evening' to the receptionist before escorting me up a flight of stairs to his cramped, but homely, office. The office contained a standard pine desk, a low leather chair, a computer, a telephone and a wall of nondescript filing cabinets. Paperwork littered the desk, along with CDs, newspapers and a personal organiser. I spied a framed picture of a four-year-old boy, a youngster with Drake's high cheekbones and sleek ebony skin; I looked, but couldn't see a picture of a girlfriend or wife. Then my eyes wandered over to the walls. They were plastered with music posters, some featuring modern bands, others advertising 1970s gigs by the likes of van der Graaf Generator, Lindisfarne, Genesis and David Bowie.

"Excuse the mess," Drake apologised, running a hand over his desk, "I know a lot of people don't like mess, but personally I find that chaos fires my creativity."

"You're a creative person?"

Drake nodded while shuffling some of the papers into reasonable order, fashioning a vacant space on his desk. "I put a lot of creativity into my shows. It's not just about spinning the discs, you know." He sat on his swivel chair, opened a drawer in his desk and removed a can of soft drink. He offered the drink to me but, politely, I declined. While sitting back in his chair and pulling the ring on the can, he asked, "What music are you into? Who do you like to listen to? Maybe I could play you a dedication?"

I perched on the edge of Drake's desk, on the space he'd cleared for me. "I like mid-sixties to mid-seventies."

Drake nodded while nudging his large, black, horn-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his nose. "You're into the classics."

I nodded.

"That's cool. I dig that decade too. When you think of it, the 1960s and 1970s were the creative high point of popular music, a bit like the Renaissance with painting. I mean, you had Chuck Berry, Clarence 'Frogman' Henry, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles..."

"Don't forget the Beatles, the Stones, Dylan, the Beach Boys..."

"Yeah. And the Everly Brothers, Solomon King and Jimi Hendrix. Hey," he smiled at me, his dark eyes huge behind his horn-rimmed glasses, "you're cool. I had you down as a bit of a dyke originally, but you're a fun chick." He reached out, placed a hand above my knee, and started to caress my thigh.

"But the fun stops here." Gently, I removed his hand then stood, leaning my shoulder against the wall, near the door. "I want to ask you some questions about Mansetree House."

Drake leaned back in his chair. He swivelled from side-to-side, his eyes staring vacantly at his desk. "What questions?"

"You went there this afternoon."

"Sure," he shrugged. "I DJ for Lady Fiona, at her private parties."

I leaned forward and stared into Drake's eyes. "I know what goes on at those parties."

Drake tensed. He gave me a long, wary, sideways look, then busied himself with the flotsam on his desk.

With my penetrating stare still in place, I continued, "I don't want to drag your name into this, if I can help it, so I was hoping that you might help me fill in a few gaps, complete the picture, shift the focus on to the main players, if you know what I mean."

"What do you know?" he asked cautiously, looking up from his desk to meet my gaze.

"Enough," I smiled enigmatically.

He ran a thoughtful hand over his shaved head, then cupped his chin, caressing his fine goatee beard. He pointed a finger in my general direction. His fingers were thick, his fingernails square and flat, and neatly manicured. "If you know enough then why don't you go to the police?"

"Because I don't want innocent people to get hurt. And I'd like to believe that you're innocent."

"I am," he insisted, regaining his confidence and self-belief. "I go to Mansetree House to DJ at the parties. My involvement begins and ends there."

"But what about the others?" I asked.

He shrugged, then sipped his drink while leaning back in his chair. "Ask them."

"I will. But I need to make sure that I'm talking to the right people, I need some names."

Drake shook his head. He gulped his drink.

"Why not?" I persisted.

"Because my life wouldn't be worth a broken forty-five." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk, entwining his fingers. He looked up at me, over the bridge made by his fingers. "Do you know who you're dealing with, the connections these people have?"

"Organised crime?" I guessed.

He smiled and shook his head. "This goes well beyond organised crime. This is about people in power, in authority. If they get a sniff of what you're doing, they'll burn you."

"Like they burned T.P. McGill?"

"Don't you hear what I'm saying?" Drake became annoyed. He swept his hand over his desk, pushing some of the papers on to the floor. "You pursue this, they'll kill you. What is this to you?"

"My job," I replied succinctly.

"And it's worth getting killed for?"

I shrugged. "It's all I have."

"That's sad." He gave me a pitiful look, a pitiful look combined with a sneer. "The only thing you've got to live for is a job that will kill you. That's sad."

When expressed in such stark, harsh terms I suppose my life could appear cold and empty. Yet when the agency was going well I felt fulfilled, satisfied. Though there were moments when I longed to be loved, to share stories with a companion, to share the pleasures of sex, to share the minutiae of everyday life. Suddenly, I felt depressed, as though a dark, thundery raincloud were hovering over my head.

"Love Hurts."

"What?" Drake frowned.

"You said you'd play a track for me. Play 'Love Hurts'."

"Sure," he shrugged while making a note in his personal organiser. "Which version?"

"You choose." I put my hand on the door handle and left his office.

A moment later, Drake caught up with me in the corridor. As we walked to my car, he urged, "Drop it, babe, for all our sakes."

"I can't."

"Why not?" He stood in front of me, blocking my exit from the radio station, his face imploring, his eyes pleading.

"Because I need to prove something to myself, something to him."

"Who?"

"My father. I need to prove to him that he was wrong and that I am worthy and that I am not a waste of space." I brushed past Drake and walked out into the early evening rain. The rain soaked my hair, but I was in a bad mood and I didn't care. Over my shoulder, I yelled, "Play 'Love Hurts'. And play the whole track; don't fade it at the end."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I sat in my car and moped for five minutes, thinking about my father. Then I looked at my watch and realised that I had to be at Donadoni's in Cardiff Bay in two hours. And, normally, it took two hours to wash my hair. There was no time for self-pity. I fired the engine, put the car into gear and sped towards my humble home.

I dived into the shower and washed my hair. Then I dried it with a hairdryer. Sometimes, the hairdryer makes my hair go frizzy, but there was no time for a towel-dry today. At my kitchen table, I applied some make-up – a light, peachy lipstick and a touch of eyeliner; I blush at the drop of a hat, so blusher is never necessary. I grabbed my tongs and crimped my eyelashes. I applied some mascara, but not too much, because I didn't want to give the impression that two tarantulas had landed on my eyes – do men really find spider-like eyelashes attractive? With my war paint on, I wandered into my bedroom to get dressed.

What to wear...I spent the next ten minutes staring at my underwear drawer. We're not even going to get there, Samantha, so why are you wasting precious time? At some point during the eleventh minute, I settled for a fresh from the packet set of underwear and slipped into that – as my mother used to say, you should always wear your best underwear when going out, in case a bus knocks you down; my mother was not one of life's great optimists. A squirt of perfume, some Coco Chanel Mademoiselle, but not too much – we don't want him reaching for the smelling salts – then it was the big decision, which dress should I wear. Thankfully, my wardrobe is limited and given the time of year, the weather conditions and the occasion there could only be one choice – my black knee-length dress with its gold rose corsage trim. But first, a new pair of tights. Careful with the fingernails – they're a mess, they need filing – don't ladder your tights. Safely on. Sigh. Mop brow in relief. Comb hair. Again. Now the moment of truth, the bedroom mirror. Dare I risk a peek? A swish to the left, a swish to the right. A half-turn here, a half-turn there. A smile. See, Samantha, you can look quite pretty when you put your mind to it. Now go out there and enjoy your evening – hold that thought and have a good time.

I arrived at Donadoni's five minutes late, a woman's prerogative, and found Dr Alan Storey sitting by a table with a view of the waterfront. Needless to say, he looked very handsome in a tan, lightly checked suit, white shirt and paisley tie.

As I approached the table, Alan stood and drew a chair back for me. "You look stunning," he whispered into my ear.

"Thanks," I smiled, while making an effort to feel comfortable with the compliment; it didn't come naturally, but on this occasion it wasn't too much of a strain. As we sat at the table, I leaned over and murmured, "You look quite dishy too."

Alan grinned. He looked very happy and, as usual, very relaxed. He glanced around the crowded restaurant and observed, "Everyone is looking at you."

I stared straight ahead and pulled a face. "Yikes, I hope not; I hate to be the centre of attention." He laughed, and I added, "Maybe I've got lipstick on my nose."

"You're lipstick is perfect. Everything about you is perfect."

I shook my head because I knew that to be a lie. I tapped the side of my head with my index finger. "If only you could see what's going on inside here."

"I'm a psychologist," he winked, "so maybe I can."

I bit my bottom lip. Maybe he could read my mind. I'd have to be careful with my thoughts, especially the erotic ones.

"Let's eat," Alan suggested, offering me the menu. "I think I'll have the stracotto. What about you?"

"I'm a vegetarian – I don't eat anything with a face." I studied the menu and plumped for raviolo aperto con funghi – open ravioli with mushrooms in a white wine sauce.

Alan asked, "Would you like some wine?"

I shrugged with embarrassment, aware that I was coming across as uncouth and bashful. "I'm an ignoramus when it comes to wine."

"Not to worry," he smiled, "I'll choose something for you. Maybe a little Frascati, a wine favoured by the Roman clergy and nobility."

The waiter served our food and Alan sampled the wine. He gave a nod of approval and we settled over our plates to enjoy our meal.

As I sipped my wine, I asked, "How's Derwena?"

"Not good. She's back on the drugs and drink. I received a call just before I left my office, so I popped over to the castle to see her. She persuaded Woody to give her some cocaine and Milton relented on the vodka. It's a potent cocktail and she's doing herself no favours. That said, going cold turkey is difficult, and with the murder investigation and new album to complete this is not a good time. Also, the castle is not the ideal environment for freeing yourself from drugs."

"Maybe she needs a clinic."

"Maybe. I'll call on her again tomorrow and discuss the implications of her lifestyle, on her health and career."

Alan sampled his wine. He drank slowly, I noted, savouring the wine as he consumed his food. I sensed that he was a light drinker, someone who would unwind with a glass of wine in the evening, or with a meal. He was in his early forties, but he still had a powerful, muscular physique. Obviously, he looked after himself in terms of physical activity and alcohol consumption; given my track record with Dan and my mother, the latter was important to me.

After Alan had digested a forkful of beef, carrots and juniper berries, he asked, "What about your sleuthing; how are you getting on?"

Whenever anyone asked me about my work, I tended to become nervous, mainly because the people I encountered usually used a light, disbelieving tone, as though not taking my work seriously. Consequently, I gave Alan a stern look over the rim of my wine glass and blurted, "Are you mocking me?" He merely smiled as he sampled another forkful of beef and I was left to stare into his dark brown eyes and conclude, "No, you're not, you're not mocking me. You understand, don't you?"

He nodded, then sipped his wine. "Maybe not the full reasons as to why you're involved in this line of work, but I appreciate that being an enquiry agent means a lot to you."

Alan returned to his plate and a thin strip of ham while I, relieved and relaxing more and more with each minute, regaled him with my tale of Mansetree House and its assortment of suspicious characters.

When I'd finished my tale, Alan asked, "When are you going to hand it over to the police?"

I devoured the last of my pasta, dabbed my lips with a napkin and explained, "I need a few more facts first, hard evidence. Then I'll contact Sweets."

"Sweets?" Alan frowned, tilting his head to his left to reveal a small, light mole on the right of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

"Detective Inspector MacArthur, my tame copper."

And after that explanation, we moved on to dessert. Alan had zabaglione with chocolate sauce while I settled for a rather yummy tiramisu. I was tucking away a week's supply of food in one sitting. After the wafer-thin mint, I feared that I would split the seams on my dress.

I was feeling relaxed, enjoying the occasion. I wiggled the toes on my right foot and experienced no pain – I was wearing soft 'sensible' shoes, just in case. I sensed that one or two men in the restaurant were eyeing me, but I felt no discomfort. Maybe it had something to do with the wine. Or maybe it had something to do with Alan's presence. I was feeling good about myself, but Alan was frowning. He leaned forward and put his thoughts into words.

"Look, I don't discuss this with many people, but I hope we'll do more of this and so it would come up at some point. I'd like to talk about it now, if I may, for my sake, if not yours."

"Talk about what?" I frowned, a trifle concerned.

"Elin, my wife."

"Okay." I sat back in my chair after placing my napkin on the table. "Talk away, I'll listen."

"Elin died seven years ago, you know that. It was a climbing accident. In our student days we were both keen mountaineers and walkers and that is how we met. Seven years ago, we were with a group climbing near Ben Nevis. It wasn't a dangerous crag or particularly high climb. But Elin's rope failed. As someone said at the inquest, it was one of those things."

There was raw emotion in his voice and a glazed look in his eyes. My heart bled for him. Surreptitiously, I moved my hand across the table. His hand covered my hand and our fingers entwined. We squeezed, then held hands.

"We knew the dangers, we took precautions, but fate intervened that day and I lost my wife."

"And Alis lost her mother."

He nodded. His face was grim, troubled, but his emotions were under control. "That was the really hard part. She was only nine years old. Of course, that day has scarred her, but she's strong, like her mother, she's helped me through, and I hope I've helped her."

"I'm sure you have." I squeezed his hand and he smiled. He took hold of my fingers and brushed them lightly against his lips, a gesture of thanks.

I returned my hands to my lap and gazed at the empty plates on our table. It was my turn to look reflective, and recall thoughts that weighed heavy on my mind.

"Yesterday, you asked me about my father..." I looked up from the table, and gazed into Alan's eyes. "You see this knotted ball of confusion sitting opposite you at this restaurant table, well I'm such a mess partly because of him."

Alan leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. With an inquisitive look on his face, he made a bridge with his fingers, then placed his fingers to his chin. "Explain."

"Basically, I don't know who he is. My birth certificate says that my father is Samuel Smith, the man my mother married. But Samuel died in the Falklands War, at Port Stanley, on June the 13th, 1982. I was born on the 1st April 1983 – 'April Fool'. This means that I was conceived around the 1st July 1982. The dates don't add up. On some days, my mother would insist that Samuel was my father, on others she would ramble on about being impregnated by an American soldier who was stationed at St Athan. I've found no evidence of this man, but I believe that he is my father. I know nothing about him, though I've searched through my mother's papers and made enquiries whenever I can. I know there are dozens of logical reasons as to why my dad didn't stick around to care for me – maybe he knew nothing about me, though my mother would often talk about him holding me in his arms. Maybe he too was killed in action – could I be that unlucky? Yeah, I guess I could, it would fit the pattern of my life. But I like to think that he's still alive. Maybe he was stationed somewhere else after St Athan, maybe he was sent to Germany, or somewhere in Europe. Maybe he went back to America. Maybe he has a family in the States. But what hurts me, more than my mother's illness, more than the beatings received from Dan, what hurts me is, he saw me then left me. He held me and abandoned me. Why? Am I really that horrible? Did he look into my eyes and see a monster? Why did he run away? He never sent me a birthday card or Christmas card. He never visited or phoned. He made no effort to contact me whatsoever. Why? Why didn't he love me? Don't I deserve to be loved?" I stared into my lap, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "Sorry," I mumbled, "My ramblings will give you indigestion."

"No they won't. And anyway, I've got medicine in my cupboard for that."

I looked up and offered Alan a wan smile. "Have you got any medicine for me?"

"You talk, I listen. That's the best medicine." Alan placed his chin on the bridge made by his fingers. His face became thoughtful, pensive, reflective as he gazed into my eyes. "I'm sure you've thought about your father many times over the years and you've rationalised that his reason for leaving, for not getting in touch, may have nothing to do with you and everything to do with his circumstances."

"I have. But if you loved someone, you'd make an effort to contact them. I know you would. Most people would. But he made no effort to contact me. Conclusion – he didn't love me. My own father didn't love me. My mother couldn't love me because she was too drunk. How can anyone love me when I don't know what love is, when I don't know how to give love? And when I reach out to someone and try, love hurts. Big time." I placed my hands on the edge of the table and prepared to push myself to my feet. The pleasure of the early evening had given way to acute discomfort and embarrassment. I glanced towards the restaurant door and prepared to leave. "I'm sorry; I've ruined your evening; just tell me to sod off, I won't get angry or make a scene."

"No you haven't, Sam. You haven't ruined my evening. This might sound trite, or inconsequential to you, but I know what you're saying. I understand your hurt, both from a professional and personal point of view."

I glanced up, dragging my gaze from the tops of my shoes. I looked into his eyes and of course, they held a measure of understanding. I should have known that by now. I must learn how to control Stroppy Sam and not let her assert herself.

"You do, don't you; you do understand. We only met a few days ago, but already I sense that you know me better than I know myself."

"I don't know about that," he smiled, "but I do know that you are a very beautiful woman and that I am becoming very fond of you."

On top of the ravioli and mushrooms, the tiramisu, and the wine, that took some digesting. But I tried to gulp it all down as Alan, generously, paid the bill.

"I'm sorry..." He glanced at his wristwatch. "I have to go. I have to pick up Alis." He walked me to the restaurant door. "May I see you to your car?"

I smiled. His compassion and understanding had helped me and I found my spirits lifting. My life had always been something of a rollercoaster and I'd come to accept that every day I'd go through a myriad of moods. Even so, I longed for stability, for a period of calm in my life. Dare I even think that I could find calm and stability with this man?

It was raining and Alan opened an umbrella. The lights from the waterfront revealed themselves in the puddles, offering a shimmering rainbow of hues. People scurried past, eager to get out of the rain. Let them hurry. I was all for getting wet and for the evening to sail on forever. I suppose that meant something profound, but I was too stupid to realise it at the time.

As we walked towards my car, Alan leaned towards me and asked, "One question. If you found your father, do you think it would take some of the hurt away?"

I nodded. "I've always assumed it would, yeah."

"Even if he supplies you with answers you don't want to hear?"

"I want answers, whatever they may be. I want to know why he didn't love me."

Alan twirled his umbrella. A few raindrops splashed on to his suit, but he didn't seem to care. Then, to my surprise, he looked nervous. While twirling his umbrella, he asked, "Can I see you again?"

I pulled a face, giving him my goofy look. "You want to meet me again, after an evening like this?"

"It's been a beautiful evening. I want to meet you again, more than ever."

"Okay," I smiled brightly, warming to the thought, wondering what dress to wear. Maybe I could buy a new dress for the occasion...

"I'll phone you tomorrow and we'll arrange something."

"Okay."

Alan held my car door open as I slipped on to the driver's seat. He grinned, "You're something else, do you know that."

Did he mean he liked me, or did he mean I was a freak? He smiled when he said it so I was inclined to think that he liked me. And I liked him, a bit. In fact, he was all right, for a man. Okay, if I can't be honest with myself, I'll be honest with you – I liked him a lot. And he really was quite dishy, more than all right.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

On the journey home, I sang the Beach Boys' 'God Only Knows' to myself. I sang the entire song holding only one note – B very flat – but, hey-ho, it made me happy.

I parked my Mini and climbed the two flights of stairs that led to my flat. I was still singing to myself when I inserted the key and opened my door. Then all hell broke loose.

I was hanging my coat in the closet when Dan burst through my front door. In my merriment, I'd forgotten to lock it. He grabbed me by the elbow and hurled me into the living room. Crying out in pain, I went sprawling across the carpet, laddering my tights, knocking my head against the television stand.

"Don't worry," Dan smiled, charmingly, boyishly, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm cool, calm, in control, the new Dan. I just want some answers to some very important questions."

I pushed myself into a sitting position while rubbing my head and then my arm. "You've already hurt me," I groaned. "Get out, before I call the police."

Dan ignored me. He stood over me, his legs either side of my thighs, pinning me to the floor. "Question one – what were you doing with him when you knew you had a date with me?"

"Did I?" I rubbed my temple. It was throbbing from its thud against the TV stand. "It must have slipped my mind." And that was the truth; I was so intent on my dinner date with Alan that meeting up with Dan completely slipped my mind.

"Who is he?" Dan demanded.

"None of your business." I tried to wriggle between his legs to free myself, but he trod on my dress, tearing the hem. I stared at the torn dress and then at Dan, my anger rising. "Have you been following me?"

"I've been keeping an eye out for you, yeah."

I pushed him away by placing my hands behind his right knee. He lost his balance, temporarily, and I clambered to my feet.

As I dusted myself down, I realised that I was the one with the stalker, not Derwena. Dan had been following me while I'd been looking the other way.

"I think you should leave." I was shaking inside, with anger, indignation and fear but to my ears, my voice sounded surprisingly calm.

"You haven't answered my questions," Dan snarled; the synthetic charm, the boyish pretence had quickly faded; once again, Dr Jekyll had given way to Mr Hyde. "I want to know all about this bloke, his name, where he works, what he means to you."

"He means nothing to me."

"Liar!"

A picture of Alan appeared in my mind, an image of him smiling, looking happy. I felt guilty, because it was a lie, because by using those words I was doing him a disservice. No matter what Dan thought of me, of Alan, I resolved to tell the truth.

"Yes, that was a lie. I like him. I like him a lot. He's a decent man; he's kind, considerate, compassionate...everything you're not."

"Ooh," Dan ridiculed me while circling around the room, "you're really pushing the boat out, lady. More talk like that and you're heading for a slap."

From somewhere, I found a level of courage that surprised me, and I stood up to him. "You lay a finger on me, and I'll kill you."

Dan pushed his right palm into my right shoulder and I fell into an armchair. "What's he been saying to you, where's all this talk come from?"

I was at a disadvantage, sitting in the chair, but I stuck to my guns. "Get out!"

"Does he love you?"

"He likes me."

"Do you love him?"

"I like him."

"I see. I get it. So it's goodbye Dan. No room for a cuckoo in Sam's love nest." Dan squatted beside the chair. He placed his face close to mine and I could see the veins pulsing in his forehead, I could smell his over-strong after-shave and the alcohol on his breath. "Do you honestly think he'll stick around? Once he gets to know you, once he gets to understand what a frigid piece of shit you are, do you honestly think he'll want to know you. He'll be gone before you can turn around."

I flinched, turning my head away, as though he'd hit me. The physical blows were excruciating but over the years, Dan's words had caused me more pain.

"You're sick, Dan," I mumbled in a small voice, "you need help."

"I'm sick?" He stood and wandered around my living room, waving his arms like a windmill caught in a storm. "That's rich coming from Sam the fruitcake. That's rich coming from the woman who dissolves into tears the minute a man puts his hand on her cheek."

He bent over me again and placed the back of his right hand, lightly, on my right cheek.

I tensed. My hands gripped the armchair and my eyes stared at his hand as though it were a cobra, ready to strike. "Don't touch me. Please."

He ignored me. He continued with his rant, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sick? That's rich coming from the woman who cries herself to sleep at night whenever she thinks of her mother, or her father, whoever the hell he may be. You're an emotional mess, Sam. You're a loony tune. You come on all bold and brassy, but if anyone lays a finger on you, you freak out. You're damaged goods, Sam. A man like that won't want to know you. And look at you. You look like a whore, you've got no class."

"Not true!" A tear trickled down my left cheek. I brushed it away with my index finger.

"Your hair's a mess and your clothes look as if they've been discarded by a charity shop."

"Not true!"

"You were pretty when I first met you, but look at you now. You've got bags under your eyes, wrinkles on your face and pimples on your skin. How old are you? Thirty-two? You look fifty-two. You're heading for the gutter, Sam, on the slide fast."

I brushed away another tear. And another one from my left eye. "Stop it, Dan! Stop it! Please! Why are you doing this to me?"

"You're shit, Sam. I flush better things than you down the toilet."

I put my head in my hands. My shoulders started to shake. "Stop it! Please!"

"You're no better than a piece of dog shit. You're garbage."

"Stop it!"

"You're an ugly whore who sells herself as a private eye. Your office is above a knocking shop. Why is that? Because you want men to walk in and buy what you have to offer. You're a slut, Sam, and a cheap slut at that."

I was crying openly now. I put my hands over my ears, to try to block out his voice. But it was no use, his words were already embedded in my brain; I'd listened to this tirade, or variations of it, continuously for four years. Dan didn't have to say a word. He only had to look at me and the whole lousy record would start up again. And it would go on and on and on...

"Do you give them discounts? Or refunds? I bet you don't give value for money." He mocked my light voice, "Not tonight, Dan, I've got a headache, not tonight, Dan, I'm tired, not tonight, Dan...for four sodding years!"

I bit my lip. I shook my head. I wiped the tears from my face. I wanted to argue, to stand up for myself, but I didn't know what to say.

"You're a failure, Sam. You dropped out of school, have no friends to speak of, you're a lousy lover and a pathetic private eye."

"Go away! Leave me alone!"

"When are you going to get honest with yourself? You're a whore, Sam." Again, he mocked my voice, "Do you want to hire me, you can do anything you like for £25 an hour."

"I'm a businesswoman! I run a respectable business!"

"You're a slut, Sam, you sell yourself cheap. You need to get out of this game, clean yourself up. Get a proper job, go back to typing. Get yourself off the street and into a nice clean office. And give up on the idea that Prince Charming is out there waiting to find you because no man in his right mind will ever love you. I'm the only man who understands you. I'm the only man for you. No other man would put up with a whore like you."

I buried my face in my hands again. My words of defiance had taken the last of my energy. I felt tired, weak, feeble, pathetic...I felt like the woman Dan had described.

He sat on the arm of my chair and put an arm around my shoulder. "You need me, Sam," he murmured in a gentle voice, "you can't live without me. Come here," he tightened his grip around my shoulder, "don't cry. Let me make it better." He kissed my forehead; my forehead was hot; my whole body was burning, as though gripped in fever. He kissed my forehead again. "I love you."

"Go away, Dan. Please."

"You need someone who can look after you, someone like me."

"Go away."

He ignored me. He cast his eyes around my living room, then stared at the bedroom. "You owe me, Sam; you owe me for four years of frustration." He winked at me. Maybe he thought it was a playful wink, but it came across as a leer. "Time to start making the repayments." His hand wandered over my thigh, under my dress. "Me and you, in your bedroom now, what do you say."

"Get away from me!" I pushed him. Finding an ounce of energy from somewhere, I pushed him and he fell away from me, landing on my carpet, on his backside.

The anger on his face and the ire in his eyes was frightening. He curled his fists into tight balls and eased himself to his feet.

"Don't make me hit you, Sam. It's all your fault, I don't want to hurt you, but you bring it on yourself."

He swung a right hook, but I managed to duck under it. I looked frantically around my living room, searching for my shoulder bag.

"Come here," he demanded, "come and get what you deserve."

"No!" I pushed him away and dived on to my shoulder bag. I fumbled inside the bag and came out with my gun.

Dan took a step away from me. His face was frozen in time, a mixture of rage and disbelief. He held his right hand out, palm raised, as though to shield himself from the impending bullet.

"What are you playing at, Sam?"

"Get out!" Although I was churning inside and my mind was whirring, my hands remained surprisingly steady as they gripped the walnut stock of my Smith and Wesson .32.

"You really have flipped this time."

"Get out!" The tears were streaming down my face as my hands gripped the gun and my index finger embraced the cold steel of the trigger.

"You should be in a padded cell."

"Get out!"

"I'll go and get help." He took another step back, his hand reaching, blindly, for the door. "You're sick, Sam. You're having another breakdown. You need help. I'll go and get help. Put the gun down. I'll get someone to help you."

"Get out!" I started to squeeze the trigger.

"I love you, Sam."

"Get out!"

Dan jerked the door open and ran down the corridor. I could hear his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he ran into the street.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the door. I locked it, securing all three deadlocks. Then I slumped to the floor with my back to the door. I dropped my gun on to the carpet and, crying uncontrollably, placed my head in my hands.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

I was sitting on my bed in my torn dress in the darkness. I must have dozed because in my waking moments I could recall vivid nightmares, centred on my mother and Dan. It was as though the past five years hadn't happened and I was living with Dan again. The fragile confidence, painstakingly built up over those five years, had gone and the dark thought reasserted itself – all men are monsters and they're only out to hurt me. I sat, staring at my bedroom walls, watching the first light of dawn.

Normally, after an altercation with Dan, I'd bounce back within an hour or so. But this time I'd fallen through an emotional trapdoor and was free-falling into the abyss. Pull yourself together. Pull what together, how? Dan's voice was like a record whirling round and round inside my head, a record you didn't like, but one you couldn't get out of your head. For hour after hour, his voice mocked me, criticised me, threatened me...

At the first light of dawn, I undressed and wandered into the bathroom. I ran a bath, my default reaction, to try to wash away the memory of Dan. I soaked in the bath, trying to wash the hurt away. I stayed in the bath until the water became cold and I could no longer be bothered to reach for the hot water tap.

In a daze, I dried myself and pulled on a fleecy dressing gown. I returned to my bed and gazed at the ceiling.

Then the phone rang. It must have been mid-morning, but I had no sense of the time. The phone rang again; I ignored it. A few minutes later, my mobile phone rang. I ignored it. In fact, I put my hands over my ears to block out the sound.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time I got up and pulled the wire out of the wall. Then my mobile phone rang and I switched it off. I felt very tired, emotional, totally drained. At times, I'd cry, though I couldn't quite understand the reason for my tears.

I was still crying when someone rang my doorbell. I pulled a pillow over my head and yelled, "Go away!" Irritatingly, the doorbell rang again, a shrill, insistent, annoying sound. I threw my pillow at my bedroom door and screamed, "Go away!"

Then a voice called out, "Sam, it's me, Alan."

I rolled on to my left side and mumbled, "Go away."

"Sam, are you okay."

Get up, open the door, get rid of him; he's a man just like Dan; he won't give you any peace.

I adjusted the tie on my dressing gown and stumbled to the front door. It took more effort than usual, but I managed to unlock the deadlocks. Then I opened the door a fraction of an inch.

"Sam, what's happened?" Alan's voice was soft, tinged with concern while his forehead was etched with disquiet. "Are you okay? I've been phoning, your home, mobile, office...no answer...I was worried."

Across the hallway, I could see old Mrs Baxter eyeing us with suspicion. Maybe she'd heard the row between Dan and me. I didn't want a scene, so I opened the door for Alan. "You'd better come in." I closed the door and invited him into my living room.

Alan sat in my armchair, while I perched on the sofa. I looked dreadful. My hair was a mess and my face was red from all my tears. But I felt no sense of embarrassment; I'd moved beyond such emotion. I stared into my lap, my fingers twirling my dressing gown tie.

Alan leaned towards me. Unusually for him, he was agitated. He loosened his tie, undid the top button on his shirt then asked, "What happened after I left you last night?"

"Dan happened." I gave details of our altercation, the best I could.

Alan removed his tie, rolled it and placed it in his pocket. He stood. He was angry, I could sense it, I could sense his emotion without seeing his face, and his anger scared me. He was angry with Dan, but I was worried that he was also angry with me. I couldn't cope with that. In all honesty, I was struggling to cope with his presence in the room.

"I'll have words with him. I'll sort him out."

"No," I pleaded, "don't get involved. It will only make things worse."

Alan sighed, taking a long, steady breath. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes then shook his head. "Have you eaten?"

I shook my head. "Not hungry."

"Let me make you lunch."

"No." I stared at my carpet, at a stubborn stain that refused to budge. "It's not a good time. I'm having a bad day. Please leave."

"I can't leave you like this. Let me help."

He squatted at my side, just as Dan had done the previous evening. The memory was too much and something deep within me snapped. I totally lost it and went into a rage.

"You're so perfect aren't you! You're so calm. You're so in control. All you want to do is help people and make them feel better, well you're not helping me by being here, so go away. In fact, you're making me feel sick."

"This is not you talking, Sam, this is the poison he's put into you." Alan's voice was gentle, soothing, but I heard nothing but aggression and threats.

I shot him an angry glance. "It's not me talking? Well watch these lips, if you're so totally wonderful and want to help people all the time why didn't you help your wife and save her instead of saving your own skin!"

His eyes widened in shock. His jaw dropped. He looked upset, deeply wounded. I replayed my words over in my mind and wondered where they had come from. How could I say such a wicked thing? Because I was frightened, frightened that if I reached out to him and became dependant on him he'd hurt me, just like Dan. And I couldn't face hurt anymore. I couldn't face men anymore.

Alan stood. He walked, with dignity, out of my living room. As his footsteps clipped the stairs I could hear the little devil in my mind laughing at me, mocking me in Dan's voice, while the little angel was shouting, run after him, you idiot, apologise. It took some effort, but I dragged myself to my feet and I did run out into the street, after him. My neighbours were staring at me and I felt what I was, a total fool.

When I reached him, Alan was behind the wheel of his vintage Jaguar XJ6. I placed my head against the glass of his driver's window and beseeched, "I'm sorry, Alan, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I didn't mean it. Please..."

But he drove off and left me standing in the rain.

On the way back to my flat, I thumped my head against my Mini in frustration. I kicked a tyre and yelled at a neighbour, "What are you looking at?" Then I slammed my front door, slumped to the floor and buried my head in my hands again.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

I was sitting in my office. It was a wet, dark, depressing afternoon. Evening had come early. I was dressed and my car was parked outside, but I had no recollection of driving to my office, no memory of the past few hours at all.

My head ached and I had an intense pain behind my eyes. I thought about Dan and his description of me. Of course, he was right. The idea of forming a relationship of any kind with Alan was fantasy. Alan was a good-looking man, successful in his career; he could have the pick of any woman in the world, so he sure as hell wouldn't pick someone as screwed up as me.

Maybe Dan was my only hope. Maybe we could start again, forget the past, build a new future together. And how long would that last? A week? A day? An hour?

I took the whisky bottle and a glass from my desk drawer and poured myself two fingers. It's early in the day, but what the heck. Sip it, I thought, but instead I gulped it. All gone. Now what? Another two fingers. No. I still had some willpower. I had no wish to turn into my mother. But the bottle was tormenting me. I got up and poured the whisky down the sink.

Then Marlowe jumped in through my partially open window. He sat on my lap and I stroked him. He brushed his head up against my body and purred.

I thought about Alan. Did I really say that to him, did I really say that about his wife? I did. Why did I say it? Because I was scared. Witless. I was frightened of my feelings for him. I was attracted to him and he seemed to be attracted to me. I realised that there was a possibility that we could become lovers. And then what? He'd hurt me, like everyone else I'd offered my love to. Maybe physically, maybe emotionally, maybe both. The solution – make him hate me, say something that would make him angry, make him go away. Problem solved. No love, no hurt. Trouble was it still hurt even without him. In fact, it hurt even more and I realised that I didn't really want him to go away.

"I like him, for God's sake!" I screamed in frustration. My yell startled Marlowe and he jumped out of the window. I sighed. Even the cat hates me now.

I picked up my gun. Maybe the gun offered a solution. It would be so simple to place the gun to my head and pull the trigger. Who would miss me? Marlowe, maybe. But he was a survivor; he'd find someone else to open a tin can for him. Sweets? He was sweet, and maybe he did care, but he was a gnarled old cop, he saw sad events every day, he was immune to them, he'd soon get over it. I looked at the gun. I placed the barrel to my temple. Bang. No more hurt, no more pain. I closed my eyes. No more hurt, no more pain. Squeeze the trigger. No more hurt, no more pain.

Then I heard footsteps on my office stairs. I levelled the gun, pointing it towards the door. A shape appeared in the frosted glass of my office door, a male shape. I placed my elbows on my desk and steadied my hands. The door creaked open. I wrapped my index finger around the trigger. I adjusted the tension on the trigger. Then I sighed with relief as Alan stepped into my office.

He stared at the gun, raised an eyebrow and gave me a twisted grin. "Do you want to shoot me?"

I shook my head, vehemently. I sniffed back a tear then offered the gun to him. "Maybe you should shoot me."

Alan took the gun from my malleable fingers. He placed it on my desk, the business end pointing towards the wall. Then he waved his hand over my client's chair.

"May I sit down?"

I flicked my index fingers across my cheeks, took a deep breath and composed myself. "Do you want to hire me?"

He smiled. His smile was warm and genuine, a mirror of the man. "If I had a problem of that sort, I would."

"Even after what I said to you?"

He nodded, decisively. "There were extenuating circumstances. What you said hurt me, but I should have counted to ten and realised why you used those words. He provoked you; he pushed you into a dark place and offered himself as the only solution. I see it professionally time and time again. But this is personal, and I lost my sense of judgement, my sense of perspective. I'm sorry I stormed out on you. Please forgive me."

I gasped, taken aback by his words, his compassion. I shook my head as I wrestled with my feelings, as I struggled to keep my emotions under control.

"Me, forgive you?" I stared down to my shoes. "I should be asking for your forgiveness. What I said was cruel and horrible. I feel so ashamed."

Alan reached across my desk. His hand covered my hand and I opened my fingers. Our fingers entwined and I looked up, trying to meet his gaze.

"Enough, Sam." He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. "No more punishing yourself, okay."

I nodded. "Okay." I tried to smile. It was a pathetic effort. "You've seen me at my worst."

His smile was broad, optimistic. "So things can only get better."

I held his hand with all the strength I possessed, with a level of intensity I wouldn't have believed possible, as though terrified to let go. "I was so scared, so frightened. I thought, make him hate me and the hurt will go away."

"And has it?"

"When you walked out of my door the hurt intensified."

"And now?"

I shook my head, as though to clear my confusion. I placed my right hand to my forehead and rubbed my furrowed brow. "I'm very tired. I'm very confused."

Alan nodded. He squeezed my hand. "You need plenty of rest."

Then, from the back of my mind, a thought leapt forward. I had work to do, a murder to solve. I had no time for moping around my office, no time for wallowing in my own emotions. I had to get out there; I had my job to do.

"I've got to get back to the castle, to Milton, Derwena..."

Alan shook his head, the stern look on his face forsaking all argument. "Not today."

Of course, he was right. I was in no state to do my job properly. I hated myself for admitting that fact, but it was the truth. I would do more damage than good in my present condition. I had to gather my thoughts together and sort myself out.

"Go home," Alan advised, "switch off your phones, lock your door. I have a friend who works in the security business. I'll ask him to make some arrangements. He'll get his people to camp outside your door, discretely. He'll make sure that no one bothers you." Alan squeezed my hand. "Do that for me, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

"You're in no state to drive. I'll drive you home."

"What about your car?"

"I'll get a taxi and come back and pick it up."

I reached into my shoulder bag and handed over my car keys. As I did so, we stood in the centre of my office. The rain was hammering against my window and the office was in darkness, just as well, I thought, because my sense of self was returning and I felt embarrassed about my appearance, humiliated by the events of the past eighteen hours.

"I don't deserve your kindness," I mumbled in a small voice.

Alan reached across. He brushed my tangled hair from my face, then placed the back of his hand lightly against my cheek. He sighed, "And that's where you go wrong, Sam. You deserve what I have to offer and a lot more."

I took hold of his hand and held it against my cheek. It felt warm, comforting and I felt reassured.

"Go home now," he instructed. "Rest. Do that for me. Please."

"I will."

We were standing close, toe-to-toe. He was looking into my eyes and his lips were inching towards my lips. I closed my eyes. He kissed me. I let him. It was the least he deserved.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

I slept, from five p.m. through to five p.m. the next day. Twenty-four hours. I needed every minute. I'd be lying if I said that I woke up refreshed, but my head was clearer. I knew what I had to do. I had to break into Mansetree House, gather evidence of whatever was going on there and present it to Sweets. I had to crack this case. I had to regain some self-respect.

I drove to Mansetree House. The street lights were on, the sky was overcast and dark, but we had no rain. After my experience with Baldy in the woods, I had no wish to return there. So I drove around the perimeter of the building, searching for a weak spot.

Sections of the high, red-bricked perimeter wall were covered in razor wire and broken bottles. Clearly, Lady Diamond was keen to keep out ne'er-do-wells like me. However, I did spot a gap in the defences, a section of wall lined with trees.

I parked my Mini under the trees, on the pavement. Then I climbed on to the roof of my car and hooked an arm over a tree branch. I dangled there for some time, my legs kicking thin air as I tried to generate some momentum, some impetus to enable me to climb the tree. Eventually, I pulled myself up and placed my feet on to one of the branches. I was above the level of the wall now and, after a few scratches and scrapes, I climbed through the tree and over the wall. Then, with arms extended, I dropped on to the soft grass of Mansetree House.

I was dressed in dark jeans, dark running shoes and a dark, hooded top. I pulled the hood over my head and tucked my hair into my top. My face and hands were visible, but apart from that, I was anonymous. Dark clouds hid the moon and the only illumination came from the distant lights of Mansetree House. Crouching, I made my way through the grounds, pausing to hide behind trees and outbuildings as I gained my bearings.

I was within shouting distance of the house and I could see numerous people, mainly men, as they strolled up to the building. All were well dressed and well presented, the crème de la crème of society. It was too dark and I was too far away to recognise individual faces, but I'm pretty sure that some of those men held prominent positions in public life.

At the rear of the building, I noticed a servants' entrance. A number of commodities, mostly of the food and drink variety, were delivered to that entrance and after the delivery van had pulled away, the entrance door remained open.

From my position, pressed against an outhouse, I kept an eye on that door for half an hour. No one entered or exited, except for a young woman dressed in a maid's outfit. She was using the door as a bolt-hole to sneak out for a quick cigarette. And, because she was a chain smoker, she was in and out like someone doing the hokey-cokey. That door was my entry to Mansetree House. I had to get rid of the maid, somehow.

I put my hand to the glass window of the outhouse and peered inside. The outhouse contained a number of discarded items including, for my purposes, an old wooden chair and a length of rope. I put my hand on the handle of the outhouse door. The door opened and I stepped inside.

From my position inside the outhouse, I kept watch on the servants' entrance. True to form, the maid appeared, a cigarette between her lips. The tip of the cigarette glowed as she inhaled deeply, then a plume of smoke clouded her face as she exhaled with a sigh.

I put two fingers to my lips and whistled softly. It was a trick that I'd learned in junior school, a trick that made me the envy of my classmates, for a time. Perplexed, the maid walked towards the outhouse. I whistled again and she frowned. She had short, blonde hair, I noticed, and a multitude of rings on her fingers, along with a number of piercings in her ears. I whistled for a third time, a wolf whistle this time, and she walked up to the outhouse door and opened it. Her jaw dropped as she saw my smiling face and pointed gun.

"One false move and I'll add another set of piercings to your ears."

Maybe it was the gun, or my look, or my tone, or a combination of all three that persuaded the maid to acquiesce. She stepped into the outhouse and, following the direction of my gun, she sat on the old wooden chair.

"I'm not going to hurt you, but I'm going to tie you; do you understand?"

She nodded while staring vacantly at the cobwebs that festooned the outhouse. I hoped that she didn't have a fear of spiders because, clearly, they had made this building their home.

Setting my gun to one side, I ground her cigarette out under my heel, grabbed her wrists and bound them. Then I tied her securely to the chair. While I was busying myself with my handiwork, I noticed that the maid was smiling, and a horrifying thought went through my mind.

"Don't tell me you're enjoying this?"

Her smile widened and, suggestively, she licked her lips and parted her legs. Inwardly, I groaned; trust me to select someone who was into lesbian bondage. I shook my head as though to clear it; I certainly know how to pick 'em.

I placed a gag around the maid's mouth, in case she felt the urge to scream, or suck on another cigarette. Then I left the outhouse behind and made my way, stealthily, towards the main building. At some point during the night, I felt sure that someone would free the maid from her bondage. And when she was free how she would laugh and dine out on the story for the rest of her days. Maybe. For now, I had other things to worry about – I had to get into the building, gather evidence and somehow make my escape.

Cautiously, I poked my nose into the servants' entrance. I looked around and saw no one. I listened hard and heard no one. The way was clear, so I entered the building.

I was standing in a store room, piled high with potatoes, carrots, parsnips and many other vegetables, fresh food no doubt for the guests of Mansetree House.

I made my way to the inner door of the storeroom and opened it. Immediately, I felt the heat of the house. As I stepped into the hallway, I could hear the distant murmur of numerous voices, all talking at once.

I skipped up a flight of stairs and wandered along a passageway. Thankfully, no one saw me or even suspected my presence. In one sense, this came as no surprise because all the activity was centred on the main hall and kitchen. All the same, it did come as a relief because my cover story for being in the house – if cornered by a member of staff, I was a maid's relative with an urgent message for her – was a thin one, to say the least.

My aim was to get a view of the main hall and I achieved this by squatting behind the elegant screen of the minstrels' gallery. The wooden screen, with its tracery of dragons spewing forth ubiquitous vines, offered an excellent view of the hall. I peered between the vines, looking down on the gilded barley-sugar columns, the fat cherubs laden with fruit, the walnut panelling, the Regency paintings and the velvet armchairs. I spied a number of distinguished guests – over twenty males and five females, mostly middle-aged, some younger, some older. Lady Diamond was there, wearing enough baubles to cover the national debt, while Baldy was dressed in a tuxedo, frilly shirt and bow tie. Lady Diamond was clearly in her element as she chatted with her guests, while Baldy shuffled from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable and decidedly out of place. Despite her baubles, her mohair trouser suit and her tiara, Lady Diamond still looked ugly; 'you can't polish a turd', as my mother used to say. When sober, my mother had a very colourful turn of phrase. Come to think of it, she had a very colourful turn of phrase when drunk, as well.

To all intents and purposes, I was witnessing a lavish country house party, one of many, no doubt, occurring at this very moment in time. Smartly dressed waiters and maids served food and drink on silver trays while Drake Jolley, looking very dapper in his tuxedo, played repetitive drum 'n' bass.

I was getting cramp in my right leg, so I shifted position. I removed my mobile phone from my jeans pocket and took some pictures. As the evening wore on the caterers started to leave and by 11 p.m., the hall was filled with guests only.

The music stopped and for the best part of half an hour, a nervous, expectant lull fell over the hall. The guests still drank their champagne and chatted quietly but, clearly, they were waiting for something, the main event of the evening.

Then Drake Jolley pumped up the volume and the thud of drum 'n' bass filled the air. Then the door to the main hall opened and a dozen scantily clad ladies sauntered in. The guests offered the ladies a round of applause and they kept their hands together as the ladies were joined by men and women slapping riding crops across their palms, wearing hip-high leather boots and little else. Then the hall filled with people wearing burlesque masks and fancy costumes, and others dressed in bondage gear – metal-studded leather underwear, dog collars and heavy chains. Using my mobile phone, I took some photographs, though the scene was little more than risqué.

Then a mini carousel spun into the room – the main hall was big enough to host a full-sized carousel. On the carousel, I could see juveniles of both sexes along with a group of people who were clearly suffering from physical and psychological disabilities. My stomach did a backward flip as I focused my camera. I felt bile rise in the back of my throat, but I forced myself to concentrate on the scene and click away.

The guests wandered among the 'attractions' and made their selections. Then they ambled towards the private rooms in the house, as couples, in threesomes, foursomes and moresomes. I suppose I could have followed to capture decisive evidence, but my stomach was churning at the thought and, anyway, I'd pushed my luck getting this far.

I returned my mobile phone to my jeans pocket then scurried away from the minstrels' gallery. The hallways and passageways were busier now and, in my hooded top and jeans, I was overdressed to blend into the milieu. So, I inched my way along the walls, peeping around every corner, creeping towards the servants' entrance.

Then Baldy blocked my path. He was flexing his right hand, staring at his knuckles and I knew from experience that he'd punched someone. Baldy had emerged from the cellar. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure that he'd closed the trapdoor leading to the cellar, then he wandered towards the main hall. I was curious – who had he assaulted? Who was in the cellar? When the coast was clear, I made my way over to the trapdoor.

I entered the cellar via a short flight of stairs. The room was dimly lit with electric light and occasionally I stumbled. I reached out an arm to steady myself, then brushed a spider from my hand as I touched a veil of cobwebs.

I turned a corner, then opened my mouth wide in surprise. Dan was tied to a chair. His face was badly beaten, his eyes bruised and half-closed, his lips swollen. I squatted beside him and whispered, "What are you doing here?"

He turned his head, tried to focus his eyes then gave me a pallid grin. "I gave you the clue, I wanted the story. I knew you wouldn't come across for me, so I decided to investigate for myself."

I ran my hand over his swollen face, caressing it, trying to make sense of what had happened. "Who did this to you?"

"The lady of the manor and her bruiser friend. She wanted to know where you were, what you knew about this place. I didn't tell them anything, Sam, honest."

I nodded. For once in my life, I believed him. I busied my fingers on the rope, untying his bonds. "We've got to get out of here."

With the rope falling to the floor, I helped Dan to his feet. He was unsteady at first, but then he nodded, indicating that he was fit enough to walk.

We made our way to the trapdoor and inched it open. The passageway was quiet, so we sprang from the cellar and ran towards the servants' entrance. Once again, Baldy blocked my path. He was standing at the entrance, gazing at the outhouse, rubbing his square chin. He sensed that something was amiss and with plodding tread, he made his lugubrious way towards the outhouse. As he entered the outbuilding, I grabbed Dan's hand and we ran across the lush green lawns, towards the perimeter wall.

I reasoned that it would take Baldy a couple of minutes to untie the maid and make sense of her story. That gave us two minutes to make our escape, barely enough time to reach the perimeter wall.

Dan was struggling with his injuries and so I reached the wall first. I located the tree, jumped and swung on to a branch before wrapping my legs around the trunk. I shinned up the tree, then turned and offered my hand to Dan. His fingers were touching my outstretched hand when Baldy fired his shotgun. With a compulsive groan, Dan dropped his arm, placed his good hand on his wounded shoulder and grimaced in pain.

I suppose I could have jumped over the wall and made my escape. But I couldn't leave Dan, not in that condition. So I reached out and grabbed hold of his hand and despite his cry of pain, I pulled him on to the tree. I sensed that Baldy was reloading his shotgun and that we had seconds to make our escape. Dan was clinging on to a branch, I had my hands under his armpits and we were close to salvation, when the shotgun boomed again. The branch we were resting on cracked and splintered, and tumbling through the darkness we fell from the tree, into the grounds of Mansetree House.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

I was in the cellar of Mansetree House, bound to a chair. My hands were tied behind my back and my torso was strapped to the chair, while my ankles were secured to its legs. Not very dignified. Dan was beside me, also bound to a chair. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely, from his shoulder wound and his lower lip.

Before being frogmarched to the cellar, I'd dropped my mobile phone into the lush grass, so when they searched me they found nothing.

I was flexing my neck muscles, trying to release the tension that was building up in my shoulders and head, when Lady Diamond appeared in the cellar. A fierce looking Baldy and a nervous looking Drake Jolley accompanied her.

Lady Diamond walked over to me. Automatically, I looked up at her ugly face. Then she slapped me across my face, her diamond rings grazing my left cheek while her open palm whacked my right cheek. I could feel blood dripping on to my hooded top. I could taste blood in my mouth and I felt compelled to spit it out.

"That's for interfering," Lady Diamond snarled.

She slapped me again and I cried out. From the corner of my eye, I could see the look of satisfaction on her face and I knew that my cries had brought her pleasure.

Lady Diamond was about to strike me for the third time when Drake intervened. "No!" he insisted. "That's enough. There's no need for this."

Through my tangled hair, I looked into Lady Diamond's cold, grey eyes. You're dead, lady, I don't know how or when or where or any of that fancy stuff, but when I get out of this chair I'm going to kill you. From now on, no one is going to slap me around like that.

"What are we going to do with them?" Drake asked plaintively.

"Get them out of here," Lady Diamond replied. "Kill them."

"Can't we just put the frighteners on?" Drake protested. "Scare them, they won't talk."

"We kill them."

Drake scowled. He shook his head, then glanced down to the tops of his highly polished shoes. "You can't keep murdering people."

"Why not?" Lady Diamond shot him a withering glance. She was in control, she was in charge and she'd made up her mind. Baldy untied us, though our hands were still bound. Then he dragged Dan and marched me to servants' entrance.

A meat van was waiting for us at the servants' entrance and we were bundled into the back of that van. Despite the desperate nature of our situation, the irony did not escape me: a vegetarian carted off to her death in a meat van.

It was cold inside the van. It was cold full stop. Dawn was still an hour away and the day held the promise of clear skies and sunshine. They say that the darkest hour arrives before the dawn; for once, I was hoping that they were right and that I would get to see those clear skies and sunshine.

"You get in there with them," Lady Diamond told Drake Jolley. "If they make one wrong move, shoot them."

With an unsteady hand, Drake took a Magnum .357 from Lady Diamond. Then he climbed into the back of the van, alongside Dan and me, while Lady Diamond joined Baldy in the cab.

I had no idea where we were going or how long our journey would last, but I resolved that this would not be the end of my story. And, as you know by now, I can be a stubborn so-and-so when I want to be. I'd been in some tight spots before, admittedly not as tight as this one, and I'd come through. Somehow, I'd come through again. Lady Diamond would not get the better of me.

Fifteen minutes into our journey, Dan stirred. He looked around, somewhat vacantly. His shirt was soaked with blood. Indeed, he'd lost a lot of blood and I sensed that he was dying. His face was pale and covered in sweat. His eyes rolled, uncontrollably, and he mumbled, "Sorry, Sam. Sorry for everything." Then he closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

I sat in the rolling van, staring grim-faced at Drake, and his wavering Magnum. He was the weak link in this set-up, the one I had to work on, the one I had to crack. "I was hoping that you were one of the good guys."

Drake lowered his head. He dropped his arms down between his legs, pointing the Magnum at the van floor. "It's not what you think; I'm not with them; I'm not into all that stuff."

"What are you into, Drake?"

He shrugged, looked me in the eye, then looked away again. "Okay, so I enjoy a few kinks with my sex, but I'm not into the heavy stuff; I don't pay for the services Lady Fiona has on offer, I only pick up the crumbs from her table."

I nodded. I wanted to believe him. I tended to believe him. "If you're not with them, why don't you untie us? Just loosen my bonds, no one will know."

He glanced towards the front of the van and the sealed off cab. He shook his head, albeit sadly, "They'll know; they'll kill me."

"As I see it, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. You're in the back of this van for a reason; they won't let you walk away from this. Untie my hands then, whatever happens, at least you can rest with your conscience clear."

Drake glanced at Dan. He glanced at me. His shoulders were hunched, his face morose. When he looked up, his eyes, large behind his spectacles, were bright with unshed tears. "Can you imagine what it was like, growing up as a black kid in the 1980s? The racial abuse, the police harassment. The abuse and harassment killed my father and I made a promise to myself; I promised that nothing like that would ever happen to me."

"So you got onside with the powerbrokers."

"I had to. They knew that I had a few secrets. They knew that they could pull the rug from under me, any time they liked. These people control us like puppets. We dance to their tune, we jump when they pull the strings. They have so much power, they do whatever they like, whenever they like, and they won't let the likes of you screw up their operation. I warned you. I told you not to get involved. Why didn't you listen?"

I gave him my resolute, hard-as-nails-forged-in-hell expression. "Because for all my faults I'm a determined daughter-of-a-bitch; when I get my teeth into something, I won't let go."

Drake nodded. Maybe he understood, maybe he didn't. But to his credit, he dropped the Magnum .357 on to the van floor and loosened my bonds.

After an hour of rolling around in the back of the van, we stopped. Baldy opened the van door and dragged Dan to his feet. Dan was barely conscious, unaware of his surroundings. However, Baldy showed him no mercy; he threw him over a rusty oil barrel and grinned as Dan moaned. Then Baldy pulled me out of the van and I looked around at a disused limestone quarry. I had no idea where we were: South Wales is so rich in limestone, there are quarries, working and abandoned, at numerous locations.

With dawn breaking over the quarry, we stood and stared into an apparently bottomless pool of water. Over the years, the rain had flooded the quarry and created a lagoon, which on that crisp autumnal morning looked blue and curiously inviting.

Baldy took the Magnum .357 from Drake, adding the weapon to his Smith and Wesson .38. Then the two of them dragged a length of heavy, rusty chain from the rickety foreman's office. Their plan was obvious: we would be shot, wrapped in the chain and dumped in the lagoon, never to be seen again. Idly, I wondered why T.P. McGill hadn't taken the early bath and concluded that someone must have interrupted Baldy before he could remove McGill's body.

Despite holding all the aces, Lady Diamond – sans tiara, but wearing her other baubles – was still annoyed with me. She walked up to me and slapped me again across my face. "You common slut, why did you interfere?"

I gave her an unyielding look through the veil of my dishevelled hair. Then I spat out a tooth. Unbeknown to her, my hands were free and I could have retaliated. But this wasn't the moment; Lady Diamond had her grubby mitts around the Magnum now and Baldy was covering us with his Smith and Wesson .38. Bide your time, Sam, you'll get your revenge.

Lady Diamond raised her hand, to strike me again, but Drake intervened. "Enough!" he yelled. "You've hurt her enough."

"Get out of my way!" Lady Diamond pushed Drake to the ground. She glared at Baldy. "Shoot the spade as well."

Baldy nodded. He raised his gun, pointing the barrel at my chest. I tensed, as though my tensed muscles could deflect a speeding bullet. I swallowed hard. What happened next occurred in a matter of seconds, seconds that would change the course of my life.

First Dan leapt from his position, strewn over the oil barrel. He ran towards Baldy yelling, "No!" and took the bullet intended for me. Then Drake rolled over in the dirt and unbalanced Baldy; he grabbed the gunman around his legs and like a tree, the gunman fell, his Smith and Wesson bouncing on the limestone. In one movement, I swooped and picked up the gun.

Dan was dead; I could see that from the corner of my eye. Drake and Baldy were rolling around in the dirt, while Lady Diamond was raising the Magnum .357 and taking careful aim. She was going to shoot me, of that, I had no doubt.

Now remember what your firearms instructor told you – plant your feet, make a firm base; extend your arm, take aim; steady your hand and squeeze the trigger in one smooth movement; remember – you're not Annie Oakley, so no fancy stuff; aim for the centre of your target.

I did all of the above and yelled, "Take that, you bitch! And that, and that, and that!" I paused for breath, then screamed, "And I hope you rot in hell!" As you know by now, I'm not a very nice person, sometimes.

I glanced down to Drake and Baldy. They were staring at me wide-eyed, as though staring at a madwoman.

I waved the gun and screamed, "Who's next?" and they scrambled to their feet, holding up their hands.

I took another deep breath, and with my gun trained on Baldy, I hollered at Drake, "You got a mobile phone?"

He fumbled in his trouser pocket and nodded.

"Make the call."

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

I was sitting in a police interview room in the centre of Cardiff. Now that the moment had passed and the adrenalin had subsided, I didn't feel too good. I gave my evidence to a courteous detective sergeant, placed my arms on the interview table then rested my head on my arms. I felt very tired. I closed my eyes.

Then Sweets came in, full of indignation and bluster. "What the hell happened at the quarry, Sam?"

I looked up and rubbed my eyes. "I've made my statement."

Sweets was squeezing a stress ball. He threw it from hand-to-hand. "I want to hear it from your own sweet lips."

I sat up and sighed. "She pulled a gun on me, so I shot her. She was upset because, like T.P. McGill, I'd rumbled her perverted operation. All the evidence is on my mobile phone. I told your detective sergeant where he could find it."

"We've found your mobile phone, and viewed the evidence."

"Great. So now I can go home?"

Sweets popped a sweet into his mouth. He squeezed his stress ball. He glared at me, leaving me in no doubt that I was the cause of his stress. "You shot her four times, Sam."

I shrugged. "My finger got stuck on the trigger." Sweets gave me a long, sideways look. In return, I gave him my innocent choirgirl smile. "It happens."

"Jesus," Sweets pushed his trilby to the top of his brow; he shook his head, "sometimes you take my breath away." Then he frowned and viewed me with concern. "Did she do that to you?" He leaned forward and examined the grazes on my cheek. "You should get that seen to. I'll get a doctor to have a look at it."

I pushed my hair from my face, leaned back, stretched my arms and shook my head. "Don't bother, Sweets, I've had worse."

Then I leaned forward and thought of Dan.

Sweets must have sensed where my thoughts were going because he mumbled, "Did you love him?"

"No, never. By the end, I didn't even like him. He was a bastard, but he didn't deserve a place in the morgue."

Sweets placed a hand on my shoulder. With his other hand, he squeezed the stress ball in a mixture of resignation and exasperation. He sighed, "I don't know what to do with you. If you discovered a lead, I told you to contact me, didn't I? Why wasn't I called in on this sooner? Maybe then two people wouldn't be in the morgue."

"Save it, Sweets." I closed my eyes and placed my hands to my forehead. "I don't need one of your daddy lectures now."

"Someone needs to daddy lecture you," he tapped the side of his head with his index finger while pacing around the room, "to get some sense into your thick skull."

I glared at him, my eyes alert, flashing, angry. "Listen, Sweets, maybe if I knew where my father was he'd talk some sense into me. But I don't know where he is, so all I've got is my own conscience and I follow my conscience the best I can. I'm trying to survive. That's all I've ever tried to do."

He bounced the stress ball on the floor and caught it in his right hand. He shook his head again. "Two people got shot."

"I know!"

"Your ex."

"I know!"

"And you pulled the trigger on the other one."

"I did!"

"And that could have been you dead in that quarry!"

"But it isn't!"

Sweets removed his trilby and threw it on to the interview table. He scratched his balding head and sighed, "Oh, Sam, what am I going to do with you?"

I smiled, cheekily, "How about letting me go home so that I can have a bath."

Sweets ignored me. He squeezed his stress ball. "Drake Jolley is talking to save his own skin. His statement backs up what you have to say. It's a good job he is talking, otherwise you'd be in it right up to your pretty neck."

"But I'm not. So how about letting me out of here so that I can go home and have a bath."

Like a dog with a bone, Sweets refused to let go. "You shot someone, Sam."

"You think I'm unaware of that?" I paused. I was tired of arguing, tired of the tension and my knotted emotions, tired of this room. "Look, Sweets, are you going to charge me, or not?"

"With being a pain in the arse, yes."

"With anything else?"

He shrugged. "I'll see what I can do for you." While I pushed myself to my feet, he added, "You cracked the case, Sam."

"Yeah."

"If your old man knew, I guess he'd be proud of you."

"Yeah."

"You know who the ugly bastard is, don't you?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Georgi Dimitrov. He's well connected on the Continent. It's my guess that his bosses and her ladyship cooked up this little venture over Martinis on some Caribbean island. Dimitrov was probably installed as a minder, to keep an eye on things for the European mob."

I nodded. It made sense. Baldy was obviously an outsider, not comfortable in his stately surroundings while Lady Diamond had been so obsessed with gathering baubles she would have sold her own daughter into prostitution.

From his jacket pocket, Sweets produced an evidence bag and a mobile phone. I assumed that it was my phone. "You've seen the faces on those pictures you took?"

"From a distance."

"There's going to be one hell of a scandal over this; a media circus. You'll have your name in lights."

Inwardly, I groaned. The thought of being photographed, of being harassed by the media did not appeal. I'd had a taste of it in the past, and it was something I did not enjoy. "Try to keep my name out of this, Sweets, as best you can. If there's any credit going, you take it."

He gave me an old-fashioned look, which did not bode well for my request.

"One more thing," Sweets added as I placed my hand on the interview room door, "we had a report from Mansetree House. A maid claims that she was bound in a shed with tape around her mouth. She made a statement asserting that a woman assaulted her, a woman whose description comes close to yours."

"My God!" I exclaimed, my hand pressed to my mouth. "Don't tell me that I've got a double. Could the world cope with two Sam Sleuths?"

Sweets shook his head, sadly. He gave me half a grin, half a grimace and returned to his stress ball. "Get out of here. Have your bath. But next time..."

"If I get a lead, I'll bring it to you." I opened the door, then paused. "Oh, Sweets...two lions were wandering around a supermarket. One turns to the other and says, 'quiet in here today, isn't it'..."

Sweets rocked back on his heels and laughed out loud, a big, raucous belly laugh. "Not bad, not bad, kid. You've got potential. Now get out of here and stay out of my hair."

I smiled and glanced at his balding crown. "What hair, Sweets?"

Sweets drew his arm back and hurled the stress ball towards me; but it's okay, I made my escape before the ball bounced off the inside of the interview room door.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

I spent an hour soaking in the bath. Then I tended to the scratches and bruises on my face. If there's one thing I'm good at it's disguising scratches and bruises. And after I'd done that, I dressed, slipping into a clean pair of jeans and a baggy woollen tunic before driving to Castle Gwyn.

At the castle, I found Woody in the recording studio. He walked up to me with a big grin on his rugged face, his arms open wide, inviting an embrace.

"Hey, it's my favourite private eye. The radio reports that the gum heels are holding someone in connection with McGill's murder. You've pulled it off, Peaches; you've put me in the clear."

I shrugged modestly, "Just doing my job." Reluctantly, I accepted Woody's embrace. It was a bit like being mauled by an octopus, but I managed to escape with my dignity intact.

After our brief hug, Woody stepped back with an even broader grin on his face. He delved into his jeans pocket and placed something in the palm of his hand. "Look what I've got."

I stared at his large hand and the three blue, diamond-shaped pills resting in his palm. "That looks suspiciously like Viagra."

"It is Viagra."

I frowned, not entirely sure where this conversation was going. "Why do you need Viagra, Woody?"

"Well," he explained, "to be honest with you, Woody Larson is a 20/7 man. I mean, I'm ready to please the groupies twenty hours a day, but I do have a little down time. The solution? Viagra. With this, I'll be a 24/7 man with no down time."

I shook my head. Some arguments – most, actually – are not worth getting into, but I felt obliged to dive two-footed into this one. "Ever thought that maybe you should be putting more effort into pleasing the woman in your life, Derwena?"

"Nah." Woody waved a dismissive hand. "Derwena can't cope with my appetite. To be fair to her, no woman could. I need lots of women in my life. Though, that said, if I had you..."

If he hadn't used those words on at least a thousand women, I would have been gratified.

Undeterred, Woody reached for his guitar and strummed a few chords. He picked out a rather beautiful melody. "I've written a song for you. It's called 'Private Investigations'."

The song ran through my head. I had to admit, the tune was very familiar. "Didn't Mark Knopfler do that?"

Woody pulled a face, gurning for all he was worth. "I thought it sounded familiar." Then his features brightened. Ever the optimist, he suggested, "Maybe I can write another song for you. You got an idea for a title?"

"How about, 'I'm Not in Love'."

Once again, he frowned. "I think that's been done too."

"I know," I shrugged impishly. "It must be so difficult to be original."

Woody was strumming his guitar, trying to fashion an original melody, when Derwena wandered into the recording studio. She was wearing a flimsy cotton nightdress with 'cute babe' emblazoned across the front, which spoke volumes for the quality of the modern heating system in the castle, and a vacant look on her face, a reflection of the empty vodka bottle, held in her right hand.

"I fell off the wagon," she mumbled, placing a hand on my shoulder for support.

I nodded. "On to both knees, by the look of it."

"After the album and tour I'm booking myself into a clinic. I've had a chat with Dr Storey. He reckons I can do it, if I have the right support."

"I'm sure you can," I smiled encouragingly.

Derwena hiccupped. She placed the palm of her hand to her chest, then turned to glare at me through rolling, bloodshot eyes. "I suppose I should thank you, for Woody's sake."

"Just doing my job," I repeated.

She toyed with the hem of my tunic, then gave me a lecherous grin. "You saw me naked. Many men have done that, but not many women."

I smiled, politely. Maybe it had something to do with the drugs, the booze, or becoming stir-crazy in the castle, but there were heaps of rampant hormones flying around today.

"I bet you look good naked," Derwena leered.

Gently, I removed Derwena's hand from my tunic. "Derwena, dear, I think you've had a drop too much of the sauce."

She frowned, then hiccupped again. "I guess you're right. I don't really know what I'm saying. I think I need a lie down." As if by magic, Tim appeared in the recording studio. He took hold of Derwena's elbow and escorted her to the stairs. As she climbed the stairs, Derwena called out over her shoulder, "I sing better than I speak, do you know that? I've got a beautiful singing voice." Then she went into a chorus of 'Fire and Ice'. Incredibly, she hit the high notes. At the top of the stairs, she yelled, "It's not easy being Derwena de Caro. Make sure you tell them that."

Woody was still strumming his guitar, still looking for the lost chord, when Milton waddled into the studio. "Ah, Sam," he beamed, "I heard that you were in the castle. I've written a cheque. Will that cover your services?"

I took the cheque from Milton's outstretched hand. Then I studied the numbers with my spirits rising. Maybe I could afford an office carpet now. "You're too generous, Milton."

"We can afford it," Milton replied dismissively. "The new album's all mixed. It sounds good. Maybe not a classic, but it should keep us going until the next one. Hopefully, by then, Woody and Derwena will have cleaned up their act and rediscovered their creative spark."

I looked across to Woody, who was scratching his head with a pen before scribbling lyrics into a notebook. "I'll stay tuned."

Milton checked his pocket watch, then he extended his right hand and I shook it. "Thanks, Sam. It's been a rough ride. We couldn't have done it without you."

"Down these mean streets a woman must go who is not herself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid..."

Milton grinned. He wagged a finger at me. "Chandler."

"With a little gender twisting, yeah." I walked over to the staircase. It was time to leave the castle. Then a thought occurred to me. Turning to face Milton, I asked the question, "Where's Nerd?"

"In hospital. He slipped a disc during a tantric sex session."

"Pain and pleasure," I mused. "They're often intertwined."

# Chapter Thirty

It was early evening and I was standing in my office. Marlowe had brought in another dead mouse. Anymore and I'll swing for that cat, I promise you. I went through my usual routine of squeezing my nose, picking up the mouse by its tail and depositing the poor creature into the pedal bin before sitting at my desk.

At my desk, I tapped my calculator and deducted the bills from Milton's cheque. Halfway through, I realised that I didn't have enough money for a pair of curtains, and three-quarters of the way through I acknowledged that the office carpet would have to wait for another month. But I'd cleared all my debts. I was solvent.

Then Alan knocked on my office door. "Can I come in?"

I sat upright, tidied the items within easy reach and smiled in a businesslike manner. "Do you want to hire me?"

"In fact, I do. I'm spending a long weekend in the country; I have a little place there, a retreat where Alis and I go to relax. I'm a bit worried about the bats in a nearby cave and I feel that I need protection. Are you up for the assignment?"

"What about Alis?"

"She's spending the long weekend with a girlfriend and her family."

As Alan sat in my client's chair, I stared at my desk, averting my gaze. I was really happy that Alan had called on me, but a little voice in the back of my head urged caution.

"You're serious about me, aren't you?"

He nodded, decisively, "Yes, I am."

"Even though I said that horrible thing to you."

"You were provoked."

"What if I say something like that again?"

"You won't." He shook his head, another decisive gesture. "To put it bluntly, Dan's dead and the main stressor in your life has been removed."

I continued to stare at my desk. My thoughts went to Dan and the events at the quarry. Those events were still tangled in my mind and I realised that it would take time before I could come to terms with them.

"I shot someone this morning."

Alan pursed his lips. He placed his right ankle over his left knee, crossing his legs, then nodded slowly. "That is an extreme action, I grant you. But from what I hear, she deserved it and you shot her in self-defence."

"I did."

"How do you feel about the shooting?"

"Not good."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now."

Alan glanced around my office. He placed his hands to the back of his head. Then his handsome features relaxed and he gave me his familiar, easy smile. "You become a different person when you do this job, don't you, Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the job allows you to express your true self. It gives you a sense of satisfaction, fulfilment and the knowledge that this is something you're good at, which feeds your self-respect."

"And helps to hide my inadequacies when it comes to relationships, is that what you're saying." I allowed my hair to fall over my face. I could feel the heat on my cheeks, my embarrassment rising.

"You're not inadequate. You just need to learn how to trust."

"Trust you?" I peered at Alan through my auburn strands.

"Yes. But mainly you need to learn how to trust yourself. If you don't like me, tell me to go away. If you do like me, trust that emotion."

I swept my hair from my face. Earnestly, I leaned forward. "I do like you, I like you a lot."

He smiled. "The feeling is mutual."

"But why me? You must have dozens of friends and know lots of women who would love to enter your life."

"There are one or two who seem keen on me," he conceded. "But they are not like you, Sam, no one is like you. You're different to my friends, different to anyone I've met, different to Elin, and those differences are important to me." He leaned forward, and I realised that he was earnest too. "When you walked into my office I was captivated by your beauty. I lost myself in your beauty for a while. Then I heard your story about how you've put together your agency, gained the respect of your peers and I thought, this woman is remarkable, I must get to know her better. Of course, my psychological training alerted me to the fact that you have emotional scars and that those scars can become tender at times. But my training also told me that those scars, like the scratches on your face, can heal. I could settle for a mundane, contented life with an attractive girlfriend, doing the round of dinner parties and social events and have a very pleasant time. In fact, the past two years have been something like that. But I want more. I want to be with someone extra-special. I want to be with you, Sam."

"But what about Alis? What will Alis think of me if I walk into your life?"

"If any woman takes a permanent place in my life, Alis will be jealous at first, that's only natural. After all, it's been just the two of us for the past seven years. But she'll adjust. She's at an age where boyfriends are on the horizon, she knows that I need someone."

Let it be me, my little angel whispered. You're not good enough for him, my devil chided.

"But does Alis think that you need a crazy pistol-packing mama like me?"

Alan laughed. "I've told her a little about you. She thinks it's cool that I've had a romantic dinner with a private eye."

I frowned. "Is that what we had, a romantic dinner?"

"How did you see it?"

My frown intensified. "I've never thought in terms of romance. I just go from A to B trying to survive."

"Then maybe it's time you moved beyond survival into living. My God, Sam, you deserve that. So, what about it, a long weekend in the countryside. You can have Alis' room. No agenda. We go, we walk, we chat, or we stare at the walls if you prefer. I cook you delicious meals. We read. We see what develops."

"And if I end up wanting to kill you?"

He shook his head at my suggestion, his dark brown eyes sparkling as they mirrored the lamp on my desk. "I'm a loveable guy, you won't."

"And if you end up wanting to kill me?"

Alan leaned forward. He reached across my desk and took hold of my left hand. He squeezed my fingers, lightly. "I love you, Samantha. I know those words have been said to you before with negative effects, but trust me – you won't get hurt this time."

At that point, Marlowe jumped in through my office window and landed on my lap. He rubbed his head against my right hand and purred loudly, clearly content with his lot.

I stared at the cat. "What do you think, Marlowe? Do you think we can trust him?"

Marlowe rubbed his head against my chin. He squealed, "Meow."

While gazing into Alan's eyes, I smiled. I squeezed his fingers in hope and optimism. "I think that means 'yes'."

# Web Links

For details about Hannah Howe and her books, please visit http://hannah-howe.com

For more details about Sam the Private Eye, please visit http://sam-private-eye.com

