

BLIND JUSTICE

Mansel Jones

Goylake Publishing

Copyright © 2014 Mansel Jones

All rights reserved.

The moral right of Mansel Jones 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 Daniela, Owain and Rhys

# Thursday, 12th August, 1976

'South Wales enjoys a mean annual rainfall of forty inches,' Garth said.

'How do you know that?' I asked.

Inclining his head, Garth nodded towards a small transistor radio placed at an acute angle on his desk. The radio was tuned to Radio 4, Garth's station of choice. On the radio, the announcer was talking excitedly about the heatwave that had baked the country during the summer and the fact that we had a minister for drought. Apparently, the minister recommended that we should save water by soaking in a bath with a partner though, personally, the summer had brought no joy on that front.

'Do you know when we last saw rain?' Garth asked, adjusting the radio, wandering through the airwaves from the stereo broadcast about the weather to the mono of long wave.

'No, I don't,' I said, 'but I have a feeling that you are going to tell me.'

'It rained on the 19th June and since then the daytime temperature has averaged eighty degrees Fahrenheit.'

'Remarkable,' I said. 'I wonder if it will ever rain again.'

'It will,' Garth said pessimistically, 'and when it does, it will pour down.'

Garth Shillingford was my associate and brother-in-law. Lean, tall and nimble, he was in his mid-thirties. A quietly ambitious man, he had dark, receding hair and dark eyes, which peered doe-like through round, wire-framed spectacles. His default expression was serious, bordering on the lugu-brious. However, when moved by humour, that expression was transformed by his gleaming smile. Today, Garth was wearing a simple white tee-shirt and stylish black flares. A silver watch with a metal strap adorned his left wrist, while a silver identity bracelet dangled from his right wrist.

Born in Dominica, Garth had moved to Wales, settling in the steel town of Port Talbot, after the Second World War. Garth's father, now retired, had worked in the steel works, in the heat of the blast furnace. His labours and demeanour ensured that his son received a sound financial and moral foundation.

After his education, Garth joined the police force, one of only fifty non-white policemen in a force of over one hundred thousand officers. Although he did well, there was little prospect of promotion and he was told bluntly that 'black officers were not wanted'.

By this point in Garth's career, we had become friends and I introduced him to my sister, Rose. Three years later, they were married and four years into the marriage, I became godfather to their two children, Grace and Desmond. With the rungs removed from his career ladder, Garth decided to leave the police force and for the past five years, he had assisted me at the Rosebud Detective Agency.

As Garth retuned the radio to Test Match Special, I stretched my arms above my head and swivelled in my chair to glance out of the window, the only source of natural light in our second storey, Victorian office.

The view from the window was spectacular. To the west, the flame-red and sulphur-clouded skies of Garth's town, Port Talbot, failed to obliterate the sunlight blinking off the distant windows of Swansea while, to the south-east and across the Severn Sea, the remote rolling hills of Devon shimmered through the heat haze. Closer to home, tourists wandered the streets and squeezed on to the baking beaches of Porthcawl. With their ice-creams melting in the sun and their skins, burning, peeling, sprawling out of skin-tight bathing costumes, sagging and glistening with sun cream, the tourists announced to the world that they were on holiday, that no one in Porthcawl knew them and that for a fortnight they did not give a damn.

On the beach opposite our office, a bikini-clad woman draped a towel across the sand before easing her sleek and bronzed body on to the towel, while a portly man removed his string vest, revealing the crosshatched pattern of sunburn imprinted on his skin. However, away from the delights of sensual and sunburnt flesh a head of auburn hair caught my eye, followed by a pair of shapely ankles as a young woman disappeared under the awning of the gift shop downstairs; was she about to buy a trinket, a souvenir of a summer well spent, or was she about to climb the stairs and enter our office?

Swivelling in my chair, I glanced at Garth. He appeared nervous, agitated, a familiar look on the first morning of a Test Match. That said, Garth had no reason to worry: the West Indies had dominated the summer series against England and they led two – nil with one game to play. This game would be all about pride, something we could both identify with.

'We've won the toss,' Garth said, his restless fingers gathering up copies of Time Out, Private Eye and the Financial Times before placing them neatly on his desk.

'It will be a draw,' I said. 'Kennington Oval, August, no rain for three months...the wicket will be dry and flat, a batsman's paradise. Six hundred will play six hundred; I fancy Clive Lloyd and Viv Richards for centuries.'

'A fiver says the West Indies will win,' Garth smiled.

I returned his smile and offered my hand, which was accepted. 'Not that I want to take your money,' I said, 'but, it's a deal.'

The radio and the cricket faded into the background and then into silence as the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs captured our attention. Maybe the auburn haired lady was in need of our services after all. The footsteps paused outside our main door. A note on the door said 'please enter'. After opening the door, a client would step into the annexe, a small room furnished with a coffee table flanked by two two-seater settees. A note on the annexe door said 'please knock' and this she did, the frosted glass in the door suggesting that our potential client was indeed the auburn haired lady.

'Enter,' I said and with elegant strides, she walked into the room.

'Is this the Rosebud Detective Agency?' she asked in a voice of amber.

'It is,' I said.

'And you are...?' she enquired.

'Max Gwyther. This is my associate, Garth Shillingford. Please, take a seat. How can we help you?'

As well as her gleaming auburn hair, amber voice and shapely ankles she possessed green eyes and an athletic, attractive figure, slim but with curves in all the right places. I judged her height to be around five foot six and the freshness of her skin suggested that she was a post-war baby, probably born in the year after the war. She was wearing a cream, pleated skirt, the hem reaching her knees, and a printed blouse, resplendent in autumnal shades. A cream shoulder bag hung from her left shoulder and she placed this bag on to the floor before slipping into the seat in front of my desk. A negligible amount of make-up adorned her face and she possessed a modest amount of jewellery: gold stud earrings, a gold watch, but no finger rings.

As she made herself comfortable in the clients' chair, her green eyes wandered the length of our long, narrow office. First, she glanced to her right, to acknowledge Garth's presence, then she studied the line of prints, local scenes from the Victorian era, positioned above Garth's head. Finally, her alluring eyes settled on me.

'My name is Dr Jesamine Garner,' she said.

'A doctor,' I said, stating the obvious.

'Of psychology,' she added.

'A head doctor,' Garth said, his eyes suddenly becoming wide and animated, rolling behind the wire frames of his spectacles.

'Of sorts,' she smiled. Dr Garner had an easy, attractive smile enhanced by a slightly crooked left eye-tooth, a minor flaw that offered the imper-fection of humanity to her undeniable beauty. After crossing her legs and smoothing the folds in her skirt, she said, 'I want you to help my friend.'

'And your friend's name is...?'

'Naomi Parker.'

'The novelist?' I said.

'The science fiction writer,' she embellished. 'Naomi writes a popular series called the Guards of Magog.'

'I have just finished number three in the series, the Moons of Titan,' Garth said with a smile of satisfaction. 'It was a very enjoyable book.'

The science fiction section of my bookshelf did not stretch to many titles, although I did have time for Kurt Vonnegut and Ray Bradbury. Returning to the matter in hand, I said, 'What is troubling your friend?'

Dr Garner paused. She gazed into her lap and studied her fingernails; they were neatly manicured and painted a pale shade of pink. Looking up, she said, 'Who is troubling my friend, is the pertinent question; I think that someone is following her.'

'Tell me about your friend,' I said and, as I spoke, Garth picked up a pen and searched for a notepad. Within seconds, he found a notepad on top of our colour-coded files: black for insurance fraud, red for bank assignments, yellow for missing persons, blue for searching through criminal records, etcetera, into a rainbow of other subjects.

'You are probably aware that Naomi lives locally,' Dr Garner said, 'and that she was blinded in a car accident.'

'In a car driven by her husband,' I said.

'Ex-husband,' Dr Garner corrected. 'They are now divorced. Yesterday,' she continued, 'Naomi joked that someone was following her. I sensed that someone was walking in my shadow too; a man, slim, sunburnt, with dark hair, dark sunglasses and a dimple on his chin.'

'Her ex-husband?' I said.

'No, Patrick has red hair. And, anyway, he has access to Naomi whenever he likes.'

'They are on friendly terms?'

'Most of the time,' Dr Garner said.

After placing the top of his pen to the roof of his mouth, Garth drummed the plastic against his teeth, beating out a thoughtful rhythm. 'Do you have any idea why anyone would want to follow Naomi?' he frowned.

'None at all,' Dr Garner shrugged. 'Since the accident Naomi keeps herself to herself. She rarely ventures out or socialises. She devotes most of her time to her books.'

'Does Naomi have any enemies, people she has annoyed?' I asked.

In response, Dr Garner shook her head and stated unequivocally, 'Everyone who knows Naomi loves her.'

Leaning forward, I placed my elbows on my desk, my skin touching the cool surface of a camera. An angled lamp, typewriter, telephone and an open file also adorned the desk, along with a map, a pair of binoculars and the morning mail.

'We can look into this for you,' I said, my chin resting on a bridge shaped by my fingers. 'We charge £3 an hour, plus expenses.'

Whenever I mentioned money Garth seemed to break out in a sweat and, true to form, a few spots of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

'There are cheaper enquiry agents around,' Garth said defensively.

'And more expensive,' I added hastily, playing the role of hard-headed businessman. While staying in character, I continued, 'I think it is only fair to warn you that anyone can set up a detective agency and out of three thousand private detectives in Britain, only five hundred are members of the Association of British Investigators.' I smiled and retrieved a letter from the morning mail. 'And we are fully paid-up members of the Association of British Investigators.'

If Dr Garner was impressed, she did well not to show it. Instead, she gathered up her shoulder bag, placed it in her lap and said, 'I made a lot of enquires before I came here. You were highly recommended. And, as to your fees, I have some savings; I can afford them.'

'Naomi must be a good friend,' I said, sitting back, allowing myself a quiet sigh of relief.

'She is, from our time at the University of Oxford.'

Glancing down to her shoulder bag, Dr Garner opened the clasp. 'Would you like a payment now?' she asked.

'When the job is done,' I said, 'we will send you a bill.'

'I would like this matter cleared up as soon as possible,' she said, closing the clasp, 'before I return to the United States, next week.'

'You're an American?' I said.

'Sort of,' she smiled.

'I thought I detected a slight accent,' I added in rich Sherlock Holmesian tones.

'I have travelled back and forth so much over the years, my accent has been lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean,' Dr Garner sighed. 'My mother is American, my father is British. They met during the war, at Bletchley Park.'

'Spies,' I said, and with delight, she laughed out loud.

'Cryptographers,' Dr Garner corrected. 'My parents divorced when I was twenty-one. My father stayed in Britain, but my mother returned to Palm Springs. I was close to my father, so I remained here with him. He died recently so now seems like a good time to return to the States.' Frowning, she lowered her eyes and gazed at the carpet, her expression contrite, contrary. 'I had no intention of telling you all this,' she mumbled.

'When people enter this office,' I said, 'they tend to unburden themselves and the words flow.'

'Max's couch,' Garth said, pointing his pen in the general direction of the clients' chair.

'Is Naomi at home?' I asked, keen to get the wheels in this case turning.

'I have just come from Naomi's,' Dr Garner said. 'I have sold most of my possessions and moved out of my flat and so I am staying with Naomi until I leave for the States.'

'Then what are we doing here?' I said. 'Let's go and meet Naomi Parker.'

* * *

We travelled east, along the coast road, out of Porthcawl and into the nearby village of Newton. I had recently acquired a bottle-green Saab 96. A two-door car with a - fairly - reliable Ford V4 engine the Saab had many dynamic qualities, though the drive was slightly hampered by a cumbersome gear change mounted on the steering column. Nevertheless, the car transported me from A to B in a reasonable amount of style.

Garth followed in his rusty, trusty, Fiat 124, while Dr Garner completed the convoy in her Triumph Vitesse Convertible. Needless to say, the top was pulled down on the Triumph and needless to say, I was impressed.

Newton was a picture-postcard village that could trace its roots back to the Norman invasion of Glamorgan in the twelfth century. Situated on the coast, the village could boast a Norman church, a picturesque pool, a range of sand dunes and a village green. Meanwhile, holidaymakers made use of an extensive caravan park, part of the largest caravan complex in Europe. The village also contained a 'magic' well that emptied itself when the tide came in and filled when the tide went out.

Dr Garner led us past the Norman church and along Beach Road until we arrived at the seashore. Naomi lived in a converted barn with decorative stonework, timber panelling and large windows to the fore. On the house, ivy was creeping up one of the walls, threatening to reach the chimney, while, in front of the house, a short drive led to a modern garage. A well-kept lawn, bordered by a variety of flowers, caught the eye and a low hedge served as a boundary marker.

A car sat in the drive, a blue Ford Cortina, carrying an R registration, which suggested that the vehicle was brand-new. A tall man in a denim cap was cleaning the car. He had hazel eyes, a well-chiselled jaw and a drooping moustache. The hair that escaped from his cap was long, wavy and tinged with grey. In fact, I judged that his hair was a touch too long to compliment the wrinkles on his face and the bags under his eyes, though maybe I was expressing the prejudice of someone brought up with a short back and sides. His middle-aged body was running a little to fat. However, he appeared to be in good condition. Certainly, he was into fashion because he was wearing plaid slacks, a striped, short-sleeved shirt and platform shoes.

As we climbed out of our cars, I enquired, 'Who is that?'

'Jack Trahearne,' Dr Garner explained, 'Naomi's boyfriend.'

Trahearne duly approached us with a frosty look on his face and an iniquitous glint in his eyes. As he strode towards us, the sun flashed off his jewellery: an ostentatious gold watch, a square gold ring set with a small diamond and worn on the index finger of his left hand, and a pendant, a miniature gold ingot, which nestled in his salt-and-pepper chest hair.

'Hello, Jesamine,' Jack Trahearne said with a hint of suspicion in his voice. 'I thought that you were going out for the day.'

'We need to talk to Naomi,' Dr Garner said, 'about her stalker.'

'Naomi hasn't got a stalker,' Trahearne said firmly.

'These gentlemen are private detectives,' Dr Garner explained, 'and I would like their expert opinion. I would like them to identify the stalker before I leave for Palm Springs.'

'There is no stalker,' Trahearne insisted, grinding out his words through clenched teeth. 'These men would be wasting their time.'

'Maybe we should be the judge of that,' I said, offering my hand, an offer that was not accepted. Withdrawing my hand, I added, 'You must be Jack.'

'Jack Trahearne, owner of Trahearne Travel and Leisure Ltd,' he said, jutting out his jaw and thrusting out his chest.

'The holiday company,' I said.

'You've heard of us?' he frowned quizzically.

'I have now,' I said.

'Well I haven't heard of you. And we don't need your help. I can look after Naomi. I used to be in the army, you know,' he added, as if that explained everything.

'What's going on?' a female voice said and we turned to gaze at Naomi Parker.

At least, I assumed that the woman walking carefully from the house was Naomi Parker. Large dark glasses on her face and a white cane held in her right hand suggested that I was on the ball.

Using her cane as a guide, Naomi walked into her front garden. Her footsteps were assured and I guessed that she was counting the paces as she walked, with each stride firm in familiar territory.

Naomi was slightly taller and older than Dr Jesamine Garner. She had a finely-boned, delicate face with high cheekbones and smooth skin. Her hair was long and frizzy, crimped and highlighted with blonde streaks. She possessed a slim, shapely figure, although there was room for an additional intake of calories in my humble opinion. Naomi was wearing a spotted short-sleeved shirt that exposed her midriff and a pair of sunshine-yellow shorts. A coral necklace garlanded her neck and a coral bangle dangled from her left wrist. Small, scallop-shaped earrings adorned her ears while her fingernails and toenails were painted a bright shade of red. As she approached and joined us at the hedgerow, I detected a faint aroma of patchouli.

'Hello, Naomi,' Dr Garner said. 'This is Max Gwyther and Garth Shillingford from the Rosebud Detective Agency. I would like you to talk to them about the stalker.'

'There is nothing to say,' Trahearne said, stepping in front of Naomi. 'There is no stalker.'

'Please,' Dr Garner pleaded, 'just a few words.'

After pausing for thought, Naomi sighed. 'Very well,' she said. Then she turned towards the house and raised her cane. 'We will talk out the back, on the patio.'

Trahearne emitted a groan of protest, but I ignored him. Walking past his car, I noticed that the back seat was littered with travel brochures depict-ing continental holidays, a tin of fishing bait, a shooting magazine, an Airfix model of a Spitfire and a Second World War novel, The Guns of Navarone, by Alistair MacLean.

Naomi led us through her house and into her back garden. The garden was neat, tidy and well maintained. A high stone wall offered a degree of privacy and a large oak tree provided a modicum of shade. A sunlounger and a nest of tables adorned the patio. A soft drink sat on one of the tables along with a professionally typed manuscript, a cassette player and a number of cassettes. Furthermore, a transistor radio occupied the smallest table. The radio was playing the 'Boston Tea Party' by the Sensational Alex Harvey Band, so I tapped my foot and got in the groove.

As Naomi walked towards the sunlounger, a dog waged its tail in greeting. The dog, a golden Labrador, was bedecked in a leather collar and a gold identity tag.

'A lovely dog,' I said, caressing the animal's ears and head.

'Apollo,' she said. 'Since the accident, he has become my eyes.'

After placing her cane against the nest of tables, Naomi adjusted the sunlounger into a sitting position. This was done with a degree of trial and error. However, eventually, Naomi was able to sit in her newly fashioned chair. As a reward, she reached for her fruit juice and took a satisfying sip.

Then Dr Garner appeared with a set of folding chairs. We placed the chairs on the patio and, with the exception of Trahearne, we sat in a circle around Naomi.

'There is no need for this,' Naomi complained, placing her fruit juice on the small wooden table. 'Private detectives must cost a lot of money; I will not allow you to go to all that expense.'

I assumed that Naomi was talking to Dr Garner, although her words were addressed to everyone seated in the garden. Was she aware of this? Or was it a case of out of sight, out of mind?

'The police ignored us,' Dr Garner said.

'Because I am blind.'

'Maybe,' Dr Garner shrugged. 'But from my experience the police are reluctant to act when stalkers are mentioned. I doubt that they will assist us. Besides,' she added, 'I have sold all my possessions and I have some spare money. I leave in a week and I want to travel with peace of mind. Travelling with peace of mind, knowing that you are safe, will be worth the expense.'

At that, Naomi smiled. She extended her right arm, searching for Dr Garner and her friend duly accepted the gesture, embracing Naomi's right hand.

'Thank you,' Naomi said. 'But I will not allow you to spend any money on me. Instead,' she insisted, 'I will meet the expense.'

Through her auburn fringe, Dr Garner turned and looked at me askance. She sighed, her face a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

'The expense might not be great,' I said. 'Maybe you can argue about the bill when it arrives.'

'I will pay your bill,' Naomi said. 'Now, how can I assist you?'

Edging forward in my seat, I said, 'Have you sensed anyone suspicious hanging around your home? Dr Garner said...'

'Jesamine,' Dr Garner interrupted. 'I am Dr Garner at work, Jesamine amongst friends.'

I nodded and accepted her comment. 'Jesamine said that you are being followed.'

'I am not sure,' Naomi said, her fingers toying nervously with her coral necklace. 'I think that someone is following me, but how can I be sure...'

'What about you, Mr Trahearne,' I asked, 'have you noticed anyone with suspicious intent?'

'No one,' he insisted. 'There is no stalker. Now leave us in peace.'

'It might be a good idea if we spend the rest of the day with you,' I said, 'just to get a feel for the situation.'

'What harm could that do?' Jesamine said before Trahearne could intervene again.

With a frown, Naomi released her necklace. It was impossible to see her eyes behind her dark glasses and, of course, it was impossible for her to see me. Nevertheless, I got a sense that she was trying to assess me, to judge my character, which is what I would expect of any client. Eventually, while absent-mindedly caressing her dog, Naomi said, 'Do you think that we can trust him?'

'I think that we can trust him,' Jesamine said with a degree of confidence that made me smile.

'Okay,' Naomi agreed. 'You can spend the rest of the day with us.'

With a face like thunder, Jack Trahearne glowered at me. Then he pushed past Garth and stormed into the house.

'It's another lovely day,' I said to Naomi. 'I don't know about you, but my thoughts tend to clear when I walk on the beach.'

'You want to see if someone is following me,' Naomi said astutely.

'Got it in one,' I said. 'And the beach at Newton is public, but not too crowded, the ideal place to view anyone who harbours any disturbing intent.'

Patting her guide dog, Naomi said, 'Come on, Apollo, let's go for a walk.' Then, gathering up the neatly typed manuscript, she added, 'Jesamine, will you put this in the fridge for me?'

'In the fridge?' I frowned.

'My latest book,' Naomi explained. 'My typist delivered these pages this morning. I place all my manuscripts in the fridge in case of fire.'

'Interesting,' I said, and Jesamine disappeared into the house to add the manuscript to the salad.

'And one more favour,' Naomi pleaded.

'You name it,' I said.

In a dramatic fashion-conscious gesture, she swept her hands over her petite body, tracing its outline. 'Let me change into something more suitable.'

I was beginning to realise that although fate had deprived Naomi of one of her senses, she had adapted well and had established a routine that ensured a fair amount of independence.

While Naomi raided her wardrobe, I turned to Garth and said, 'Have a word with Happy Jack; see if he can offer any suggestion as to who is following Naomi and why.'

'Thanks for that,' Garth frowned.

'Your reward will be in heaven,' I smiled.

'I'm an atheist,' he replied.

In a reasonable amount of time, Naomi reappeared wearing a lemon-coloured sailor's suit complete with bell-bottomed trousers, lemon sandals and a sailor's hat. 'What do you think?' she asked expectantly.

'Stunning,' Jesamine said, as she reappeared from the kitchen.

'You will knock them dead on the beach,' I added.

'Just so long as you knock him dead,' Naomi said, 'should the creep make a move and approach me.'

* * *

Guided by Apollo, Naomi walked to her garden gate. At the gate, she paused and said, 'Before we go any further, let's establish the ground rules.'

'Okay,' I said, 'fire away.'

'I can walk for up to twenty minutes and judge distances with my cane. When I walk with Apollo, I concentrate on every step and I know where we are, but when someone is with us, that person takes my attention and becomes a guide. I guess that you are full of questions and your questions will disturb my concentration. Therefore, will you please assist us and act as a guide?'

'That will be my pleasure,' I said.

From the gate, we crossed the road and wandered along a raised walkway, a short promenade that overlooked Newton Beach. The beach was dotted with holidaymakers and locals and was far quieter than the beaches closer to town.

'We are approaching some steps,' I said. 'They are quite wide, but they have a dog-leg.'

'I am familiar with the steps,' Naomi replied. 'Please, leave us alone and stay quiet.'

Stepping back, I allowed Apollo to guide Naomi down the stone steps, on to the beach. The dog walked at a steady, even pace and Naomi matched his stride, her hand running along the guide-rail.

'You did that with ease,' I said, my feet sinking into the soft sand.

'Stairs and steps are easy,' Naomi explained, 'because they are a constant. Usually, there is nothing placed on a staircase and once you learn how deep the step is, and the number of steps, then walking up or down them is a piece of cake. And Apollo is a wonderful guide,' she confided, squatting, then caressing the animal with glee.

With Naomi's hand on my arm, we walked over the shingle and the sand, avoiding the large rocks and boulders that festooned the beach. Many of the boulders were smooth and flat, relics from the days when limestone was quarried on the beach then burnt in limekilns to make fertiliser.

In the seventeenth century, the bay was a port. A local landmark, Tusker Rock, ensured that many ships were wrecked and so the locals abandoned the port and returned to the land.

A hundred years later, smugglers made use of the bay and rumours state that secret passageways and tunnels run from the beach into the village of Newton. Indeed, my grandfather insisted that a tunnel ran under the medieval church, no doubt providing the smugglers with a sanctuary, a place to pause and ask forgiveness for their sins.

'This is where I find difficulty,' Naomi said as we walked away from the sea wall towards the shoreline. The tide was out and the sand was damp. Crabs scurried into rock pools while children with freckles and fishing nets ran playfully along the seashore.

'Open spaces,' I said.

'Open spaces are difficult because they lack a point of reference and without a point of reference you feel lost.'

'It must be tough,' I said.

'It is,' she sighed.

Pausing, I glanced around, looking for a dark-haired male with menace in his eyes. However, as the foam-kissed waves broke on the beach and the bikini-clad girls shimmered in the summer heat, I saw no one matching that description.

'Tell me about your books,' I said as I led Naomi past a rock pool.

'I got lucky,' she said. 'A publisher liked my first book, Rivers of the Moon, and the Guards of Magog series followed. Of course, the critics reckon that science fiction is second-rate and that I am a third-rate author, but we sold the television rights to the Guards of Magog and with the money I bought my house.'

'How about the physical aspects of writing?' I asked, skipping over a knotted mass of seaweed.

'I dictate the book on to tape. Then my typist produces the manuscript. I have modified my writing style and I think that my latest books are an improvement on Rivers of the Moon. I find that writing can be very therapeutic. When I am writing I can find refreshment, I can almost forget that I am blind. Also, when you are blind there are fewer distractions and so you concentrate more on your craft and creativity. The philosopher Brentano did a lot of his creative work after he lost his sight; did you know that?'

'I did not,' I said.

'Blind people seem to have more time because we do things at one pace, not slow-rush like sighted people.'

'What are you writing now?' I asked.

'I am taking a break from the Guards of Magog. My latest book is a study of the space race, the background to the moon landings and the murky origins of the rockets, developed during the Second World War. The book will be called Dark Side of the Moon.'

We paused beside a large, flat stone. In the 1920s and 1930s, a local physician, Dr Hartland, created an open-air spa on the beach to dispense spring water. People travelled from miles around, seeking relief from their ailments, although modern analysis suggests that the water is bereft of extraordinary or unique properties.

'Can you see anyone suspicious?' Naomi asked as I glanced around.

'Not yet,' I said. 'But let's keep on walking.'

While the beach umbrellas flapped in the sea breeze, the melodic strains of 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' by Elton John and Kiki Dee went drifting across the bay. The tune had been number one in the charts throughout the summer, a sunshine song for sunny days.

'You seem very thoughtful,' Naomi said as we walked towards the sand dunes.

'I'm as deep as a coalmine,' I replied darkly.

She laughed, a brief, but merry sound. 'Jesamine is right; I think that we can trust you.'

'Jesamine is a good friend,' I said.

'She is,' Naomi agreed. 'We met at university and we have been friends ever since. Although I am slightly older, from day one Jesamine controlled my excesses.'

Naomi's foot touched a sea-washed pebble and she squatted on her haunches, her fingers exploring the contours of the stone. The pebble was bright green in colour and rippled with concentric undulations forming a beguiling pattern.

'This is how I see,' she said.

'It's a beautiful rock,' I said.

Naomi nodded, and standing she added, 'I will keep it, to remind me of this day.'

A sixth sense encouraged me to glance to my right and, amongst the dunes and tufts of grass, I caught sight of a man, dipping and dodging deviously, mirror-lensed sunglasses concealing his eyes, his dark hair waving in the light wind.

'What do you make of me?' Naomi asked, clearly unaware of our conniving companion.

'You are confident, independent and undoubt-edly very talented,' I replied, our companion lingering in my peripheral vision. 'And you are smart, intellectually and physically.'

'I am not sure about being smart,' she said. 'And as to my appearance...after the accident I wanted nothing more than to hide away, to hide my face, and dress in drab clothes. After all, if I can't see you, you can't see me, right? In many ways, a blind person is invisible. I lost my self-image, so my appearance didn't matter to me. But my agent said that I should look after myself so now, with the help of my beautician, I go the whole hog and maybe I overdo it.'

'You are doing fine,' I said. 'Let's walk a little further.'

'Have you seen someone?' Naomi asked, frowning, her face a mask of concern, clearly sensing that I was distracted.

Reassuringly, I reached across and touched her arm. 'Maybe.'

We walked away from the sand dunes, towards a large, open expanse of sand. If Sunglasses wanted to follow us, he would have to break cover and walk on the beach.

Sure enough, as Naomi dipped her toes into the seawater and allowed the gentle waves to wash over her feet, Sunglasses strode confidently on to the beach. Of course, he did not walk towards us. Instead, he adopted the manner of a beachcomber, casually wandering from rock pool to rock pool, occasionally stooping to examine a piece of flotsam or jetsam.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Sunglasses was in his early thirties. He had dark, fly-away hair, parted in the centre, a rich suntan and a permanent smile. He was slim, athletic and stood around five foot ten in height. Just as Jesamine had said, he had a dimple on his chin and his nose looked flat, as if someone had landed a punch at some point in the past.

Sunglasses was wearing a floral shirt with a ridiculously large collar and a pair of denim flares. A watch encircled his left wrist and a gold bracelet dangled from his right wrist while a leather necklace hung around his neck, adorned with a pointed animal tooth. He stood with his thumbs resting in the corners of his trouser pockets while his jaw worked away endlessly on a piece of chewing gum.

My instincts told me that Sunglasses was following us. However, I had to convert those instincts into fact. I considered that it was time to pause and so I found a large, flat rock and we sat on the warm surface, talking naturally, nonchalantly, like dozens of other couples enjoying the pleasures of the bay.

Leaning forward, I gathered up a piece of driftwood and scratched a pattern in the sand. As I got in touch with my inner Picasso, I turned to Naomi and said, 'Tell me about Jack.'

'Don't mind Jack,' she smiled, 'he means no harm.'

'How long have you known him?'

'About a year,' she said.

'Where did you first meet?'

'At a business gathering to promote leisure.'

'Any plans for marriage?' I asked.

'I am not sure,' Naomi said hesitantly. 'Jack is keen, but first he has to finalise his divorce.'

'He has a family?' I said.

'Three children,' Naomi explained. 'The div-orce has been a bitter experience. Jack hired a private detective and the detective discovered that Mrs Trahearne was having an affair.' Naomi glanced in my general direction and offered up a mischievous grin. 'I don't think that Jack likes private detectives,' she added, wryly.

'He is shooting the messenger,' I said, defensively.

'But isn't that your role,' she said, 'to soak up other people's woes.'

I nodded, an automatic response, temporarily forgetting that Naomi could not see my reaction.

'At least Jack's business is doing well,' she continued, 'particularly the new package holidays to the Costa Brava.'

'Then it is sunshine all round,' I said.

'It is,' she agreed. 'Except when I talk with other men. Then jealousy tends to cloud Jack's sky.'

My doodle was going nowhere, certainly not to the Tate Gallery, so I abandoned the driftwood. Standing, I ensured that Sunglasses was still watch-ing us, which he was, then I enjoyed the vista of the tree-lined hills and rocky cliffs of Ogmore and Southerndown, enticing across the blue waters of the bay.

'Can you think of anyone who would want to follow you, or have a covert interest in you?' I asked.

'No one at all,' she shrugged.

'A deranged fan?'

'My fans are all sane,' Naomi laughed. In serious tones, she added, 'At least, their letters are all pleasant.'

In silence, we walked back to the sea wall. Sunglasses kept pace with us, pausing occasionally to chat with some of the scantily-clad female sunbathers.

'Have I been of any help?' Naomi asked, when we reached the sea wall.

'Yes,' I said, 'you have, you have been of great help.'

'These days, I do not meet many people. And when I do, I tend to talk too much.'

'I am paid to listen,' I said.

'And reveal if someone is following me.'

'Someone is following you,' I said.

'Then it's not my imagination.'

'Save your imagination for the printed page,' I replied.

Naomi smiled and shuddered at the same time, no doubt relieved that her instincts were right, but disturbed by the presence of a stalker.

'What is your plan?' she asked earnestly.

'I am not sure that my mind runs to anything as grand as a plan,' I said, 'but I thought that maybe we should string him along and head into town.'

'Okay,' she said. 'Whatever you say. My life is in your hands.'

'He might only be looking for your autograph,' I said.

'That type spell trouble,' Naomi said. 'I know that I have an over-active imagination, but unless you can resolve this problem, it will end in tears.'

* * *

We returned to Naomi's house and collected my Saab. Naomi sat beside me while Apollo panted quietly on the back seat, his tongue lolling out.

As we travelled along New Road, back into Porthcawl, Sunglasses followed in a Datsun Cherry 100A. He kept a distance of one or two car lengths, which suggested that he had received some pro-fessional training because when you tail someone you stay close in towns and cities, allow a gap of four cars on country roads and extend that gap to a dozen cars on major highways.

I parked the Saab in front of my office. Then we walked east, towards the town centre. Sunglasses followed, mingling with the tourists, stepping into doorways and recesses, trying his best to hide from view.

As we walked, I said to Naomi, 'Writing science fiction must require a vivid imagination and a lot of inspiration.'

'Writing is five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent perspiration.'

'Particularly in this weather,' I said.

'Sometimes ideas come to me in dreams,' she added.

'That must be pleasant.'

'It is, particularly when I see the images. The only time I see people, buildings, landscapes is in dreams.'

'Do you dream in colour?' I asked, following Apollo as he guided Naomi around a misplaced and damaged deckchair.

'Of course,' Naomi smiled. Pausing, she tapped the side of her head. 'I am well tuned in with all mod-cons.' As we continued our stroll into town, she added, 'Dreams have become a form of entertainment, but I only see images from the time when I wasn't blind.'

We walked past the Pavilion with its distinctive octagonal dome and posters advertising the Miss Porthcawl Bathing Beauty Contest, every Wednesday at 3pm – bring your swimming costume. The Pavilion dated from 1932 and the building served as a concert hall, a Mecca for entertainment and dancing. Arguably, the Pav-ilion's finest hour arrived in 1957 when the American activist and entertainer Paul Robeson sang, via a transatlantic telephone link, to the audience at the Coalminers' Eisteddfod. Denied a passport, Robeson endured persistent persecution from McCarthy and his reign of terror. However, Paul Robeson's courage and determination won the day and his telephone rendition of Welsh hymns and arias inspired the coalmining community.

'I have placed my trust in you,' Naomi said, attracting a casual glance from an overdressed businessman, his brow soaked in perspiration, his cheeks ruddy, his expression fraught. 'And yet,' she continued, 'I know nothing about you.'

'A man of mystery,' I said.

'Tell me something about yourself,' Naomi said in a playfully voice.

'There is not much to tell,' I said. 'I run a modestly successful detective agency in town with one full-time associate.'

'Garth Shillingford.'

'Garth,' I echoed. 'Garth is my brother-in-law and amanuensis.'

'Amanuensis,' she said, running her tongue around the word, 'literally a literary assistant...I like that word; I think I'll use it.'

While Naomi filed the word away in her memory, I glanced over my shoulder. Sunglasses was still shadowing us and, with any luck, if we offered him enough rope he would trip himself up and reveal his interest in Naomi.

'Are you married?' Naomi probed, catching me off-guard.

'No,' I said slowly. 'The job and unsocial hours are not really conducive to long-term relationships.'

'That sounds like an excuse to me,' she said accusingly.

'Maybe it is,' I conceded, shrugging my shoulders.

We stood on the promenade, our backs to the sea, facing John Street, the main artery of the town. Porthcawl was a Victorian settlement, established on a flat coastal plain thanks to iron, coal and the burgeoning railway network. Porthcawl Docks were built in the 1830s, however by the turn of the century competition from the deep-water harbours of Port Talbot and Barry resulted in a decline in trade and the last trading ship left the docks in 1906. The trains stopped running in 1964, but as industry declined, the town developed into a tourist resort and now paddle steamers replace coal cutters as they transport locals and tourists across the Severn Sea to the West Country.

'There are scores of people in town today,' Naomi said, tightening her grip on Apollo's lead before tapping the ground with her cane, as if to gain her bearings.

'There are,' I agreed.

'Sounds are very important to me, but a lot of noise can be tiring. You can look away and rest your eyes, but you cannot avert your ears. Sometimes I feel lonely in a lot of noise.'

'It's quieter over here,' I said, guiding Naomi towards a cafe and a cluster of outdoor tables. 'Let's sit here.'

We sat at one of the tables and Naomi seemed to relax. Leaning back, she smiled and allowed the breeze to cool her face.

'Do you fancy an ice-cream?' I asked.

'I have to watch my figure,' she complained.

'I tell you what,' I said, 'you eat the ice-cream and I'll watch your figure.'

Naomi giggled, a giggle that turned into a laugh, a laugh that bordered on the pornographic. Then, suddenly, she frowned and her face became very serious. 'Do you think that my figure is worth looking at?' she asked. 'Am I worth watching?'

'Most definitely, you are,' I said.

The intensity of her frown disturbed her dark glasses and they slipped on her perspiring skin down her delicate nose. I caught a glimpse of the scar tissue surrounding her eyes and reflected on the pain and the trauma of her life.

While Naomi sat at the table, looking thoughtful, I entered the cafe and ordered two ice-creams, vanilla, with a chocolate flake. An Italian family, one of many that resided in the area, owned the cafe. Numerous Italian families had arrived in the vicinity in the early decades of the twentieth century. Some of the men had found their way into the coalmines while others identified a gap in the market and established restaurants and cafes.

Upon returning to the table, I presented Naomi with her ice-cream and as she savoured its delights, I said solemnly, 'You lost your sight in an accident.'

'Three years ago.'

'Jesamine said that your ex-husband was driving.'

'Patrick was drunk,' she said, 'he is always drunk, he has been drunk for years.'

'Do you blame him?' I asked.

'Some days I do, most days I don't.'

'That is very generous of you,' I said.

'Patrick did not force me into the car. The decision was mine alone. Anyway,' she added, 'I am lucky to be alive.'

'What make of car was he driving?' I asked.

'Why do you want to know that?' Naomi frowned, licking the ice-cream off her spoon.

'Details,' I replied, 'details are the tools of my trade.'

'Patrick was driving a Hillman Avenger.'

'And what make of car does he drive now?'

'A Skoda. At least, that's what I think he said.'

I dipped my spoon into the ice-cream. The warm sunshine had already taken effect and the ice-cream dripped off the spoon into the plastic dish. While endeavouring to rescue my ice-cream, I said, 'You and Patrick are still on civil terms.'

'If Patrick wants to talk to me, he knows that he can call at my house.'

'What does Jack think of that?' I asked, abandoning the ice-cream and munching on the chocolate flake.

'He is not impressed.'

'Does Patrick call on you often?'

'Occasionally,' Naomi said, pulverising her chocolate flake into the liquid residue of her ice-cream. 'He calls on me when he is feeling guilty, or maybe in saying that I am being unkind.'

'How did you meet Patrick?' I asked.

'At a poetry reading. We share a love of literature and writing. I was captivated by his Irish charm and romanticism.'

'He is Irish?'

'Well,' she qualified, 'his ancestors came over in the 1850s, from Donegal. We were married in 1966, although my parents disapproved and, deep down, I sensed that he was not the right man for me. But I have a rebellious streak,' she added, 'and sometimes I give in to that side of my nature. The marriage was not a success. In fact, it was quite tempestuous. We get on better, now that we are divorced.'

'When did you divorce?' I asked.

'Two years ago.'

'What is Patrick doing now?'

'He is a freelance writer.'

'And what about his past?' I probed.

'He was brought up with five sisters. When we were courting, he told me that he won a scholarship to a grammar school and could have gone to university, but he decided to drop out. He was a member of a skiffle group for a time; he wrote most of their songs, especially the lyrics. Then he wrote for the music press, for entertainment magazines and established a career as a freelance journalist.'

'What is Patrick's surname?' I asked.

'McGwyn.'

'And does he still love you?'

'Love?' Naomi scoffed, spilling the last spoonful of her ice-cream into her dish. 'Our love died before the accident. Our love died three years before, when he turned to the bottle for comfort instead of me.'

I gathered up our dishes and returned them to the cafe. When I emerged into the sunlight, I found Naomi standing beside the table, her cane and Apollo at the ready. Upon seeing me, Apollo wagged his tail and this served as a signal to Naomi, alerting her to my presence.

'I have some clothes on order in town,' she said. 'Now that we are here, do you mind if I pick them up.'

I glanced over to the promenade and noticed that Sunglasses was still with us, leaning against the railings. I was keen to establish why he was follow-ing Naomi and taking such a furtive interest in her, so I said, 'That would be ideal.'

While the summer sun beat on and on and the shops swam in the heat we join the throng and walked along John Street. When we reached the junction of Well Street, Naomi paused and said, 'Where are we now?'

'At the junction of Well Street,' I replied.

'Okay,' she said, 'I know my way from here; allow me to count the paces.'

Guided by Apollo and her cane, Naomi made her steady way down Well Street. At the bottom of the street, she disappeared into a clothes shop and I was left to gaze into a shop window.

Looking for Sunglasses, I caught sight of my reflection. My dark, wavy hair was neatly combed and my dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality. My square jaw emphasised my rugged good looks while my body was well muscled and trim. In short, I was six foot one inch of perfection. In my dreams.

Moving along to the next shop window, an electrical shop, I caught a glimpse of the cricket on the television. Or rather, on a dozen televisions, for every television in the shop was tuned to the same channel. The outfield at the Oval was arid with herringbones visible under the surface, indicating where the drains ran. The square was green with a white, parched strip in the middle. Vivian Richards was at the crease with a century to his name and the West Indies had reached a commanding 250 for the loss of two wickets. My prediction of 600 looked sound and, given the flat nature of the pitch, a draw seemed probable. An action reply showed a dozen images of Vivian Richards whipping a delivery from his off stump to the mid-wicket boundary. Even in slow motion, the shot bordered on the impossible. However, it was executed in style; such was the genius of the man.

With an armful of shopping bags, Naomi emerged from the clothes shop. Abandoning the cricket, I stepped towards her and said, 'Allow me to take your bags.'

'Thank you,' she sighed. Adding, earnestly, 'Are we still being followed?'

Sunglasses had disappeared into the doorway of a second-hand bookshop, a blemish amongst the dust and fading print.

'Yes, we are,' I said.

'What does he look like, the man who is following us?'

I described Sunglasses to Naomi, adding, 'Does he sound familiar? Does his description mean anything to you?'

'Not if we met in the past three years. Images of people I met before the accident are starting to fade now. I even find it difficult to conjure up a picture of myself.'

Stepping forward, Sunglasses stared at Naomi. Then I realised that he was not gazing at her. Indeed, the shopping bags had become the object of his attention. While I tried to comprehend this latest development, a figure appeared in my peripheral vision, a man, tall and lean with a thin face and a lantern jaw. I knew this man; his name was Richard King.

Richard King was a private detective with plush offices in the centre of Cardiff. Along with his business partner, Tony Fisher, he was the owner of Fisher-King Investigations. A career policeman in his mid-fifties, King had taken early retirement in 1971 and had established his detective agency. A former chief inspector and a freemason, he was as thin as a rake with neatly combed grey hair, parted on the right, grey eyes and steel-rimmed glasses. Six foot tall, he wore navy trousers, a navy blazer and a pale blue shirt. A tiepin adorned his navy tie while a wide gold wedding band graced his left hand. To my knowledge, King had been married for thirty years, although the union had not produced any children.

I stared at King, endeavouring to capture his attention. However, he melted into a doorway, studiously avoiding my gaze.

'Your popularity is increasing,' I said to Naomi. 'The man in the sunglasses has been joined by someone else. I know the second man. His name is Richard King. He is a private investigator from Cardiff.'

'What do they want from me?' Naomi asked, sighing with exasperation.

'I don't know,' I said. 'But after I have taken you home, I intend to find out.'

* * *

Upon our arrival at Naomi's house, Sunglasses had disappeared. I surmised that he had seen enough for one day and that he had taken his leave to report to his superior. However, Richard King was still with us, following in his yellow Ford Granada GXL.

As Naomi stepped out of my Saab, Jack Trahearne walked towards us wearing a face as long as a milkman's round. He was followed by Garth, who looked altogether more cheerful, doubt-less buoyed by the entertainment provided by the West Indies during the day.

While taking a parcel from one of the shopping bags, I said to Naomi, 'Can I keep hold of this?'

'Why?' she asked with a frown.

'Trust me,' I said.

'I do,' she said, before disappearing into the house with Jack.

'Did you get anything out of Jack?' I asked Garth while adjusting the parcel and returning it to the Saab.

'Not a sausage,' he said.

'Jesamine is right,' I said. 'Naomi is being followed.' I gave Garth the edited highlights of the day before adding, 'Hang around for an hour. If all remains quiet, head on home. If trouble starts, there are enough people in the house to raise the alarm.'

'What are you going to do?' Garth asked, his eyes on his wristwatch, observing that the hands were moving towards six o'clock.

'Bait Richard King,' I said, nodding surrep-titiously towards the parcel.

From Naomi's house, I travelled west along New Road until I reached the Griffin Park round-about. Then I headed south along the eastern promenade. I parked my Saab on the promenade and retraced my steps, to the Coney Beach Amuse-ment Park. The amusement park had been fashioned on the site of an old tip, a waste ground for ballast deposited by incoming vessels. The genesis of the fairground centred on two surplus First World War aircraft hangers and the rides, amusements and arcades developed from there. The water chute dominated the skyline and, even at a distance, the shrieks and excited screams of the children suggested that this amusement still offered its traditional helping of fun.

With Naomi's package in my hand and with Richard King following at a respectable distance, I strolled past the golden sands of Coney Beach and entered the fairground. Many holidaymakers had abandoned the beach and were seeking an evening's entertainment in the fairground. I mingled with the holidaymakers and to judge from Richard King's telescopic glances, peering over the heads of all and sundry, I had become anonymous in the crowd.

I made my way to the penny arcades and placed a coin in a slot machine. After pulling the lever, the machine presented me with a lemon and two plums.

Richard King had made his way to the arcade whereupon he stood with his back to me, facing the dodgems.

A girl with pink candyfloss on a stick brushed past Richard King. As he scowled and tried to remove the sticky substance from his blazer, I walked up to him and said, 'Better get that dry-cleaned or it will stain.'

'We could do with rain,' he complained, producing a handkerchief from his trouser pocket before adding some spittle and applying that to the mark on his blazer. 'Rain will dampen the enthusiasm of these mites and keep them indoors.'

After folding and placing his handkerchief in his trouser pocket, King stared at Naomi's package, but he made no comment.

'How's business?' I asked, strolling towards the dodgems.

'Business is good,' King replied. 'Fisher-King Investigations are doing well.' As he spoke, another girl approached, this time carrying a sticky toffee apple. Wise to his previous encounter, King took a step back and remained well out of harm's way. 'What about Rosebud?' he enquired. 'Are you still keeping your creditors happy?'

'We get by,' I said.

Stealthily, King offered another glance towards Naomi's package. However, I had folded the parcel and its contents remained a mystery to Richard King.

'I am pleased that we bumped into each other today,' King said, adjusting his tie, ensuring that it sat perfectly upon his chest, 'because I have been meaning to talk to you.'

'What about?' I asked.

'I would like to offer you a job. I would like you to work for Fisher-King Investigations. The position would double your current salary.'

'How do you know how much I earn?' I asked mischievously.

'I don't know,' King conceded, 'but I am willing to bet that your salary is well short of the money we earn at Fisher-King.'

'What about Garth?' I said.

'The vacancy is for one person only.'

'Garth is my friend, brother-in-law and associate,' I explained. 'Besides, I'm happy with my income as it stands. As a rule, I don't go chasing money; the Midas shadow is hard to please and it follows you wherever you go.'

'I can understand that,' he said. 'However, times are tough, money is hard to earn, think about your future.'

'I will think about my future,' I said, 'when I have stopped thinking about my client and why you are following her.'

'Who is your client?' he asked innocently.

'Naomi Parker,' I said. 'But you know that only too well.'

'I don't know anyone called Naomi Parker,' he frowned, feigning innocence, which did not become him.

'She is a well-known authoress,' I said. 'Science fiction.'

'Not my thing,' King said. 'I am more of a western man myself.'

'So,' I challenged, 'you are not following her.'

'I am not,' he lied brazenly.

'Lies are hardly the basis for a sound business partnership,' I said.

King averted his gaze, his attention taken by the minutiae of the Roman numerals on his wristwatch.

'Feeling guilty,' I said.

'All right,' he conceded in exasperation, 'I have been keeping tabs on Naomi Parker.'

'Why,' I asked, 'business or pleasure?'

'Business, of course,' he replied indignantly.

'Who is your client?' I asked.

'You know that I can't tell you that; client confidentiality,' he added, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger.

'I revealed my client to you,' I said.

'I saw the two of you together,' King reasoned. 'I could have worked that out for myself. Anyhow, my client wants strict confidentiality. Therefore, my lips are sealed.'

On the dodgems, a teenage boy rammed his car repeatedly into the rubber bumpers of a car steered by a teenage girl and she screamed with delight. Idly, I wondered what Sigmund Freud would make of that.

Returning to Richard King, I said, 'What is your client's interest in Naomi Parker?'

'I can't reveal that either.'

'If you share some information,' I said, 'then I can help you. I'd like to talk to your client, offer my assistance.'

'I will put your proposal to him,' King said. 'In the meantime, don't forget about my proposal. Fisher-King could do great things for you. Leave this sleepy seaside town behind. Head for the city, head for the bright lights, the big time.'

'You should be in show business,' I said.

'I am serious,' he said. 'Fisher-King could advance your career. You would be a fool to reject my offer.'

'You are looking at a happy idiot,' I said. 'So I respectfully suggest that you take your offer elsewhere.'

As Richard King walked off into the sunset, the red sky, developing over the fairground, suggested that the dawn would herald yet another sunny day. Tucking Naomi's package under my arm, I returned to my car. As I slid on to the driver's seat, a woman with auburn hair strolled along the pavement and my mind turned to Jesamine. I wondered if she had any professional, or private, thoughts about the dodgems. Then I drove home, to watch the cricket highlights on my recently acquired colour television.

# Friday, 13th August, 1976

I awoke to the sound of 'Here Comes the Sun' by Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel and the warmth of the golden orb as it beamed through my bedroom window. I allowed the song to finish before switching the radio off. Then I dived into the shower, dried and got dressed. Today, I was wearing a plain short-sleeved shirt and a pair of light fawn trousers. In deference to the warm weather, my houndstooth jacket stayed on its hanger.

The morning was humming with possibilities and, following a breakfast of bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and fried bread, washed down with fruit juice and coffee, I made my way into town.

After parking the Saab outside my office, I said 'good morning' to our downstairs neighbour, Mr Pringle, a man as pleasant as the day is long and as gay as a Hollywood musical, before climbing the stairs.

I entered the office and like a jet plane screaming through a migraine my senses were assaulted by Garth standing in the middle of a mess; files, paperwork, books, magazines, phone books, letters and newspaper cuttings littered the floor. Clearly, someone had broken into our office and turned the place over.

'Friday the thirteenth,' Garth said, stooping amongst the debris before placing a phone book on his desk, 'unlucky for some.'

I made my way over to the filing cabinets and examined the scratches on the grey, metallic paint. 'Good job we went the extra mile and bought the Jefferson '73's,' I said. 'Whoever it was, he had a good go, but he failed to trouble the locks on the cabinets.'

'He smashed the radio,' Garth said mourn-fully, nodding towards the splintered remains of his trusty transistor. 'Do you think that expenses will run to a new one?' he added with a hopeful grin.

'Take it out of petty cash,' I said, the last of the big spenders.

'I called the cops,' Garth said, placing a pot plant on the windowsill.

'Did you see anyone?' I asked.

'No. The office was like this when I arrived this morning.'

'What about Mr Pringle downstairs,' I said, 'did he hear or see anything?'

'He was unaware of what happened, until I informed him a few minutes ago.'

The mess was an inconvenience. However, the burglar had helped himself to nothing of import-ance and the paperwork contained no secrets; no confidences had been betrayed.

'Any idea who might have done this?' I asked.

'Jack Trahearne was unhappy to see us,' Garth reasoned, 'although I wouldn't mark him as the type to resort to this.'

'It appears as though someone was looking for something,' I said, producing Naomi's parcel. 'Maybe this?'

Garth wandered over to the parcel in his loose-limbed, lissom way. Peering into the package, he said, 'A camisole top?'

Granted, it was unlikely that Sunglasses or Richard King had any interest in Naomi's wardrobe. However, their curiosity was aroused when Naomi emerged from the shop with the parcel, suggesting that they were seeking an object. That raised the question: what was the object and did they suspect that I had secreted the item somewhere in our office?

'I'll go and buy a new radio,' Garth said, walking towards the door. At the door, he turned and offered a wicked smile. 'Did you see the highlights last night, 373 for three. Richards was imperious. I reckon a declaration later today.'

'Six hundred will play six hundred,' I said. 'It will be a draw. My fiver is safe in my pocket.'

As Garth made his way down the stairs, I glanced around the office. The police would arrive shortly and therefore I decided not to disturb the scene. Glancing out of the window, I caught sight of the rocks and the waves splashing over their jagged edges. My mind went back to my childhood and an image appeared, as clear as a photograph, of Max the boy and his grazed arm, courtesy of a tumble on the rocks. It is funny the tricks the mind can play. That image remained clear in my memory. I felt sorry for Naomi Parker and the fact that images from her past were fading with her blindness.

The sound of an agitated car engine, belonging to a gold Vauxhall Viva, broke my reverie. A man stepped out of the car and, immediately, I recognized his balding and deeply tanned pate; Detective Inspector Alan Stewart would never pass as a monk, but he had a hairstyle well-suited to a monastery.

Alan Stewart was my age, forty. We had been friends since the 1950s when as fresh-faced Bobbies we had pounded the beat. Married with four children, Alan had dark eyes, a lean, clean-shaven face and a lopsided smile. Keen on swimming and jogging, he kept himself in shape. Dressed in a white shirt, plain blue tie and grey trousers, Alan could have passed as 'any man', which doubtless was his aim.

As Alan's tall frame appeared in my doorway, I said, 'How's the golf?'

'Don't ask,' he sighed.

'Why do you play a game that causes you so much frustration?'

'My doctor said that I needed a hobby, something that would help me relax.'

Casting an experienced and jaundiced eye around my office, Alan Stewart made a mental note of the mayhem. He was blessed with a photo-graphic memory, a useful tool for an ambitious police officer.

'What are you doing here?' I asked. 'I thought that you were on holiday, floating along like a latter-day Jerome K. Jerome on a colourful barge.'

'We should follow Jerome's example,' Al said, 'and go on a boating holiday together; me, you and Garth.'

'And what about the female company?' I said.

'We're married,' he replied, 'and we're talking about a holiday, that means a break from all trouble and strife.'

'Bachelor's Hall,' I said, 'it's always the best, if you're sick, drunk or sober, it's always a rest.'

'Cliff Richard?' he frowned.

'Steeleye Span,' I grinned. 'Anyway,' I repeat-ed, 'what are you doing here?'

'All leave has been cancelled,' Al said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. 'I can't reveal the details, but we're hoping to land a big fish soon.'

'And what fish would that be?' I asked.

'I can't reveal the details,' he repeated.

'Not even to me, your friend of twenty years?'

'Not even to a friend.'

'Not even to the man who rescued the chief inspector's wife's dress, not to mention the chief inspector's wife, from the flames of your barbecue?' While perching on the edge of my desk, Al eased into a familiar lopsided grin as he recalled the incident involving the barbecue, a hosepipe and a great deal of water.

'Food should be cooked indoors,' he affirmed.

'You were the one who decided to go all-Australian,' I said.

With a laugh and a shrug, he conceded, 'It was a great day.'

'The burgers were great, the sausages were scrumptious and the salad divine, but what about this big fish of yours?' I asked.

'This goes no further than these four walls,' Al said, adopting a Machiavellian whisper.

'Scouts honour,' I said.

'We're expecting some snow in August.'

'Drug trafficking,' I said, raising an eyebrow.

'Cocaine,' Al said, 'brought over from the continent, picked up by a small fishing boat and delivered to the harbour. I was staking-out the harbour when I got a call to say that there was trouble at your office. Obviously wires got crossed because I was expecting to see you in a pool of blood.'

'You don't need to sound so cheerful about that prospect,' I said with a mixture of hurt and indignity.

'Just a man who enjoys his work,' Al shrugged, slipping into his grin. 'Any idea who did this?' he asked, waving a hand over the debris.

'Not at this point,' I said.

'Anything stolen?'

'Not that we can see.'

'Have you annoyed anyone lately?' he asked.

'Not since I quit the force,' I said with a straight face and an even voice.

'Looks like you're going to have a fun-filled morning,' Al said, easing himself off the desk and strolling towards the door. 'I'll get the fingerprint boyos over to take a few dabs. You never know, they might show up on the records. In the meantime,' he added, 'do yourself a favour and keep a low profile. You don't want to tangle with the sharks we're dealing with.'

'Happy fishing,' I said as Al made his way down the staircase and I crouched to retrieve the paperwork from the floor.

* * *

Half an hour later, two fingerprint experts duly arrived and they set about their task. The spitting image of Laurel and Hardy, they carried out their work in a quiet, efficient manner. As I watched Laurel and Hardy apply their brushes and powders, I recalled a lecture that I had attended as a junior detective. During the lecture, I learned that there are three basic types of fingerprints: arches, loops and whorls and that the odds of any two individuals having identical fingerprints are one in 64,000 million. Later, I discovered that the first person to be convicted of murder through fingerprints was Francesca Rojas of Argentina who, in 1892, had murdered her two sons, while Britain had to wait until 1902 for its first fingerprint conviction when an habitual criminal, Harry Jackson, was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude for theft.

The lads from the fingerprint department packed their bags and left. I was grateful for their work, but dubious as to its relevance in identifying our burglar. While gathering paperwork from the floor, I was mulling over this point when someone entered the office and knocked a pot plant off a filing cabinet on to my fingers.

'Whoops,' the clumsy interloper said.

From my position, on my hands and knees, I glanced to my right and spied a pair of multi-coloured, platform shoes protruding from the frayed hems of his light blue denims. Looking up, I saw the smiling features of Sunglasses, his jaw masticating away relentlessly on a piece of chewing gum. His mirror-lensed sunglasses were resting on his forehead disturbing his dark, wavy fringe and so, for the first time, I caught sight of his eyes, which were dark and soulless.

On his left wrist, Sunglasses wore the latest fashion accessory, a digital watch. After glancing at the watch, admiring its bright red numerals and sleek design, I said, 'Is there something wrong with your watch?'

'Why do you ask?' he frowned.

'Is it telling the right time?' I queried.

Perplexed, Sunglasses stared at his watch. He shook his wrist, then placed the watch to his left ear to listen for the non-existent 'tick'. Eventually, comprehending the joke, he growled, 'There is nothing wrong with my watch.'

After placing the paperwork neatly on my desk, I waved a hand over the floor, over a damaged set of law books, and said, 'Did you have anything to do with this?'

'Never been here before,' he said innocently.

'What are you doing here now?' I asked.

'Delivering a message.'

'From whom?'

'My boss.'

'Who is?'

'Never you mind,' he grinned menacingly. 'Just listen to the message and have nothing to do with the writer woman.'

'Naomi Parker?' I said.

'Got it in one.'

'I have been hired to assist Naomi Parker,' I said, returning my copy of I Caught Crippen by Walter Dew to one of the two bookcases that flanked my desk.

'Then offer the skirt a refund and butt-out.'

I was annoyed to see that the spine on I Caught Crippen, a 1938 first edition, had been damaged and considered the possibility of finding a replacement.

Turning to Sunglasses, I smiled and said, 'How long have you been playing the role of major-domo?'

'Major who?' he frowned.

'A major-domo is a chief steward,' I said.

'If he doesn't play for Millwall, then I don't want to know,' Sunglasses said dismissively.

'You're a soccer fan,' I said.

'I had trials once, at Q.P.R.,' he replied brightly.

'I like cricket,' I said, adding another crime book to the bookshelf.

'Cricket is for wimps,' Sunglasses said, his top lip curling into a snarl, his voice dipping into a moan.

I pictured a posse of six foot six inch West Indian fast bowlers and considered their reaction should they overhear such a comment, but I let the moment pass. Instead, while placing my 1931 copy of Crime and its Detection on the bookshelf, I said, 'What was the last book that you read?'

'Why are you asking that?' he frowned, his left eyebrow arching with suspicion.

'Just trying to be friendly,' I said.

'Books are for wimps.'

'And casual violence is for real men,' I said, glancing at the damaged books and his flat, misshapen nose. We had tidied most of the paperwork and books. However, dirt from the pot plants had soiled the carpet and shards from the pots still littered the floor. While trying to re-member where we had hidden our brush and pan, I said, 'What is your interest in Naomi Parker?'

'That is none of your business.'

Then I remembered: we did not own a brush and pan. Where was a tinker when you needed one?

Glaring at Sunglasses, I realised that talking to the monkey was getting me nowhere, so I considered that it was time to chat to the organ grinder.

While removing the grime from my hands, I said, 'I would like a word with your boss.'

'My boss only meets people when he wants to,' Sunglasses said, removing his mirror-lensed glasses from his forehead before gazing into them and admiring his reflection. 'It's easier to see the Pope, so forget it,' he added, placing his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. 'In fact, forget everything you know about Naomi Parker. Forget you ever set eyes on her,' he laughed, adjusting his sunglasses, ensuring that the frames were positioned correctly, gilding his handsome, rakish features. 'There's a joke there. Geddit?' he grinned, before walking from the office and on to the stairs.

As Sunglasses walked down the stairs, Garth strolled into the office, a carrier bag in his hand.

'A client?' Garth asked, glancing over his shoulder.

'Trouble,' I said.

'Our burglar?'

'Possibly.' Placing all thoughts of Sunglasses to the back of my mind, I nodded towards the carrier bag. 'What have you got there?'

'A Bang and Olufsen Beolit,' Garth grinned proudly while removing a portable radio, encased in a sleek teak cabinet, from the carrier bag. 'It's got a beautiful tone,' he added, 'real quality.'

'When I said take it out of petty cash, I didn't expect you to break the bank.'

Playfully, Garth dropped his bottom lip and offered me his wounded puppy expression. 'You got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?' he asked.

'Friday the thirteenth,' I explained. 'It plays havoc with my circadian rhythms.'

I was about to return Sunglasses to the front of my mind when the telephone rang. 'The Rosebud Detective Agency,' I said in my best BBC Home Counties telephone voice.

'It's Richard King here; my client will talk to you this afternoon, one o'clock sharp.'

'Where?' I asked, returning to the musical lilt of the land of my fathers.

'His home. He lives at Spenser Hall on the outskirts of Cardiff.'

'I know it,' I said. 'I'll be there.'

As Garth placed the radio on his desk, I sighed and glanced at the dirt from the pot plants along with the shards of broken pottery.

'Looks like you got the short straw,' I shrugged, turning to face Garth.

'Yes, master,' he said in an injured voice that came straight from the plantation.

'At least you have Vivian Richards and co for company.'

'A comfort that will ease me through the day and make plentiful the sweet dreams of evening.'

'Part of the day,' I corrected. 'Because when you are through here head over to Naomi's place; see if there have been any developments.' Reaching into my pocket, I secured my wallet then removed my car keys. 'It promises to be an interesting day.'

'A real ripper,' Garth said, kneeling on the floor while his fingers searched for shards of broken pottery.

* * *

I drove east, along the A48. The traffic was light and steady and within twenty-five minutes, I arrived at Spenser Hall.

As I parked the Saab, I caught sight of Richard King, looking dapper in a white shirt, light grey suit and matching tie. King walked over from his Ford Granada and smiled at me.

'Impressive place, isn't it?' he said, gazing at an array of leaded windows and a whitewashed facade.

Spenser Hall was a Tudor building dating from 1576. I knew this because the year was inscribed above the arch of an imposing front door. A short drive led up to the door and in the drive, I spied a Rolls Royce Phantom III, its enormous silver headlights glinting in the sunshine.

'You can keep the building,' I said, 'I'll take the car.'

King beamed with pride, as though he owned the place. 'You see what I mean about improving your wages; Fisher-King attracts a better class of client.'

I noticed that dirt had crept under Richard King's fingernails and that his right thumb was sheathed in a cotton plaster; a gardening mishap, at a guess, for King had the air of a man who spent a lot of his time cultivating his roses.

'An impressive place,' I conceded, 'but I am happy with my own class of client.'

'Have you worked out who lives here?' King asked as he rang the doorbell and we waited on the doorstep.

'Sir Norman Spenser-Green?' I surmised.

'My client, Sir Norman Spenser-Green,' King confirmed.

Sir Norman Spenser-Green was descended from a long line of landed gentry and army generals. An army man himself, he served his country during the Second World War, although through good fortune he missed all the major conflicts. In the 1960s, Spenser-Green embarked upon a political career and he served as an MP until the voters rejected him in the general election of June 1970.

With a creak, the arched door swung open and a butler ran a gimlet eye over us, his expression suggesting that we had traipsed up the drive with something unpleasant on our shoes.

'Richard King,' my companion announced, 'to see Sir Norman; we are expected.'

With a grimace, the butler invited us into the lobby, a spacious vestibule with a gallery, a dog-legged staircase and striking orange walls. The ceiling was adorned with fine rococo plasterwork depicting a central sun radiating into the four corners.

We walked up the staircase, past the gallery of huge family portraits, into the library. A large mahogany desk, positioned in the centre of the room, dominated the library while mahogany panelling induced a dark ambience. Sepia photo-graphs, mainly portraits, crowded the panelling, the virtuous faces gazing down on a substantial coffee-coloured globe. The bookcases were crammed with books. A casual glance offered a range of subjects, including shooting, fishing, hunting, politics, the Second World War, aeronautics, antiques, art and astronomy.

'Is Spenser-Green married?' I asked while running a finger over a tall ladder, resting against a bookcase. Needless to say, the ladder was made of mahogany.

'No,' Richard King said. 'His first wife left him, she ran off with another woman. His second wife died about a year ago. An Italian from a wealthy family, she was considerably younger than him, very attractive, by all accounts. About two years ago she broke her back in a skiing accident and her health suffered from that moment on.'

I was admiring a portrait of a coquettish Victorian woman when Sir Norman Spenser-Green walked into the library. Dressed in a dark blue three-piece business suit, a stiff white shirt and a dark blue tie, complete with the family crest, Spenser-Green stood around five foot eleven inches tall. He had a bald crown, encircled with closely cropped white hair, pale blue eyes and thin, reptilian lips. His face was round, moon-like and covered in blotches, presumably birthmarks. A lifetime of eight-course meals had taken their toll and left him a good stone overweight, while his fingers were short and stubby, adding to his podgy appearance.

Spenser-Green walked up to me and smiled. He had a fanged smile suggesting that his wardrobe was full of long, black capes, that he only ventured out when the moon was full and that the young women of the parish walked around with incisor marks on their necks.

'You are the private detective?' he said in a quiet, barely audible voice.

'I am.'

'And you are interested in Naomi Parker.'

'I've been hired to assist Naomi Parker,' I said.

'In what way?'

'I would like to know who is following Miss Parker and why.'

'Then you will have discovered that my man has been following her,' Spenser-Green said, smiling at Richard King.

'Indeed,' I said.

'This leads us on to your second point: you wish to know why he has been following her.'

'If we can understand your motives,' I said, 'then the shaft of enlightenment will help all concerned.'

'I will be blunt with you,' Spenser-Green said, adjusting the stiff white cuffs of his shirt before fingering his gold cufflinks. 'I am not interested in Naomi Parker. However, I would like words with her former husband, Patrick McGwyn.'

'For what reason?' I asked.

'That is my business, not yours.' Spenser-Green walked over to his desk and placed a hand on a beautifully sculptured antique chair, made of mahogany, of course. 'If you encounter Mr McGwyn, you will let me know, instantly.'

'I might,' I said.

'Might?' he frowned, his grey eyebrows dancing with indignation. 'There is no might in my world. You will do as you are told. You are either with us or you are one of the enemy.'

'Before I am declared persona non grata,' I said, 'I would like to know why you are interested in Patrick McGwyn.'

Spenser-Green paused, his cold blue eyes settling on me. He stared at me for some time and, despite the heat of the day, I formed the impression that he was trying to turn me into ice.

Eventually, Spenser-Green said, 'Are you a communist?'

'Define communism,' I said.

'Communism is the biggest threat to this country today. Communism is everywhere, in the media, the unions, Westminster...we are establish-ing a plan to combat communism. And we can call on millions of people to rally to our flag, military leaders, ex-servicemen, MPs, former SAS men, ex-intelligence officers, majors, colonels, doctors, lawyers, estate agents, businessmen; already, we have over 100,000 volunteers with hand-picked regional leaders. Furthermore,' he added, nodding towards a letter on his desk, 'we can even rely on the Royal Family for support. When the moment is right, our people will impose Marshall Law. We will seize the ports, the airports, the power stations and the railways. We will take control of the media, disband the unions and send the communists back to the Soviet Union, where they belong.'

'Isn't this a slight over-reaction to the problem of inequality in our society?' I said.

'Over-reaction?' he frowned, his indignant eyebrows dancing over his forehead like two groovy caterpillars jiving to swing-time jazz. 'Do you support the fact that mineworkers can blackmail this country, forcing a prime minister to announce the implementation of a three-day working week while confronted with the indignity of holding cabinet meetings by candlelight? Do you consider it right and proper that football hooligans should be allowed to rampage through our streets unbridled? Do you deem it acceptable that our schools are full of Marxist teachers? Do you hold the belief that this great island of Britain should become a slave to the continent of Europe? Do you think that a union should have the right to force all its members out on strike because a damp patch has appeared on the workplace floor? Of course not. The Marxists have no place within the majesty of Britain. With God's help we will right all these wrongs and after the civil war our country will be strong again and we will take our place in the world with our heads held high.'

'The football hooligans are a menace,' I agreed, 'but we should take some time to understand the sociological problems that lead to their violence before sending the tanks rumbling down our streets.'

'We have no time,' Spenser-Green said. 'We must act, now.'

'And what about the millions of people who would prefer a democratic and peaceful approach to the nation's ills?'

'They will fall in line. I know for a fact that the regular army are being trained for action and that our military academies are holding exercises with the aim of controlling the Marxists. When the Marxist leaders have been expelled, the people will realise that we are talking sense.'

'And where does Patrick McGwyn fit in to all this?' I said. 'Do you want him to build your sand-castles or hold your flag?'

'Mr McGwyn is writing a book about me and our movement. I wish to discuss the book with him, but, unfortunately, he seems to have disappeared. When you encounter Mr McGwyn, you will let us know.'

'If I encounter him,' I said, 'I will consider your request.'

'I have powerful friends,' Spenser-Green said menacingly, his podgy index finger prodding my chest. 'Very powerful friends. You will let us know.'

Without further ado, we were escorted from the building, the butler closing the arched door with a satisfying thud.

'The voice of reason,' I said to Richard King. 'Whatever he is paying you, it isn't enough.'

'The man has spoken,' King said. 'Believe me; he does have many powerful friends. If I were you, I would take his advice and do what he says.'

* * *

After my rendezvous with Sir Norman Spenser-Green, I returned to my office to reflect upon what he had said.

Garth had excelled himself, restoring order to the office, returning everything to its place, including the new radio, positioned on his desk. I walked over to the radio and adjusted the dial, retuning to Radio 1. Garth was right; the radio had a beautiful tone and justified the expense. On the radio, the DJ talked inanely about a subject that slipped past my ears before introducing 'You Are My Love' by Liverpool Express. The song drifted around the office while I replayed the conversation with Spenser-Green in my mind. Unable to draw any agreeable conclusions, I switched the radio off and sat on the edge of my desk. Then the day brightened when, after a knock on the door, Jesamine walked into the room. Today, she was wearing a russet A-line skirt and a cream sleeveless blouse while open-toed sandals revealed that she had painted her toenails a pale shade of pink.

'I was in town,' Jesamine said, 'and I noticed that your car was parked outside, so I decided to call in. I hope you don't mind.'

'Just the person I was hoping to see,' I said, easing myself away from the desk. 'It is too warm to be indoors,' I reasoned, 'so how about a short ride and a walk?'

'I would like that,' Jesamine said, her smile touching her emerald green eyes.

We slipped into the Saab and travelled west along the coast road quietly winding our way towards my home at Kenfig. We stopped short of my cottage and parked near the sand dunes.

As Jesamine climbed out of the car, the light wind caught her hair, easing her auburn locks away from her face, exposing her gold stud earrings. Standing beside the ferns, she adjusted her shoulder bag, placing it on her left shoulder, before gazing at the vast expanse of sand dunes.

'A lovely place,' she said with a look of contentment upon her face.

'In the thirteenth century,' I said while staring at the dunes, 'Kenfig was a medieval town.'

'Then the sand blew in?'

'That's right, and buried the town and all its buildings. I live over there,' I added, turning to my right and gazing across the road to an old stone farmhouse. 'I often stroll among the dunes when I need to gather my thoughts.'

'And where are your thoughts right now?' she asked.

'On a song.'

'Which one?'

'You Are My Love by Liverpool Express. The song is stuck in my head and it is starting to annoy me. Can you suggest an antidote?' I asked.

Jesamine paused. Then she smiled, somewhat mischievously. 'How about an album of heavy metal?' she suggested. 'Maybe some Black Sabbath or Deep Purple? If that fails, then I recommend the 1812 Overture.'

'With real cannons,' I said.

'With real cannons,' she echoed.

Picking our way through the ferns, we wandered towards Kenfig Pool, a freshwater lake covering an area of seventy acres. Local myth insisted that the medieval town sat underneath the pool, while historical documents prove that the medieval buildings were sited in the region now covered by sand. Even so, the myth persists and locals claim that on stormy nights you can still hear the old church bells tolling away beneath the water.

As we walked, I said, 'I like jazz.'

'Me too,' Jesamine replied.

'Humphrey Lyttelton.'

'Me too,' she said with a note of pleasant surprise creeping into her voice. 'I have a signed copy of 'Bad Penny Blues'. The handwriting is beautiful, not scrawled, but crafted like a line of calligraphy.'

'True class,' I said. 'The man exudes class with every word and every note.'

We paused on the narrow sandy path to allow a young couple to walk past. The woman was wearing a pair of hot pants with flowers decorating her buttocks. I have to confess that the man's attire completely escaped my notice.

'How did you become a private detective?' Jesamine asked her intelligent eyes gazing into mine.

'That's a long story,' I said.

As I spoke, her eyes swept along the sandy path, to the distant profile of my car. The sun glinted off the windscreen and it occurred to me that the seats and the steering wheel would be uncomfortably hot upon our return.

With her eyes still focused on the sandy track, Jesamine said, 'We appear to be going for a long walk...'

'Well,' I said, 'if you insist. However, to cut a long story short...after my National Service, I joined the police. I had ambitions and I rose through the ranks, eventually making the grade as a detective sergeant. Then, about nine years ago, I discovered that a member of the House of Lords, who is still in the House, was implicated in a murder. Basically, I was told that he was untouchable and to let the matter rest. This might be old-fashioned and smack of Sir Gawain, but I am riled by corruption and a sense of injustice, so I made further enquires, was suspended and resigned. I helped a mate for a time as a painter and decorator and while splashing paint on the walls the idea developed to form a detective agency. The day I decided to go ahead with the plan my sister phoned and said that I should quit the decorating and become a private detective. Telepathy. So, I established the agency and named it Rosebud in honour of my sister, Rose.

'You are a man of principle,' Jesamine judged, 'I admire that.'

'Principles are fine,' I said, 'but I discovered a long time ago that they don't put potatoes on your plate or wine in your cellar.'

We walked away from the pool, into the sand dunes, whereupon we stumbled across a slab of concrete. The concrete slab was one of many in the dunes, Second World War foundation blocks for army huts. During the war, the Americans were based at Kenfig, preparing for the D-Day landings. I can still remember the day, in June 1944, when I heard news of the landings and the frisson of excitement that ran through my young mind.

'You are close to your sister,' Jesamine deduced, her right foot testing the solidity of the concrete block.

'Fairly close,' I replied. 'Of course, she has her own family now, children, and they take priority. When she was a teenager, she suffered from tuberculosis and I think that the illness brought us closer together.'

'That's strange,' Jesamine said, abandoning the sand and the concrete before turning to face me.

'What's strange?' I asked.

'My hometown of Palm Springs developed as a health resort for TB sufferers. The first non-Indian settler went to Palm Springs because of his son's TB. He established a sanatorium there, then the desert developed into a tourist resort and now the rich and famous go there, ripe for a psychologist!'

'Have you spent a lot of time in Palm Springs?' I asked.

'I spent the past decade travelling back and forth to America, mainly on holidays. I was born in Britain and schooled here, but when my mother felt homesick, we moved to Palm Springs and lived there for a while. However, my father couldn't settle and he returned to Britain. Then I endured a chaotic spell of living with parents and grand-parents on both sides of the Atlantic until it was time to go to university and, because of my father, I decided to make my home in Wales.'

'And your father died recently.'

'That's right,' Jesamine said. 'After his death, my mother started to nag me about moving closer to her. She pulled a few strings and secured a partnership with a medical practice in Palm Springs, looking after the needs of the wealthy residents and the celebrities who holiday there. I have worked hard to secure a good reputation and I have made a lot of sacrifices but, to be honest, I feel guilty about leaving my patients at Parc Gwyllt because, even though some of the rich and famous of Palm Springs will have problems, most of my time will be spent massaging egos.'

'Still,' I said, 'it will be a goldmine.'

'It will be a goldmine,' Jesamine agreed. 'However, is money everything?'

A man wandered across the dunes wearing shorts, a ten-gallon hat and a flower-patterned shirt of questionable style. The hat hid most of his face. However, at first glance, I thought that we had stumbled upon Walter Matthau.

'Naomi has been telling me about the stalkers,' Jesamine said as we retraced out footsteps back to the car.

'There are two of them,' I explained. 'One is a private detective called Richard King. King is working for a wealthy man called Sir Norman Spenser-Green. Spenser-Green claims that he is interested in Patrick McGwyn, not Naomi.'

'Why is Spenser-Green interested in Patrick McGwyn?' Jesamine asked.

'Because McGwyn is writing a book about the noble knight and his political movement.'

'What movement?' Jesamine frowned, tilting her head to her left as she did so.

'A scheme to set up a private army and rid the country of communists.'

'It all sounds rather bizarre.'

'It is bizarre,' I said, 'although Spenser-Green appears to have the means, the motivation and the connections to see it through. Naomi is also being followed by a character wearing mirror-lensed sun-glasses,' I added. 'I suspect that this thug broke into my office last night looking for something.'

'What?' Jesamine asked.

'I have no idea. The thug was following his boss' orders, so he said.'

'And is the thug's boss connected to the anti-communist movement?' Jesamine probed.

'I have no proof one way or the other, but I suspect that his interests run deeper than politics.'

'What are you going to do?' Jesamine asked.

'What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to make sure that Naomi is safe.'

'The only way to do that,' I said, 'is to find Patrick McGwyn. Maybe I can talk to him and learn the truth. Until we find McGwyn, I am sure that the thug and the armchair general will continue to show an interest in Naomi in the belief that she will lead them to McGwyn.'

'Okay,' Jesamine said, 'let's find Patrick McGwyn.'

'But where to start?' I said, opening my car door and recoiling from the heat.

'I have an address for Patrick,' Jesamine said. 'He lives in Bryntirion.'

'Right,' I said, winding down the driver's window before climbing on to a very hot driver's seat. 'Let's talk to Patrick McGwyn.'

* * *

From Kenfig we travelled four miles inland to Bryntirion, a large village on the fringe of the old market town of Bridgend. Patrick McGwyn lived in a ground floor council flat. However, we could find no trace of him. His immediate neighbours inform-ed us that McGwyn had been conspicuous by his absence for at least a week. Older, and little the wiser, we decided to return to the coast and seek Naomi's advice.

We entered Naomi's house to find Garth in the kitchen, listening to the radio, to the Isley Brothers and 'Harvest for the World'.

'There's my Liverpool Express antidote,' I said to Jesamine.

'You what?' Garth said, looking up with a frown.

'A lovely song,' Jesamine agreed, turning to face me, her beautiful eyes gazing into my eyes, as though seeking the depths of my soul, 'but I am still stuck with Liverpool Express and I am not looking for an antidote.'

Jesamine disappeared into the living room, carrying Naomi's borrowed parcel, which had served its purpose. Meanwhile, Garth switched the radio off. Then he adjusted his wire-framed spectacles and glared at me. 'What's going on?' he asked.

'We've been out in the sun,' I said, as if that explained everything.

Glancing around the kitchen, I noted a rattan lampshade above our heads and a breakfast bar complete with redwood-toned louvred doors. The gas cooker, washing machine and refrigerator had been tastefully positioned to blend in with the country-style, farmhouse look. The vinyl floor was devoid of any matting while a coffeemaker and a Portmeirion coffee set sat on top of a storage unit. The coffee pot was tall and cylindrical and embossed with decorative abstract symbols. Exquisitely designed, the coffee pot matched the beautifully crafted coffee cups.

Returning to Garth, I said, 'What's the score?'

'Richards out for 291; the West Indies 687 for eight declared; England 34 for no wicket at the close.'

'Drifting towards a draw,' I said, 'but I meant, have you seen anyone?'

'Oh,' Garth said, removing a cloth from his pocket and polishing his glasses. Then he blinked briefly as his eyes regained their focus. 'I haven't seen a soul. Maybe they've decided on a change of tactics because the house has been tranquillity itself. Looks like the old Max magic has struck again and you have scared them off.'

'I doubt it,' I said, eyeing the coffee pot and craving a cup of coffee. While my caffeine-induced yearning simmered below the surface, I informed Garth about my rendezvous with Sir Norman Spenser-Green.

After listening to the salient points of my report, Garth stared at me, nonplussed. 'Is Spenser-Green for real?' he asked, returning his spectacles to the bridge of his nose.

Before I could reply, Jack walked into the kitchen, his face resembling the rear end of a double-decker bus.

'I'm not happy,' he moaned.

'I can see that,' I said.

'How much longer is this man going to hang around our house?' Jack asked, glaring at Garth.

'Naomi's house,' I corrected. 'And we are doing this for her benefit.'

'It's bad enough having to put up with you,' Jack grumbled, 'let alone his type.'

'Do you have a problem with Garth's ethnicity?' I asked.

'I want him out of the house.'

'He stays,' Naomi said, her slender frame appearing in the doorway. Today, she was wearing open-toed sandals, an embroidered halter-dress and a matching hair band.

'It's me or him,' Jack insisted, his face turning purple with rage.

'Then you had better pack your bags,' Naomi said, turning her back on Jack and walking into the living room.

'I will. I'll pack my bags. Mark my words!' Jack yelled, 'You'll soon be calling me back! You're nothing on your own! You can't cope without me!'

As Jack raged and Naomi retreated in quiet dignity, I formed the impression that Jack was deceiving himself and that his words would carry more meaning if they emanated from Naomi's lips.

While Jack pounded the staircase, presumably in search of his suitcase, I joined Naomi, Jesamine and Apollo in the living room.

'I am sorry about that,' Naomi said, her head bowed, her fingers toying restlessly with a gold necklace. 'It has been a long time coming.'

'Will he be back?' I asked.

'I don't know,' she said tersely.

'Do you care?'

'I don't know!'

Naomi sat on the edge of her seat, clearly agitated. An uncomfortable silence ensued, the still-ness eventually broken by Jack and the slamming of the front door.

Garth joined us in the living room, his entrance greeted by Apollo, who offered a vigorous wag of his tail.

Plainly, Naomi required a moment to compose herself and while she did so, I ran an eye around the living room. The stand out feature was a television set, presumably used as a surrogate radio, hanging from the ceiling and shaped like a human eye. A slim, sleek Trimline telephone sat on a glass-topped coffee table while a Bang and Olufsen hi-fi system graced a rosewood sideboard. The three-piece suite was decorated with colourful, oriental throws and your feet sank into the deep pile of a luxurious russet carpet.

As Naomi relaxed, easing herself into the contours of her sofa, she turned towards me and said, 'Have you got a cigarette?'

'I don't smoke,' I said.

'Neither do I,' she confessed. 'I gave them up about ten years ago, but I could murder a fag right now.'

A glass ashtray sat on the sideboard. The ashtray was clean, devoid of cigarette butts, although the stench from Jack's clothing labelled him as a smoker.

'We are making progress,' I said, repeating my conversation with Sir Norman Spenser-Green. 'We think it might be a good idea to track down Patrick and talk to him.'

'I wish you luck,' Naomi said, a heavy sigh adding emphasis to her words.

'Do you have any knowledge about the book Patrick is writing?' I asked.

'None at all,' Naomi frowned, her slim fingers adjusting her dark glasses. Her fingernails, like her toenails, were painted bright red, although the wear and tear of the day had produced a few blemishes. 'Patrick never mentioned a book,' she added. 'This is all new to me.'

'Patrick seems to have disappeared; where would he go?' I asked.

'When Patrick is drunk he can disappear for days on end.'

'I understand,' I said. 'Are there any friends I could contact, journalists he works with?'

'You could try Charlie Baresi, editor of the Glamorgan Chronicle.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'I will call on Charlie Baresi first thing tomorrow morning.'

Easing myself out of the chair, I joined Garth by the living room door.

'You are leaving,' Naomi said, perceptively.

'It's time to give you some space and peace.'

Although she nodded and offered a brief, bright smile, understandably, Naomi looked tired and distressed and in need of Jesamine's company.

'I am sorry about Jack's attitude to Garth,' Naomi said as she followed us to the front door.

'Think nothing of it,' Garth said magnan-imously.

'We will leave you in peace,' I said. 'Any trouble, give me a call.'

'I will,' Naomi said. 'And when you find Patrick, please let me know.'

'When I find Patrick,' I said, 'you will be my first port of call.'

# Saturday, 14th August, 1976

After breakfast, I phoned the Glamorgan Chronicle whereupon a young woman, with a voice as light as a butterfly, informed me that Mr Baresi could be found at Margam Abbey.

On my way to Margam Abbey, I stopped at a corner shop to buy a copy of the Glamorgan Chronicle. While I searched in my wallet for five pence to pay for the newspaper, the shop radio entertained the customers with David Dundas and a song about pulling your blue jeans on. Flicking through the newspaper, I noted that Her Majesty the Queen, no less, had ordered her royal gardeners to stop watering the grounds in all royal households because of the drought. Furthermore, a hosepipe ban had been introduced in the Porthcawl area and the weather forecast for the coming week was unbroken sunshine with temperatures touching the nineties Fahrenheit. Regardless of David Dundas' melodic musings, I had an inkling that common sense would prevail and that most of the population would be pulling their blue jeans off and slipping into something altogether lighter and cooler.

After a three-mile journey, travelling west, I arrived at Margam Abbey. The original abbey dated from 1147 when the Cistercians settled in the area. In 1536, Henry VIII embarked upon the dissolution of the monasteries and a year later Abbot Lewis of Margam surrendered his abbey to the king. Even though the majority of the buildings fell into decay, religious worship continued in the parish church from the sixteenth century to the present day. Today, the abbey was playing host to a wedding, a society event to judge from the cut-glass accents and the amount of gold and diamond jewellery on display.

Amongst the laughter, the carnations, the diamante lovers, the mint dresses and the dark grey suits a man caught my eye. In his mid-fifties and wearing a pair of loud checked trousers, pre-dominantly green on gold, a lime green shirt and a green tie, open at the neck, he seemed distinctly out of place. The green man was struggling with a camera, adjusting a telephoto lens while the inebriated legs on the tripod took on a life of their own, moving this way and that, left and right, north and south, but never in the right direction. In exasperation, the green man curled his fist and thumped the tripod, only to emerge with bruised knuckles and grazed fingers.

In sympathy, I allowed the green man a minute's grace. Then I walked up to him and said, 'Mr Charles Baresi?'

After sucking his bruised knuckles and shaking his hand, he said, 'Charlie. And who wants to know?' His accent was pure Valleys with no hint of Genoa, Florence or Milan.

From my wallet, I produced my business card and offered it to Charlie Baresi.

Standing around five foot eight, Baresi had collar length unruly hair, the hair of a poet or a composer, brown eyes and bushy sideboards. His face was chubby and bathed in sweat. A beer belly strained his waistband and his leather belt. Around his neck, he wore a silver medallion, a St Christ-opher, while a silver watch adorned his left wrist. Furthermore, a gold wedding band graced his left hand and a gold signet ring encircled the little finger on his right hand.

'Okay,' he said, returning my business card to my waiting hand. 'How can I help?'

'I am looking for Patrick McGwyn.'

With a grunt and a shrug, Baresi gathered up his camera and tripod. Tucking his equipment under his arm, he walked across the car park towards a light blue Opel Kadett.

'McGwyn, you say.' Baresi paused while he searched his trouser pockets for his car keys. Eventually he located his keys in his left-hand pocket. 'Patrick hasn't written a word for me in months.'

'Because of drink?'

'I suppose so. Patrick has always been over-fond of the sauce.'

Baresi slipped a car key into a lock and opened the boot of his Opel, whereupon he placed his camera and the tripod on to a plaid rug. The boot also contained a small bag of golf clubs and golf balls along with a well-oiled cricket bat and cricket whites.

'Is Patrick capable of writing anything these days?' I asked, stepping back while Baresi removed the cricket bat, his right hand closing the boot with a satisfying thud.

'What's your interest?' he frowned. Initially, Baresi's eyes focused on his cricket bat, examining the stains left by the red leather of numerous cricket balls. Some of the stains were in the middle of the bat, although most could be found along its edge. Gazing up from the cricket bat, his eyes repeated the question, fixing me with an intense stare.

'A thug and an armchair general are showing an unhealthy interest in Patrick's ex-wife, Naomi Parker; Naomi is blind,' I added.

'I know,' Baresi replied.

'I want to make sure that she remains safe.'

'And to do that you need to talk to McGwyn,' Baresi surmised.

'Got it in one,' I said.

While we chatted, Baresi practiced a cover drive with his cricket bat. He adopted a right-hander's stance, with the blade slightly open, which probably accounted for the bothersome blemishes along the edge of his bat.

'You could try Maldini's Cafe,' Baresi suggested, 'overlooking the cliffs at Southerndown. Ask for the owner, Roseanna.'

'That's my sister's name,' I said.

'Are you Italian?' he asked. Once again, his brow creased into a frown.

'Not that I know of,' I said.

'I come from a long line of Italians. My father arrived in Wales in 1920; my mother was carrying me at the time. The lure of the coalmines. The black gold attracted scores of Italian immigrants.'

'Who went on to become cafe owners,' I said.

'And newspaper editors,' he added pointedly. As Baresi spoke, his right leg moved forward in time with the cricket bat. With a groan, he made every effort to bend his right knee, transferring his weight into the imaged cover drive. 'Last I heard McGwyn was having a fling with Roseanna Maldini,' he added, straightening and placing a hand to his stiff back. 'Thanks,' I said, grateful for the information.

'Can you tell me anything else about Patrick?' I asked.

'What do you want to know?' he said.

'What does he look like?'

'Red, curly hair, average build and height. He's got emerald eyes that twinkle when he's in a good mood, very alluring to the ladies, so I'm told. However, when he's had too much to drink, those eyes can be the eyes of the Devil.'

'What's his favourite drink?' I asked.

'Whisky, by the bottle.'

'How about his interests, away from the bottle?'

'Patrick is a bit of an artist, he likes painting. He's also a linguist, speaks very good Italian. And he likes the open sea and sailing.'

'Does he own a boat?' I asked.

'I'm an editor and I can barely afford to run a car. He's a freelance journalist who turns in an article every six months...'

'Point taken,' I said.

Baresi assayed one more cover drive. Then, with cricket practice over, he opened the passenger door of his Opel Kadett. The Kadett was a two-door saloon and Baresi had to lean over the front seat to place his cricket bat on to the back seat where it joined a variety of items including a paperback, the Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas, a magazine, displaying an article about Josephine Baker, the exotic dancer from the 1930s, and an assortment of collectable comics: the Wizard, Thunder and Scorcher.

'The cricket bat travels with you on the back seat?' I enquired.

'For luck,' Baresi smiled.

'And does it work?'

'I'm averaging 15.89 this season,' he declared, his voice neutral, neither bursting with pride nor tinged with despair. Given that I was unacquainted with his career average, I wasn't sure whether to congratulate him or offer my condolences.

Laughter from the abbey attracted our attention and removed all thoughts of a reply. The wedding guests were toasting the groom and the bride, popping champagne corks, sending them spinning through the air. Like Baresi, I was developing a sense of estrangement and so I strolled towards my car.

'Before you go,' Baresi called out over my shoulder, 'you mentioned an armchair general.'

'Sir Norman Spenser-Green,' I said, turning to face Italy's answer to Denis Compton.

'I guessed it was him. What's the story?'

'No story,' I said, 'as yet.'

'There's a big story there.'

'One you want to print?' I asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

'Do you think that I want to spend all my time at society weddings?' he replied, casting a jaundiced eye towards the revellers.

'I assumed that you were short-staffed.'

'Too right,' Baresi sighed. With a shrug, he glanced up to the clear blue sky. 'Everyone's on holiday.'

During Baresi's cricketing exertions, his St Christopher had escaped from his chest hair and now, after mopping his brow, he took a moment to place the silver medallion inside his shirt. Then he ambled over to me and murmured, 'If you dig up anything interesting on Spenser-Green...'

'I'll let you know,' I said.

Baresi nodded, as if satisfied. Then he returned to his car.

'Enjoy your game this afternoon,' I added, glancing towards Baresi's car and his cricket bat.

'Pencoed thirds,' he replied. 'There was a time when I was in the first team.'

'Anno Domini,' I said.

Placing a hand to his troublesome back, Baresi groaned. 'And don't forget his cousin, Arthur Ritis.'

'I'll see you around,' I said, slipping into my Saab, my thoughts turning to Southerndown and Roseanna Maldini.

* * *

From Margam Abbey I travelled eight miles south-east to Southerndown. A delightful district with cliffs, sandy beaches and sixty acres of green hillside overlooking the coast, Southerndown was very popular with the locals and with tourists. Moreover, a little further along this golden coast, at St Donats, the American newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst set up home and entertained the beautiful people of Hollywood in the decades between the two world wars.

At Southerndown, I parked the Saab in a car park overlooking Dunraven Bay and walked up a grassy incline towards Maldini's Cafe. A Citroen Dyane, possibly Roseanna's, was parked outside the cafe while the building itself was modern with a wide facade. Four large windows adorned the front of the single-storey structure while a bungalow, presumably Roseanna Maldini's living quarters, sat to the rear and to the right. A line of benches bedecked the front of the cafe, weathered by time and chiselled by customers with names carved long ago. Plastic racks flanked the entrance door and these racks were stacked with magazines and newspapers, including Woman's Own, Cosmopolitan and the Glamorgan Chronicle.

Upon entering the cafe, I was greeted by Dr Hook proclaiming that he was going to 'love you a little bit more'.

While the radio played quietly in the background, I ran a casual eye around the cafe, seeking Roseanna Maldini. Instead, I spied two families enjoying their lunch, an elderly man in a dark blazer with medals upon his chest and a group of teenagers who were sniggering at the sight of a soggy, sagging hot dog. As a teenage boy tormented a giggling teenage girl with his limp phallic symbol, a child from one of the families threw a bread roll at his brother, who ducked, the bread roll bouncing off an empty chair and landing at my feet. Meanwhile the elderly man sampled his soup, noisily slurping away, in a world of his own.

Ignoring the bread roll and the cafe clientele, I walked over to the serving counter where a young woman presided over an array of cold snacks, chocolates and cigarettes. The young woman was short with a full figure, a painting by Rubens brought to life. I have to admit that the ham rolls looked enticing, but not as enticing as the young woman's welcoming smile.

'Roseanna Maldini?' I asked in hope.

'Over there,' the young woman said, flashing her brown eyes towards the entrance door.

After striding into the cafe, wearing large, dark glasses, black high-heeled shoes and a simple black dress, adorned with white lace on its cuffs and collar, Roseanna Maldini paused beside one of the picture windows; standing on a chair, she proceed-ed to attach a film poster, advertising All the President's Men, to the plate-glass. Then, with a scowl, she scooped up the bread roll from the immaculate pine floor, placing the wayward missile in a refuse bin.

With the same businesslike walk, Roseanna Maldini strode over to the Rubens at the serving counter, exchanged a few pleasantries, then disappeared behind a beaded curtain, into a private quarter of the cafe. When she emerged, a few minutes later, she was carrying a vase of flowers, which she placed on the counter. More pleasantries were exchanged before Roseanna Maldini, armed with a cheese and tomato roll and a cup of coffee, slipped into a vacant seat beside a picture window.

Turning to Miss Rubens, I ordered a cup of coffee and as I waited for my sustenance to arrive, I studied Roseanna. I judged that she was a little older than me, in her early forties. She was about five foot tall in her high-heeled shoes with a petite figure and dark, curly hair, flecked with grey. On her left wrist, she wore a plain watch with a black leather strap. Her jewellery extended to a gold and pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings. Gold costume rings encircled the middle finger of her left hand and the middle and ring fingers of her right hand. Her eyes were still hidden behind her large dark glasses, glasses that balanced precariously upon her elfin nose. Her lips, sensual and generous, were highlighted with a vibrant red lipstick and, when she drank, her lipstick kiss stained the rim of her coffee cup.

After collecting my coffee, I walked over to Roseanna Maldini and, as I approached, she adjusted her sunglasses, revealing dark, arched eyebrows, deep lines at the corners of her eyes and a painful-looking bruise around her right eye.

'That looks sore,' I said, my shadow falling over her table.

'I must learn to put more water with it,' Roseanna grimaced, sliding her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose, shielding her eyes. Unlike Baresi, she had a distinct Italian accent, adding an 'a' to the tail of almost every word.

'You are Roseanna Maldini?' I asked.

'Who are you?' she replied, her eyes gazing into the depths of her coffee cup.

'Max Gwyther,' I said. 'I'm a friend of Patrick McGwyn's.'

Looking up, her stare intensified as she studied me closely, though her thoughts and impressions she did not reveal. However, after pausing to sip from her coffee cup, she said, 'Patrick never mentioned you before.'

'We have lost touch,' I said. 'I haven't seen Patrick lately. I would like to catch up with him. Where is he? Do you have any idea?'

'I do not know where he is,' Roseanna replied, returning her gaze and her thoughts to her coffee.

'I understand that you and Patrick are friends,' I said, placing my coffee cup on to the table, easing myself on to a chair opposite Roseanna.

'Who told you that?' she asked, her forehead creasing into a frown.

'Charlie Baresi,' I said.

'We are part-time friends,' Roseanna corrected. 'When Patrick is sober, we get on fine.'

'And when he is drunk?'

'When Patrick is drunk it is best to avoid him, which is what I have been doing lately.'

After shuffling uncomfortably on her seat, Roseanna turned her attention to the remnants of her coffee. Her cheese and tomato roll remained on its plate, partially nibbled, but largely untouched. Meanwhile, the teenagers wandered raggedly from the cafe, presumably to enjoy the pleasures of the beach, a child spilled his fruit juice over his brother's shorts while his mother buzzed around as mad as a hornet and the old man stared into his empty soup bowl, his thoughts apparently lost in the past.

While gathering up her coffee cup and her cheese and tomato roll, Roseanna turned to me and said, 'Excuse please, I have customers to tend to.'

'I am concerned about Patrick's ex-wife,' I said, extending an arm then placing my right hand lightly on Roseanna's left elbow. 'She might be in danger. I need to talk to Patrick.'

Roseanna stared at my hand, her face displaying a measure of revulsion, as though gazing at a large, unwelcome spider. As she bit her bottom lip and I released my hold on her elbow, she said, 'If you insist. But wait five minutes please. Meet me outside, on the cliff.'

Taking the lady at her word, I meandered out of the cafe, my feet kicking up dust as they strode towards the cliff. Pausing beside an empty bench, I tried to make sense of Roseanna and our brief conversation, concluding that deep down she was a vivacious, attractive woman, but a woman wearing a sullen expression, a rainbow wrapped in grey.

From the edge of the cliff, I watched as the sea folded like a mantle on the beach, children bounced around on space hoppers and families picnicked on the sand. Turning to face the cafe, a young boy rode past on a bright orange chopper, swiftly followed by a girl with grazed knees, balancing on her skate-board. A few minutes later, a jogger in a singlet and shorts pounded the road. Masculine, lean and sweating profusely the jogger grimaced as his strapping thighs took on the challenge of an approaching knoll.

My eyes followed the jogger along the road until they alighted on a light blue Vauxhall Cavalier and a man standing beside the car. I recognized the man instantly: Walter Matthau, the same character I had spied amongst the dunes at Kenfig. Today, he was wearing his ten-gallon hat at a rakish angle, tilted away from his face, balanced on the back of his head. Brown, matted hair escaped from the hat and curled over short sideboards, which were grey. Standing around six foot tall, he had a comfortable figure and a face like crumpled brown paper, well-worn, lived in, a face that had experienced a great deal of life. He was dressed in a migraine-inducing outfit of a large-checked jacket, a small-checked shirt, striped trousers and a spotted tie. From a distance, the man appeared to be smiling, but at what, I could not say. To stumble across one stranger in peculiar circumstances you could dismiss as happenstance. Furthermore, to stumble across the same stranger within twenty-four hours you could consign to coincidence. Except that in my business, there is no such thing as coincidence: Walter Matthau was following me, joining a trail blazed by Sunglasses and Richard King.

I was pondering the significance of this latest development when Roseanna emerged from the cafe. With hesitant strides, she crossed the road and joined me by the cliff top bench.

'I am sorry,' she said apologetically, 'I cannot help you.'

'You would be helping Patrick as well,' I said, my gaze guiding Roseanna to Walter Matthau. 'Other people are interested in Patrick. It would be prudent if I talk to him before they do.'

'I cannot help you,' Roseanna said defensively. She bit her bottom lip, hard, threatening to draw blood. Then she turned on her heel and sighed, 'Please, do not call at my cafe again.'

'If you change your mind, call me,' I said. Running after Roseanna, I offered my business card to her.

Roseanna paused and through her dark sunglasses, she studied the card. Then, without a word, she turned away and walked towards the cafe.

Meanwhile, the man in the migraine-inducing outfit climbed into his car. Without doubt, he was planning to follow me. However, I was in no mood for company. With the Saab's engine ticking over agreeably, I engaged gear and hit the road.

* * *

From Southerndown I drove inland, through St Bride's Major to Ewenny, a village famous for its high quality potteries. Then I headed west to Ogmore, parking beside the Norman castle. The Normans had constructed the castle in the early 1100s to safeguard land and communication routes. Now an attractive ruin, the castle was popular with tourists and locals and many of them lined the riverbank.

After locking the Saab, I wandered across the stone chippings, towards the riverbank. A feature of Ogmore Castle was its location beside the river and a unique row of stepping-stones, leading from the outer-bailey to the far riverbank. I paused beside the stepping-stones. Turning to my left, I spied Walter Matthau's Vauxhall Cavalier as it rolled into view.

In due course, Walter stepped out of his car, joining the holidaymakers as they sat in their deckchairs, enjoying the heat of the afternoon sun. I was pondering my next move, considering how I could lose Walter, when a streaker ran across the stepping-stones, into the outer-bailey. All eyes turned to stare at the streaker, who was middle-aged, male and probably drunk. Dressed only in socks and training shoes he ran around the castle ruin, generating a degree of laughter and a few censorious frowns.

Glancing at Walter, I noted that he was amused by this latest development. Moreover, the streaker had captured his attention and I was free to roam. Seizing the moment, I skipped across the stepping-stones, jumped on to the far riverbank and broke into a run.

Although my sporting days were well behind me, years of activity had honed my fitness and I was able to jog for many miles at a steady pace. For all his qualities, I doubted that Walter, with his comfortable paunch, would have the capacity to match my stamina. Nevertheless, taking no chances, I jogged along a lane, across an old swing bridge and started towards Merthyr Mawr.

Merthyr Mawr was a picture-postcard village with chocolate box thatched cottages, a rustic idyll full of pastoral charm. However, instead of entering the village, I jogged towards the sand dunes, the same stretch of dunes that extended to my home at Kenfig.

Running on to the sand, I came face-to-face with the big dipper, a huge sand dune, a training ground for Olympic athletes. Scrambling up the big dipper, my run faded to a walk. Eventually, my legs took me to the summit and there, breathing heavily and bathed in sweat, I sat on the sand.

A few minutes later, a panting Walter Matthau appeared at the foot of the big dipper. After captur-ing his attention, I made sure that he climbed the mountain of sand and while he did so, I escaped down the other side of the hill, back to my car.

It would take Walter a good fifteen minutes to return to Ogmore Castle and by that time, I would be well away, out of sight, if not out of mind. With sweat dripping off my body and my clothes sticking to my skin, I was no sight for polite company, so I drove home, had a quick shower, refreshed my attire, then opened my front door.

'Nice day for it,' Sunglasses said, his foot tapping my doorstep, a gun, a Smith and Wesson .32 in his hand. 'Get into my car,' he smiled, waving the gun, 'we're going for a ride.'

I climbed into Sunglasses' Datsun Cherry and he proceeded to burn rubber, travelling well in excess of the speed limit and taking corners on two wheels whenever he had the chance. Sunglasses drove close to the edge, from accelerator to brake, and it was tempting to regard his driving skills as a metaphor for how he lived his life.

Mercifully, the ride was a short one, from Kenfig to Newton Church. Sunglasses parked beside the village green, a straw-coloured expanse of land, parched by months of drought.

Sunglasses unwrapped a fresh stick of chewing gum and placed it into his mouth. Then he waved his gun at me and said, 'Get out.'

Keen to oblige, I slipped out of the Datsun Cherry, my eyes wandering to a silver Peugeot 504. Two people were sitting inside the Peugeot, a man and a woman. The woman was in her mid-thirties, ginger-haired, busty with a cleavage resembling Cheddar Gorge. I knew the man: Frank 'Fingers' Mahoney, a criminal with an easy-going manner, an air of bonhomie that hid darker moments of sadism.

As Fingers Mahoney climbed out of his car, he opened the glove compartment, retrieved a brochure on antiques and handed that to his lady companion. Although apparently apathetic, the woman flicked through the brochure while Fingers closed the car door and walked towards me.

Fifty years old, Fingers Mahoney had dark hair conspicuously streaked with grey. His eyes were puffy and heavy, while his face was fleshy and distinguished by a large mole on his left cheek. Although of medium height and a good stone overweight, Fingers had muscular forearms, toughened by years of physical activity, i.e. brawling. Casually dressed in a pair of fawn checked slacks and a two-toned tee-shirt, brown on beige, Fingers seemed at peace with the world, totally relaxed.

Frank Mahoney had earned the epithet 'Fingers' because he dipped his digits into many criminal pies. Furthermore, Frank Mahoney was a polydactyl, born with five fingers and a thumb on each hand, a fact he proudly displayed with large gold signet rings spelling out FRANK on the fingers of each hand.

'Hello, Frank,' I said, my gaze wandering back to his car. 'I thought you were with a brunette, since the divorce?'

'The brunette is Mondays and Thursdays. The blonde is Tuesdays and Fridays and Ginger is Wednesdays and Saturdays.'

'What about Sundays?' I asked.

'Leave it out,' Fingers said. 'Even God had a day off.'

With a sigh, Fingers followed my gaze back to his Peugeot. Ginger had abandoned her brochure and the world of antiques and was busy filing her fingernails.

'We are off to Chepstow next week, the races,' Fingers explained. 'Do you like a flutter?'

'Only on certainties,' I said.

'Ginger likes the horses,' Fingers said. 'I'm trying to get her into a bit of culture, to follow my new-found passion for antiques, but...' His voice faded as he shook his head sadly. '...what can you do?' he shrugged.

'Is he with you?' I said, turning my attention to Sunglasses.

'Smudger,' Fingers said.

'Smudger?' I frowned.

'Smudger,' Fingers echoed. 'He makes a terrible mess of people he doesn't like.' Fingers paused for a moment, to allow the penny to drop. Then he added, 'Smudger is my eldest sister's boy. You remember Florrie?'

'Vaguely,' I said.

'Florrie's living up in London now. We met up recently, at a family funeral. She told me that Smudger ran into a bit of bother with some East-End hoodlums, so I offered to give her a helping hand.'

'By putting him on the straight and narrow.'

'Exactly,' Fingers replied without a trace of irony in his voice.

Smudger was sitting in his car, chewing his gum. Through the open window, I could see his hands as they toyed with the Smith and Wesson. The gun was an unwelcome development, danger-ous in Smudger's hands. The combination filled me with a sense of foreboding, with the notion that someone would suffer before the day was out.

'Whose idea was the gun?' I asked.

'It makes him feel more secure,' Fingers replied, offering a sigh and a diffident shrug of his broad shoulders.

'Guns have a habit of going off,' I said, 'particularly when an idiot has his finger on the trigger.'

'Who are you calling an idiot?' Fingers retorted. 'The boy's had a hard life. He was born at the end of the war. His father never got on with him. He, the father, was a prisoner of the Japanese and suffered all manner of torture. Of course, when he gets home after the war, he takes it out on the boy. And you know the irony of this little story? His missus, my sister, the fulsome Florrie, was fooling around while soldier-boy was on the River Kwai and Smudger isn't his kid after all. Life throws up some tragic twists of fate sometimes.'

As though in need of succour, Fingers reached into the pocket on his tee-shirt. From the pocket, he removed a gold cigarette lighter and a packet of cigars. He proceeded to unwrap and light a fat, pungent cigar, coughing violently as he placed the tobacco between his lips.

'This heat plays havoc with my chest,' Fingers complained, his eyes watering through the swirling smoke of his cigar.

'And the cigars have nothing to do with it?' I probed.

'Listen,' Fingers said, his face intense, his voice serious, 'it's a well known fact that cigars and cigarettes open up the airways, it's all to do with capillary action or something. I read that in a magazine.' While scratching his head, his features twisted into a frown. 'Or did I overhear it in a pub?'

While Fingers searched the canyons of his mind for the source of his information, I stepped into the shadow of a five-hundred-year-old yew tree and gazed up at the church. Yet another Norman structure, the church dated from 1189 and was dedicated to St John the Baptist. Square and squat with arrow slits and battlements and walls four foot thick, the structure was partially rebuilt by Jasper Tudor, uncle of Henry VII, between 1485 and 1495, adding the west tower and the chancel. Other notable features included a churchyard cross, with a medieval base and a shaft erected in 1927, an eighteenth century turret clock and numerous stained-glass windows, including one of Christ by Sir Edward Burne-Jones.

'Nice church,' I said, partly to myself, partly to Fingers.

'I would love to buy a church,' Fingers sighed adding a nod of approval.

'Are you into architecture?' I asked.

'Property,' he replied. 'I'm a developer now.'

'A crook by another name,' I smiled.

'That is slanderous,' he frowned.

'Not if said in jest,' I responded, following Fingers into the graveyard.

As well as lichen and moss, the gravestones were covered in ladybirds. Maybe it was something to do with the heat, but we had seen a pre-ponderance of ladybirds throughout the summer.

Walking up to a gravestone, Fingers eyed a ladybird in abstract fashion. Then he placed his thumb over the beetle and crushed it against the monument.

'Why did you do that?' I asked.

'Dunno,' he replied vacantly. 'I get these moments...this little voice bothers me...you know...'

Fingers stared at the stain on his thumb, his cigar, then me. After wiping the stain on a gravestone, he discarded his cigar then pointed towards a corner of the churchyard.

'My ancestors,' he said. 'This graveyard is a landfill site for my ancestors. Still,' he reasoned, 'you have to pay your respects. Coalminers, agricultural labourers, railwaymen...it is humbling to see where you have come from. I was born in 1926,' he added, 'during the General Strike.'

'Not a good omen,' I said.

'I grew up in the 1930s, in the Great Depression. I saw great poverty, yet at the same time, I saw others enjoying great wealth. I was a spiv during the war; even so, I spent a fair share of my time underground. I was a Bevin Boy, you know. I wanted to serve my country on the front, fighting Fritz, but old Ernest Bevin had other ideas, didn't he? He pulled my name out of a hat and sent me underground. And do you know what; I had to stay there for five years after the war ended. Where's the fairness in that? It's all wrong, I tell you; there's no justice for the common man.'

'You should be on This is Your Life, Frank; you would have the nation in tears.'

Staring into the middle distance, Fingers ignored my comment. He continued, 'When I eventually got out of the pit I became a salesman, door-to-door, then I moved on to second-hand cars and auctioneering. Okay, so occasionally I fell in with a bad crowd. I tried to run before I could walk and I had my wrist slapped from time-to-time. But I have broken my back to get where I am. Rags-to-riches in fifty hard years.'

'You should have warned me, Frank; I would have brought my violin.'

'Listen up,' he chided. 'Show some respect. A bit of family history gives you a sense of perspective in regard to your own life, helps you to see how far you have come.'

'And you have come a long way, Frank.'

'From the bowels of the earth, to prison to a villa in Spain...but I am legit now. I am a property developer.'

'Of course you are,' I said.

Gazing at the solid stone tower, Fingers sighed, 'I would love to buy a church.'

'Your dreams and aspirations, even your ancestors, are all very interesting,' I said, 'but you didn't drag me here to talk about them.'

'Quite right,' Fingers agreed. While walking through the churchyard, past the tombstones, some centuries old, he added, 'You haven't been listening. You're still meeting people and talking to people you shouldn't be meeting or talking to. There are plenty of spare plots in the churchyard,' he said pointedly, his eyes wandering to an open grave. 'And Smudger likes nothing more than a nice funeral. You get my drift?'

'I am beginning to,' I said.

'Take a word of advice from old Uncle Frank...stay away from the blind woman. Stick to finding missing cats for little old ladies.'

At that moment, a little old lady ambled into the churchyard. However, before she could utter a word about her missing cat, I set foot on the road and walked to Naomi's house.

* * *

The walk from the church to Naomi's house was a short one and within ten minutes, I arrived at her garden gate.

I found Garth in the front garden, running a casual eye over the passers-by, including a young boy who was licking an ice-cream.

'We were going to the beach today,' Garth said, his expression glum, his tone morose.

'Apologise to Rose for me,' I said.

'I already have,' Garth replied.

As Garth checked his watch and stifled a yawn, a thought occurred to me: maybe I should offer him a full partnership in Rosebud, as opposed to our current employer-employee arrangement. After all, Garth put in the extra hours and he made a valuable contribution to the success of the agency, therefore a partnership would be a just reward. I would have to consider the details and then make an offer, when the time was right.

Meanwhile, returning to the present, I said, 'How's the cricket?'

'I'm not sure about the latest score, but England were 137 for one at lunch.'

The game was drifting towards a draw. That was one of the perverse pleasures of cricket; you could toil away for five days, display your skills, dominate an opponent, but the game could still end in stalemate, as a draw. The British accepted that fact, celebrated it, whereas a stalemate was anathema to the Americans; for them, life was about winners and losers.

Thankful in the knowledge that my five pounds was safe, I said, 'Do you want to renegotiate the bet?'

'How about we up it to ten pounds?' Garth suggested, without pause for deliberation or deeper thought.

His swift answer made me suspicious, made me wonder if the game had moved on. Narrowing my eyes, I said, 'Do you know something that I don't?'

'Only that England were 137 for one,' Garth replied in wide-eyed innocence.

'Okay,' I said, taking him at his word, 'ten pounds says that the game will end in a draw.'

'And ten pounds says that the West Indies will win.'

With agreement reached, we moved on to matters that were more serious and the threat posed to Naomi. While gazing at her impressive, attractive house, I said, 'Have you seen anyone buzzing around Naomi?'

'No one,' Garth said, 'except Mrs Wilkins the cleaning lady and Happy Jack. Jack was in and out in less than five minutes.' As Garth adjusted his spectacles, he glanced up and down the road, noting my lack of transport. 'How did you get here?' he asked.

While Garth polished his spectacles, I regaled him with the story of Fingers Mahoney and our stroll through the graveyard.

'So Fingers Mahoney has got an interest in Patrick McGwyn?' Garth reasoned.

'It would seem so,' I said.

'What is McGwyn involved in that would attract the attention of Mahoney?'

'Good question,' I said. 'Also, we have a new friend, a man who followed me from Southerndown to Ogmore to Merthyr Mawr to the big dipper. I have him down as an American.'

'How do you work that out?' Garth frowned, holding his glasses up to the sunlight.

'When he set foot on the big dipper, I'm sure I heard him swear in red-blooded Texan.'

Thoughtfully, Garth returned his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. As ever, he had been thorough and his glasses were clean, spotless, immaculate. It occurred to me that in moments of contemplation, Garth polished his glasses. The polishing was a habit, I suppose, which reminded me of an old desk sergeant who, when challenged by cerebral activity, was moved to pick his nose. Naturally, he was known as Piggy.

'It's time that you were heading home,' I said to Garth. 'Drop me off at my place, will you, I need to collect my car.'

'Sure,' he replied before entering the house to inform Naomi that he was leaving.

On his way to Port Talbot, Garth dropped me off at my cottage, whereupon I slipped into the Saab and drove back to Naomi's house.

I rang the doorbell and waited while Naomi made her way to the front door. Today, she was wearing a back-baring dress with a smocked, elasticated bodice. The dress was patterned with yellow and white checks and her hair was covered with a matching scarf.

'Another lovely day,' I said, referring to the weather as opposed to my meeting with Fingers Mahoney.

'It's been warm,' Naomi conceded, 'I give you that. To be honest, a nice day is a day with a mild breeze. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. And the sound of rain; rain gives a sense of perspective. But nothing beats the sound of thunder; thunder encloses you in your own space; it puts a roof over your head.'

'I'm sure that we'll have a storm,' I said, glancing up, searching for clouds in the clear blue sky, 'before the summer is out.'

While counting her footsteps, Naomi led me through her house to her study. In the study, I found Apollo slouched on a beanbag beside a desk. Opening a lazy eye, the dog glanced at me, wagged his tail, then returned to his slumbers. The study was an attractive room containing two leather armchairs, a line of bookcases along one wall and, on an adjacent wall, French windows that opened on to the patio. As Naomi made herself comfortable in one of the leather armchairs, I wandered over to her desk.

On the desk, I found a number of items, including audio cassettes, notes in Braille and paperback books. I flicked through one of the books, a dissertation on the Soviets and their efforts to put a man in space. The story began on the 4th October 1957 when the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, a satellite no bigger than a basketball and powered by a car battery. Sputnik passed over America once every 101 minutes, thus firing the starting gun to the space race.

Turning to Naomi, I said, 'You have been researching the moon landings.'

'Yes,' she said. 'The idea of people walking on the moon is so romantic, at least to me, but the background is murky, tragic and mired in international espionage and politics. On the one hand, you have Wernher von Braun, an ex-Nazi who built rockets for the Americans and on the other, you have Sergei Korolev, who designed rockets for the Soviets. The race to the moon was a battle between empires, a multi-million dollar contest directed by two men.'

'So it was all for real,' I said, 'not rigged on a film set.'

'It was for real,' Naomi said. 'If the Americans had faked the moon landings do you think that the Soviets would simply place a finger to their lips and say nothing? If the Americans had faked the moon landings, the Soviets would shout out from the rooftops. The Soviets have said nothing; therefore the moon landings are for real.'

'And what about the books?' I said, holding up the paperback. I would have made this gesture in front of a sighted person and it occurred to me that old habits are hard to break hence this gesture, and others, in front of Naomi. 'Do the books make for good company?' I asked.

'Obviously, I can't read them. However, I love to touch them and smell them. I love the smell of old books; cassettes are not the same!'

Walking over to the bookcase, I studied the books, which were predominantly on the subject of science and space and principally non-fiction. Novels by John Braine, J.R.R. Tolkien and William Golding were well thumbed, indicating that Naomi had read the books in her sighted days.

'How did you get into astronomy and science-fiction?' I asked, my gaze settling on a book about the planets.

'Through an older brother and an uncle who were always gazing at the stars. One day my uncle allowed me to look through his telescope, and from that moment I was hooked.'

A noise from upstairs, possibly from the bathroom, captured my attention and my thoughts turned to Dr Garner. Within days, she would be leaving for the sunshine of America, a notion that created dark clouds in my mind.

'Where's Jesamine?' I asked, abandoning the books and walking over to Naomi.

'In the bath.'

'You will miss her when she goes.'

'I will,' Naomi agreed.

'Garth tells me that Jack called in,' I said, changing the subject.

'Only to collect his things.'

'Where has he gone?'

'I don't know,' Naomi replied, her voice carrying a weary tone.

'Where did Jack keep his things?' I asked, suddenly aware that the room, indeed the house, had been created in Naomi's image with little input from Jack.

'His clothes were in a wardrobe, upstairs. His personal possessions, he kept in a bureau, over there.'

Naomi turned to face the door and a bureau, placed against a plain wall. I wandered over to the bureau and opened a drawer. The drawer was empty, except for an old rag, an oil stain and a live bullet, a .38, which fell from the rag.

While holding the bullet between my fingers, I asked, 'Does Jack own a gun?'

'From his army days, I think.'

Therefore, yet another weapon had appeared on the scene. At this rate, we were heading towards the climax at the OK Corral.

I was pondering that point when Jesamine appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a short, sleek negligee, revealing her shapely thighs. Her head was tilted to one side as she dried her hair on a cotton towel.

'Oh!' Jesamine exclaimed, sweeping her hair from her eyes. 'I had no idea that we had company.'

Before anyone could reply, the telephone rang and, automatically, I switched my gaze from Jesamine to the sound of the insistent bell.

'I'll get it,' Jesamine said, wrapping the towel around her hair before running towards the living room.

Instinctively, I followed Jesamine into the living room and as I leaned against the door frame, her eyes widened in surprise and she cried, 'Patrick! Where are you?' Patrick offered a reply and Jesamine responded, 'Yes...okay...I'll be there.'

'That was Patrick McGwyn?' I asked.

'Yes,' Jesamine said.

'How did he sound?'

'Drunk. Distressed. He wants to meet me, on the cliff opposite Maldini's Cafe, at eleven o'clock.'

'Be there,' I said. 'I'll follow you in my car. Hopefully, we'll get some sense out of Patrick and bring an end to this matter before it gets out of hand.'

* * *

At 10.15 p.m., we made our way to Southerndown, arriving fifteen minutes later. Jesamine parked her Triumph Vitesse near the cliff top bench, opposite Maldini's Cafe, while I parked my Saab a little further along the coast, near a set of steps that led on to the beach.

After locking my Saab, I walked along the cliff top passing a middle-aged couple, strolling hand-in-hand, a pensioner in a flat cap walking his dog and a teenage boy, mooching with his hands in his pockets, looking jilted and lost.

Arriving at Jesamine's car, I nodded towards the passenger seat and enquired, 'May I get in?'

'Please do,' Jesamine said, her eyes shining like the moon in the sea as she offered me her effervescent smile.

As I climbed into the car, I noticed a wooden-framed tennis racquet on the back seat along with two well-scuffed tennis balls. Meanwhile three paperbacks sat on top of the wooden dashboard: The Clarinet for Advanced Students, Silas Marner by George Eliot and a book covering the nineteenth century, Victorian Lives.

Turning to Jesamine, I noted that she was wearing a pair of cream slacks this evening, thus denying me a glimpse of her shapely thighs. However, a figure-hugging short-sleeved blouse offered ample compensation, revealing her sensual curves in full profile.

Gazing at the cliff top, I said, 'Any sign of Patrick?'

'Not yet.'

'Is he reliable?' I asked.

'Patrick is as reliable as a town bus,' Jesamine said, 'he will turn up, but don't hold him to time.'

Jesamine's words did not offer the ideal reply. However, at least they suggested that I could watch the moon sail across the velvet sky while enjoying the pleasure of her company.

Now that the sun had gone down the evening was a little chilly compared to the heat of the day. Even so, it was still warm enough for us to sit in the car with the roof retracted.

While admiring the wooden dashboard on the Triumph, I said, 'Nice car.'

'Would you like to buy my car?' Jesamine responded swiftly.

'Thanks for the offer,' I said, 'but I'm happy with my Saab.'

'That's a shame,' Jesamine said, 'because I've lumbered Byron with trying to sell my car.'

'Byron?' I asked suspiciously.

'A colleague,' Jesamine replied. She turned to face me, her hair waving and gleaming like an image from a shampoo commercial. 'These days,' she added, 'it's very hard to sell items of great value.'

'Put it down to 17% inflation,' I said.

My watch ticked towards 10.45 p.m. and I glanced along the road, searching for Patrick's Skoda. An Avenger and a Mini trundled along the highway but, in general, all was quiet and there was no sign of a Skoda. Along the cliff top, the pensioner in the flat cap retraced his steps, acknowledged us, and walked his dog towards the village of Southerndown. However, the teenage boy had disappeared along with the middle-aged couple, the latter, presumably, still strolling hand-in-hand, sauntering into the sunset.

With that image in my mind, I turned to Jesamine and said, 'What exactly is a psychologist?'

'Psychology comes from two words, psyche and logos. Psyche means mind, whereas logos means knowledge, hence 'the study of the mind'. In Greek mythology, a butterfly represented Psyche. She became the wife of Eros, the god of love. Of course, we have moved on from the golden age of the Greeks and now we define psychology as a scientific study of the mind and the behaviour of humans and animals.'

'Similar to sociology,' I said.

'Similar,' she agreed, 'but sociologists study large groups of people, whereas psychologists study individuals or small groups. Personally, I was attracted to Wilhelm Wundt and his ideas on introspection. When I was a teenager I was very introspective and I suppose I was looking for answers, trying to understand my own mind.'

'You seem to have got it all together,' I said. 'And I would assume that the same would be true of most psychologists.'

'Don't you believe it!' Jesamine said. 'Most psychologists study psychology because they want to understand themselves. Applying their know-ledge to a wider public comes later.'

'And now that you are a psychologist do you understand your own mind?'

'I think I do,' Jesamine said. 'But it has taken me thirty years to get there. When my parents divorced, my mind was in turmoil and for a time I blamed myself. Then I had the problem of living with various relatives on both sides of the Atlantic. It took me a while to settle at each home and when I did settle, it was time to move on. Naturally, I assumed that no one wanted me, although as an adult, I have come to terms with the dynamics of family life and I can appreciate why my parents placed me with relatives. I would like to think that I have moved on, as a person and as a psychologist.'

'As a psychologist,' I asked, 'what do you believe in now?'

'I lean towards the Humanistic approach.'

'What's that?' I frowned.

'Humanists focus on the individual, on the concept of personal choice: free will, creativity and spontaneity. We tend to frown on Behaviourism because such a narrow approach reduces humans to nothing more than programmable machines. Also, we dismiss the negative aspects of Freud, with his emphasis on misery, jealousy, fear, hatred and selfishness. Humanists lean towards the positive aspects of mental health: happiness, contentment, kindness, generosity, sharing and ecstasy. Basically, we believe that people should satisfy a hierarchy of needs, including physiological needs, well being, love, esteem, cognitive and aesthetic requirements. Our aim is to support and encourage people, to help them reach their potential.'

'And what about Patrick's potential?' I asked. 'When he phoned, you mentioned that he sounded distressed.'

'He did.'

'And drunk?'

Nodding in resigned fashion, Jesamine be-moaned, 'That as well.'

'What do you make of Patrick?' I enquired.

'Are you asking for my professional opinion?'

With a shrug, I said, 'I suppose I am.'

'I try to separate friendship and analysis,' Jesamine replied defensively.

'Just for me,' I said, offering my widest smile. 'Humour me. Please.'

'Very well,' she sighed. 'Patrick is a very intelligent man. He is lively, engaging, creative and he has a great sense of humour. Personally, I prefer him in small doses because when he is drunk he becomes loud and aggressive. His Achilles' heel is his addictive personality, especially when it comes to alcohol.'

'Does he have any criminal traits?'

'Not that I'm aware of,' Jesamine said. 'I suppose it's fair to say that his situation has become increasingly desperate over recent years and desperation often leads to criminal behaviour.'

'And what do you make of Jack?' I probed.

'Jack has very strong obsessions.'

'Including Naomi?'

'You don't need a degree in psychology to work that one out. In Naomi, Jack sees someone he can control.'

'She would be better off without him,' I ventured.

'From the outside, that is probably true. However, we are not on the inside and so we cannot fully appreciate the dynamics of their relationship.'

'Even so, she would be better off without him,' I repeated.

Jesamine reclined in her seat and stared at the night sky, her thoughts apparently lost amongst the stars. Eventually, she returned to Earth and conceded, 'You might well be right.'

'And how would you assess me?' I asked, unrolling the million-dollar question.

'Is this a free consultation?' she smiled.

'You want money?'

'Don't we all?' she said.

'To some degree,' I admitted.

Turning, Jesamine adjusted her position and gazed into my eyes. Her gaze was friendly, yet probing. I could see how she placed her clients at ease and how she gained their trust, enabling them to unburden their woes.

'What do you want most of all?' she asked.

'Happiness,' I said.

'Happiness...that is an exalted state. Few people can sustain a high level of happiness for any length of time. Aim for contentment,' she said, 'then revel in happiness when it comes along.'

'Are you content?' I asked.

'I thought I was,' Jesamine admitted. 'When I decided to return to Palm Springs I reached a high level of contentment.'

'What happened then?'

'I met you,' she moaned.

'Am I that bad?' I said.

'I can't sleep,' Jesamine groaned, turning to stare through the car windscreen, her arms folded across her chest.

'It's the heat,' I said. 'We are not accustomed to it. I recommend sleeping naked on top of the bed-clothes.'

'If that's a proposal,' Jesamine said, unfolding her arms and turning to face me, 'then it's a pleasant one.'

'I'm glad that you think so,' I said, my lips edging towards hers.

'Normally, I don't talk about my family when I meet people, but something happened when I walked into your office...it was like talking to an old friend, as if I'd known you all my life...but it can't go anywhere, can it?' she said, her gaze returning to the windscreen, then down into her lap, where she had placed her hands. 'I leave for Palm Springs in a few days. I will be on one continent, you will be on another; it wouldn't work.'

'We could keep in touch,' I said.

'I have just endured two years of a long-distance relationship,' Jesamine said. 'I can't tolerate another.'

As I searched my mind for a reply, a scream split the night. A woman's scream. It came from the beach, below the cliff. For a second, I stared at Jesamine and she stared at me. Then, simul-taneously, we leapt out of the Triumph and ran towards my Saab and the steps leading to the beach. Racing down the steps, we sprinted across the damp sand until we reached the woman, young, attractive, in her mid-twenties, dressed in her glad-rags, for a night out on the town. She was standing beside the jagged rocks, her hand placed to her mouth. A body was draped over the rocks, male, in his late thirties with red, curly hair. His emerald eyes were open and staring sightlessly at the stars.

Squatting, I touched his neck, seeking a pulse, disturbing a gold chain.

Standing over me, Jesamine gazed at the body and said, 'That is Patrick McGwyn.'

'And may he rest in peace,' I said, 'because Patrick McGwyn is dead.'

# Sunday, 15th August, 1976

While Jesamine comforted the young woman, I telephoned the police and reported a possible crime. At 11.20 p.m., Detective Inspector Alan Stewart and his team arrived at the beach. They cordoned off an area around the rocks and on the cliff top, establishing a crime scene. Forty minutes later, the pathologist, a man as round as the moon itself, entered the crime scene and proceeded to examine Patrick McGwyn's dead body. By inclination, I was tempted to get close, to see what was going on. However, the person who reports a crime is denied access to the crime scene; therefore, whenever I wandered towards the boundary tape, I was politely ushered away.

As the ghost moon sailed amongst the light clouds, a police artist recorded Patrick's lifeless image before the pathologist set about his task. Armed with a notepad and pen, and assisted by a medical examiner, the pathologist scrutinized Patrick's skin for abrasions and trauma, and for lividity, a pink-red hue on the skin, the result of blood settling and gravity. Lividity comes into effect thirty minutes to two hours after death and therefore it is a good indictor as to the time of death.

Next, the pathologist checked Patrick's temperature and examined him for signs of rigor mortis by carefully moving his arms, legs, neck, jaw and eyelids. Rigor mortis normally occurs some thirty minutes to three hours after death, taking hold in the eyelids, jaw and neck, then progressing down the body.

Apparently satisfied with his initial invest-igation, the pathologist indicated that Patrick should be transferred to the morgue for further examination.

A detective sergeant, fresh, keen and a reminder of my youth, took statements from the young woman, whose name was Hannah, and Jesamine.

While I waited, I sat on a bench and before long Jesamine joined me. We sat in silence. Then, lugubriously, Detective Inspector Alan Stewart wandered over to us.

'Who made the call?' he asked wearily.

'I did,' I said, standing and stretching my legs.

'Did you see anything suspicious?'

'Nothing,' I said.

'Did you see anyone?'

'Only a pensioner walking his dog, a middle-aged couple and a teenager, looking lost.'

As I spoke, Al removed a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and proceeded to take notes. His jacket was light grey. In addition, he wore a white shirt, dark trousers that looked black in the moonlight and, in a nod towards fashion, a wide blue tie.

'What are you doing here?' Al asked, his gaze inquisitive, his pen poised.

'Dr Garner, my client, received a phone call this evening from Patrick McGwyn requesting a meeting, here at eleven o'clock.'

'And you came along as well?'

'Yes,' I said, 'in the interests of my client.'

'What time did you get here?' Al asked.

'About ten thirty.'

'And you saw no sign of Patrick McGwyn between the time of your arrival and the moment you found him dead?'

'That is correct.'

'Can anyone corroborate your story?' Al said.

'The pensioner acknowledged us as he walked his dog.'

'Can you describe this pensioner?'

'Yes,' I said, 'he's about five foot nine tall, longish grey hair, with elephantine ears and a prominent nose.'

'Clothing?' Al probed.

'Tweed trousers, a tweed and leather jacket with patches on the elbows and a flat cap, also leather and tweed.'

Al scribbled in his notebook. Then he looked up, gazed into the middle distance and scratched his balding pate with the flat end of his pen. After recording another note, he turned to me and said, 'What was the purpose of your meeting?'

'Patrick didn't reveal that, but he did sound distressed.'

'Did he have any reason to be distressed?'

'It seems that a number of people wanted to talk to him.'

'Who are these people?' Al asked.

'Sir Norman Spenser-Green, Frank 'Fingers' Mahoney and possibly an American.'

Al raised a quizzical eyebrow at the list of names, made a note then enquired, 'Who is the American?'

'I have no idea,' I said.

Al closed his notebook then returned it to his jacket pocket. His dark eyes wandered across the bay to the twinkling lights of Porthcawl and Newton. My eyes settled on Newton and my thoughts went to Naomi; I wondered how she would react to the news of Patrick's death.

Turning to Al, I said, 'What do you think happened?'

'Hard to tell,' Al shrugged. 'Just about every bone in his body appears to be broken.' Al's eyes focused on the cliff top and the long fall, down to the rocks. 'The cliff is a well-known suicide spot.'

'Any wounds not consistent with a fall?' I asked.

'Like a bullet wound, you mean?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Why do you ask?' he frowned.

'Habit,' I replied.

'No bullet wounds were found on the body,' Al said, his attention taken by his sergeant who was organising a fingertip search of the cliff top.

'Have you informed next of kin?' I asked.

'His wallet lists Naomi Parker as next of kin.'

'Naomi is McGwyn's ex,' I explained.

Al nodded. 'We'll be getting on to her now.'

'I had better go and see Naomi,' Jesamine said. Throughout our conversation, she had listened intently, her face displaying her interest and concern, her eyes wandering from time-to-time to the young witness, Hannah. Hannah was sitting on a bench, talking to a policewoman, her glazed eyes revealing her state of shock. 'If that's okay with you,' Jesamine added, addressing Al.

'That's fine with me, miss. We've got your details?'

'I gave them to your sergeant.'

Al nodded and Jesamine offered me a brief, tight smile of reassurance before walking gracefully towards her car.

'I'll catch up with you later,' I said and she turned, waving her car keys in acknowledgement.

'Imagine waking up to that every morning,' Al said, in lecherous, leering tones.

'I've wandered into a maze,' I said.

'A maze?' he frowned.

'The one signposted, "love".'

'I'd settle for lust if I were you,' Al said, his gaze following Jesamine as she drove away.

'Do you have any leads?' I said, hunching my shoulders against the chill of the night.

'Keep it dark,' Al whispered, 'but the young woman who found McGwyn swears that she saw him in a pub, around 9 p.m. He was arguing with a male, tall, brownish eyes, wavy grey hair and a weedy moustache.'

'Sounds like Jack,' I said.

'Who is Jack?' Al enquired.

'Jack Trahearne of Trahearne Travel and Leisure Ltd. Lover, maybe ex-lover, of Naomi Parker.'

'A jealous rival,' Al said brightly, suddenly sparking into life. 'Maybe Trahearne was worried that Naomi had reset her sights on McGwyn?'

'Naomi is blind,' I said.

'Okay,' Al shrugged. 'But you get my drift.'

'It's a theory,' I admitted.

Al walked down the steps, on to the beach. Deep in thought, I followed.

'Any idea regarding the time of death?' I asked as our feet sank into the damp sand; the tide was on its way out now, the gentle swoosh of its ebb and flow at odds with the violence of the crime scene.

Al checked his watch – it was 1.30 a.m. – and said, 'Initial reports suggest that the victim has been dead for at least four hours, maybe five. Given that the victim was seen at 9 p.m. that suggests a time of death somewhere between 9 p.m. and 9.30 p.m., shortly after the argument in the pub.'

'So, he was dead before we arrived.'

'Almost certainly. This area of the beach is secluded; hence the delay before anyone stumbled across the body.'

Al ducked under the police boundary tape. He placed his foot on one of the jagged rocks. As a civilian, I held my position behind the tape, my feet scuffing up the damp sand.

'I've got enough on my plate, without this,' Al groaned, his gaze shifting towards Porthcawl Harbour.

'The snow in August,' I said.

'That has melted in the sun.'

'What happened?' I asked solicitously.

'A tip-off, cold feet...I don't know. But no drugs will be arriving off the coast this month and three months hard work has gone down the drain.'

'You can't win them all,' I said philosophically.

'I can't win a raffle,' Al said mournfully, adjusting his trousers, noting that the hem had soaked up moisture from the beach.

'Keep me informed,' I said.

'I will,' he said, 'unofficially. And if you turn up anything...'

'I'll let you know.'

* * *

At 2 a.m., I rang Naomi's doorbell and Jesamine opened the front door. I entered the living room and found Naomi in the dark, sitting on the edge of her sofa. She was wearing a very short turquoise negligee with narrow shoulder straps and a cream lace trim. Her dark glasses were conspicuous by their absence revealing the extensive scars around her eyes and upper cheeks.

Apollo was at Naomi's side, his head resting on her lap. To her right, someone had placed a box of tissues on the oriental throw. Naomi dipped her fingers into the box of tissues, removed a tissue and blew her nose. Then she caressed the dog, her fingers moving in absent-minded fashion, her mind apparently lost in the tangled ivy of dark thoughts.

'How are you?' I asked while Jesamine indi-cated that I should sit in an armchair, opposite Naomi.

'Do you have any idea what it's like to be blind? I feel as if I've lost my shadow. They treat and talk to you like a child. You are constantly talked about in the third person. People don't realise that smiles are mirrored and so I smile less. When you have guests, you can carry one cup of coffee, but not two because you see with your other hand. Blindness makes you depressed and depress-ion creates tension if you're denied a place of sanctuary. I hate being blind,' she cried. 'I hate it!'

Jesamine walked across the living room and sat beside Naomi. She put an arm around her friend's shoulders and offered her a tissue, which was gratefully accepted. After blowing her nose and discarding the tissue, Naomi turned to me and said in a small, apologetic voice, 'Patrick has been murdered and here I am feeling sorry for myself.'

'You're upset,' I said.

'I thought I'd shed all my tears for Patrick years ago.' Naomi shuddered and Jesamine squeezed her shoulders. Then Naomi placed her head in her hands and was silent for a while. Eventually, Apollo whimpered and Naomi removed her hands from her face, placing them on the dog's head. 'What happened?' she said, her head tilting to her right as she asked the question.

'The police aren't sure,' I said. 'Maybe suicide, maybe murder.'

'It's murder,' Naomi said decisively. 'Patrick had his problems, but I know him too well, he would never take his own life. In the early days of my blindness, I was depressed and I considered taking my own life. I talked it over with Jesamine and I realised two things: one, she was right; I had a lot to live for. And two, you need a special kind of courage to take your own life and I lack that courage. Patrick was similar to me in that respect. Alcohol would make him depressed, but he lacked the courage to take his own life.'

'So it's murder,' I said, 'but who killed him?'

'I don't know,' Naomi said. 'Do you have any idea?'

'I'm beginning to form a list.'

'Of the people who wanted to talk to him?'

'They are high up on the list,' I admitted.

'Then maybe you can talk to them.'

'I will. But first, I would like to know why they were interested in Patrick. What motive did they have to kill him?'

'They are looking for something,' Jesamine said, removing her arm from Naomi's shoulders before placing her hands in her lap.

'True,' I said. 'But what? Any ideas?'

'I'm sorry,' Naomi said sadly, sitting back and shaking her head. 'I can't help.'

I glanced towards the living room door and the study, recalling the bullet, found in the bureau. True, a bullet had not claimed Patrick's life, but maybe the murderer had used a gun to threaten Patrick? I considered what Jesamine had said about Jack's obsession with Naomi and I wondered if he had control of that obsession, or if the obsession had control of him.

Turning to Naomi, I said, 'Have you heard from Jack?'

'No,' she said. Adding with a frown, 'Surely you don't suspect him?'

'A man matching Jack's description was seen arguing with a man matching Patrick's description shortly before the murder. It would be nice to cross Jack off the list. Where can I find him?' I asked.

'I don't know,' Naomi said. 'You could try his house, 1 Shakespeare Road, Mumbles.'

'Anywhere else?' I probed. 'Where does he go when he craves time for himself?

'He likes fishing. He has a permit to fish in the Tawe.'

'The Tawe is a big river,' I said.

'I know,' Naomi said, her fingers massaging her forehead. 'I'm sorry I can't be more specific.'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I'll get Garth to look into possible locations. Meanwhile, can you suggest anywhere else?'

'Jack likes to wander around the old Arsenal at Bridgend and Island Farm.'

'I'll check them out,' I said.

Clearly exhausted, Naomi reclined on her sofa, placing her head on a cushion, gathering up her legs. Jesamine moved across to a second armchair and we sat together, the three of us talking, about this and that, about trivia and nonsense, but mainly about Patrick and Naomi the good times they shared. Between stories, Jesamine made coffee. We sipped the coffee, talked and lapsed into periods of silence until a sliver of light appeared on the horizon, the welcome glow of dawn illuminating a tapestry of a horse, hanging on the west wall.

After Naomi had drained her third cup of coffee she announced, 'I'm tired.'

'Time for bed,' Jesamine said, gathering up the coffee cups before taking them into the kitchen.

Wearily, Naomi nodded, sweeping her tangled mass of hair away from her face. With Apollo as her guide, she walked towards the hall, then up the stairs to her bedroom.

I waited for the bedroom door to close, then turned to Jesamine and said, 'Look after her.'

'I will,' she said. 'And thanks.'

'For what?' I frowned.

'At this moment,' Jesamine admitted, 'I'm not sure. But thanks,' she repeated, standing on tiptoe, kissing my left cheek.

Although I was aching for bed, I would push on into the day, secure in the knowledge that Jesamine's kiss would keep me going for another twelve hours.

Closing the front door, I wandered out into a light mist and the nebulous glow of the dawn. In an hour, I would rouse Garth and we would search for Jack Trahearne. The thought occurred to me that as well as ruining Garth's Saturday, I was about to ruin his Sunday as well.

* * *

Working from recognized facts, I travelled west to Mumbles and parked outside Jack's house. Meanwhile, Garth was traversing the Tawe, search-ing for Jack's favourite fishing location.

Shakespeare Road was a cul-de-sac off Tennyson Avenue and Jack's house was located at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. The houses varied in size and were traditional in style with red-bricked walls, grey-tiled roofs and oak panelling above the obligatory porch. The buildings were set in a pedestrian-friendly environment with ample space for car parking. There was an air of Noddyland about the place and you half-expected Noddy himself to stroll from one of the doors. However, the houses looked clean and fresh and the area seemed highly respectable.

As I climbed out of the Saab, the first thing that caught my eye was Walter Matthau's Vauxhall Cavalier, parked at the top end of the cul-de-sac. He was ahead of the game and had beaten me to the location. Walter was in his car, munching a sandwich. I had half a mind to walk up to him and provoke a confrontation, but that would distract me from the task in hand. Therefore, I turned my back on Walter and proceeded to knock on Jack's door, only to encounter silence. I moved on to Jack's neighbours and asked them if they had seen Jack over the weekend. Frustratingly, the neighbours could only offer a shake of the head or a blank stare by way of reply. Consequently, there was nothing to do but wait.

Retiring to my Saab, I settled into the driver's seat and read the Observer, acquired from a local shop en route. It was the rest day of the Test Match and, as I turned to the sports section, I noted that Garth had pulled a fast one: by the close of play on Saturday, England had slumped to 304 for five. For the first time in the match my fiver, correction, my tenner appeared to be in jeopardy. Maybe the rest day would revive the English batsmen. Maybe they would total 488 and avoid the follow-on. Then again, maybe it would rain. Glancing out of my open window, I surveyed the clear blue sky and put all thoughts of rain to bed.

The effects of Jesamine's kiss were beginning to wear off and I felt like dozing. Consequently, I climbed out of the Saab and went for a walk. The summer heat had damaged the infrastructure, softening the tar and cracking the pavements. Nevertheless, the children played on, riding their bicycles, squirting their water pistols, imitating their heroes as they enjoyed a game of street cricket.

A fruitless morning drifted into the afternoon and I consoled myself with the thought that at least Walter Matthau was going nowhere. Furthermore, as the minutes ticked by, we were presenting the police with more time to uncover further details about Patrick's murder.

At 2.15 p.m., Garth's Fiat 124 cruised down Tennyson Avenue. He parked near the junction to Shakespeare Road and joined me beside the Saab.

'Any joy?' I said.

'Do you know how long the Tawe is?' Garth frowned, prodding his spectacles as they slipped from the bridge of his nose.

'Thirty miles,' I said.

'How do you know that?' Garth asked, his frown intensifying, his forehead beading with sweat.

'I read a lot,' I explained.

'Too much,' Garth said, shaking his head.

'Words feed the mind,' I said, folding my Observer and throwing the newspaper on to the back seat. 'I need words more than food.'

Dressed for leisure, Garth was the height of fashion wearing a loud striped shirt, a pair of burnt orange flares and a pair of tan moccasins.

'From a group of anglers,' he said, 'I managed to track down Jack's favourite fishing site, Beaufort Weir, but he wasn't there.'

'Okay. I'll try the Arsenal and Island Farm.'

Garth nodded and, as I slipped into the Saab, he glanced along the street, towards our constant companion, Walter.

'I've been thinking,' I said. 'You deserve more from the agency for the hours you put in; how do you fancy becoming an equal partner?'

Garth's eyes widened behind his wire-framed spectacles and his features twisted into a half-smile. Nevertheless, he looked uneasy. While shuffling from one foot to the other, he said, 'You'll want some capital?'

'We can come to an arrangement,' I said.

'That's generous of you,' Garth said, his smile broadening, his feet quitting their soft-shoe shuffle. 'I'll think about it.'

'You do that,' I said. 'One more favour, when I pull out, block the road with your car and stall the engine. Play it for all it's worth. Give me a few minutes head start, then you can release our American friend and make your way home.'

'Consider it done,' Garth said, his moccasins skipping across the road towards his car.

I pulled out of Shakespeare Road into Tennyson Avenue. Glancing into my rear-view mirror, I saw the tail of Garth's Fiat as it skewed across the road, blocking the junction. In addition, I saw Walter beating the bonnet of Garth's car, venting his frustration. Possibly, the breeze carried his invective, delivered in red-blooded Texan, or maybe that was wishful thinking and my tired mind was playing tricks.

My destination was Bridgend and I took the scenic route, through Neath, Pontrhydyfen, Cwmafan and Maesteg. If Walter deduced that I was heading east he would probably take the main road, the A48, and by the time he had realised his mistake I would be long gone.

I drove to Waterton on the outskirts of Bridgend, heading for the old Arsenal. The Arsenal was the popular name of Royal Ordinance Factory Number 53, which was constructed between 1936 and 1938. By 1941, the Arsenal employed over 37,000 people, mainly women bussed in from local parishes and valley villages. Those people worked in a hamlet of bombproof buildings producing armaments for the war effort. The Arsenal closed in 1946 and the area became an industrial estate. Instead of munitions, the workforce produced clockwork toys, knitted clothes and surgical catgut, amongst many other items. The Arsenal also contained a series of mysterious storage bunkers; secret munitions stores, built into the hillside with rail tracks disappearing underground.

As a ten-year-old boy, I had cycled to the Arsenal and witnessed a group of men furtively concealing objects in a bunker. The men caught sight of me and gave chase. As I raced away on my bicycle, my mind was ticking over: what were they hiding...stolen gold...stolen paintings...or something more prosaic? From that moment, my mind was hooked on mysteries and it was a short step into my teenage years, into adulthood and a career as a detective.

Despite the industrial development, some of the bombproof buildings remained and they had become a playground for children and an attraction for the curious. I wandered through the buildings, searching for Jack, only to discover a dead sheep. Climbing on to one of the bunkers, I looked around. If Jack was at the Arsenal, there was a good chance that I would not see him due to its size. Conversely, if I wandered around, there was a possibility that he would be in another part of the complex. Searching for someone in the Arsenal was like searching for a needle in a haystack: you took a chance, but you were wise to the odds.

After an hour, I quit the Arsenal and travelled the short distance to Island Farm. On the night of March the 10th to the 11th 1945, seventy German prisoners of war escaped from Prisoner of War Camp 198 at Island Farm. The prisoners absconded through a tunnel concealed behind a false wall in hut number nine. Erotic paintings decorated the wall above the tunnel, a successful ploy to distract the guards, although after a nationwide search involving troops, police, civilians, Boy Scouts and Girl Guides all the prisoners were recaptured.

As well as the prisoner of war huts, Island Farm also contained a concert hall, a football pitch and a coffee shop. The pre-fabricated huts were originally built for shift workers at the Arsenal, but they were never used for this purpose. Instead, in 1944, the United States Army utilized the huts as a barracks in the build-up to the D-Day landings. After the war, Island Farm became Special Camp 11 and housed senior German officers awaiting trial for war crimes at Nuremburg. Around 160 officers were held at Island Farm, including SS men and members of the German aristocracy. I can still recall the prisoners as they marched along the road: Field Marshal Gerd von Runstedt, a committed Christian with a Hitler moustache and a severe expression, General Gunther Blumentritt, General Gotthard Heinrici and many more.

I parked the Saab then entered Island Farm. Many of the pre-fabricated huts remained, albeit in a state of decay. I wandered around the huts and, within minutes, I found Jack sitting on a grassy knoll, outside hut number nine, his head bowed.

As I approached, Jack glanced up and I noticed that he had lost his moustache.

'What happened to your moustache, Jack?'

'It was starting to irritate me,' he said, running a hand over the grey bristles on his chin, 'so I shaved it off.'

I scratched my chin, which was in need of a shave, then sat on a mound, beside Jack.

'Where's your car?' I asked. 'I didn't see it on the road.'

'Over there,' he said, pointing with his chin. 'I parked my car on Merthyr Mawr Road.'

'What are you doing here?' I probed, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between my fingers.

'Reflecting,' Jack said, his head bowed, a partially smoked cigarette hanging from his lips.

'On what?'

'On where my life is going.'

'And where is it going?'

First, he glanced in my direction, looking up from under the peak of his cap. Then he climbed to his feet and said, 'Away from you.'

'Wait,' I said, extending an arm, creating a barrier between Jack and the walkway. 'We need to talk.'

'I have nothing to say,' Jack said, striding forward, pushing my arm to one side.

'Patrick McGwyn is dead,' I said. 'Murdered.'

In a sharp, reflex movement, Jack turned his head and glared at me, his bloodshot eyes wide in surprise. He sighed, and all the life seemed to drain from his body. Limp, he returned to the knoll.

'Where were you last night?' I asked.

Jack was silent for a long minute, staring down at the ground. He dropped his cigarette, grinding the butt into the dry earth. Then he said, 'Home...I was out of it...I had a bit too much to drink...I slept in my car,' he finally confessed.

'The police know that you were at Southern-down and that you had a public argument with McGwyn; they want to talk to you.'

Nervously, Jack looked around. Although Island Farm was a fascinating place, it was no tourist attraction and we had the camp to ourselves.

'Okay,' Jack admitted, 'I met McGwyn in the pub around nine o'clock last night. We had an argument and I told him some home truths. To be honest with you, the argument upset me. And the arguments with Naomi have upset me. That's why I've come here to think.'

Shaking his head, as if to clear it, Jack gazed sightlessly at his boots. Despite the heat, he was dressed in an orange roll-neck sweater, a beige checked jacket - complete with four large pockets and a wide bronze-buckled belt - and a pair of dark brown trousers. His boots were dark brown and made of leather, with a chunky heel, and a zip at the side. I reasoned that Jack had dressed for Saturday evening and that he had not been home to change his clothes.

'Did you kill McGwyn,' I asked, staring into his troubled eyes.

'Of course not!' he said angrily.

'But you did threaten him.'

'I told him to stay away from Naomi.'

'Shouldn't Naomi be allowed to make that decision?' I said.

'You don't understand,' he snarled. 'She's blind.'

'But she has a more lucid view of the world than you do.'

A silence ensued, a moment of tranquillity, eventually broken by Jack. 'It's over between us,' he said sadly, his forefinger and thumb squeezing moisture from his eyes. 'I was worried, see,' he blurted, 'that Naomi might try and get back with Patrick. I wanted to warn him off, that's all.'

'Even though it's over between you?'

'I can't give her up that easily. I have to fight for her, don't I?'

'Did you fight Patrick for her?'

'No!' he insisted.

'Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around the pub?'

'No,' he said with a firm shake of his head.

'Did McGwyn say anything to you about being followed?'

'No.'

'Did anyone else threaten him?' I asked. 'Think; this might help you.'

'Not that I saw or heard.'

'How did you know where to find McGwyn?'

'He phoned me,' Jack said, removing a packet of cigarettes and a monogrammed lighter from a jacket pocket. 'He said he wanted to meet me and talk about Naomi "man-to-man". He wanted me out of the picture. He was still crazy about her. I'm still crazy about her,' he added, igniting his cigarette, before running a thumb over the lighter.

'Crazy and love do not mix,' I said. 'When they do, someone always gets hurt.'

Reluctantly, Jack offered me a cigarette, but I shook my head and declined.

'What should I do?' he said, placing the lighter and cigarettes in his jacket pocket. A cigarette burned between his fingers and he studied its noxious glow for a second before placing the filter tip between his lips.

'Give Naomi time,' I said. 'Leave her in peace. Allow Naomi to resolve her issues. Then respect her decision, when that decision is made.'

'Naomi has already made her decision,' Jack said, drawing hungrily on his cigarette, blowing a trail of smoke into the warm afternoon air. 'She wants me to leave.'

'Then respect her decision.'

'I'm not sure that I can,' he said candidly, his head turning to his left as he gazed at me from beneath the peak of his cap.

'If you do not respect her,' I said, 'then you do not love her.'

'I do love her,' Jack insisted while staring at the ground, his agitated fingers fondling his cigarette.

'No,' I corrected, 'you love the idea that you can control her through her blindness. She is not one of your model soldiers, someone to play with when you please.'

'How do you know that I collect model soldiers?' Jack asked, his head jerking to his left, his long fingers massaging the worry lines on his brow.

'I've seen kits on the back seat of your car. And dried adhesive on your hands.'

Perplexed, Jack studied his hands and the flakes of dry modelling cement around his fingernails; although the cement was effective, it was a devil to wash from your fingers.

'So give her time?' Jack said, his gaze wandering over to me.

'Give yourself time,' I said.

'How much time?'

'As long as it takes.'

'I'm not sure that I can do that,' Jack said. He climbed to his feet, dropping his cigarette butt on to the ground.

'What's the alternative?' I said.

'I don't know,' he said, his cigarette butt disappearing under his cowboy boot. 'You tell me.'

'If you harass Naomi, she will become annoyed, maybe report you as a stalker, maybe get a court order to ban you from Newton.'

'I'm not a stalker,' he said defensively. 'All right, I'm crazy about Naomi, but I'm not mad.'

'Then give her time,' I said. 'Wait for her to contact you.'

'And if she doesn't?' he asked with a tremor in his voice.

'Move on.'

'That will be difficult,' Jack said.

'Do you want to be labelled as a stalker?'

'No!' He shook his head violently. 'I couldn't bear that.'

'Then leave her alone and move on.'

'I'll try,' Jack said with a sigh.

Climbing to my feet, I placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. I had seen people with deeper obsessions masked as love and the tragic consequences that sometimes result. I had an idea that Jack would find a way out of his misery and that he would leave Naomi alone.

With my gaze switching to hut number nine and my mind reflecting on images from the war, I said to Jack, 'Why did you come here?'

'When I was a boy I used to dread the night, dread the sound of the Luftwaffe and their bombs as they destroyed Swansea. The bombing trauma-tised me, if I'm honest. Maybe that's why I have such a fascination with the war, trying to exorcise a few demons. My father was a baker and his business was destroyed during the war, but he rebuilt it. He was so successful he had enough money to help me start in business with my sport and leisure shop. It took a lot of hard work and a broken marriage, but the shop became a success and developed into Trahearne Travel and Leisure Ltd. Now that is an achievement, don't you agree?'

'I agree,' I said.

'I have achieved everything I set out to achieve, but there is something missing. Do you know what I mean?'

I reflected on cricket highlights at midnight and waking up to a fresh, unblemished pillow beside my head. 'I know what you mean,' I said.

'I thought that Naomi would complete the picture.'

'Someone will,' I said. 'But for the picture to be complete, you have to find love that is truly reciprocated.'

'Equal partners,' Jack said, thrusting his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

'That's right,' I said.

'Soul mates.'

'That too.'

Once again, I placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, then turned to walk towards the Saab.

As I neared the boundary fence, Jack called out, 'What if the police question me?'

Climbing through the fence, I said, 'They will.'

'What shall I tell them?'

'You are innocent, aren't you?'

'Yes,' Jack insisted. He removed his cap then ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. His reactions had been genuine; he was telling the truth. I could cross Jack off my list of suspects.

'Then tell them the facts,' I said. 'Tell them the truth.'

* * *

From Island Farm, I returned home for a shower, shave and general freshen up. Then I searched my pantry for sustenance. My pantry was lined with basic, bachelor-pad foods: tins, a few vegetables and bottles of beer that had yet to find their way to the fridge. I enjoyed my food, but I was no gourmet. I took pleasure in witnessing a full plate of basic, honest produce. Maybe my formative years and rationing shaped my attitude to food and my love of simple cooking.

Now, there was no time to cook so I opened the fridge and settled for a cheese and salad sandwich. Then I was back on the road.

I travelled to Southerndown, to Roseanna Maldini's Cafe. The cafe radio was playing Rod Stewart and the 'Killing of Georgie'. The song had something to say, which added to its value in my opinion.

Stepping to one side, I allowed three genera-tions of one family to leave the cafe. Then I discovered that I was alone with Roseanna and Miss Rubens.

I glanced at Miss Rubens and she smiled, somewhat shyly, while Roseanna turned her back on me and busied herself with cleaning the tables. As previously, Roseanna was wearing black high-heeled shoes and a simple black dress, adorned with white lace on its cuffs and collar. I concluded that this attire served as her working uniform. She was also wearing her large, dark sunglasses to hide her black eye.

'We are just closing,' Roseanna said, finally acknowledging my presence.

'Give me five minutes,' I said. 'Just time for a coffee?'

Roseanna pursed her lips. She glared at me from over the rim of her sunglasses. After biting her top lip and adjusting her sunglasses, she said to Miss Rubens. 'Serve the gentleman, Susannah. Then you can go home.'

'Okay, Miss Maldini,' Susannah said, her head bowed, her hands searching for a clean coffee cup.

While Susannah forced the steam through the ground coffee beans and Roseanna returned to her tidying, I searched for a seat, beside a picture window.

Susannah served the espresso. I took a sip then smiled with satisfaction. With her shift over for the day, Susannah said 'ciao' to Roseanna and disap-peared from the cafe.

While sipping my espresso, I observed Rose-anna. Her hostility towards me had dissipated; there was more of a resigned air about her today. All the same, I felt that I had not witnessed the true Roseanna, the woman who had hummed Ode to Joy instead of songs in sad minor keys.

'Have you heard about Patrick?' I asked, placing my coffee cup on the table.

'It was on the radio,' Roseanna said. She walked over to the cafe radio, turned a switch and brought a disc jockey's blabbering to an abrupt halt.

'Any idea what happened?' I asked. With the radio off and the customers gone, the cafe was eerie in the spectral silence.

'No, none at all,' Roseanna said, shrugging her shoulders, raising her hands and shaking her head.

'Where were you last night?' I said, my fingers toying with a spoon, lifting it from a plain ceramic saucer.

'I was at home, alone,' Roseanna said. 'Why do you ask?'

While stirring my coffee, I shrugged. 'Just trying to establish a few facts.'

'Oh,' Roseanna said. She placed a handful of litter into a refuse bin then collected a floor mop from behind the serving counter.

'What did you do last night?'

'I watched TV. I drank some wine.'

'How much wine?' I asked.

'Are you my priest?' Roseanna said angrily, her cheeks flaring, turning bright red. While waving her damp mop at me, she added, 'Must I confess everything to you?'

As I brushed droplets of moisture, courtesy of the mop, from the collar of my shirt, I said, 'Any idea who might have killed Patrick?'

'He was a difficult man,' Roseanna said, splashing the mop on to the pine floor.

'But you don't murder people because they are difficult.'

Roseanna pushed the mop with some vigour, away from the door, into the depths of the cafe. This placed me in a dilemma: to continue our conver-sation I would have to raise my voice, or walk across her freshly polished floor. In my experience, women disliked an aggressive tone of voice. However, they detested dirt soiling a recently cleaned surface. Choosing the lesser of two evils, I returned to my coffee and hollered, 'Have the police talked to you yet?'

'No.'

'They will, once they discover that you and Patrick were lovers.'

I sipped the last of my coffee then walked towards the door. At the door, I turned and gazed at Roseanna. Her head was bowed and her mop had come to a standstill. Possibly, a tear escaped from behind her dark glasses, though a quick finger movement wiped all vestiges of emotion away.

With my hand reaching for the cafe door, I turned to Roseanna and said, 'When was the last time you saw Patrick alive?'

'I can't remember,' Roseanna replied. Her shoulders shook and her cheeks moistened with tears. Releasing the mop, she walked over to the serving counter where she collected a paper tissue. Then with a sniffle and a shudder, she wiped her eyes. 'I am too upset,' she added, blowing her nose into the paper tissue. 'Please, can't we talk about this another time?'

'I will call again,' I said, opening the door, inhaling and exhaling deeply, enjoying the brackish aroma of the sea breeze. 'One more question before I go: did Patrick give you anything for safekeeping, any papers, documents?'

'Yes, he did,' Roseanna said.

I arched an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. 'Can I have a look at them?'

Roseanna paused, her thoughts, her expression lost behind her dark sunglasses. Eventually, she nodded and gestured towards the back of the cafe. 'Come with me,' she said, 'the documents are in my bungalow.'

'What about your floor?' I said, pointing to my dusty shoes.

'It's only a floor,' she shrugged. 'And it will be dirty again in no time.'

After closing the front door, I followed Roseanna through the cafe to a back door. From there we walked a few yards to Roseanna's bunga-low, entering through a glass-panelled door that led to her kitchen.

An impressive Welsh dresser dominated the kitchen. On the shelves of the Welsh dresser, I spied a number of photographs, all neatly labelled with captions punched through coloured tape. Roseanna had attached the captions to the wooden frames of the photographs and pride of place went to a young man, in his early twenties. The young man bore a striking resemblance to Roseanna and I assumed that he was her son. In the photograph, the young man was smiling, his features beaming out from under a hard, industrial hat. The caption on the frame read: Christian, after graduation, working in Aberdeen, 1975. Other pictures included a very young Roseanna with her parents, captioned Roseanna, mama and papa, Milano, 1938 and a picture of an ice-cream parlour with the same trio captioned Roseanna, mama and papa, Southerndown, 1947. Everyone looked happy in the pictures; contented faces smiled without a care in the world. In the back of my mind, I heard Roseanna humming Ode to Joy. However, one picture was conspicuous by its absence: Roseanna's husband did not feature in the gallery. Presumably, she had removed all images of him, after their separation or divorce.

Roseanna disappeared into her living room to search for Patrick's papers. Meanwhile, I ran a casual eye around the kitchen, noting a softly humming fridge, a series of paintings along the north wall - still lifes by an artist unknown to me - and a painting adorning the south wall, a local seascape signed Roseanna. Pine dominated the kitchen: the floor, the cupboards, the walls and the work surfaces. A row of books, leaning against each other at haphazard angles, sat on a pine shelf. The books were practical instruction on interior design and cooking. Glancing at the books I noticed that Roseanna had placed used cinema tickets from the Embassy in Bridgend as bookmarks. Flowers festooned the kitchen in tall, elegant vases, positioned in random fashion, while a collection of empty wine bottles sat in a corner. I counted half-a-dozen bottles, the wine originating from Bulgaria, Hungary, Rumania, Yugoslavia, Italy and France. A vase of flowers, chrysanthemums, decorated a pine table and beside the flowers a naked man and a naked woman embraced, models on the cover of an Ann Summers catalogue.

I was about to study the catalogue when Roseanna returned to the kitchen, clutching a number of files and notebooks to her breast.

'I found these,' she said. 'They all belong to Patrick.'

'Can I borrow them?' I asked, talking the files and notebooks from Roseanna's hands.

'Yes,' she said. 'You can keep them; they are of no interest to me.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'And if you think of anything else, please call me.' I searched in my wallet for a business card and offered it to Roseanna. This time, she took the card, placing the short edge to her bottom lip.

I left Roseanna with my card, looking thoughtful, standing alone in her kitchen. Then I drove to my office to indulge in some twilight reading.

* * *

At the office, I placed Patrick's papers on my desk then checked my answering machine. There were two messages. One was from a finance company; the repayments on a van had ground to a sudden halt and the van had disappeared. Would I look into the matter? It was bread-and-butter stuff, but it paid the office rent. The second message was from Garth. His contact at the regional crime squad had been in touch and informed him that the police regarded Patrick McGwyn's death as murder; abrasions on his face indicated that someone wearing a finger ring had slapped or punched him moments before his death.

It had been a long day. I was tired and in need of rest. However, rest would come after I had studied Patrick's papers.

I started with the notebooks. The pages were scrawled with doodles and ideas for articles. Often, there was little more than one line, sometimes a paragraph, but Patrick had developed nothing beyond that point. The doodles were very artistic and featured the Devil. Sometimes the Devil was grinning manically, while on other occasions he was drinking thirstily from a whisky bottle. On one page, Patrick had scribbled, "I empty the bottle and from this day on, no more" only for the Devil to appear in a drunken, rickety hand, grinning into a speech bubble, "Failed again. Ha, ha!"

The files were more detailed and they contained articles about yachting, the music business, cinema trends and a feature on Vincent van Gogh. A number of photographs illustrated the articles and while they were diverting and interest-ing to some degree, I could see nothing there that would concern Fingers Mahoney or Sir Norman Spenser-Green.

I was shuffling the files and considering my next move when I heard footsteps on the staircase. It was 9 p.m. and the building was empty, and would remain so until Monday morning. I sat back in my chair and awaited a knock on the door. However, instead, the door swung open and a grinning Walter Matthau stepped into my office.

'Come in,' I said, placing my hands behind my head, swinging my chair gently from side-to-side. 'I've been expecting you.'

'Hot diggity-dawg,' he said. 'You sure as hell have given me the run-around.'

Through features as crumpled as a tramp's vest, Walter grinned. He removed his ten-gallon hat and placed it on my desk. Today, he was wearing leather cowboy boots with an intertwining S and T on their side, mustard trousers and an Hawaiian shirt. A plain jacket hid most of the shirt, which was a small blessing for tired eyes. A gold medallion hung around his neck while a leather-strapped watch encircled his left wrist. He wore no finger rings or personalised items of jewellery.

'Who are you?' I asked, my hands still resting behind my head

'Haven't you guessed?' he winked.

'Walter Matthau?' I ventured.

'Eh?' he frowned.

'You look like Walter Matthau.'

'You sure about that?' he asked, his baggy brown eyes darting around the office, as though searching for a mirror.

'Positive,' I said.

'Damn,' he sighed. 'I thought I could pass for Robert Redford.'

I raised an eyebrow and offered a suggestion, 'Have you considered spectacles?'

Walter laughed. His gaze settled on me. There was no mirror to be found in the office; vanity could only stretch so far.

'So,' I said, leaning forward, getting down to business, 'what is your name? Where are you from?'

'My name is Thaddeus Smith,' he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and flashing an identity card. 'I'm a representative of the United States govern-ment.'

'I thought that government representatives liked to pass by unnoticed.' I stared at his Hawaiian shirt. 'Dressed like that, you are hardly incon-spicuous.'

He nodded, accepting my point, then added mysteriously, 'Haven't you thought...sometimes, it pays to be noticed, it pays to be seen.'

I steepled my fingers in front of my face, making a bridge for my chin. Resting my chin on my interlocking fingers, I continued to stare at his shirt without comment.

'You're looking dubious,' he conceded. 'You don't believe me?' Reaching into a second pocket, he withdrew a business card. Leaning towards the desk, he handed the card to me. 'Call this number,' he said. 'It's the American Embassy in London, England. Ask for Joshua Jones. Codeword, Banner-man. He'll put you straight about me, confirm my credentials.'

Thaddeus Smith pronounced England, Inger-land, maybe for effect, or maybe he was genuine. What a tangled web we weave...

'So,' I said, 'let's assume that you are genuine, what are you doing, following me?'

'You are looking for something.'

'Correct.'

'I am looking for something.'

'What?' I asked.

'Maybe it's amongst those papers you got on your desk.' Thaddeus Smith nodded towards Patrick's notebooks and files. Stretching a hand towards the desk, he ignored the notebooks, but gathered up the files. 'May I?' he asked.

'Be my guest.'

Thaddeus Smith took a few minutes to leaf through the files. On completion of the task, he uttered a loud groan, tossed the files on to my desk and ran his fingers through his brown hair. His fingers disturbed his matted tresses, revealing roots of grey.

'No, it's not there,' he sighed, slouching in my clients' chair.

'What are you looking for?' I asked, gathering up the files, placing them neatly on the right-hand corner of my desk.

'You'll know it,' he said, 'when you find it. And when you find it, you'll hand it to me and no one else. Understand?'

'Not really,' I said.

'Play the game,' he insisted, 'and everyone will benefit. I'm authorised to issue a $50,000 reward,' he added, grinning wickedly, his right hand tapping his jacket pocket.

'How can I play the game when I don't know the rules?'

'You're smart, you'll figure them out. That trick on the sand dunes...neat!'

'I'm glad you approve,' I smiled.

'I like you,' he said. 'You're trustworthy.'

'How do you know that?' I asked.

'We know everything about you,' he said darkly, his expression changing from basset hound to Rottweiler in the blink of an eye. 'We know everything about everything. I've compiled a file on you, this thick,' he stated, holding his thumb and forefinger apart, maybe a quarter of an inch. 'You are well connected, but to all the wrong people.'

'My connections are a branch of my business,' I said. 'As to the file, should I be offended or impressed?'

'It's up to you if you take offence. Personally, I'd be flattered if I were considered a friend of old Uncle Sam's. Mind you, I'm not sure you'd have survived in the States during the McCarthy era. You lean a bit too far this way...' He grinned, swaying to his left. 'You know what I mean? But you're no Commie; if you were, I might have to shoot you.'

'You're joking,' I said.

'Life is for living and we should all have fun. But I never joke about guns.'

Standing, Thaddeus Smith unbuttoned his jacket and revealed the leather of a shoulder holster and the burnished gleam of a handgun.

'You'll see me around,' he said.

'I'm sure I will,' I said.

'And don't forget,' he added, adjusting his jacket, placing his hat on his head while walking towards the door, 'the finder's fee...$50,000...'

'I'll remember,' I said. 'And I'll be happy to take a cheque.'

# Monday, 16th August, 1976

First thing Monday morning I telephoned the American Embassy. I spoke to Joshua Jones and discovered to my mild surprise that Thaddeus Smith was bona fide. 'Joshua Jones' and 'Thaddeus Smith' were probably aliases, cover names for the covert operation. Nevertheless, the Americans were looking for stolen documents and the $50,000 reward was genuine.

By 8 a.m., I was outside Roseanna's bungalow, my finger pressed against her doorbell. While I waited for Roseanna to answer, a milkman went strolling by, rattling his milk crate, whistling a tuneful version of Dorothy Moore's 'Misty Blue'.

The milkman loaded his crate on to his milk float, which hummed away into the distance. There was still no answer from Roseanna, so I leaned against the doorbell. The cafe opened at lunchtime and I guessed that Roseanna would allocate the early part of the morning to herself. All the same, I glanced towards the cafe, but metal shutters blinded the windows. There was no sign of life.

I was about to ring the doorbell again when a vague outline appeared behind the frosted glass of the door. There was a click as Roseanna turned a key and she appeared on the doorstep, her hair tangled and dishevelled, her make-up smudged over her eyes and her lips, her nightdress open, revealing the borderline between pale and sunburnt flesh.

'Please,' she groaned, closing her eyes, placing a hand to her forehead, bowing her head, 'it is too early in the morning.'

'Just five minutes,' I said, easing my foot against the door frame, 'then I'll be gone.'

Reluctantly, Roseanna allowed the door to open and I followed her into the kitchen. She disappeared into her bedroom, only to emerge a moment later wearing a three-quarter-length silk dressing gown with a laced trim, a frilled hem and a bow beneath her breasts. Her eyes were devoid of her sunglasses, revealing the brutal glory of her black eye and the bloodshot nature of the eye itself.

Roseanna sat at the kitchen table and placed her head in her hands. I noted that she had removed the Ann Summers catalogue from the table, although the chrysanthemums remained. In the corner of the kitchen, an empty vodka bottle lined up alongside the discarded wine collection, the produce of Russia joining the consumed contents of half-a-dozen European nations.

I slipped into a chair opposite Roseanna and said, 'Are you okay?'

She glanced up for a moment, gesticulating vaguely with her hand. 'I will be. I am not a morning person.' With her head buried in her hands, she added, 'What do you want?'

'Patrick's files were interesting, but something is missing. Do you have anything else, a document offered for safekeeping?'

Roseanna thought for a moment. In her hung-over state, contemplation was clearly a challenge and she shook her head several times, her hands covering her eyes. Eventually, she looked up and said, 'There is a parcel.'

'Belonging to Patrick?'

'Yes.' She nodded her head, then winced, clearly regretting the gesture. 'Patrick said that I must keep the parcel safe and give it to no one. But now that he is dead maybe that doesn't matter anymore.'

'Where is the parcel?' I asked.

'Over there.' Without looking, Roseanna waved in the general direction of the fridge.

I walked over to the fridge and opened the door. Inside, surrounded by the Welsh milk, the Scottish salmon and the Greek yoghurts, I found a parcel, the size of a large paperback book.

'Have you opened the parcel?' I asked.

'I did, many weeks ago. It contains a diary, written by Annunziata Spenser-Green.'

'The late wife of Sir Norman,' I said.

Returning to the kitchen table, I opened the parcel and studied the diary. The entries were random and covered a three-year period, from January 1973 to August 1975. Annunziata had recorded her thoughts in a neat hand at the start of the diary, calligraphy that drifted towards a scrawl at the diary's conclusion. Unfortunately for me, Annunziata had recorded her thoughts in Italian.

'The diary is written in Italian,' I said to Roseanna.

'Yes,' she said. Her head was now resting on her arms, her neck twisted to her right, away from me, her face hidden from view.

'Have you read the diary?'

'Parts of it. I was curious,' she admitted. 'It seems like a simple diary...'

'Thank you,' I said, placing the diary into the parcel, holding the parcel securely in my hand. I took a step towards the door before turning to face Roseanna. 'Is there anything else I should know?'

'Why should there be anything else?' she asked, looking up suddenly, frowning, holding her hand against the back of her neck.

'You look edgy,' I said, 'as if you're keeping something back.'

'I am worried about the police,' Roseanna said, her glazed eyes staring at the kitchen table.

'Just routine questions,' I said. 'Nothing to worry about.'

'And the death of Patrick has upset me,' she added in a small voice.

'Of course.'

'I was thinking, what if his death was an accident? He might have been drunk and fallen off the cliff.'

'That is a possibility,' I admitted. 'However, abrasions on his face, probably caused by a finger ring, suggest that he was forced off the cliff.'

I glanced at Roseanna's hands and her collection of decorative rings and noted that she was staring at them. Then her eyes flashed towards me. As those sad eyes registered my glance, her fingers disappeared under the table.

'I loved him,' Roseanna said with a tremble in her voice.

'No you didn't,' I said bluntly.

'No, I didn't,' she admitted. 'But I liked him a lot. I could never murder him. I could never murder anyone.' She was silent for a while, staring vacantly at the chrysanthemums. Then she placed her head in her hands and sobbed, 'The upset overwhelms me at times. I have considered jumping off the cliff.'

'Don't do that,' I said, resting my hand on her shoulder. 'Where would I get my coffee if you did a terrible thing like that?'

As I walked out of Roseanna's bungalow, she turned and stared at the empty wine bottles, a tear rolling down her cheek.

'If you find yourself wandering towards the cliff, call me,' I said. 'Promise?'

'I will,' Roseanna said. She placed her arms on the kitchen table creating a pillow for her head.

I allowed myself one more glance at Roseanna. Then, quietly, I closed the kitchen door.

* * *

I drove west along the coast, pausing at Ogmore-by-Sea. There, I found a lay-by and parked the Saab. After admiring a pair of heavy horses, majestic beasts, I turned my attention to the diary. I tried to read pages from the diary, but the Italian was beyond me. I could understand why Sir Norman Spenser-Green had an interest in the diary. However, what could these pages mean to Fingers Mahoney and Thaddeus Smith? A translation might offer an answer and my thoughts went to Charlie Baresi and his linguistic skills.

At my office, I telephoned Charlie Baresi and he agreed to meet me later that afternoon. Meanwhile, I drove to Newton and parked outside Naomi's house.

Garth was at the house, keeping an eye on Naomi. Maybe the threats against her had receded, although at this stage there was no need to risk anything to chance.

Even though it was still bikini weather, I wore my houndstooth jacket. The jacket had cavernous pockets, ideal for concealing the diary. I was standing in Naomi's kitchen, adjusting the jacket, when Jesamine walked into the room. At that moment, a melody drifted through from the living room, the Chi-Lites singing 'You Don't Have to Go'. I glanced at Jesamine and it was clear from her thoughtful expression that she was listening to the song. However, when she caught sight of me, she lowered her eyes.

The song drifted to a close and Naomi adjusted the dial on the radio, retuning to Radio 4 and a programme about searching for life in outer space.

With my jacket neatly adjusted and my thoughts turning to love, I said to Jesamine, 'Fancy a walk on the beach?'

Jesamine paused. Then she looked up from under her auburn fringe, her green eyes bright and wide, her beautiful face glowing, her crooked eye-tooth offering a hint of mischief as she smiled. 'Why not?' she said.

We walked to Newton Beach, side-by-side. I felt a frisson of excitement as her perfume teased my nostrils and a desire to hold her hand. I noted that her hands were restless and that frequently her fingers wandered towards mine. However, like two magnets repelling, some hidden power forced us apart.

'How's Naomi?' I asked as we paused, standing on the beach.

'She's doing well,' Jesamine said.

'Is she coming to terms with what happened to Patrick?'

'Naomi is strong,' Jesamine avowed, 'she will adjust.'

A teenage girl in embroidered jeans and silver chains went striding confidently across the sand, her hips swinging, her destination a group of teenagers who were sitting on the rocks guzzling soft drinks from tin cans.

Turning to Jesamine, I said, 'One of your countrymen called on me last night.' I tapped my pocket and the hard cover of Annunziata's journal. 'Maybe he's looking for this diary, although I'm not sure why it would interest him.'

'Who wrote the diary?' Jesamine asked.

'Annunziata Spenser-Green.' I was tempted to remove the diary and hand it to Jesamine. However, caution prevailed and I decided to keep the journal away from prying eyes. 'What do you know about her?' I asked.

'Nothing, although I believe that she broke her back in a skiing accident and that led to comp-lications with her general health.'

'Any idea when the accident occurred?'

'If I remember right, I read about her accident in the local paper, maybe a year ago.'

'Perhaps I should read the local paper,' I said.

The sea breeze disturbed Jesamine's hair and she paused to sweep her auburn tresses away from her face, revealing her smooth, high cheekbones and the gentle curve of her smiling lips.

'What are you going to do with the diary?' she asked.

'Put it in my fridge,' I said. 'That seems to be the fashion with all important documents. But first, I will get the diary translated.'

'Maybe the contents of the diary will resolve what this is all about.'

'Maybe,' I said.

Jesamine glanced down to her feet and the scuff-marks she had created in the sand. I noticed that her toenails were neatly manicured and painted a pale shade of pink, matching her fingernails.

'Things are coming together,' Jesamine said as she smoothed the sand with the soles of her sandals.

'They are,' I agreed. 'Hopefully, this will be resolved before you leave for Palm Springs.'

'Then I am content,' she said, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice.

We walked across the beach. Subsequently, to my surprise, Jesamine paused and stamped her foot on the sand. 'Damn it!' she yelled, attracting the attention of the teenagers.

'Damn what?' I said.

'Damn you. I had my life all mapped out. I would settle in Palm Springs, find a handsome millionaire who loved me for my mind and sit by our swimming pool all day painting my toenails.'

'That would not be you,' I said.

'How do you know that?' she asked, her forehead furrowing, her eyes narrowing, her hands settling on her hips.

'Instinct, observation, a lifetime spent studying the complexities of the human mind...'

'Are you trying to psychoanalyse me?' Jesamine said, her features softening, a look of gentle amusement playing around her lips.

'Our jobs are not that different,' I said. 'Essentially, we try to ease people through a crisis in their lives.'

'And I am going through a crisis?'

'A crisis of choice, maybe. A crisis of under-standing who you are and what you really want out of life.'

'I know what I want,' Jesamine said, her hesitant tone contradicting her words.

'To make other people happy,' I said.

'And what's wrong with that?' she asked.

'Nothing,' I said. 'But maybe you should consider what you need, consider what would make you truly happy.'

Bored with our heartfelt conversation, the teenagers returned to their playful, trouble-free world, ignoring us, spraying the silver-chained girl with soft drink. As she giggled and the boys laughed, Jesamine stared into my eyes and said, 'I think you could make me happy.'

I took hold of her hands and said, 'Then stay. We'll create our own little paradise and let the world outside pass us by.'

Jesamine sighed. She allowed her head to rest against my chest; with my gaze lost in the heat haze of the middle distance, I ran my fingers through her hair.

'I want to stay,' she said. 'But I have to go or my name will be mud. My reputation will disappear overnight and I will never be able to show my face in Palm Springs again.'

I could understand her reasoning and the logic behind her decision. All the same, that did not ease any of the pain.

'I leave tomorrow evening,' Jesamine said, 'the 11.20 train from Bridgend to London. Will you see me before I go?'

'I will see you tomorrow,' I said.

'In a week,' she said, 'you will have forgotten all about me.' Her tone was light and jovial. However, her face was solemn and serious.

'I will never forget you,' I said.

'I'm just a crazy psychologist who walks around with romantic notions in her head. You can do better than that,' she insisted.

'I've wandered around for forty years and you're the best I've found yet. If I wander the world for another fifty years I'll not find anyone better than you.'

Jesamine squeezed my hands. Standing on tiptoe, she closed her eyes and kissed me tenderly on the lips.

'You're just a crazy private detective,' she said, 'who wanders around with romantic notions in his head.'

'I am,' I said. 'And think about what you've just said; doesn't that tell you something about us?'

* * *

I walked Jesamine back to Naomi's house. Then I drove to my cottage. I had a couple of hours to kill before I met Charlie Baresi, so I placed Annunziata's diary in the fridge, removed some locally grown produce and made myself a snack for lunch.

As I munched my way through a ham salad, I considered my achievement in transforming Lilac Cottage. I acquired the run-down cottage for a small fee around eight years ago. Gradually, during slow periods at the agency and through calling in favours from friends with established trades - electricians, carpenters and plumbers - we renovated the cottage, converting it from a shell to somewhere I could call 'home'.

Lilac Cottage was built of stone and tile. There were three rooms downstairs, a living room, dining room and kitchen, and three bedrooms upstairs, along with a bathroom. Now that the cottage was complete, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Also, I felt a sense of emptiness, a sense of rattling around in the vacant rooms. I am not sure if the cottage was named after the colour lilac, or the shrub, for I was unable to find evidence of either, on the building or in the garden.

My mind was still toying with the cottage when someone leaned on my doorbell. Pushing my empty plate to one side, I got up and opened the door.

'We will have the documents,' Fingers Mahoney said, his voice stern, his grey eyes cold and unblinking. Smudger stood at his shoulder, an idiotic grin on his face, his eyes hidden by his mirror-lensed sunglasses, his jaw working his chewing gum. In his right hand, Smudger held a .32 Smith and Wesson revolver. The nickel from the handgun shone in the sunlight as Smudger placed the end of the barrel against the tip of my nose.

'Aren't you going to invite us in?' Fingers asked, and while staring cross-eyed at the gun barrel, I waved them into the hall.

Fingers glanced around the hall, running a covetous eye over a family heirloom, an antique barometer, hanging on the wall. The barometer indicated that a storm was brewing and that the hot weather would break in the next few days.

'Where are the documents?' Fingers asked while adjusting the five FRANK signet rings on his left hand.

'What documents?' I smiled innocently; butter would not melt in my mouth.

'Comedian,' Fingers said disparagingly. He turned his attention to his right hand and proceeded to adjust the second set of five signet rings. 'McGwyn's documents,' he continued. 'I want them. They belong to me.'

'You won't find them here,' I said.

'Where will we find them?' Fingers asked, producing a handkerchief, mopping beads of sweat from his brow. As Fingers raised his right hand, I noticed that sweat had stained his tee-shirt, under the armpits and around his navel, making the tee-shirt transparent, revealing a mass of body hair.

'Search me,' I said.

'Smudger,' Fingers said, and the gum chewer with the permanent grin rammed the barrel of his gun up my nose.

Now it was my turn to sweat like a horse that had just completed the Grand National. My heart was racing because I didn't trust Smudger and his control of the gun; the .32 was small, but deadly from close range.

'Search him,' Fingers ordered, and Smudger extended his left hand towards my trouser pockets.

'If you lay a hand on me you risk a homo-erotic response,' I said, my lips puckering as I smiled at Smudger.

'What he say?' Smudger said, his face creasing with uncertainty, his feet taking a backward step.

'He's pretending that he's as bent as a corkscrew,' Fingers said, returning his moist handkerchief to his trouser pocket.

'Give us a kiss,' I said to Smudger, and the gunman wavered, lowering his gun.

'He's weird,' Smudger said to Fingers. 'Let's shoot him now.'

'We need the documents,' Fingers said patiently, rolling his eyes, shaking his head as he addressed Smudger.

'They'll cost you,' I said.

'How much?' Fingers asked.

'Twenty thousand pounds.'

'Comedian,' Fingers scoffed, his double chin wobbling as he threw his head back in disgust.

'I've already lined up a buyer,' I lied.

'Spenser-Green?' Fingers frowned.

I smiled and kept my silence.

'Ten thousand pounds,' Fingers countered.

'Fifteen,' I said.

'Done.' Fingers spat on his palm, then extended his right hand towards me.

I gazed at the spittle, dripping off his hand and said, 'No need for a handshake, Frank. I'll take you on trust.'

'Fair enough,' Fingers said, wiping his hand on the flank of his trousers. Today, he was wearing a pair of loud checked trousers, flared with large turn-ups, cut from the finest polyester. 'Where are the documents?' Fingers asked as he adjusted the waistband on his trousers.

'At my office.'

'Okay,' Fingers said. 'Get in the car. I'll drive.'

If it's Monday it should be the brunette, I thought, but there was no sign of her as we walked towards the Peugeot 504.

I climbed on to the back seat with Smudger and his handgun at my side. Thankfully, Fingers drove at a steady pace. He managed to avoid all the potholes and we arrived at my office in one piece.

Outside my office, I reached into my trouser pocket, searching for my keys. My actions alerted Smudger and, nervously, jerkily, he thrust the handgun towards my nose.

'Keys, Frank,' I said. 'I have to unlock the door.'

Fingers nodded towards Smudger and the gunman lowered the .32, the business end pointing towards the floor.

Inside my office, I opened the filing cabinet and flicked through the files labelled MNO. With a flourish, I removed Patrick's papers and placed them on my desk. 'The documents,' I said.

'You don't learn, do you?' Fingers said, his puffy eyes widening as he stared at the documents. 'I told you to keep away from the blind woman.'

'I do learn,' I said, 'but very slowly.'

'It pays to learn fast,' Fingers said, 'to be ahead of the game.'

'Is that what you told Patrick McGwyn?' I said.

'I had nothing to do with his death,' Fingers said defensively. 'He was a friend, and more valuable to me alive than dead. Why would I want to kill him?'

'Accidents happen,' I said, gazing at Smudger and his handgun.

'I didn't kill him,' Smudger said, his voice rising an octave.

'Of course, you didn't,' I said sardonically.

'I didn't,' he insisted.

Fingers flicked through Patrick's documents. Then, with a roar of disapproval, he threw them on to the floor. 'Where's the diary; it's not with these documents.'

'The diary is in a safe place,' I said.

'We made a deal,' Fingers growled, his forehead furrowing, his left eyebrow twitching, his right hand grabbing hold of my shirt.

'We made a deal for the documents,' I said.

'Don't play games with me,' Fingers said, a line of spittle appearing on his bottom lip, his right hand knotting and creasing my shirt. 'I could make life very difficult for you,' he threatened. 'I could make life hell for the blind woman.'

'And you would,' I said.

'I would,' he agreed.

'When can you get the £15,000?' I asked.

'By tomorrow evening.'

'Meet me at Southerndown, the cliffs, opposite Maldini's Cafe, 10 p.m. tomorrow.'

'I'll be there,' Fingers said. 'But no tricks. Remember, the blind woman...'

'No tricks,' I said. 'I'll be there. With the diary.'

* * *

I waited until Fingers and Smudger were well clear of the office. Then I telephoned Richard King at Fisher-King Investigations and recorded a message on his answering machine.

'I have the item you are looking for,' I said. 'Get in touch to arrange a meeting.'

With my insurance policy in place, it was time to meet Charlie Baresi.

I ordered a taxi and returned to my cottage, where I picked up the diary and my Saab. Then I drove to Baresi's office in the centre of Bridgend.

Apart from Sundays, the centre of Bridgend was invariably busy and I had difficulty parking the car. Eventually I settled for a place in the multi-storey car park and walked into town.

As I sauntered along the narrow Victorian streets, mingling with shoppers in their summer dresses, I glanced in the shop windows to ensure that no one was following me. Confident that I was on my own, I strolled towards Baresi's office.

The Glamorgan Chronicle was situated in a four-square Victorian building overlooking the Town Hall. I climbed the two flights of stairs that led to Charlie Baresi's office then opened the newsroom door.

The newsroom was compact, an open-plan office containing half-a-dozen desks. Two of the desks were occupied, one by a dark-haired woman, her head bent over a typewriter, the other by a young man wearing a jacket, a striped shirt and a knitted tie. The young man was leaning back in his chair, a notebook in his left hand, a pen placed thoughtfully against his lower lip.

'Charlie Baresi?' I enquired, and the young man jerked his pen over his shoulder, pointing towards a glass cubicle positioned in the left-hand corner of the office.

I thanked the reporter then walked through the office to the cubicle, which reminded me of a goldfish bowl. Peering through the glass, I caught sight of Charlie Baresi. He was sitting on a high-backed leather chair, his attention focused on a small, portable, black-and-white television set. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows, while his tie, a rainbow of multi-coloured chevrons, hung at half-mast. Impossibly, his hair seemed to have grown a further inch since Saturday, bringing to mind a wild, windswept Beethoven.

Glancing up from the television, Baresi acknowledged my presence then beckoned me into his office.

'Here,' he said, 'hold this.'

While leaning against Baresi's desk, I took hold of a wire looped aerial. Gazing at the television set, I noticed that Baresi was watching the Test Match, teatime highlights to judge from the action on the screen.

'Left a bit,' Baresi said, and I twiddled the aerial.

The action on the screen was dramatic with wickets flying everywhere. Moreover, even though the match was taking place during a heatwave, the poor quality of the reception suggested that the players were battling through a snowstorm.

'What's the score?' I asked.

'England 435 all out. The West Indies did not enforce the follow-on, probably resting their fast bowlers. They are 66 for no wicket at tea.'

'I thought the pitch was flat.'

'It is,' Baresi said. 'But Michael Holding is demolishing them. He's ignoring the pitch, bowling yorkers, fast and straight, six bowled, two LBW.'

'It looks like the West Indies will win,' I said, nudging the aerial to my left, enhancing the picture.

Baresi leaned back in his chair and smiled. Clearly, he was content, well satisfied.

'That pleases you?' I said.

'I always support the touring team.'

'How come?'

'I don't trust the English. Maybe it has something to do with the Second World War and the internment of my family on the Isle of Man. I don't know,' he shrugged. 'I don't spend my time analysing it.'

I nodded, my movement disturbing the picture on the television set. While I fiddled with the aerial, trying to recover the picture, I said, 'How did you get on, on Saturday?'

'Out for seven,' Baresi groaned. 'Edged to the wicket-keeper.'

'Maybe you should try closing the face,' I said, gesturing with my left hand, mimicking the actions of a batsman holding a cricket bat.

'Glenn Turner scored a thousand runs before the end of May with an open face,' Baresi reasoned.

'True,' I said. 'But you are not Glenn Turner.'

Baresi swivelled in his chair, gentle movements that did nothing to threaten the files, piled high on his desk, or the papers littering the desktop. Placing his hands behind his head, he chewed on his bottom lip. Pensive. Thoughtful. Eventually, he nodded and said, 'I'll give it a try.'

'Meanwhile,' I said, 'do I have to stand here for the rest of the evening?'

Baresi chortled. Leaning forward, he switched off the television set. 'Better get on with some work,' he said. 'What can I do for you this time?'

'I assume that you hold an archive?'

'We do,' he said.

'I would like to read through a few back copies.'

'What date?'

'About a year ago,' I said.

Baresi nodded. 'Looking for some quality journalism?' he asked, his arched eyebrow and friendly grin removing all allusions to vanity.

'Looking to resolve a murder,' I said.

'Interesting,' Baresi said, his fingers reaching for a pen, which he found amongst the clutter on his desk. 'Is this about Patrick McGwyn?'

'It is,' I said.

'What's the story?' Baresi asked, his pen poised above a notebook. His movements were fluid and seemingly unconnected with thought, the automatic reactions of a newshound.

'Honestly, I don't know, yet.'

'Who killed McGwyn?'

'I'm not sure,' I said.

'And when you are sure...'

'You can have the story.'

Baresi nodded as if satisfied. He tapped the notebook with his pen. Then he climbed to his feet, placing his hands behind his back. With a grimace and a groan, he said, 'Walk this way.'

I followed Charlie Baresi out of the newsroom, down a flight of stairs to the first floor of the building. There, Baresi opened a dark panelled door and we stepped into the archive. The room was small, with wall-to-wall filing cabinets, a desk and a trestle table. The desk was situated in the right-hand corner of the room, while the table occupied a central space. Two chairs, wooden, uninviting, possibly relics from the Spanish Inquisition, sat in front of the desk and the trestle table.

'Microfiche or hard copy?' Baresi asked, his eyes flitting from a machine placed on the desk to the wall of filing cabinets.

'Hard copy, please,' I said.

'What date?'

'I'll start with August, '75.'

Baresi opened a filing cabinet. He removed four copies of the Glamorgan Chronicle and placed them on the trestle table. 'They're all yours,' he said. 'If you require more, just ask.'

'Thanks,' I said, and as Baresi closed the door, I eased myself on to the chair of inquisition.

In keeping with many provincial newspapers, local gossip and events dominated the Glamorgan Chronicle. A few items from the wider world also made the pages, including a feature on the liquidation of Norton-Villiers Ltd and the subsequent demise of Triumph Motorcycles, news of the largest oil production platform yet built and its journey to the North Sea oil field, and a planned visit by Prince Charles to the independence celebrations of Papua New Guinea. However, local news was well to the fore and featured talk of Bridgend cattle market moving to Cowbridge, the success of the Ogmore River raft race and the need for improved flood defences along the river.

On page two of the edition dated the 26th August 1975, I found an article relating to the death of Annunziata Spenser-Green. From the article, I learned that Annunziata was twenty years younger than Sir Norman, that she was from a wealthy Florentine banking family and that she was viva-cious, adventurous and fun-loving. On the face of it, the marriage appeared to be an incongruous match. Maybe they married for money. Maybe they were political bedfellows. Then again, maybe love had tangled them in its knot. Annunziata had been in poor health for twelve months following her skiing accident in the Austrian Alps. Her death had come as no surprise.

Deep in thought, I folded the newspaper and returned it and its fellows to the filing cabinet. With an ache in my back, I glanced at the wooden chair and with increased sympathy for Charlie Baresi, I closed the archive door and returned to the newsroom.

The newsroom was quiet with no sign of the reporter or the typist. However, I found Charlie Baresi alone in his goldfish bowl, head bowed over an open file. The television still flickered and through the snowstorm of interference, I noted that the West Indies had declared at 182 for no wicket, leaving England a day and twenty minutes to save the match, and my tenner.

'Well?' Baresi asked, glancing up as I entered his office.

'Interesting, but I'm not sure if I've made any progress.' Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pro-duced Annunziata's journal. 'Do you speak Italian?' I asked.

'Of course,' Baresi said.

'Care to translate this?'

With a twisted grin, he waved a hand over the debris on his desk. 'Care to edit my newspaper?'

'This could be your big story,' I said.

'Seriously?' Baresi frowned. He edged forward, his head tilted to one side, the quizzical look on his face displaying his interest.

'Seriously,' I said, placing the journal and my business card on the desk, in front of Charlie Baresi. 'I only want the edited highlights, by tomorrow if possible. Call me when you've read it through.'

* * *

It was 6.30 p.m. when I arrived at my office. I checked my answering machine and discovered that Richard King had recorded a message.

'King here. Meet us at Spenser Hall, half past seven this evening.'

That left time for a bag of chips from the local chippie and a bottle of warm beer from my desk drawer. Oh, the glamour of my profession. Then I was back on the road, travelling east along the A48.

As I drove, I was tempted to speculate about the diary and its contents. However, I trusted Charlie Baresi. I felt sure that his translation would be accurate and would allow Annunziata's story to unfold.

At 7.30 p.m. precisely, I arrived at Spenser Hall. I parked the Saab behind Richard King's Ford Granada, outside the main gate. The gate, ornate, with grey paint covering wrought iron, had 'Spenser Hall' emblazoned across each wing. The gate was open and I walked up the drive, admiring the Rolls Royce Phantom III, which was still parked on the stone chippings, its enormous silver headlights glimmering in the fading sunlight, hinting that the car was neglected, sad and all alone.

I stood on the doorstep and rang the doorbell, straining an ear to listen for the door chimes. However, they were silent to me. Presumably, they were tinkling away somewhere, deep in the servants' quarters, for the master must not be disturbed.

The front door creaked open and the butler ran his gimlet eye over me, his nose wrinkling in disgust. With his right hand, he indicated that I should step into the bright orange lobby and from there he escorted me up the staircase into the dark mahogany of the library.

I found Richard King in the library. Dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie, he was gazing at the bookshelves, paying particular attention to the astronomy section. I noted that a bulbous bandage had replaced the cotton plaster on his right thumb, possibly indicating that his gardening wound had turned septic.

'How's business?' I asked, and King turned to face me.

'Booming,' he said, his left hand adjusting his immaculately pressed tie.

'It's these liberal times we live in,' I said. 'That, and the divorce laws.'

'Don't knock it,' King said, his face serious, his tone solemn, 'infidelity pays my mortgage.'

Before I could reply, Sir Norman Spenser-Green walked into the library. As before, he was dressed in a dark blue three-piece business suit, a stiff white shirt and a dark blue tie, complete with the family crest. His halo of hair had been trimmed and sat snug encircling his bald crown while the blotches on his moon-like face were more prominent, possibly due to the sunshine and overexposure.

'Good of you to come,' Spenser-Green said, his reptilian lips curving into a thin smile. He walked over to a large coffee-coloured globe, released a catch and opened the sphere. From the globe, he removed a bottle of malt whisky and three finely cut whisky glasses. 'Can I offer you a drink?' he asked, holding the whisky glasses on high.

'Hemlock?' I said, allowing the rarefied atmosphere of ostentatious wealth to get the better of me.

'Why the deep suspicion?' Spenser-Green asked while pouring three fingers of whisky for himself and Richard King. He handed a whisky glass to King, who inclined his head in acknowledgement. Then, after sipping his whisky, and smiling with satisfaction, Spenser-Green stared at me with his cold blue eyes. 'You don't like me, do you?'

'I don't know you,' I said.

'You don't like the ruling class. You don't like your betters.'

With a shrug of my shoulders, I said, 'When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman.'

'I beg your pardon?' Spenser-Green frowned.

'John Ball,' I said, 'the preacher at the Peasants' Revolt of 1381 pointing out that everyone is equal in the eyes of God.'

'Everyone is equal, but wealth makes some men more equal than others,' Spenser-Green said, misquoting George Orwell. Holding up the whisky bottle, he drew back his lips, revealed his fanged incisors and offered me his vampire smile. 'Are you sure that I cannot tempt you?'

'No thank you, Norm,' I said.

'Sir Norman to you,' he replied, indignantly.

'What would you say,' I said, 'to those people who regard knighthoods as an anachronism, as something that should remain as part of the thirteenth century and not twentieth century society? After all, you haven't rescued any maidens or run your sword through any dragons lately.'

'The dragon I intend to slay is the dragon of communism. Communists have infiltrated every meaningful branch of our society. Communists are poisoning our country. Marxists, Leninists, Maoists, socialists...we will get rid of them all.'

In a triumphalist gesture, Spenser-Green downed his whisky, then he returned to the globe to replenish his glass.

'You and your army,' I said.

'Me and my army,' Spenser-Green said in a soft, menacing voice.

'And you will create Utopia in this green and pleasant land.'

'You are a peasant,' he said. 'I would not expect you to understand.'

'Peasant that I am,' I said. 'You still need me.'

Spenser-Green splashed four fingers of whisky into his glass. Maybe if I wound him up enough he would get drunk and reveal the secrets of Annunziata's dairy. As a tactic, it was not from the top drawer. However, the thought made me smile, and in Spenser-Green's company, that was reward enough.

After sampling his whisky, Spenser-Green leaned his hip against a large mahogany desk. Meanwhile Richard King nursed his damaged finger and his whisky glass, staring into its amber depths. The room was quiet. The gallery of huge family portraits and sepia photographs stared down at us with judgemental eyes. If only they could talk. If only they could reveal the secrets of this house.

Spenser-Green took one more sip of whisky then he placed his glass on the mahogany desk. The desk was adorned with a number of very old photographs - none of whom appeared to be Annunziata, I noted - a calendar in a wooden frame, an ink-stained blotter, a fountain pen and an assortment of books.

While drumming the chubby fingers of his right hand on a book cover, a history of the Romans in Britain, Spenser-Green glared at me and said, 'Where is the diary?'

I smiled and replied, 'Why do you want the diary?'

'It's mine. It belongs to me.'

'It belongs to your late wife.'

'What was hers is now mine,' Spenser-Green said, his cheeks glowing a little, turning red, maybe through the whisky, or maybe because of something we had said.

'Do you speak Italian?' I asked.

'Fluently,' he nodded.

'Have you read the diary?'

'Its contents were brought to my attention.'

'By Patrick McGwyn?' I said.

'He stole the diary from this library.'

'While researching his book about you and your political movement?'

'That is correct,' Spenser-Green said firmly.

'The diary will cost you,' I said.

'How much?' While frowning, Spenser-Green tilted his head to his right, his podgy fingers reaching for his whisky glass.

'Twenty thousand pounds,' I said.

The vampire smile returned to Spenser-Green's lips. He turned the whisky glass slowly between his fingers, then raised the glass as if offering a toast. 'That is acceptable,' he said.

Of course, £20,000 was pocket money to a multimillionaire like Spenser-Green. However, it was interesting to note that his lordship was willing to pay more for the diary than Fingers Mahoney. Almost certainly, that meant that the diary was more important to Spenser-Green than to Fingers Mahoney.

'Why do you want the diary?' I asked. 'What does it contain?'

'The diary is of sentimental value. It holds no significance for anyone else.'

'So, McGwyn wasn't blackmailing you?'

'Mr McGwyn was a very confused, troubled individual. When I noticed that the diary was missing he claimed to have taken it by mistake. He then promised to return the diary to me, along with a number of other documents.'

'And then he died,' I said.

'That was unfortunate,' Spenser-Green said. He put his fangs away. In their stead, a moonbeam smile illuminated his round, flaccid face.

In the corner of the library, Richard King sampled his whisky, his face impassive, his thoughts hidden. Beside the desk, Spenser-Green stared at me from over the rim of his whisky glass. His contented expression suggested that he was pleased with himself. Moreover, something told me that this was a well-practised look.

'Meet me at Southerndown, the cliffs, opposite Maldini's Cafe, 10 p.m. tomorrow,' I said. 'And don't forget the £20,000.' 'I will have the money.'

'I will bring the money,' Spenser-Green said.

'And I trust that we will avoid any mishaps,' I added. 'I don't want to fall over the cliff like Patrick McGwyn.'

'I had no hand in that,' Spenser-Green said with a note of sincerity in his voice and a look of honesty upon his face.

As I walked out of Spenser-Green's mansion, his parting words rang in my ears and, for the first time that evening, I was tempted to believe him.

# Tuesday, 17th August, 1976

At 9 a.m., I was at my office, checking for messages on the answering machine. There were four messages, but only one that stood out. That message was from Charlie Baresi and he suggested that we should meet in Newbridge Fields, at noon.

During the morning, I caught up with some paperwork, thought about Jesamine and her imminent departure and mulled over the possible contents of Annunziata's diary. At 11.30 a.m., I was in the Saab, heading for Newbridge Fields.

Newbridge Fields was a pleasant expanse of greenery located within walking distance of Bridgend town centre. I parked the Saab by the Recreation Centre, a new development offering an indoor swimming pool. My mind went back to the outdoor pool, which opened in 1938, and to memories of nubile teenage girls in their one-piece bathing costumes, to the abrasive floor surface, which inflicted wounds on knees and ankles, and to the freezing cold water. Happy days.

At just after noon, Charlie Baresi arrived in his light blue Opel Kadett. He climbed out of his car, squeezing his beer belly as he did so, and walked across the Recreation Centre car park. In addition to the silver St Christopher, worn around his neck, his silver watch strap, his gold signet ring and gold wedding band, Charlie Baresi had added a copper bracelet to his right wrist, which he fingered self-consciously.

'The lads at the cricket club swear by them,' he said, standing at my side, one hand adjusting the copper bracelet while the other massaged the small of his back.

'Worth a try,' I said as we strolled towards the parkland.

The path followed the course of the River Ogmore, which was shielded by a line of dense deciduous trees. A few leaves, red, brown and gold, had fallen from the trees reminding us that autumn was just around the corner. Soon, this glorious summer would come to a close.

While the River Ogmore meandered through the landscape, rippling quietly in the background, adults ambled along the path, many with children enjoying the freedom of the school holidays.

Charlie Baresi and I walked for another minute, pausing beside a stone circle. These were the Gorsedd stones, erected at the proclamation ceremony for the National Eisteddfod in 1939. Of course, the Second World War intervened before the Eisteddfod could commence in 1940. A second proclamation ceremony was duly held in 1947 and the Eisteddfod proceeded in the summer of 1948 through a continuous downpour, proving that not even the druids have control of the weather.

At last, we were alone. While standing beside the stones, Charlie Baresi turned to me and said, 'I've translated the diary.'

'That was quick work.'

'I started at the end and worked back. I figured that if the diary contained anything of interest it would be in the closing pages.'

'Astute,' I said, adding a nod of approval. 'And does the diary contain anything of interest?'

Baresi reached into his blazer, removed the diary and placed it in my hand. Without looking at the diary, I slipped it into the depths of my jacket pocket.

After dabbing his moist forehead with a pocket-handkerchief, Baresi said, 'Annunziata Spenser-Green claims that Sir Norman murdered her.'

'That makes sense,' I said. 'How did he kill her?'

'Poison. She even names the poison, antimony.'

'That would fit the facts as we know them. If antimony is administered in large doses, you vomit and can purge yourself of the poison. However, if administered in small doses antimony takes a while to kill you and you suffer prolonged illness in the process, just as Annunziata did.'

'She complained of vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pains, weight loss and a burning sensation in her throat.'

'All symptoms of antimony poisoning,' I said. 'Furthermore, antimony preserves the body and slows decomposition; one victim was exhumed five years after her death and her corpse looked as fresh as a daisy. Added to that, traces of antimony remain in the body even after death.' I reached across and tapped Baresi on the shoulder. 'There's your big story,' I said.

'It's too big,' Baresi said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. Possibly, he was nervous or, more likely, the heat from the noonday sun combined with his blazer, made him perspire. 'We only have Annunziata's word for what happened, no other proof.'

'The proof is still within her body.'

'In the diary,' Baresi said, 'Annunziata claims that a local detective and a local doctor were involved in the cover-up; they knew what was going on, but hushed it all up.'

'I can believe her,' I said.

'But where do we go with her story? If we present our evidence to the same authorities, there is every chance that they will hush it up again. And if I publish the allegations, Spenser-Green will lean on us and close down the newspaper; he has too many high-powered connections, too many influen-tial friends. Without more proof, we can go nowhere with this story.'

A young man jogged along the path wearing a red tracksuit with white piping on the jacket arms and trouser legs. His face was as red as his tracksuit, a beacon glowing against the light blond of his beard and matted hair. As I watched the jogger disappear around a corner, I conceded that Baresi had a point. During my career as a detective sergeant, I had seen justice corrupted by money; bent lawyers, bent coppers and wealthy men produce one law for the rich, one law for the poor. And certainly, Sir Norman Spenser-Green was wealthy and extremely well connected.

To Baresi, I said, 'I've been here before.'

'And what did you do?'

'Nothing.'

'And nothing is what we should do now. That is, if we want to retain our sanity and prospects of a quiet life.'

'And where is the justice and honesty in that?' I asked.

'Sometimes you have to shelve your principles, swallow your pride, even when you are presented with the story of a lifetime.'

'I'm not sure that I can do that,' I said.

Baresi stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket before adjusting his blazer. He would never pass as the world's best-dressed man, but I admired his integrity.

'I don't want to see you become a headline,' Baresi said, his world-weary eyes focused on mine, his face solemn.

'Thanks,' I said. 'I know my place, in amongst the small ads.'

'I would love to help,' Baresi continued, 'but I have a grandchild on the way; I have my family to think of. Also, I have devoted my life to this newspaper, worked my way up from tea boy to editor; I can't publish anything that would jeopardise the Chronicle.'

'I understand,' I said. 'And thanks for the translation.'

'What are you going to do?' Baresi asked, as we walked back to our cars.

'Think,' I said, 'take a stroll along the beach. In the meantime, hold the front page.'

* * *

I returned to my office, parked the Saab and went for a walk along the beach. One of the glories of our coastline is that it holds a beach for every mood, for every occasion; some are rocky, some are sandy while others are covered in pebbles. I removed my jacket, threw it over my shoulder and walked west, towards Pink Bay, which offered inspiration to Josiah Wedgwood and his pottery, Sker, with its grand house, originally a grange run by the conversi of Neath Abbey, and Kenfig, with its deserted medieval town. As my feet sank into the sand, I thought about Spenser-Green, about Ann-unziata, and about her diary.

In an ideal world, you find evidence of wrongdoing and you take that evidence to the appropriate authorities. However, where do you go when the authorities are involved in the wrongdoing? What course of action can you take against a man like Spenser-Green - a man who has law enforcement officers, medical officers and, I daresay, judges in his pocket? If I presented Annunziata's diary to the police, they would study its pages. They would prevaricate over whether they should exhume Annunziata's body. They would argue that even if traces of antimony were found in her body it would be hard to prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that Spenser-Green placed them there. Furthermore, if the case did move on apace, Spenser-Green would call in a few favours and lean on a few tame and corrupt officials. He would ensure that nothing was done to tarnish his name. I had seen it done before. It left a bitter taste then and it left a bitter taste now. We do not live in an ideal world. We live in a world where corruption is as common as the air that we breathe. Maybe I should simply surrender the diary to Spenser-Green and be satisfied with a bumper pay day.

As I retraced my steps heading east, I came across a sheltered nook and a topless woman, sunbathing on the sand. My shadow fell over her shapely figure. Initially, she frowned. Then she propped herself up on her elbows, raised her sunglasses and smiled at me. It was an effort, but I managed to smile back.

Somewhere on the beach, a transistor radio played 'Young Hearts Run Free' by Candi Staton. I was never a fan of the song and in my present mood, it only served to torment me.

By 4.30 p.m., I was sitting on a rock in the shadow of my office, throwing pebbles into the sea. Clouds were gathering in the west, dark and portentous. The air was humid and threatened a thunderstorm.

I was slipping into my jacket when Garth approached. He skipped across the road and joined me on the rocks.

'Where's Naomi?' I asked.

'In town, shopping with Jesamine. Jesamine is buying a few travel things.'

I nodded and drifted off into deep thought. Maybe I could kidnap Jesamine, lock her in the cellar until she saw reason. Then again, maybe I could...no...although it was painful, I had to respect her decision and wish her well as she travelled to Palm Springs. When I came out of my reverie, I noticed that Garth was smiling. That could only mean one thing: he was about to pocket some of my money.

'Okay,' I said, 'hit me with it; what's the score?'

'England 203 all out. Six more wickets for Holding. The West Indies won by 231 runs.'

Grudgingly, I dipped my fingers into my wallet and removed a tenner. As I placed the money in Garth's hand, I had to concede that England had been undone by sporting genius, by the brilliance of Viv Richards' batting and by Michael Holding's bowling performance of a lifetime.

'You stitched me up,' I complained.

'I thought you knew the score,' Garth grinned sheepishly.

The sea was becoming restless, crashing against the rocks and spray found its way on to our clothes and into our hair. In the humid atmosphere of the late afternoon, the spray was refreshing, cooling, a welcome friend.

Garth glanced down to the sea-soaked rock. When he looked up, his face was serious. He removed his spectacles. As he polished them, studying the lenses with a rare intensity, he said, 'Did I tell you that Rose is pregnant?'

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks,' Garth said. His gaze wandered past my left shoulder to the steelworks and the sulphur-clouded skies of Port Talbot. 'We need to move away from Port Talbot,' Garth continued. 'The pollution is no good for Rose's health, or for the children.'

'You are deserting the hometown of Richard Burton and Anthony Hopkins?'

'They left when they had the chance.'

'Fair point,' I conceded.

'I have thought about your offer,' Garth said, returning his gaze to his shuffling feet and his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, 'of becoming an equal partner.'

'And?'

'I have to turn you down.'

'Why is that?' I asked.

'Fisher-King Investigations have made me a better offer. More money, less hours. Maybe the occasional weekend spent with the family...' Garth glanced at me, then stared at his toecaps, which were damp, gathering moisture from the pools forming on the rocks. 'Richard King reckons that he can find us a house in Cardiff, decent location, reasonable rent.'

'Go for it,' I said.

'No hard feelings?' Garth asked hesitantly.

'None at all.'

'King wants me to start straight away,' Garth said. 'Is that okay with you?'

'That's fine,' I said.

'Okay,' he grinned. 'I'll clean out my desk.'

I watched Garth as he made his joyful way across the road. He skipped past a holidaymaker, towing a caravan. The engine of the holidaymaker's Vauxhall Chevette had over-heated and he was blocking the road. Cars were tailing back into the town and tempers were becoming frayed. It seemed that I was not alone in having a bad day.

Half an hour later, Garth walked out of my office, waved at me, then strolled into town. The road in front of my office was still blocked. The holidaymaker, a balding man in his middle fifties, was receiving advice from his shrew-like wife, from passers-by and from Lord Rockfield, a friendly vagrant who had knowledge of every subject under the sun, yet the holidaymaker's car and caravan were going nowhere.

I turned my back on the animated scene, walked up the stairs and entered my office. I removed my jacket, sat in my chair and stared at the filing cabinet, paying close attention to the drawer labelled V – Z. A small number of files sat in that drawer. However, the small number of files were accompanied by a gun. The gun was a Smith and Wesson .38 Police Special with a four-inch barrel, a burnished blue finish and a checked walnut stock. I was familiar with firearms thanks to my National Service in Cyprus and the occasions when I had to draw weapons while serving as a detective sergeant. I had fired at people and killed some. That was a fact and nothing to be proud of. Equally, I had rationalised the events surrounding the shootings and they no longer caused me any sleepless nights.

I walked over to the filing cabinet, unlocked the drawer and removed the gun. I had no plans to shoot anyone tonight. However, I had no faith in Smudger and his control of a handgun; in the emotion of the moment, when the juices started to flow, there was no telling what he would do.

Feeling a bit like Wyatt Earp, I strapped on my shoulder holster and placed five cartridges into the chambers. Then the gun went into the holster and I replaced my jacket. Even without a mirror, I knew that I looked like a million pounds, although I felt as worthless as a bent threepenny bit.

I was sitting at my desk watching the rain as the first drops fell against the windowpane when I heard footsteps outside the office door. A light hand knocked the door and I said, 'Come in.'

Roseanna Maldini walked, a little erratically, into my office. She extended her right hand, as if to steady herself. Then, with her left hand, she re-moved her dark glasses.

'Take a seat,' I said and, gratefully, she flopped into my clients' chair.

Roseanna stared at me. Then, after a shudder, her shoulders started to shake. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her tears blended with her make-up and mascara until her face resembled one of her paintings, a watercolour left out in the rain.

'I can't bear it anymore,' Roseanna sobbed.

'Bear what?' I said.

'Keeping the secret of what happened that night.'

'What did happen that night?'

'I killed Patrick McGwyn.'

'How?' I probed.

'I was at the pub, but I wasn't enjoying myself, so I left early and went for a walk along the cliffs. Patrick appeared. I suppose he must have followed me from the pub.' Roseanna sighed. She shrugged her shoulders. 'We were both drunk. We had an argument. He tried to grab me. I thought he was going to hit me again.' Tenderly, she fingered the bruise around her right eye. 'I tried to fight him off. There was a scuffle, then he slipped and fell on to the rocks.' With a cry of anguish, she buried her head in her hands and the tears flowed again, flooding over her fingers, splashing on to the lace trim of her black dress. 'What am I going to do?' she wept.

'What do you want to do?' I asked, my right hand opening a desk drawer and removing a box of tissues. In truth, over the years, my clients had placed a greater strain on my tissues than on my gun; such was the emotional nature of my business. I pushed the tissues across the desk and Roseanna removed one.

'I cannot live with the guilt,' she cried, placing the tissue to her nose.

'Then tell your story to the police,' I said.

Her eyes widened. They seemed large and bright in the darkening room. 'But I might go to prison.'

'You might,' I conceded.

'I didn't mean to kill him,' Roseanna said. She lowered her head then blew her nose on the tissue. After a shudder, she removed a second tissue and proceeded to dab the tears and streaks of make-up from her face.

'But Patrick is dead,' I said. 'If the police believe your story, you might walk away free; I have seen it done before.'

'And if they don't believe me?'

'Being held prisoner by a guilty conscience can be more tortuous than time spent in a prison of four walls and steel bars.'

Roseanna stared at the damp tissues, which had accumulated in her lap. After wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she appeared to reach a decision. Sitting up straight in my clients' chair, she said, 'Will you accompany me?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I will.'

* * *

I tried to contact Detective Inspector Alan Stewart, but he was unavailable. So, I sat with Roseanna in the gathering darkness and we talked. She told me about her recent divorce, an unpleasant experience for all concerned. We also discussed her son, Christian. Roseanna informed me that Christian had no interest in the cafe; instead, he preferred to carve out a career as an engineer in Aberdeen.

At 7.30 p.m., I spoke to Alan Stewart and by 7.50 p.m., he was escorting Roseanna Maldini out of my office and into a waiting police car. She walked to the car with her head held high, with pride and with dignity. I considered that Roseanna had acted in self-defence when confronted by Patrick McGwyn. However, whether the police and a jury would be of the same opinion was open to debate.

Before Al left my office, I told him to be on hand at 10 p.m. that evening. I had no idea what would happen at Southerndown, but it seemed wise to mark his card.

At 8.30 p.m., my stomach started to rumble, a combination of anticipation and a lack of food. Despite my empty stomach, I had no appetite and so I decided against a meal. Instead, at 9 p.m., I was on the road to Southerndown, driving through steady rain.

When I arrived at the cliff top, I found Richard King standing beside his car. He was holding a multi-coloured golfing umbrella, protecting his grey pinstriped suit and the bandage on his right thumb.

'Hello, you old poacher,' I said.

'I did offer you the job first,' King said defensively, his wrist adjusting the umbrella, spraying droplets of rain on to my face.

'But you didn't wait for my reply.'

'Would it be worth the wait?' King asked.

'Could you really see me as your subordinate?' I said.

King wrinkled up his nose, as though confront-ing stale milk. He shrugged his lean shoulders and smiled, 'Probably not.'

As the lightning flashed above the bay and the thunder rolled across the sky, Sir Norman Spenser-Green arrived at the cliff top. To my disappoint-ment, he had eschewed his Rolls Royce Phantom III, preferring a black Bentley, a T-series four-door saloon.

The curmudgeonly butler had become a chauffeur and he stepped out of the Bentley, hold-ing a black umbrella aloft. The umbrella was for Spenser-Green's benefit and he stood beside the car, oblivious to the rain, a supercilious expression beautifying his face. Meanwhile, the thundery rain fell on the chauffeur, matting his grey, wavy hair.

'You are early,' Spenser-Green said, his gaze falling on me.

'You have to take pride in something,' I said, 'even if it is only good time keeping.'

Spenser-Green smiled his vampire smile. Then his tongue darted between his lips, as though sensing, tasting blood. He took a pace towards me, his butler shadowing his every footstep.

'Where is the diary?' Spenser-Green asked, his voice barely audible above a roll of thunder.

'In my pocket,' I said. I adjusted the collar of my raincoat then patted my right hip. The diary was in my jacket pocket, safe, dry, secure. My raincoat was open, to allow easy access, should I have need of my gun. 'Where's the money?' I asked.

'In the car,' Spenser-Green said. 'In a briefcase.' He inclined his head and Richard King took a step towards the Bentley.

'Keep it,' I said.

'It's a lot of money.'

'With blood on every note.'

Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the cliff top. The thunderstorm had turned the sky midnight black and visibility was at a premium. The lightning revealed that we were alone; sensibly, the villagers of Southerndown were indoors, sheltering from the storm.

'How can you live with yourself?' I said to Spenser-Green, my right hand holding Annun-ziata's diary.

In response, Spenser-Green smiled. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. 'My wife was in great pain. She could offer nothing to my movement or me. To defeat the communists we need strong people, strong of body and mind. There is no place for the blind, the deaf, the dumb, the crippled, the mentally disturbed. My wife was a passenger, a drain on resources; I had to kill her. It was a mercy killing. And there is nothing you can do about it.'

As Spenser-Green spoke, I thought of Nietzsche and his opinion that democracy was an example of a slave mentality and his hope that a ruling elite would soon arise, that conditions would be favourable for a master race, the future "lords of the earth". Doubtless, Nietzsche would be proud of Spenser-Green.

Spenser-Green extended his right hand, reaching for the diary. His fingers were about to touch its leather casing when we were illuminated by another flash of lightning and, as if by magic, Fingers Mahoney and Smudger appeared at our side. Fingers was unarmed, but Smudger was carrying his handgun. He waved the Smith and Wesson .32 at both Richard King and the butler and they retreated into the darkness. Meanwhile, the rain fell on Spenser-Green. He frowned. With a confused look on his face, he adjusted his trench coat.

'Thank you,' Fingers said. 'I will take that.' And he helped himself to the diary. Despite the violent weather, Fingers was dressed in a light summer jacket. Obviously, he had not anticipated the storm. 'Is that yours?' he asked, peering into the Bentley, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the pigskin briefcase.

'No doubt you'll want to claim it,' I said.

'Too true,' Fingers said. 'Smudger,' he crooked a finger towards his nephew, 'keep me covered.'

With a nod, Smudger smiled. And with a lazy adjustment of his jaw, he chewed his gum. Smudger was a symphony of denim today - jacket, trousers and shoes. Incongruously, he was still wearing his dark sunglasses.

'I wouldn't have thought that blackmail was your line,' I said to Fingers Mahoney.

'These days you have to branch out,' Fingers said with a shrug. 'Diversify. The cops were too hot, keeping an eye on my drugs operation, so I had to close it down. A shame, because my Spanish contacts will be very disappointed. And I had a number of vacant properties lined up as storage depots.' He shook his head sadly, as though contemplating the meaning of life itself. 'What is the world coming to; you can't do any honest thieving anymore.' Then his features brightened as he hugged the diary and the briefcase to his chest. 'When dear drunk Patrick started to mumble in the pub one night about a diary and its dirty little secret, it seemed an opportunity too good to miss.'

'You don't know what you're getting into,' I said.

'I'm getting into a good thing,' Fingers said, hugging the briefcase and the diary then rubbing his hands together with glee.

I glanced at Spenser-Green and noticed that he was still looking perplexed. In his confusion, he had wandered towards the edge of the cliff. Meanwhile, the rain was pouring down on his bald crown, on his face, soaking his trench coat. He eased the trench coat open, and slipped his right hand into his jacket. Lightning flashed and so did the barrel of Smudger's handgun. Smudger must have assumed that Spenser-Green was reaching for a gun. A bloom of red exploded on Spenser-Green's trench coat. He pirouetted, slipped on the damp grass and, with a cry of anguish, fell off the cliff.

In the blink of an eye, I produced my Smith and Wesson .38. I pointed the barrel at Smudger and yelled, 'Drop it!' Henry Fonda in My Darling Clementine.

Smudger glanced at Fingers, who nodded. With a grimace, Smudger spat out his gum. Then he dropped his gun on to the grass.

The butler and Richard King stepped forward, out of the darkness. King had produced his own Police Special and he levelled the gun at Smudger and Fingers. In the distance, a police siren wailed. Soon, Al and his team would take control of the scene.

Meanwhile, I walked to the edge of the cliff and peered down to the rocks. The storm was moving east and the thunder was fading into the distance. However, lightning still flashed and its luminosity highlighted Spenser-Green. I caught a glimpse of his body, splayed upon the rocks. Within that lightning flash his body twitched; maybe he was still alive, or possibly the movement was due to a cadaveric spasm. Whatever the reason, Spenser-Green reminded me of Frankenstein's monster.

Turning my back on the cliff, I walked towards Fingers Mahoney. He was still clutching the diary and briefcase, tightly, as though his polydactyl fingers were gripped in spasm. Glancing down to the grass, I noticed a handkerchief, monogrammed with an interlocking S and G.

'Spenser-Green was only reaching for his handkerchief,' I said to Fingers. 'A cloth to wipe the rain from his face.'

With a squeal of brakes, three police cars arrived at the cliff top, whereupon a number of detectives and uniformed officers entered the scene.

As the detectives walked towards us, I glanced at Smudger. Then I tapped Fingers on his shoulder and said, 'Families, eh, Frank, you can't live with them and you can't live without them.'

Fingers turned and glared at his nephew. The anger in his eyes suggested that he wanted to wrap all twelve of his digits around Smudger's neck.

I caught sight of Al and mentally I prepared my statement. The clock was ticking; I had to get away from Southerndown and keep an appointment with a train at Bridgend.

* * *

I offered my statement to Alan Stewart then left the scene to the police. As I climbed into my Saab Spenser-Green was still alive, although in extremis.

The storm was fading with long pauses between lightning flashes and thunder rolls. The rain had lost its intensity and it toyed with the windscreen wipers as it rolled down the glass.

I checked my watch: 11.30. I was late and could only rely on the inconsistency of the railway network; unlike Mussolini, the British had never mastered the art of the railway timetable, of ensuring that their trains always ran on time.

It was 11.40 p.m. when I arrived at Bridgend railway station. Engineered by Isambard Kingdom Brunel the station dated to the middle of the nineteenth century. Indeed, Brunel was one of the passengers when the first train stopped at the station on the 18th June 1850. Elegant and still looking rather grand, the railway and the station were reminders of the Victorians and the indelible impression they had made on our landscape.

I parked in the car park and ran into the station. It was dark and deserted. I gazed along the track, to the east, but the train had long gone. A porter swept a crumpled up newspaper, crisp packets and discarded cigarette butts towards a litter bin. His head was bowed, his face hidden beneath the peak of his cap. He paid no attention to me as, frantically, I glanced around.

Then I saw two very large suitcases, partially hidden by the station roof and its dark, moonlit shadow. A pair of shoes tapped the concrete in restless fashion. The shoes were red, with a low heel, a narrow strap and a gold buckle. Looking up, I noted a pair of shapely legs, disappearing under a cream raincoat. The legs stepped out of the shadow into the moonlight and my eyes feasted on a face of rare beauty, on eyes that sparkled and bedazzled. Jesamine.

Ignoring the suitcases, Jesamine walked towards me. Ignoring the porter, I walked towards Jesamine.

'I couldn't get on the train,' she said with a sigh.

I nodded and exhaled with relief.

'My mother will never speak to me again,' she added, while staring at her shoes.

'I'm sure she will understand.'

'You don't know my mother,' Jesamine said, glancing up, then rolling her eyes. 'My peers in Palm Springs will never speak to me again.'

I pursed my lips and stared up to the heavens. The sky was black, though calm. Stars twinkled like mischievous sprites displaying their amusement. It had stopped raining.

'I will have to compensate my partners,' Jesamine continued.

'How much?' I asked.

'Fifteen thousand dollars.'

'That's a lot of money,' I said.

'More than I've got,' Jesamine sighed. She stood in front of me, toe-to-toe, and gazed into my eyes. 'Have I made the right decision?'

'I don't know,' I said. My eyes were fixed on hers. If a train should rush by at any moment, I would not hear it; I was captivated, lost in her spell. 'Have you made the right decision?'

'My head said go, but my heart said stay.'

'You should always follow your heart,' I said.

Jesamine grinned. It was an impish grin, reveal-ing her crooked eye-tooth. 'You are biased.'

'Just a bit,' I agreed.

Jesamine continued to stare into my eyes with a fierce intensity, as though searching for my soul. Eventually, her features relaxed and her lips curved into an easy smile, a smile that illuminated her eyes.

'Yes,' she said, 'I have made the right decision.'

'Me too,' I said.

'And money is only money after all.'

'I'll remortgage the cottage,' I said, taking hold of her hand.

'We could live in a caravan.'

'Or a tent.'

'As long as we're together,' Jesamine said.

'As long as we're together,' I echoed.

Jesamine reached up and placed an arm around my neck. She tilted my head forward and kissed me. It was a passionate kiss, charged with electricity.

Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard the porter whistle. On the other hand, maybe he had disappeared from the station. I had no great wealth, but I had the moon and the stars and Jesamine. I was a pauper, with riches beyond compare.

# Friday, 20th August, 1976

I was sitting in my office, in my swivel chair, reading the Glamorgan Chronicle. In a blaze of alliteration the headline read, 'Sensational Shooting at Southerndown'. In the piece that followed, written by an anonymous 'special reporter', the newspaper stated that Spenser-Green had been shot and seriously wounded. The tumble over the cliff had broken his back and while he was expected to live, it was unlikely that he would ever walk again. The report speculated on the nature of the shooting and raised the question, why was Spenser-Green meeting with known villains? In addition, details of Annunziata's suffering covered many column inches along with the suggestion that the police were looking into a mysterious diary, found at the cliff top. It was a subtle piece and I felt sure that I detected Charlie Baresi's hand.

I was folding the newspaper and placing it on my desk when Alan Stewart walked into my office. He sat in my clients' chair and scratched the stubble on his chin.

'Are you growing a beard?' I asked.

He looked at me with tired, jaundiced eyes and said, 'No, I'm acting the goat.'

I smiled politely and pointed at the newspaper. 'Annunziata's diary details a long, slow, painful murder.'

'If she was telling the truth.'

'Spenser-Green confessed,' I said. 'And if you exhume her body you will find all the evidence you need.'

Al stretched his arms above his head, interlocking his fingers. Then he leaned back, resting his monkish pate against the support created by his hands. He was dressed in casual trousers and an off-duty, short-sleeved jacquard shirt, revealing his deeply tanned arms.

'The diary has been nudged upstairs,' he said. 'Maybe they will look into it.'

'Or maybe it will disappear to the back of a filing cabinet.'

Al shrugged while holding his relaxed position. He gazed at my ceiling, which was crying out for a fresh coat of paint.

'Spenser-Green is too well connected,' Al said. 'He would pull strings. Is it worth the aggravation? After all, a form of justice has been done.'

'You have a strange take on justice,' I said.

'A practical take,' Al admitted.

'Spenser-Green murdered his wife, yet the majority will view him as a victim, not a villain. Compare that with Roseanna Maldini.'

'Roseanna Maldini has confessed to pushing Patrick McGwyn off the cliff top. The autopsy report suggests that there was a lot of alcohol in McGwyn's body. With a good brief and a sympathetic jury, it might pass as an accident.'

'And so joy abounds,' I said.

'A good brief will play on the jury's sympathy for the battered woman. And if she flutters her eyelashes at the judge, he might take a shine to her.'

'Fluttering your eyelashes is hardly the basis for justice.'

'You know how the system works,' Al said. 'Innocent people are put away because the jurors don't like the colour of a person's hair while the guilty walk free because the judge likes the look of his or her butt.'

'Magna Carta rules, okay.'

'I spend months building up a case against a known villain, but for one reason or another they walk free.' Al lowered his hands. He sat forward in my clients' chair. His suntanned face was dark, serious. 'Do you think that I like it? On the other hand,' he shrugged, 'I have come to accept that certain people, organisations, departments, have to operate above the law; without them, democracy would collapse.'

'You mean the status quo would collapse. And if the status quo collapsed maybe true democracy, with justice for all, would take its place.'

'Or maybe the communists would take its place. Or the fascists,' Al said. He stood and walked towards the office door. 'Sometimes it's better to live with the devil you know.'

Alone in my office I pondered Al's point. Whatever the truth of his comments, one thing was for certain: Spenser-Green was not alone in his line of political thinking; there were many others out there, plotting and planning in exactly the same way.

Glancing to my left, I ran a casual eye over Garth's desk. He was settling in at Fisher-King Investigations and, long-term, I felt sure that the move would do him good. However, what should I do with the desk? Maybe I would advertise for a new assistant, or a secretary. On the other hand, maybe I would go solo. With Jesamine in my life, I was warming to the idea of working as an independent.

Jesamine had a morning appointment at Parc Gwyllt. Her old position was still vacant and, if she asked nicely, she was hopeful of returning to her job.

Meanwhile, I turned my attention to a purple file and a request made by a finance company. The repayments on a van had ground to a sudden halt and the van had disappeared. I had traced the van and discovered that villains had used the vehicle in a robbery. The trail was fresh and I wasn't sure where it would lead. I was studying the file when an old friend, Thaddeus Smith, wandered into my office.

As I looked up from the file, I asked, 'What's your real name?'

'Smith,' he said, his crumpled features twisting into a grin.

Today, Thaddeus Smith was wearing a white shirt augmented with gold curls on the collar, cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat and a black string tie.

'You were not interested in the diary, were you?' I said as Thaddeus Smith made himself comfortable in my clients' chair.

'The diary is an irrelevance,' he said with a dismissive wave of his right hand.

'So,' I said leaning forward, 'what is your interest in Patrick McGwyn?'

'Our interest was in Spenser-Green.'

'Was?' I raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

'The man has broken his back; he is of no use to us anymore.' Thaddeus Smith removed his ten-gallon hat and placed it on my desk, beside my copy of the Glamorgan Chronicle. After glancing at the newspaper, he said, 'You are aware that Spenser-Green was setting up an anti-communist organisation?'

I nodded. 'One you took a shine to.'

'Any organisation that espouses fighting the communists is worthy of our interest,' Thaddeus Smith said in deep, patriotic tones. 'Nevertheless,' he continued with a gentler, liberal lilt to his voice, 'on this occasion, we considered that Spenser-Green had gone too far.'

'And so his injuries are no concern of yours.'

'Our concern is the documents Spenser-Green acquired.'

'From America?'

'Exactly. You are aware that the man is extremely well connected.'

'That has come to my attention,' I said with a wry smile.

'Well, Spenser-Green also has strong connec-tions in the United States. He got hold of some documents, from friends of friends.' Thaddeus Smith held his hands aloft, as though surrendering to the Apaches. 'It was innocent enough, but it shouldn't have happened. These documents are top secret relating to our space programme.'

'The moon landings.'

'Exactly. You might be aware that some people challenge the veracity of our moon landings - in a recent poll, 28% of Americans believe that we did not land on the moon - while others seek to discredit our endeavours.'

'Scoundrels,' I said.

'These scoundrels have falsified pictures and documents, suggesting that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin found footsteps on the moon.'

'Made by the man in the moon?' I said, smiling innocently.

'For NASA and the United States government, this is no laughing matter. Mr McGwyn stole these documents from Spenser-Green's library and these are the documents that I am interested in. Have you seen these documents?'

'No,' I said. 'I can honestly say that I haven't.'

'I will remind you that I have been authorised to offer a $50,000 reward...'

Maybe it was the sight of all those dollars dancing in front of my eyes, but a thought shuffled forward from the back of my mind.

'Care to meet me in this office, 4 p.m. this afternoon?' I asked solicitously.

'Would it be to my advantage?' Thaddeus Smith said, his eyebrows arching with interest.

'Could be,' I grinned.

'Four of the clock this afternoon?'

I nodded.

'I'll see ya then.'

* * *

The sun was shining when I arrived at Naomi's house. Indeed, the sun had baked us for most of the week, reducing the storm to an aberration.

I knocked on Naomi's front door, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, so I stepped inside the house. Apart from the low-level hum of electrical appliances, the house was quiet. Instinct told me that I would find Naomi in her back garden and, indeed, she was there. Dressed in pale green leggings, a yellow tee-shirt and with a yellow bandanna covering her hair, Naomi was sitting in the lotus position, Apollo at her side. Apollo raised his head, gazed at me and wagged his tail. Meanwhile, Naomi was lost in her yoga and oblivious to my presence.

Eventually the draught, created by Apollo's wagging tail, compelled Naomi to raise her head. She tilted her attractive features to her left, frowned and said, 'Max, is that you?'

'Indeed it is,' I said. 'How did you know?'

Naomi tapped her nose and smiled, 'Your after-shave,' she said. 'Sighted people store images in their mind, whereas I store scents in my nose.'

Naomi waved towards a garden chair and I joined her in the shade of a large oak tree.

'Would you like some juice?' Naomi asked.

'Yes, please,' I replied, and she proceeded to pour out a measure of orange juice into a glass, hooking her thumb over the rim of the glass to judge the level of its contents.

'When you can't see others,' Naomi said, 'you sometimes forget that others can see you.' A wicked grin illuminated her face. 'It's a good job that you didn't catch me doing anything embarrassing!'

I laughed, aware that to a blind person a smile would not suffice. I was learning.

'How are you doing?' I asked while sipping my orange juice.

'I'm getting by,' Naomi said. She poured a measure of juice into her own glass, then sampled the juice with a sigh of satisfaction. 'I have been thinking,' she continued. 'I have a lot to sort out in my mind. I have been kidding myself. I haven't really come to terms with my blindness. True, I have adjusted and made progress with my writing, but I haven't adjusted when it comes to interacting with people. I need to take time out and resolve that issue. Also, I realise that throughout my life I have been attracted to the wrong type of men. Even dear old Patrick was not really for me. And Jack...I guess he was just a moment in time.'

'Has Jack been in touch?' I asked.

'He phoned me, to say goodbye.'

'And how do you feel about that?'

'I feel a sense of relief.' Naomi sighed, as if to emphasise the point. 'I am not sure where I go next, but if love comes knocking at my door, he will have to be the right one. I am no longer a teenager, far from it. I need stability in my life; I can't ride this emotional rollercoaster anymore.'

'You'll get there,' I said.

'With Jesamine's help,' Naomi said, 'I will.'

I drank the remainder of my juice then set the glass down on a small garden table. It was time to move on to the purpose of my visit. As Naomi tilted her head back and enjoyed the fragile fragrance of her garden flowers, carried on the gentle breeze, I said, 'Can I take a look in your fridge?'

'My fridge?' Naomi wrinkled up her nose, suggesting that manure had replaced the sweet scent of her roses. With puzzlement lining her forehead, she replied, 'Of course.'

I wandered into Naomi's kitchen and opened the fridge door. I was squatting, behind the door, when a pair of shapely ankles came into view. I paused to admire the ankles and the curve of her calves and her sensual thighs as they disappeared under a smart, formal, pleated skirt.

While I was in excelsus, a black, leather, high-heeled shoe tapped the floor. Then, with a quizzical look on her face, Jesamine folded her arms across her chest and said, 'What are you doing?'

I straightened, placed my arms around Jesamine's waist and kissed her passionately. After all, it had been four hours since the last kiss. 'How did you get on at Parc Gwyllt?' I asked, when I eventually came up for air.

'I return to work next week.'

I gave Jesamine a congratulatory hug and she smiled with contentment. After another kiss, she frowned and said, 'What are you doing in Naomi's fridge?'

'I'll show you,' I said.

The fridge housed a container for fresh salad produce. I removed that container and discovered, taped to the back of the fridge, a large Manila envelope. The envelope was sealed, presumably by Patrick, with a blob of red wax.

'Maybe we should allow Naomi to do the honours,' I said and, nonplussed, Jesamine followed me into the garden.

As we entered the garden, Apollo wagged his tail. While Jesamine made a fuss of the dog, I walked over to Naomi and presented her with the envelope.

'What have you got there?' Naomi asked.

'A present for you,' I said. 'Footprints on the moon.'

Naomi opened the envelope and I removed a typed document and three large photographs. The document outlined the contents of the photographs, small footsteps, the size of a young teenager, walking across the moon surface, away from Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, disappearing under the shadow of Apollo 11.

I described the photographs to Naomi and she laughed. Then I told her about Thaddeus Smith and she lapsed into silence. With the smile returning to her face, Naomi said, 'They must be a fake.'

'Are you sure?' I said. 'Maybe the whole Apollo project was filmed in a back lot at Universal Studios.'

Naomi hit me, playfully, over the head with the photographs. 'Idiot,' she said. 'Do you honestly think that the Russians would let the Americans get away with that?'

'They are a fake,' I conceded. 'But fun. What is more, they are worth $50,000 to you.'

'They are worth $50,000 to us,' Naomi said, running her fingertips over the photographs. I was about to interject when she added, 'I insist. We will split the money three ways.'

'Two ways,' Jesamine said. 'Half for you, Naomi. Half for us.' As she spoke, Jesamine took hold of my hand. She squeezed my fingers and I nodded in agreement.

'Okay,' Naomi said reluctantly. 'We will share the money as you suggest.' Climbing to her feet, Naomi hugged the photographs to her chest. She danced on the patio, her joyful gyrations displaying her excitement. 'This is amazing,' she beamed, 'I must tell Susie. Do you mind if I phone my agent?'

'We'll leave you to it,' I said. 'We'll be on the beach.'

While Apollo guided Naomi into her living room, I guided Jesamine to Newton Beach.

On the beach, in amongst the bikinis, the floral dresses, the cheesecloth tops and the tie-dyed shirts, I spied a woman wearing a poncho and a man in an Afghan coat. It was eighty degrees Fahrenheit and they were roasting. Nevertheless, they were happy, smiling at each other, walking hand-in-hand. It takes all sorts.

I took hold of Jesamine's hand and said, 'You haven't told me, why did you decide to stay?'

Jesamine paused. She gazed down to the sand, then up, into my eyes. 'You remember the chat we had about the hierarchy?'

I glanced across the bay to Southerndown and recalled our discussion while sitting in Jesamine's Triumph. That conversation took place barely a week ago, yet it seemed like a lifetime ago, and in some respects, it was.

'Yes,' I said, 'I remember.'

'Well, Humanists believe that love and emotional commitment are very important steps in personal development, very important steps on the ladder to attain happiness. Love needs to be in place before you can achieve true satisfaction with your career. So I thought, without the man I love, what would I be doing in Palm Springs?'

Jesamine stood on tiptoe and kissed me lightly on the lips. She took hold of my hands and placed them in hers. Then she rested her head on my shoulder and I ran my fingers through her hair.

Jesamine sighed, 'I think I've found my soul mate.'

'Me too,' I said.

'I'm incredibly happy.'

'Not just content?'

'Not just content,' Jesamine said. 'I'm very happy.'

'Me too,' I said.

'Let it always be like this.'

'Forever,' I said.

'Forever,' Jesamine said.

# MAKING MOVIES

In March 1977 teenager and wannabe movie star Laura Marsh disappeared. A year later two men were desperate to find her. On behalf of her parents private detective Max Gwyther was pounding the seedy streets of Cardiff looking for Laura. Meanwhile Dutch crime lord Jan van Leer also had designs on Laura, though his motives were less honourable – he wanted to kill her

.

What had Laura been up to during her year on the run? Why was Jan van Leer so keen to murder her? And what part did local crime boss Paul Tregenna play in Laura's life?

MAX GWYTHER

Max Gwyther is a private detective based in Porthcawl, South Wales. The Max Gwyther Mystery Series explores a selection of Max's cases from the 1970s through to the millennium. Making Movies is the second novel in this series.

You can read more about Making Movies, including reviews, background details and extracts on Mansel's website http://jonesthebook.com

and his blog site http://manseljones.com

# TANGWSTYL

by Mansel Jones

Tangwstyl is a story of love and murder, of loyalty and betrayal. Set in the medieval town of Kenfig in the year 1399, the story centres on a prophecy made by Merlin and the birth of a girl, named Tangwstyl. Based on historical fact, Tangwstyl tells the story of King Richard and a plot to assassinate him, of Owain Glyn Dwr and his struggle for personal and national justice, and of the medieval Church and its desire to suppress all forms of heresy. Tangwstyl also tells the story of the common men and women of Kenfig, ordinary people caught up in extraordinary events, events that would alter long held beliefs and reshape lives.

# PENDRAGON

by Mansel Jones

In a land ravaged by war the ageing Pendragon, Ambrosius Aurelianus, seeks a successor only to encounter the twin threats of the Saxon advance and treason. He places his trust in Arthur, a man torn between the defence of his country and the defence of the woman he loves.

Set in 497 A.D. Pendragon is based on ancient Welsh sources and features many of the men and women who played a crucial role in Arthur's life: Bedwyr and Cai, Caradog and Cadwallon, Gwenhwyfar and Eleri. The story culminates in the Battle of Badon, a battle that shaped the Britain we live in today, a battle that placed Arthur's name in chronicles and histories, a battle that created a legend and a hero for all time.

