 
RECIPROCITY

By Lesley Corina

Published by Lesley Corina at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Lesley Corina

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Wednesday

BRENDON looks down at his trousers. Not only are they mud-spattered but now he's managed to catch them on a bramble thorn they are ripped from seam to seam above his left knee. He feels like crying; which worries him. A little thing like a rip in an old pair of jeans shouldn't make a grown man want to cry. There has to be something else.

He fumbles in his supermarket carrier bag and brings out his bottle of pills. He holds the bottle tightly in one hand as he tries to remove the cap with the fingers of his other. He struggles with it for some time. The childproof top appears to be beyond his ability and not only because he is fast losing all feeling in his fingers. He blows on his hands to warm them before trying, once again, to release the reluctant cap by wrapping it in the sleeve of his black nylon jumper. It works and he notices, not for the first time, that his supply of precious pills now barely covers the bottom of the bottle. He takes them out, counts them. Not once, but twice; as if hoping that by counting them for a second time the actual number of pills will miraculously increase. They don't. Ten pills come out of the bottle and ten pills are counted back.

As he drops them back into the bottle he listens; as at first they rattle against the glass sides and then rustle, momentarily colliding with each other before bouncing freely in the empty void. After the second count, which produces the same result, he screws the cap back in place realising that no matter how many times he counts them, he will still only have ten pills left.

'Shit' he says softly. He is fully aware of the disastrous implication of having so few pills.

He stands up and looks towards the sleepy little village that lies along the road. He estimates it is perhaps five or six kilometres away. He wonders if somewhere that small could possibly have a doctor who would be willing to prescribe the necessary medication. Or better still, a hospital. The cold grip of failure surrounds his heart. He fights with himself to try and stop himself from worrying about what will happen if his lifeline of pills runs out before he can secure medical attention.

He physically spins around. Turning his back on the village so he is now facing the direction from which he's just come. With certainty he knows there hadn't been a hospital in the last town. Or in the town before that one, or the town before that. In fact, in all the time that he's actually been on the road, he cannot remember passing, or even seeing a signpost to a hospital. Now that he tries to think about it, he cannot even remember how long he's actually been walking for. It could be weeks, or even months. Whichever it is, it is a lot longer than he'd expected the journey to take. In his confused state, brought on by hunger, cold and worry, he reminds himself that his bottle of pills must have been full when he first left London. He knows he would not have been silly enough to have started out on this incredible journey without ample supplies of the proper medication. He may be ill, but he knows that as ill as he is, he isn't that ill.

All his plans, dreams and resolutions are now falling through his fingers and landing smashed at his feet. Who is he to dream? Dreams are for other people. People, who live real lives, have loved ones, a future ahead of them and behind them a past that doesn't bring The Voice with it. He'll never have a future; The Voice will make sure of that.

He turns back towards the village before stooping to brush the mud off his legs, a delaying tactic that he has often used on this trip. He knows that sooner or later he will have to decide which way to walk. But in his weeks on the road he has learned that the longer he leaves a decision, then the fewer options he has left to select from.

The pill bottle rattles as he drops it into his duffel bag. He'll not think about the consequences of his dwindling supply, not yet. There will be time enough to worry about that when The Voice comes back.

Brendon tosses his battered duffel over his shoulder, scoops a carrier bag into his left hand and then using a caressing and attentive gesture, he gently picked up a plastic Co-op carrier bag with the fingers of his right hand. He glances over his shoulder then turns to face the village. Stepping onto the single-track road he starts off resolutely towards Penalton on Sea.

JANE Elliot is looking at her calendar as she holds her telephone to her left ear. The diamond earring, which she's removed in order to hold the receiver close, is suspended casually between her right index finger and thumb. She takes everything in her stride; and the unexpected call, that is delaying her attendance at her meeting, is no exception. Solutions to Jane Elliot come naturally.

'I can't possible get to the cottage until the end of next month, so why don't you use it'. She listens to the sobbed thanks as she irons imaginary wrinkles from her designer trouser suit. With pleasure she notices that the pale pink of her nail polish matches the shade of her blouse perfectly. Sam, her manicurist, has done an excellent job. To her caller, who would be unaware of her lapse in concentration, she gently adds, 'You need to get away and think about what it is that you really want to do.' She listens while smiling at David, her secretary, who is gesticulating wildly in an attempt to catch her attention. Realising she will have to terminate the call and get back to her meeting, she adds abruptly, 'Look, pack a bag and just go. I'll call Mrs Lesley; tell her to expect you Thursday afternoon. She can let you have the spare keys. Go now and start packing. You'll need warm casual clothing. I'll ask Mrs Lesley to put the heating on. But don't expect too much, it will take until the weekend for the cottage to warm up properly.' Jane, realising she is no longer being listened to, adds, 'Oh, and don't take your designer frocks.' Aware now that she has regained her caller's full attention, she concludes. 'You won't need them because the village's dull, there's no night life and no one to dress up for. And even with the heating on full blast the cottage will never be as warm as you have your house. Take tracksuits and trainers for sleeping in.' Jane laughs as she pictures her friend getting in between her Laura Ashley bed sheets still wearing her muddy trainers. As there are only loud sobs from the other end of the line, Jane terminates the call realising that there is no need to worry. 'Call me when you get there,' she demands, as she scribbles a note to herself on her desk note pad. It reads "Call Mrs L re L S Thursday. Keys. 2 weeks max"

AFTER the children have left for school Laura Street-Selous takes all her warm clothes out of her drawers. She piles them on her bed before gathering them into an untidy mound. She then flops on top of them before scooping the lot into a large untidy bundle in her arms. She forces her fingers underneath the pile before interlacing them together. Then standing upright she pulls the pile of clothing towards her body. Once upright, with the bundle held fast in her arms, she glances at the bed, making sure she hadn't left any stray garments behind. She notices, with some pleasure, that she has managed to scoop all the clothing into one untidy bundle. She walks into the spare bedroom, the room they use for their home-office and occasional guest bedroom.

Flinging the garments onto the futon, she looks around the room as if trying to remember where she has left something. She bends and retrieves a battered blue travel bag from under the single wardrobe. She casually throws the cloth bag besides the pile of clothing. After checking the bag is empty she drops the pile of garments into the bag and pulls the zipper closed. A tear rolls gently down her cheek. She is unsure what the future will hold for her, for any of them. All she does know is that the past has apparently been a lie and that her husband has tricked her into believing that their life together was something that it had never really been.

The ringing telephone summons her to the main bedroom. She stands looking at the instrument as if willing it to stop. As if obeying her unspoken command it falls silent. A moment later her mobile starts to ring. She sits on the bed and cries.

THE girls walk to the bus stop, heads down and seemingly totally oblivious to the London crowds rushing in all directions around them. They both look at the ground and avoid talking to each other. Thoughts and fears that are too deep to share, especially with each other, consume each stepsister.

Despite living under the same roof for ten years the stepsisters are not close and remain distant with each other. They both know that the other one is in pain. This time they are both determined to keep their own pain to themselves.

The gulf is deeper for one stepsister. The one who has a guilty secret. While the stepsisters would never be described as being close, they don't normally keep secrets from each other.

Charlotte Street avoids looking at her stepsister so she doesn't realise that Amanda Selous isn't looking at her either. Divorce is a common word, used every day. She just hadn't expected that the word would to be used about her mother and Peter Selous. A wolf-whistle breaks into her thoughts. She looks towards a group of boys who are standing across the road; they wave to catch her attention. As she smiles at them, to acknowledge their presence, she finds herself wondering if she will still be the most popular girl in school if she has a mother who is divorced for a second time. As soon as she thinks this, she feels guilty. She lowers her head, before turning it, ever so slightly, to see if her stepsister is observing her or not. She isn't. Charlotte inclines her head in that "go-away I'm with sister-swat" wave that the boys understand so well. Her continuing individual popularity is no longer in doubt. She will still be "Queen Bee". She is eager to try out the role of pained heroine. She knows it will suit her. She softly practices a few sighs but restrains herself from actually drawing her hand across her forehead. She needs a mirror to ensure that she achieves the right "grief engulfed heroine look". After all, she doesn't want to be too engulfed by grief. She knows that too much pain discourages the attention of other people. What is the point of being in misery if she can't let other people know just how magnificently she is bearing up under its strain?

AMANDA Selous has more to worry about than Charlotte. Last night her stepmother gave her a letter that she asked Amanda to give to her father after work. 'In the morning I'm going away for a few days to be by myself,' Laura had told her in confidence last night when she had sought Amanda out. Amanda had been in her bedroom, in the middle of revising for her mock exams, so she hadn't reacted above a nod of her head and a soft grunt to indicate that she approved wholeheartedly. Amanda understood her stepmothers need to get away. In fact she was slightly jealous and wished that she too could be "by herself" for a few days. Until, almost as an afterthought Laura had added, 'Perhaps for as long as a couple of weeks. But that's at the outside. I'll be home before the start of the holidays. I promise.' Suddenly Amanda had realised that this was more than the usual painting trip that her stepmother frequently took alone; and occasionally had taken her along. Amanda had asked Laura how her father had taken the news; she had been horrified to learn that Laura wasn't going to tell him. Laura had wanted to slip away; leaving the letter to explain everything. It was only because of Amanda's quiet insistence that Laura had, reluctantly, told Peter about her plans while he was shaving. She had told him that she wouldn't be home when the girls came home from school; and in reply to his raised eyebrow she had added that she wouldn't be home when he got in from work either. That's when the argument had started, and now Amanda feels guilty because the row had all been her fault. She had been wrong to force Laura to tell him. Her stepmother had been right, and had known her father better than she.

Her fingers encircle the letter that is hidden in her coat pocket; she tightens them around the paper. If she keeps this up, then by the time she is due to hand it to him it will no longer be legible. Her stepmother may be a wonderful painter, but her handwriting is appalling and coupled with the actions of her stepdaughter, Amanda doubts if her father will be able to decipher a single word. Even if he still wants to after this morning's blazing argument. But just to be on the safe side she gives the letter another squeeze in frustration.

PETER Selous sits in the office and toys with his pen. His eyes are fixed on the complex document that lies open on his desk, yet the actual words remain unseen. He is too engrossed with remembering the argument that he and Laura had had earlier that morning. Now, in the safety of his office, he really can't understand what they had actually been arguing about. Or why Laura was being so selfish. He knows she loves him, loves his daughter and her own child, so why is she walking out on them? He knows that he needs an answer, and he needs it now.

He's tried to call her several times already; and as he had been expecting the telephone is never answered. He knows she is packing, planning on leaving him and the girls. Leaving their home and that he can't stop her. But is she leaving for good? Forever? Or is this just another one of her solo holidays? He doesn't know. He also doesn't know what Laura had meant when she had told him 'I need to find myself'. He half suspects that Laura herself also doesn't know the answer; because when he asked her the question, she had looked at him, shook her head and then left the bathroom leaving his reasonable question unanswered.

He rings home again, confirming his expectation that his telephone call will not be answered.

WILLIAM Berkshire takes another sip of his coffee. His student will be arriving in under the hour. He walks into the music room. After placing his cup down with feminine care he opens the lid of the concert grand piano and softly brings the instrument to life. Walking past his cottage Miss Jones stops and listens to the flow of Mozart as it drifts through the closed casement window. Quite often a large gathering of appreciative listeners would be standing to listen at his window. But today Miss Jones is alone during his recital. She smiles to herself. If William had seen her he would have liked to think that her thoughts, as she listened to his playing, would have been something along the lines of "That man has so much talent. It's wasted on teaching the youngsters in this village. But they are always appreciated by anyone who happens to be passing his house while he's practicing". But he'll never know what she's thinking. He'll never ask her. And she'll never divulge.

William finishes with a flourish and taps the side of the piano with a gentle and affectionate pat.

'Sorry old girl,' he says as he stands up and lowers the lid. 'You shouldn't have to face the indignity of incompetents banging out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on you every day.' He retrieves his coffee cup before returning to the kitchen to await Jason.

As he turns to leave the music room he notices that Miss Jones is standing by his box hedge. Instantly he decides not to acknowledge that he has seen her. He has enough of his privacy being invaded when his pupils arrive for their lessons, especially by the ones who bring their parents with them. These parents often expect to be allowed to sit in his sitting room and drink his coffee while their offspring crucify the giants of the music world on his beloved piano. He rinses his coffee cup realising that Jason will bring neither parent, only his rare and very special gift.

Jason Hudson is a rather talented student, and William is actually looking forward to his arrival and lesson. He is genuinely interested in what the boy will have made of the opening of the Beethoven second piano concerto. Jason has had two weeks to practice and with his skill he'd have done something wonderful with the opening five minutes that William had set him for homework after his last lesson.

Before each lesson, William is always eager to hear what his students have made of their homework. The years of constant disappointment when his pupils turn up unpractised and disinterested cannot extinguish the dream that one-day he will be able to nurture a rare and gifted talent. He stands gazing on the rain-splashed street, his heart warming as he anticipates the growing talent that will soon turn up on his door. A talent that is flowering by his skilful hands just as his pansies are now opening up to face the sun after the short April shower. He holds onto his dream, because he knows that Jason Hudson could be the one who will bring that dream to life.

William is more aware than most people that dreams have to be fed, and he enjoys feeding this particular dream lavishly. In his more fanciful moments, in his favourite fantasy, he imagines that he and Jason are playing Double Piano concertos at the Royal Albert Hall. After the concert Jason is catapulted to international superstar status. And he will, at last, have his own talent acknowledged and the critics will write pages and pages about what a crime it is that William Berkshire's rare and special gift had not been discovered when he was Jason's age. But William will be stoical and claim that his true gift lies in developing new talent, talent that will be greater than even his own, one day. He will bask in the glory, and then retire from performing to open his own, internationally acclaimed school of music that will do for the piano what Menuhin has done for the violin. He glances at the clock. Perhaps he will undertake a few concerts, playing the great double piano concerto with some of his exceptionally gifted students, in some of the world's best concert halls. He will allow himself to be persuaded to come out of retirement for the good of his students, his school and the listening public.

MRS Anne Lesley puts the mop bucket into the cupboard and takes a last look around the ground floor admiring her mornings work. She enjoys housework and especially here at Bay View cottage where she is paid to dust and clean expensive trinkets. Mrs Elliot, her employer, only has the best and fills her weekend home with classy ornaments and expensive bric-a-brac brought during her numerous trips around the world. Anne has never owned anything in her life that isn't fully functional, so it is always a mystery to her as to why anyone would want to own two houses, let alone fill one with expensive useless items. The notion that Jane Elliot might have expensive trinkets in both her homes never crosses her mind.

The open French windows sway gracefully in the breeze. She doesn't like the idea of them not being secured when open, but Mrs Elliot had been adamant that the doors didn't need to be fastened back. So she had not instructed Mr Lesley, on one of his bi-annual repair visits to the cottage, to fix a retaining hook for them in the ground. She walks towards the open windows breathing in the early spring air. Her last act prior to her morning mug of tea before departure is to make sure that the French windows are securely closed and locked. She walks out onto the patio catching a door handle in either hand. Too late she notices Miss Jones appear, as if by magic, at the garden gate. She closes her eyes and wishes that she hadn't stepped outside just at that particular moment. Miss Jones calls to her in a voice that can't be ignored.

'Mrs Elliot back soon then?' Miss Jones asks, her voice loud and strong for a woman of her advancing years.

Anne walks over towards her, leaving the French windows open. Standing on her side of the fence she whispers, 'Miss Jones, Mrs Elliot is not here. But we don't want the whole world to know that the house is empty, do we? You never know who'll be listening.'

'She should live here then. It's a sin for people from outside to come and take homes from our young people –.' Interrupting herself she observes, 'Should you leave them French windows like that? The glass'll break if a gust of wind gets hold of them,' she adds, leaving the implied insult unfinished and thus actually, unsaid.

Anne doesn't like to admit that for once they are in agreement. Her agreement extending to the windows only, the need for prolonged residency is another matter.

Anne replies, 'I was just about to fasten them.' Using her observation as an excuse to get away she turns smartly and closing the windows behind her she finds sanctuary in the front room.

'Well don't rush off -.'

But Anne is already safely inside and bolting the doors behind her. She stands to the side of the heavy drapes and watches as Miss Jones moves slowly away. As the village busybody Miss Jones makes a strange sight pushing her ancient bicycle up the hill as Barker, her West Highland Terrier, yaps at her heels.

'Silly old fool' Anne mouths to her departing back as she ensures that the drapes hang just right, the way that Mrs. Elliot like them to hang.

The kettle singing brings her excitedly into the kitchen to make the long promised mug of tea before she is due to leave the cottage in time to get the lunch for her husband, family and herself.

As she sips her tea she reflects on the conversation with Miss Jones. She hopes Mrs Elliot will never come to live in the cottage. She actually likes cleaning for an absentee landlady; it provides her with a regular income for doing what amounts to very little work. In fact she has come to think of her Monday and Thursday mornings at Bay View cottage as more of her sanctuary than of actual work. After all, what she does here for most of the year is just a little light dusting and lifting nothing heavier than her mug of tea after the end of her session. In fact being in the empty cottage is bliss and provides her with the only opportunity she has to get away from her own boisterous and growing family. A family who don't appear to be in any hurry to leave home.

SALLY Henry looks around the room wondering if this really is the most boring conference she's ever attended. She rests her "I'm listening" smile on her perfect lips and the "this is really riveting" glint in her beautiful blue eyes, and then she allows herself to start daydreaming about the nights of passion that she and Jane have shared.

It will be weeks before they'll be able to spend any time at the cottage in Cornwall, and it's just too long to wait. Sally loves being at the cottage, the sea air, the village with its one shop that's idea of exotic food is a boil in the bag curry, the coffee shop that doesn't open on Bank Holidays, the one pub, and especially the ancient locals. It's such a change from their relentless lives in London and their foreign business travel.

When Sally had left for the conference three days ago the plan was that Jane would join her so that they could spend the weekend in Paris together. Sally had made special arrangement to get the bridal suite for the duration of her visit; including the conference (which had been very easy) as well as for the weekend (which had proved to be very difficult and strings and cash were pulled and exchanged before her arrangements had been confirmed). They both know Paris well, but last night Jane had telephoned her to say that she would have to work over the weekend and would not be able to join her after all. The call had taken away any enthusiasm for the conference that Sally had previously had. Now all she wants to do is to return home on the first available flight. She had been looking forward to enjoying Paris once again as a lover; not as a loner. Now, feeling drained and de-motivated she sits listening to a boring professorial address from some learned academic while day-dreaming about the cottage until she can almost taste the sea as it splashes against the windows at high tide when a storm is raging from the South.

At first she and Jane had been careful to give the appearance of being just good friends. But after nine years of spending all their holidays and spare time at the cottage everyone acknowledged that she and Jane were an item. They acknowledged it, which is not the same thing as approving.

She and Jane had done, almost, everything together. They had selected the decor planed the garden and organised the building work. In the early days, when cash had been hard to come by, they had done some of the work themselves. Then as their respective businesses flourished and they both became successful they paid other people to turn their dreams into reality. And what dreams they had had. Sally was especially pleased with the stunning terrace rockery they'd created. It started on the very edge of the lawn and ran all the way down the cliff face to the seashore. It had taken years to turn what had been a derelict dump into an impressive garden that looked as if it had been there since the start of time. It had all been wonderful, as together they created their dreams and saw their fantasies come true. And the journey from derelict dwelling to dream home had been perfect because they had made it together. Even the years spent squatting in a battered old caravan in the garden while the building work happened all around them had, with hindsight, cemented their love. It had been hard work, but the cottage was now everything that both women wanted, and they loved it.

Sally realises that the lives that they both now lead make their time together very precious. In fact the only occasions when they have really been together in the last 10 years, are the times that they have spent at the cottage. No wonder they both love it so much.

MISS Jones arrives home and puts the kettle on. While she waits for it to boil she feeds Barker and watches as he eats hungrily. She makes herself a pot of tea and takes it into her living room. Barker follows, running at her feet and threatening to trip her up.

'Honestly, Barker, you've walked me to the main road, down Main Street, into the village,' she steps over him and puts the tea tray on the side table. 'Then you take me all the way up High Cliff Road, past Bay View cottage, past Billy B's place and you didn't stop until you got to the fields above the Doctor's house.' She ruffles his fur, 'Where you then ran amuck chasing imaginary rabbits.'

Barker looks at her at the mention of the word "rabbits" before settling close, almost too close, to the hearth as Miss Jones seats herself in the Chippendale chair that is her favourite. She bends low to turn the gas fire on, pushing the reluctant dog away from the flame. Barker crawls under her chair looking towards her while waiting for her to settle so that he can creep back to the remembered warmth of the fire. She rubs her lower back as she makes herself comfortable in the chair. Barker looks from under her feet and as she settles he turns his head to watch her.

'These old bones,' she tells the attentive dog for the third time that day, 'are not what they used to be.' She pours herself tea and takes a sip before adding, as she reaches beneath the chair to ruffle his fur again. 'Just like you and me. In fact we're just two old souls together. I wonder which of us will go to our graves first.' She closes her eyes as she thinks.

Barker creeps from under the chair and crawls towards the hearth where he curls up in front of the fire, makes himself comfy and then drifts gently towards sleep. Miss Jones opens her eyes and gives him an indulgent smile.

'It's wrong that Bay View isn't lived in. I've nothing against either Mrs Elliot, or her friend.' She puts an emphasis on the word "friend" which implies that she does object, and objects very strongly, to the life styles of both Jane Elliot and Sally Henry. 'They -. Oh, Barker, it's not only them. No outsider should be allowed to buy a house and inflate the prices so that our young people can't afford to live in the village.' She reaches out and strokes the old dog who by this time is soundly asleep. If Miss Jones notices then she doesn't react. She keeps on stroking her beloved pet while talking to him. 'We had five schools in the village at one time. Now the kids get buses –.' she laughs as she interrupted her own flow. 'Not any more,' she corrects herself, her tone is soft and remorseful. 'Since three years ago they've taken the children from this village to school by taxi. These days there just aren't enough of them to fill a bus. Why, Barker, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of school-age children in this village. And they all belong to just two families. What have we become? When I was a girl Penalton was a thriving fishing community. Now just look at us. A picture postcard village reduced to two breeding families with only the tourists to keep us alive. I guess I'm boring you as well, old boy.' She notices that the dog is asleep and switches her attention to her tea and her newspaper, turning to the gossip column first.

DOCTOR Wells pours himself a whisky. He knows it's early, but boredom and the inevitable onset of old age make him reach for comfort in any shape that he is able to access it in. In the past the stimulating refreshment afforded by tea would have been sufficient. He would have climbed the stairs from his surgery; Mary, his long deceased wife, would have been waiting with tea and home-made cakes on the lawn in summer; and in the winter there would be tea and hot muffins toasted by the fire in his first floor study. But not for fourteen years had he come home to her warmth and love. Even his children, Prunella and Benjamin don't visit as often as they had when Mary had been alive. He could forgive Ben, he lived in London, but Pru. held down a good job in the hospital thirty miles away. He could think of no reason why she couldn't visit him more often. He sighs and takes another sip of his malt realising, sadly, that he can actually think of many reasons why no one wants to visit him these days.

In the old days, when his wife had been alive, they had been the social centre for the village. He and the Vicar took it in turns to open the fairs, fetes and functions. It had been a hectic life that he and Mary had led. These days he doesn't make house calls, he doesn't work unsocial hours and he doesn't talk to anyone after afternoon surgery finishes at three fifteen on the dot.

In the hour since his last consultation he's not spoken to a living soul. The rest of the night stretches out interminably in front of him. As did the previous night, as would the next one, and the next and then the next until... For a medical man he doesn't like to dwell on the end of life. He is resigned and realises that from being at the centre of village life, his main pleasure now is to watch the villagers. In this activity he is fortunate because his house and surgery are located between the village and the playing fields that his garden backs onto, so most people, at some time or other, walk past his house as their day-to-day business brings them under the window of his upstairs vantage point.

Most of the villagers he actually brought into the world. He takes another small sip. He walks to the window before allowing himself a deeper, more rewarding gulp. He sinks into the deep comfort of an overstuffed leather club chair; the one he keeps in the dormer window of his first floor study specifically for the purpose of people watching.

The streets are empty now, the earlier April shower having sent most of the locals running for cover. But the glint of sunlight and the promise of after shower fresh air mixed with the tang of sea salt will surely bring people back into the streets soon. He takes another longer, deeper more warming drink from his glass. The whisky warms his throat. His spirits, heart and soul will take more than Scotland's best to warm.

WATCHING his wife shower Inspector Jack Day realises just how lucky he is. Five years to go before retirement and he is still a fully functioning man. He will still be young, fit and they will have no financial worries, perfect for enjoying the idyllic future that lies ahead of them. He's gained much from his police career, rising with slow but measured speed through the ranks until he has now, what for him, is the best job in the world. There is crime in the area, but nothing like the sordid murders and drug problems that his colleagues in the larger forces have to deal with. He is glad of that. A nasty murder can play havoc with your emotions making normal life at best difficult, and at worst impossible. He likes policing this sleepy backwater where nothing sinister ever happens and he gets to go home every evening and sleep with his wife every night. For Inspector Day life is good. He lies contentedly back on the pillows and waits for his wife to join him.

Wednesday night

AMANDA Selous comes home early and alone. She lets herself into the empty house and races to her bedroom, the letter from her stepmother is held tightly between her slender fingers.

She showers and changes while she still has the house to herself. Under the cleansing jet of water she mentally plans how she will give her father the letter from Laura. As she rinses her long blonde hair she decides that the easiest thing to do would be to leave it on his pillow. If her plan works, then he'll believe that Laura left it there herself before she went, and then she would not be implicated.

As she blow-dries her hair she considers the consequences of all of the options that are open to her. She is implicated, and to do anything other than to hand the letter to her father would be cowardly, and ultimately, it would let Laura down. She has to hand him the letter and convince him that Laura still loves them all and that she will be back. While Amanda understands her need for isolation, she very much wants to convince, not only, her father but also herself, that it will be all right, and that Laura is really planning on coming back to him, to all of them.

But she can't find the right words. All day she has been trying to think of what she can say to him. How she can phrase her observations, or summarise the numerous conversations that she has had with Laura. How can she make them both feel that the outlook is not bleak? Especially as all day long she hasn't been able to stop the feeling gnawing at her heart that marriage number two is over for her father.

This is not a suitable role for a child. At sixteen, while Amanda doesn't consider herself to be a child, she does feel that she has not been schooled in the role that she is about to play. At this moment, as she stands by her bed in her best jeans and fashionable top, she has an overwhelming desire to hide behind the tattered remains of her shredded childhood. But she doesn't know how to. Childlike feelings are alien to Amanda. She has always been adult for her years. As a child she had been forced to come to terms with the adult reality of the early death of her mother. Amanda had willingly embraced adulthood and at a very early age.

Large salty tears trickle down her face; she hasn't cried since she'd entered this house ten years ago. Laura was a wonderful stepmother. She had given Amanda everything that she needed. It was Laura who had first identified and then developed her talents for charcoal drawing and later for water colours. It was often noted that Amanda and Laura were more alike than Laura was with her own natural child, Charlotte. Laura and Amanda shared several creative gifts and often went off painting together leaving Peter and Charlotte to fend for themselves. Deep down, Amanda understands why Laura needed time and space on her own; but no matter how hard she tries the sick feeling, in the pit of her stomach, tells her that Laura had gone for good. And this feeling just wouldn't be ignored.

Picking up a textbook she starts to turn the pages. When she gets to the end she closes the outer cover and starts turning the pages over all over again. Wiping her eyes she tries very hard to focus on the content of the large volume that lies open on her lap. It doesn't work. She is as oblivious to the contents as her father had been earlier to his own document. Unseeing Amanda turns the pages and waits for her father to come home.

CHARLOTTE Street had practised the grieving heroine routine until the role fitted her perfectly. Then after school, with her group of friends smoking behind the gym, they had demanded to know what was up with her. True to her nature she put on her best performance, and they loved it. Especially the moment when she'd faltered, clutched her hands to her heart and dropped her head onto her breast. Her short black hair formed straight curtains that hid her face. She kept her head down and in a voice that appeared to be on the very edge of tears; she told them that she needed to be left alone.

Without a hint of guilt Charlotte had then walked home reflecting on her new status. She liked Peter, and she liked the fact that her mother had stopped crying every night when he came into their lives. He brought an element of normality along with his razor and shaving foam in the bathroom. His DIY tools in the shed and most powerful of all, was the smell of a man in this all female household. But so what if they were splitting up, her mother had divorced her natural father years ago. Did another one matter? With luck her next husband would be rich and they'd be able to move to a bigger house.

As Charlotte puts her key in the lock she notices that the upstairs lights are on. Amanda must already be home, she wonders briefly if she will miss her stepsister. Initially, when it had become obvious that Amanda and her mother shared a natural bond and got on so well together, she had been jealous. So, when they all set-up-home together, it was natural that she looked to Peter for adult company. She liked Peter, and Amanda. Having a stepsister was great; it was like have a double wardrobe half of which you didn't have to pay for. Amanda and she were both size six; she wouldn't like a stepfather with a daughter who was not her size. As she opens the door a sudden thought strikes her, 'what if he had a son?' That was a new angle; an interesting idea that she would think about at leisure once she'd put the family dinner in the oven and was alone in the bath.

'I'm home,' she calls, as she turns to close the street door. She assumes it's the stifled sobs from Amada that she can hear. The stepsisters share clothes, occasional confidences and attend the same school, but they don't have any of the closeness that having shared interests would bring them. Realising that she doesn't want to intrude on grief she adds, calling up the stairs as she removes her coat, 'I think Laura left a risotto for dinner. I'll check the fridge and put it in the oven. I'll do some clarinet practice before Dad comes home; it'll be too late after dinner. Hope it won't disturb you. I'd then like to have a bath, if you've left any hot water,' she adds, without expecting to be answered. Then she tosses her coat onto the hat stand before starting to walk to the kitchen, and in her progress she makes as much noise as she possibly can.

PETER Selous opens the door to be greeted by the smell of one of his wife's chicken risottos. For a moment his heart leaps as he thinks that she has decided not to leave after all. His daughter appears, ghostly, at the top of the stairs and he realises that his nightmare is real, and that it must be Charlotte who is in the kitchen heating the dinner, and not his wife.

'I'll be up,' he calls to Amanda and watches as she plods silently back to her own room. In the kitchen he can hear the sound of pop music and Charlotte singing along to the radio. He puts his head round the door and announces, 'I'll get changed and be down in ten minutes.' The nod from Charlotte is all that he expects to receive. Amanda is going to be harder.

He has already removed his tie before he seeks permission to sit on the single bed in Amanda's room. Amanda glides across the floor and comes to sit at his feet. Her face turns to look up to him. The thin and watery smile on her lips doesn't penetrate her eyes, or her heart. He notices the letter in her hands and at once recognises the handwriting.

Instantly he is angry with Laura. She has no right to put this responsibility onto a child, especially his child.

'Is that for me?' he asks hoping to make it easier for her. 'From mum?' Gently he takes the letter from her; as he removes it he wonders when it was that they had started to use parenting titles for each other. In the earlier years it had been Laura and Peter, until the children themselves, apparently quite naturally, started to call them mum and dad.

'Dad,' she manages to say as she flings her arms around his hips. 'She needed space to complete the show. I don't know how it got so out of control, but it did.'

'Shall we agree, love, that until she comes back; whenever that may be, that we'll all regard this as just another one of her many, ordinary painting trips. We've always managed to look after ourselves when she's gone away in the past, haven't we? And we can do it now. I think we should both join Charlotte in the kitchen. It may put a stop to her singing.'

'I know, it's awful, isn't it? If we go down together, then maybe we can get her to stop.'

'You go. I'll change. And read this,' he adds holding the letter up.

'Yes, you must.'

'Will you be okay?' he asks, gently putting her away from him and standing up at the same time. He wants to be with his daughter, but the letter has to be read, and to do that he needs privacy. To be in a space of his own where he feels safe and protected. They walk out of her bedroom together, Amanda walking slowly downstairs while he seeks sanctuary in his own, and Laura's, bedroom.

He throws his jacket onto the bed and locks himself in the en-suite. There he sits on the closed toilet seat and tears the letter open. He removes a single sheet of A4 paper; he reads it quickly, and then he re-read it slowly, word by word.

"Dear Peter, I have been trying to talk to you for over a month."

He looks away and wonders if that really is true. If it is, then this is the first he knows about it. But then the last month had been so hectic for him at work. Several of his major contracts were coming to fruition at the same time. Then the discovery that one of his main accounts was being embezzled hadn't helped. Perhaps he had neglected her somewhat. Now that the date has been agreed for when the Board will meet to set the date for his possible disciplinary hearing, his pressures at work would lessen. He would then have more time for her. He'd have been able to resolve that. If only she'd waited, he silently wishes.

"I've been unable to talk, and you have been so distant."

That is obviously true he realises with regret.

"I feel stifled, I cannot explain but I no longer know who I am. I've been left behind – trailing in your wake. And I don't like it."

He read this line several times, but familiarity with the text doesn't help bring him any closer to understanding it. He reads on, hoping she'll explain later.

"It is as if you are all in the sea and I'm left alone on the beach, hiding under the clothing. You pay all the bills, organise the family and even do the cooking most nights. You hold down a well-paid job."

His first pang of self-pity creeps in at this point. He does hold down a well-paid, complicated and responsible job. A job that's so prestigious that at least six other up-and-coming young executives in his firm are challenging him for it. It would just take one small slip, like the embezzlement of a major client, and they'd be in and he'd be an unemployed ex-executive at fifty. Couldn't she see that the last thing he needs right now is a wife throwing a temper tantrum? He considered: as he's fifty, she would be forty-seven. Was that too young for her to be going through the menopause? He'd look it up on the Internet after the girls have gone to bed. He returns his full attention to her letter.

"Our girls look up to you. I on the other hand don't appear to have any more status than as a trophy wife who paints to stop herself from getting bored. I am sorry, but it's not enough for me."

Peter turns away from the letter; that is just too much. She has her first major show in less than four weeks. How could she describe herself in these terms? He returns to the text.

"I am not grateful to you for organising my show for me."

He notes that the word not has been underlined, he's grateful for that, for without the underlining he'd have missed the word and lost the meaning of the sentence totally.

"I feel as guilty as hell for not being grateful and thanking you with all my heart."

'I should think so', he snaps aloud. For the first time he realises how deeply stung he is by her apparent ingratitude. His pain makes him wonder why he has never seen this side of her before. Has she really been able to hide this selfish streak from him all this time? Or, he wonders, again feeling guilty is she actually ill? He turns his attention back to the letter.

"But I cannot thank you, because I don't feel grateful. Peter, I do not want you doing this for me. I'm not a child. I need to feel like an adult, responsible for my own life, for my own decisions and for my own successes and the inevitable failures."

Peter holds the letter away from him. This sentence had been written in a hurry and with passion. Obviously it has been building up for a long time. He now asks himself if he had been wrong to suggest to his subordinate manager that Sally Henry, a distant relative may want to arrange for Laura to have a show at her gallery. He'd done it from the best of motives. Besides, Sally knew Laura. She'd employed her as a receptionist for years. He had assumed that they would both think that it was a good promotional gimmick. From "Receptionist to Exhibitor" would be good publicity for both of them. Yet now here was Laura throwing it back in his face. A picture of her looking happy seated behind the reception desk at "The Gallery" fills his mind. He clutches the letter to his chest.

The first time that he had seen Laura she had been at work in The Gallery. She was the first person the public saw when they entered through the heavy glass and chrome doors.

If he remembers that day correctly, he had been caught in a sudden downpour without coat or umbrella so he had rushed for cover in the nearest doorway. And the nearest doorway turned out to be the entrance to The Gallery; he had gone inside without expectations. Yet on that day he had found art and love in the same place and at the same time. He'd said a few stupid things to Laura like, 'I didn't know this place was here'. She made him a cup of excellent coffee, which he drank as she walked him round the exhibition. In simple language she explained the artwork and pointed out the interesting details. After that they had several dinners together and then the rest, as they say, was history. He looks up now to seek out the photograph of them on their wedding day. It's a picture of simplicity that had been taken by Charlotte and later framed by Amanda. A picture that, for the last ten years, has been hanging in their private bathroom; where only they could see it. She'd looked so happy back then. Back then when she had her own life, money and identity.

It had been his fault that she had given up working. During the early years of their marriage he had relentlessly tried to persuade her to give up work. He'd expected that with two young children she would have wanted to stay at home and look after them, he understood now, with a heavy heart that she hadn't.

He realises also that he has been holding his breath. In the end she had given it all up for them. No, not for them he realises, but for him. Three years into their marriage she had given up her job to become a full-time mum and housewife. That day, he realizes, blushing with guilt, had been one of the happiest of his life. But what had it really been like for Laura? Is that why she now felt that he was controlling her? Was he, when all he really wanted to do was to love her the only way he knew how? He shakes his head as if trying to shake the questions out of his brain. He'd ask Amanda about that, she'd have a clearer understanding about the boundaries and of how he may have, inadvertently, overstepped the mark. He returns his attention to the letter.

"Love, I appreciate that you arranged for Sally to show my work. And I am really looking forward to finishing the paintings and having my first professional show. But I'll never know if I'm good enough - or if I will only get commissions because I'm your wife. If you keep organising my life for me I'll never find out the truth. In fact I'll go as far as to say that I resent you sorting out my professional life, as much as I once did you taking over our domestic arrangements."

Guilt hits him like an express train. It had taken him three years to persuade Laura to give up work. Looking back now he can see that perhaps he had been selfish, even if it had been for all the right reasons. Even the method he'd used to persuade her to leave work had, thinking about it now honestly and with clear reflection, been underhand.

18 months into their marriage he had been on his way to the office when he had seen a house for sale in an Estate Agents window. It was run down but wonderful with a large glass and brick shed in the back garden. He went to view the house and realised that this property may hold the answer to their problems. Later that night he had manipulated Laura into admitting that all she wanted to do was paint. He'd suggested that if she could find a house with 4 bedrooms and an outbuilding that she could use as a studio, then it might just be possible that they could afford for her to give up work and see if she could make-it as an artist. Peter knew that the "just possible" is always so much more appealing than reality. It had worked, and that just possible had lit a fire in Laura that work alone couldn't satisfy. She had glowed when she'd clarified, 'you're saying that if I can find a house and studio that we can afford on your salary, then I can give up work and paint for a living?' He'd smiled back at her and waited.

He didn't have to wait for long. He knew that Laura would throw herself into fulfilling what, overnight, had become their dream. The next day Laura called him at work and told him that she had found the perfect house. He realises now that she hadn't so much given into him, as she had been manipulated by him. In fact he had manipulated the situation as well as the woman he claimed to love. She had enjoyed her job at the studio. But in deciding that he knew what was best for all of them, he had selfishly made her give it up. He wondered what else she had given up for him. He reads the last section of the letter in a more receptive mood.

"Peter, my only love, I need to find out who I am, so that I have something of my own to give to you. For now I give you all my love. Have no fear \- I will return to you a more complete person."

He feels a lump settle in his heart, he really doesn't want a more complete Laura. He actually likes the one that he's created for himself. He cannot understand why she doesn't like what she has become. But apparently, according to the letter, she doesn't.

He realises now that he has shaped and moulded her, as he has with everyone he comes into contact with. That's what he does for a living, what he's good at it. Perhaps Laura doesn't understand that, for him, that's how a lover and husband should behaved. To him she's the artist in the family, whereas he's more of a potter, shaping, moulding and making things three-dimensional. He will wait and see what human clay returns to him. Will she come back loving him, and will he be able to love the new Laura? He reads the last line.

"But for now, let me go, if you love the me that I am, as I love you."

Her words of love sound hollow and he feels as if he's on the verge of tears. Why have his plans, his dreams and everything he wants in life not been shared by the woman he loves? Is there a place for the new Laura in all his dreams and planning?

The sounds of pans clattering in the sink bring him back to the present. He leaves the bathroom and changes into jeans and T-shirt ready to face both of his daughters.

BRENDON walks to the edge of the sea and tests the water. While it looks inviting, and the desire to get clean is strong, in reality the water is too cold to wash in. It is as he turns from the sea that he first notices the entrance to a cave perched high in the cliff face. The entry hole is large and, while the cave's high up and the drop looks dangerous, there appears to be a series of natural hand and foot holes leading up the cliff face from the beach to the entrance. He walks around the bottom of the cliff looking up as he mentally assesses the difficulty of any possible ascent, and as important, of the descent.

At university he had been an enthusiastic member of the rock-climbing club. He had found the exercise to be stimulating for both mind and body. Back then he could easily have scaled the cliff and be able to get back down. But now, older, sicker and less well fed he wonders if he's still agile enough. His wet trainers, carrier bags and lack of equipment won't help, but the unexpected adrenaline surge that is now gushing through his body will surely compensate.

Brendon takes off his long heavy overcoat and removes the tie belt. He loops both of his carrier bags onto the belt and then fastens it securely around his waist. He rolls his overcoat into a ball and stuffs it into his duffel bag, which he then slings over his left shoulder. He releases the belt of his jeans and feeds it through the strap of the duffel. Checking that everything is secure he turns excited and eager eyes towards the cave entrance.

He soon discovers that resting during the ascent is dangerous. The slippery footings and loose bags made it unsafe for him to perch on the cliff face for long. He looks up and drives himself on with the promise of a safe, warm and secure rest once he's inside the cave.

The climb is harder than he expects, and the difficult times are made worse as the two carrier bags bash against his body and threaten to overbalance him. The cliff face is damp, making the hand and foot holes slimy and dangerous. His feet slip on many of the outcrops before he finally manages to get into a rhythm. By ensuring that he is secure on each step before reaching out for the next one he makes a slow and painful ascent. Long distance walking has not prepared his muscles for lifting his own body weight with his arms, or for gripping and holding on with his fingertips.

Standing on the foot hole that brings his face level with the entrance forces a smile onto his thin chapped lips. It has been worth it, the cave is large, dry and with enough old wood and leaves to make both a fire and a base for a bed. He stands peering into the darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust naturally to the lack of light. Breathing deeply he allows himself a much needed rest before the finally pull that will take him inside the safety of the cave mouth.

A yell attracts his attention. It wakes the sleeping gulls making them fly from the safety of their nests to inspect his activities before silently returning, their interest in him evaporating with the dying of the sound. The call sounded like a shout of jubilation, but he can't be sure. Perhaps it had been a warning, or more likely a threat. Was he in danger or mealy trespassing? He can't tell. Pinned to the cliff face he is unable to turn around to see if the call has actually been intended for him. He freezes and waits to see if the call is repeated. He stands for several seconds after the gulls have returned to their nests and the sound of distant waves fill the spaces between his laboured breathing. There is nothing else for him to hear. Deciding that, after all, the shout had just been a call of jubilation and not even intended for him, he dismisses it and concentrates on how he is going to get himself into the cave.

His arms are tiring; he knows that if he remains in that position much longer then he'll not have the strength to haul himself inside. He stands tall, ready to move, and breathes in deeply.

His fingers dig into the hard soil on the floor of the cave. Slowly he removes his right foot from the hard outcrop and pushes his upper body clear of the cave mouth. He brings his right knee to rest in the opening and then stretches his right hand along the cave floor, reaching as far inside the cave as he possibly can. Finding a boulder he clings to it and hauls himself bodily onto the cave floor. His carrier bags fall on top of him as the duffel bag spills its contents over his prostrate figure. He retrieves his clothes and returns them to the bag. If he has to leave quickly, he doesn't want to leave anything behind.

Lying on his stomach he checks the floor and all around the entrance to make sure that it is uninhabited. He springs to his feet, preparing to explore further as the setting sun illuminates most of the interior of the cave, but not all. The back of the cave remains in darkness. But he will have to explore deeper if he wants to make sure that he will be safe during the night. Lighting a match he walks to the back of the cave, the walls and floor look solid, and there is no evidence of occupation. The cave is all his.

He turns his attention to the leaves on the floor. Scooping up big armfuls he manages to make a platform that he shapes to form a mattress. He is pleased with his bed. The ground outside may be wet after the shower, but in his cave he will be sheltered from the wind and dry. He considers lighting a fire, but decides that he needs to conserve his supply of matches, and as the cave is dry he really won't need the extra heat.

Once installed he removes all his clothes from his duffel bag and puts them on; before rolling the bag up to form a pillow. Lying down on his mattress of leaves he pulls his coat around his ears and curls up in the foetal position so as to maximise the coverage of his long black coat.

Brendon glances to the opening of the cave; the sea lies, unseen, gently rocking in the distance. The sound will lull him to sleep in moments. He smiles, a genuine signal of the happiness that he is feeling. There is no evidence of the cave being inhabited by anything so he's sure he'll be safe. The cave is dry, and he has the best bed since he'd started to sleep rough. For the first time in his life he feels really, really lucky.

LAURA Selous drives to a little out of town motel. She feels sleepy and wearied by the events of the day. She pulls her black Mini into the car park, turns off the ignition puts her arms around the steering wheel and drops her head on top of her hands. The silence fills the car but fails to block out the sounds in her mind as it insists on rerunning, word for word, the argument that she had had with Peter. The same heated argument that has orchestrated the whole of her drive to her overnight stop in Bristol.

Stiffly she climbs out of the car and walks to the reception desk. As she opens the door she checks that they accept credit cards. Payment won't be a problem.

The reception area is busy, and appears to be understaffed. Laura stands in a queue wondering why she can't book into a hotel without the statutory long wait.

The American couple who appear to be causing the hold-up are trying to decide if they should extent their stay, or move onto a new town in the morning. The receptionist is capable, caring and professional, glancing up every now and then and smiling at each of her other customers who are waiting patiently in an orderly queue. Her glance assures them that when it comes to their turn to be served, they will also receive her individual and unhurried attention.

Laura grows impatient. Noticing that she is the only guest who appears to be annoyed by the thoroughness of the service, she wonders if her mood is actually caused by the events in her home life and not the affect of the staffing situation at the motel. Unsure if she can manage to make a bland request, for additional staff to help reduce the queue, she keeps quiet. A sudden outburst, she realises, may bring more of her emotions to the surface than she is ready to display in public. She decides to wait in the queue and keep quiet.

Contrary to the previous experience, when it comes to serving the other guests the receptionist is competent and swift. She books Laura into a ground floor room and completes the formalities so quickly that Laura is walking to her bedroom before she's been able to notice anything about her surroundings; or even the woman who served her.

Tired, weary and feeling sorry for herself she flops on the bed without the benefit of showering, changing or even cleaning her teeth. In fact if Laura notices anything at all about the bathroom, it is only as another closed door in the entrance of her room. As soon as the bedroom door closes behind her, she falls into a disturbed sleep. As the demons in her life chase round her head unknown to herself, her body in repose tosses and turns on top of the bed with equal ferocity.

ANNE Lesley covers her eyes with the mask and reflects on the comparison between Bay View cottage and her own home. The noise from downstairs is rising as the family argue over which TV station to watch. The theme music of a soap drifts towards her before being cut off as someone changes the channel. The jingle from an advert chimes in as the voices of her loved ones are raised in argument. Throwing the mask aside, Anne turns onto her stomach and pulls the pillow over her head.

For ages she has been considering what it would be like to spend the odd night at the cottage. Sneaking out at dead of night to sleep in one of the light airy spacious bedrooms that are so under used is becoming her favourite fantasy. She aches to know what it would be like to slip between the starched linen sheets and then wake to the sound of the sea below.

A yell from the room beneath her makes her jump.

She returns to her fantasy. Would she be missed if one night her husband came to bed and she wasn't there? And what if she summoned up the courage to stay at the cottage and Mrs Elliot turned up unexpectedly. What would she do then?

She lifts the pillow, trying to avoid seeing the grubby stain that Stewart, her husband, made when he spilled his morning coffee. Turning her face she looks at the clock and decides that one-day she will spend the night in the cottage and on her own. How she'll plan her visit she's yet to realise.

A sense of urgency floats over her, as it always does when uncertainty reminds her that her work at Bay View cottage is a luxury, and perhaps one day, Mrs Elliot will realise that a weekly cleaner for an empty cottage is an unnecessary extravagance.

WILLIAM Berkshire closes the door behind his last pupil. He feels invigorated; he knows that he is too excited to settle. A walk will help reduce his energy levels, and perhaps, a pint in the Anchor and Pig. After all, he deserves a reward.

He takes his umbrella and decides to head towards the quay and then on towards the village along the old sea wall. He hums to himself as he walks at a pace that is too fast to actually allow him time to enjoy the scenery. Life is good and he is brimming with joy that he wants to share.

Standing by the sea wall he looks across the cliffs at the vast expanse of the sea and yells at the top of his voice. His call attracts the gulls; they fly out over the ocean, around the cliffs and then return to their roosts. He follows their movement and at one stage he thinks that he can see a person standing at the mouth of Smugglers Cave. He turns to move out of the way as Miss Jones rushes past him. Strange that she doesn't stop to talk to him. Especially as he is in the mood to chat; even to her. He looks back towards the cave and the figure has disappeared. He must have been mistaken, after all, who would be stupid enough to climb up there; especially on this day of the year?

JANE Elliot takes a sip of her champagne, places the crystal glass on the side of the bath and slips beneath the bubbles. Life is good. If she hears the telephone ringing from under the water she ignores it. She is engrossed with the notion that Laura Street-Selous has just left her husband and is all alone in her cottage in Cornwall, and that Sally is booked to be in Paris until Monday. This means that she is going to have a free weekend all to herself. Her working this weekend isn't really necessary; there are other people who would be willing, if not eager, to work instead of her. And if she doesn't work this weekend, then she could pay a flying visit to the cottage. She could have a long weekend in Cornwall. She could fly down Friday after work, and fly back Monday morning; after all she owns both the business and the cottage.

She and Laura had once been close, very close. The fact was that Laura had been her first love. Their affair, not that Laura would have liked it to have been described as an affair, but it had been short, bitter-sweet with the brief fumbling of unconsummated love; it was an eternal, if distant embarrassment. Now that Jane is a more experienced lover, surer of her own attractiveness and of her own skill; perhaps this time it could be different?

Laura had said that she needed time to find out who she was, and what she really wanted from life. Perhaps, Jane could give her a little help to guide her thoughts.

MISS Jones races past William Berkshire. She had heard him yell from the foot of the hill. Not the behaviour of a sober man she'd concluded. As she nears him she decides that he looks as if he'd been drinking. She knows that you can never trust a man who takes to the bottle. Besides she has some real news that she needs to impart. He can wait to be castigated for being drunk in a public place until another day.

At the top of the hill she stops to get her breath back before she turns onto the dirt track that leads to her house. Looking back down over the village she notices as William Berkshire enters the Anchor and Pig by the back door.

'Typical', she comments before looking towards Smugglers Cave. She catches her breath and then rushes indoors. At least he isn't telling; she will be the first with the news.

She opens her front door, pushes Barker out of her way and runs to get her binoculars. Barker unaccustomed to this treatment follows her, expecting to receive his usual fussing. She ignores him as she focuses the glasses onto Smugglers Cave. Clearly visible from her kitchen window, illuminated by the setting sun and bathed in a bright red light, she can see the outline of a man as he crouches down inside the cave.

SALLY Henry puts the telephone down and goes back inside. The Welcome Gala dinner is just about to start. Tedious, she thinks as she locates her place in the massive banqueting hall. Noticing that she is on a table of eleven boring people she sighs before removing her chair from under the table and rather reluctantly sitting down. It is going to be a long, long night. She is the first person to be seated; the others are probably still in the bar. She pours herself some mineral water and indicates to the waiter that she'd like wine. Alcohol only works as the great leveller if everyone is equally drunk. She doesn't want to be there. What she really wants, above everything else, is to be anywhere as long as she is with Jane.

INSPECTOR Jack Day tries to be polite to Miss Jones; who is, after all, only doing her civic duty, as she sees it. His tea is on the table, and his wife has rented the video of a film he's been wanting to see for ages. A foolish old woman seeing a young man climb into Smugglers is not a good enough reason to call him out at this time of night! He promises that he'll look into it. But he isn't in any fit shape to go climbing into Smugglers, no matter how many young men the old bat's seen climbing in. If, tonight, there's another report, from a reliable source, then he'll take it more seriously. Perhaps even take a look. Besides, all the young men in Penalton know the cave is dangerous at high tide. While he's not unduly concerned, he decides he'll check when they're due for one of the very high Spring tides. As he replaces the receiver he glances at the tide table on the wall by the telephone.

DOCTOR Wells sleeps in his armchair until dark; then for some reason he can't explain he decides he'll go to the pub and have a nightcap. So unusual is this course of action that he's put his coat on and left his house before he's even thought about questioning his own motivation.

Living on the other side of the village he doesn't see Miss Jones rush up the hill. If he had seen her he would have tried to engage her in conversation and if he had been successful, she may have told him about a young man who he doesn't yet know, but one who will change his life forever.

Thursday 1 am

BRENDON tries to get away as the shapes close in on him. He flees down dark ever lengthening passages with the sound of movement frighteningly close at his heels. Perpetual, eternal, who or whatever they are, they are getting closer. If he runs, they run faster; if he walks, they match his pace, and if he stands still, as he is now, they also stand. In this desperate pause in their mental game of tag they keep their distance while he stands panting for breath and holding onto the damp cave walls.

And all this time they remain unseen just out of view; silently breathing with that same mesmerising rhythm that he'd once found so soothing, but has now come to fear. He peers into the darkness, but can't make out their shape or form. Their ghostly power, whatever it is, is stalking him as if for fun.

'What do you want?' he calls into the empty air. When he doesn't receive an answer he calls out again, his tone reflecting his rising panic. The sound of overturning shale is the only reply he receives.

Suddenly they are all around him, unseen but seeing; unspeaking but deafening in their silence; undetectable to any of the human senses but neither the less present in a very real sense.

'Leave me alone,' he demands, his hands running along the damp wall as if he's trying to push his way out of the solid rock. He brings his hands to his face and notices that they were wet. He shivers; he is cold and wet all over.

He calls out again, louder this time; but the authoritative tone that he was using earlier has now mellowed into a more pleading note. He shivers; his eyes swim with unshed tears. But they don't listen; he can sense their power pulsating all around him. Their inhuman power; and he realises that this pursuit can only end with his demise.

Deep in sleep he turns over but the movement doesn't wake him. His frightening dreams are filled with the sound of the sea as it crashes onto the cliff face, rolls into his subconscious and overflows into his mind filling all the spaces between dreams and reality. In his dream an unstoppable and powerful force is chasing him. Notions that will not stop fill his senses until with a scream he wakes himself up. As he wakes he automatically rises into a seated position.

He sighs; it was just a bad dream. He's had realistic dreams before, before he started taking the medication. But not for a long time has he woken from a dream sweating and calling out. This had been truly awful; even now in his half-conscious waking mind he can still feel the physical discomfort that had been so real to him when he was asleep.

He shivers with the cold that is seeping into his body. He puts his hands to his face; they are wet but not with sweat. He feels the floor of the cave. In the pitch dark his fingers feel the icy water and his heart stops.

Scared to move, lest he falls into the icy depth of the sea, he inches his fingers around the whole of his body trying to decide just how deep the water actually is.

Long moments pass as he shivers, desperately trying, in the pitch darkness, to accurately assess his predicament.

Eventually his eyes become accustom to the lack of light and he can actually make out the opening of the cave. The top and sides are a darker shade of black than the night sky outside and show where his cave ends and the drop into the sea begins. The floor of the cave melts into the encroaching sea. He reaches for his matches; they are sodden and useless. He stands up, tentatively making sure that his footing is firm before he'll risk placing any weight on it. He is not a good swimmer, and the sea is icy cold.

He laughs aloud, and the sound echoes around the cave before returning to haunt him. It brings with it a bitter and painful memory of how excited and pleased he had been with himself, last night, when he had first found the cave. No wonder it was uninhabited!

He watches the white crest of a wave as it enters the cave, splashes over his shoes and picks up both of his carrier bags taking them back out to sea in one swift, relentless motion. As the wave breaks he considers trying to reach out to prevent the inevitable. But realising the futility, and the danger, he remains stock still as his treasures are swept out to sea. He sees the white of the bags glide on the crest of first one wave, then on another, continuing the dance of endless time. Mesmerised he walks towards the opening, straining to catch every last available sight of his possessions.

A line from the bible comes to him, "... and to him that has nothing, even that which he hath shall be taken away..." His world is ending around him. He is no longer able to feel even the cold as the sea continues to lick at his ankles.

Silhouetted in the mouth of the cave Brendon considers his fate. 'Stealthily Death will embrace me when it's ready. I could be a coward and sit and wait for it. Or ...' he takes a step to the very edge of the cave, 'I could just step over the edge and embrace it. The outcome will be the same.'

He has no way of knowing how deep the water in the cave will reach. Will he drown, or spend the rest of the night up to his neck in cold seawater? Perhaps this is already high tide and therefore as high as the water will get? So even if he doesn't try to escape he'll get no wetter than he is right now. If he decides to stand in the cave mouth and wait for the tide to subside, how long will that take, he wonders? Ten, twelve hours, he crouches down to run his fingers in the rising tide. He knows that, even if the water level doesn't rise any further than it is now, he is already so cold and wet that if he stays here he'll die of hypothermia before first light.

He has only the one choice, slow, or quick. He can choose the moment if not the method of his death. His choice is simple; he can remain in the cave, or he could leap into the water, either way, he'd suffer the same fate. Death would come as the cold numbed both his body and mind. He peers into the inky darkness of the sea. By now his feet and ankles have become used to the temperature and he can no longer feel them. He remembers that he was once told that drowning is a pleasant way to die. He had not realised, when he heard this, that one day he would be able to verify or repudiate the truth of that statement.

Lifting his eyes to the distant horizon he strains to see if he can still see his carrier bags. White flecks are being tossed on the top of each wave, but he can't actually tell if they are breakers or his possessions. He looks at his feet and realises that it doesn't really matter anymore.

He walks back inside the cave, stoops to retrieve his duffel bag and coat. Resting the bag between his feet he pulls the sodden coat over his shoulders. As he clutches the soggy duffel bag to his chest it releases seawater all down the front of his shirt, He knows that if he hadn't used it as a pillow last night, then it too would have been swept out to sea and lost on the rising tide.

It is silly, he has just lost everything that he owns, and now he is about to lose his life, but he really needs to be holding onto something old and familiar as he makes this his final and loneliest of journeys. He shakes his duffel and the sound of the pill bottle rattling comforts him. Where he is going he will never need pills, doctors or hospitals ever again. He's had a raw deal in this life; perhaps in the next one he'll be better treated.

He splashes his way to the entrance as he puts his bag on his shoulder. Gazing into his deathbed he regrets that he has no eloquent final words. There may be no one else to hear them, but he feels that death should be solemnised in some way.

The water laps in a most welcoming fashion. Standing on the edge of oblivion he says aloud, 'I hope they are right, and that drowning is kind, because I'm about to find out.'

MISS Jones prays the call will be answered by a real living human being. 'Damn,' she snaps, as the recorded message kicked in.

There is nothing for it. Pulling on a jumper and trousers over her nightdress she flees into the hallway and yanks her coat off the rack. With Barker straining to keep up with her she leaves her cottage and cycles madly down the hill to the police house.

Its part in this drama completed; Miss Jones abandons her bicycle across the footpath and without a backward glance, to check that it is both secure and safely stowed, she runs up the short gravel path.

'Wake up,' she screams, breathlessly, as her fists pummel the wooden front door. The face that appears at an upstairs window calls down to her. She can't make out the words or who it is, but shivering she begs the shape to, 'Help, please help him before he drowns.'

Later, sitting over a hot cup of tea Miss Jones snuggles into the warm blanket and recounts, for the third time in ten minutes, the results of her nocturnal vigilance. Mrs Penny Day listens attentively and manages to make all the right noises at the right times. She longs to get Miss Jones back to her own cottage and herself back to bed.

DAY bangs on the back door of the Anchor and Pig. The Landlord, Phil Mann, opens the door quickly hushing someone who is standing just behind him.

'I know you've got lock-in tonight, Phil. That's not what I need to see you about. Is Boating Basing with you? I need a boat. And I need it fast.'

'He is, but he's not in a fit state to take a boat out. I can get Saucy Sue going in five.'

'Make it two and I'll not arrest you.'

Inspector Day and Phil Mann run to the boat and are on their way to Smugglers Cave in under five minutes, but more than the requested two. They don't talk until the cave comes into view.

'Can you see him?' Phil yells over the roar of the engine.

'No! You think he's already jumped?'

'Then we can bring back his body. Go up to the cliff and then if he's not there we can circle around till we find him.'

'Look,' Phil screams, partly with excitement and partly to be heard above the roar of the engine. An engine that is struggling to power the small craft through the choppy waters. 'I can see something. Isn't that a person in the mouth of Smugglers?

'Damn him, he's about to swim for it.'

'In these waves and with that bag, he'll not make it to shore.'

'Not unless he's a bloody good swimmer. Shit, can you get close to him, without drowning us?' Day calls over his shoulder, unsure if the wind has carried his words to Phil or away from him.

'He's not seen us,' Phil yells. 'In the front box are flares. Use them to get his attention.'

In an unseemly rush Day manages to empty all the contents from the box before he finds a loaded flare gun. He points it away from the cave and fires it into the air.

'I hope to God he sees this.' Day calls to no one in particular.

The air fills with a bright light and a smell reminiscent of the firework displays that had been common place in Day's youth. To Day, it appears incongruous that this life and death emergency should carry such a poignant reminder of a childhood spectacular. He turns to look for the figure in the mouth of the cave. He has gone.

'Shit, did you see if he jumped?' Day calls.

'I couldn't see. At the moment you fired the flare I closed my eyes. You think we scared him?'

'Damn,' Day looks crestfallen. He's lost sleep for a corpse. When if he'd left it, perhaps the body would have washed up on someone else's beach and been someone else's problem. Now he'll have to write a report defending his actions and explaining why he's frightened to death someone he was trying to save. If he'd listened to Miss Jones, when she'd tried to warn him earlier, he would still be tucked up in bed with Penny; and not out chasing wet fools in the dark.

Phil yells his tone ecstatic, 'he's back, our man. Look in the mouth of Smugglers.' He screams at the top of his voice, 'we're coming for you, stay put,' as he waves both arms he tries to steer the boat with his right knee.

'Get your bloody hands back on the wheel,' Day yells, in genuine fear for his own safety. 'If he saw you steering in that drunken fashion he's as likely to jump as he is to wait for you to drown us all.' Dave is unsettled, realising for the first time just how dangerous the situation really is, and for all of them.

'It's okay,' Phil calls back, causing the boat to throw a spray of water over them.

'Are you trying to drown us?' Day asks, aware that his words are being taken out to sea and lost in the waves.

DOCTOR Wells wakes with the most awful taste in his mouth. He notices at once that he's fallen asleep on top of his bed without removing any of his clothes. He looks down at his feet and realises with disgust that he still has his outdoor shoes on.

It is still dark when Wells wakes for the second time. He opens his eyes and remembers. Painfully, slowly he manages to undress himself and put on his pyjamas. The pyjamas are inside out, but he isn't in a position to notice. He does so want to clean his teeth, but the walk to the bathroom is beyond his capabilities. Trying not to be violently sick he pulls the bedcovers back, climbs into bed and falls asleep.

He wakes with a jolt; something has finally managed to penetrate his disorganised slumbers. As he wakes he manages to sit-up in one fluid movement. Instantly as he moves his hand flies to his temples as if trying to prevent his brains from spilling out all over the counterpane. It has been a long time since he's actually suffered the effects of a hangover. He slumps onto the pillows, closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, only this time, without success. Slowly he realises that the pounding he can hear is not in his head; it is actually someone banging on his surgery door. He crawls to the window and hears voices.

'I said we should have called him,' someone says.

'I did, and the answer-phone was on,' a familiar voice replies.

'Inspector?' Wells called from his window, 'Do you want me?' he asks in hope that this is really part of a very realistic dream and soon he'll be sent back to his own warm, soft and cosy bed.

'Yes. Got a case of hypothermia; can you come down and open the surgery?'

As Wells closes the window he realises another reason why he is now regretting his night of excess. Why do things always happen in the wrong order? He hasn't been called out at night for six years, so why does it have to happen tonight of all nights? He is reflecting on this as he pulls a white coat on over his pyjamas.

As he opens his bedroom door he catches sight of his slippers and wondered if he is actually appropriately dressed for attending a patient. He turns back to the room and realises that any sudden movement is likely to bring on extreme nausea. Dressing again is out of the question and the patient -. He stops his train of thought as he reaches the top of the steps. He doesn't know if his nocturnal patient is actually a he, or a she. Wells has assumed that it would be a he, but he actually doesn't know. Or does he?

As he gropes his way slowly down the steep steps to his surgery he runs the previous conversation over in his mind until he is sure that there hadn't been any indication as to the sex of the patient. He doesn't warm to the idea of treating a woman in his pyjamas. But getting dressed now is totally out of the question. His headaches, and in reality he really doesn't care what gender the person is. All he wants to do is to tend to them, pack them off home and then get back to his own warm bed.

Thursday Morning

JANE sits at her desk looking at the blotter with the scribbled note on it. It read, in her own flowing handwriting "Call Mrs. L re L S Thursday – Keys – 2 weeks max". Does she really need to do that she wonders? There could be another, more friendly way, of giving Laura access to her cottage.

She runs her fingers through her chestnut hair; the cut falling back into the classic bob that is as much a part of her trade-mark as the fabrics that she designs and prints. She pulls imaginary fluff off her skirt as she accepts a coffee from David, her secretary.

'I think I overdid it last night.'

'The party was a great success. You were wonderful. Good news for the business.'

'We go from strength to strength. But I had to disappoint Sally,' She takes a sip of her coffee before adding the word, 'again,' very softly.

'Does that mean you need a team here this weekend?'

'A couple of people should be able to handle it.'

'Then why not let me and one of the design team do this weekend for you? You go off to Paris with Sally. You deserve a break. You work too hard.'

'I think ...' she shakes her head and takes another mouthful of coffee, '... perhaps I need -' again she doesn't finish her sentence but drinks some of the dark, pungent liquid. She raises her eyes to meet her secretaries and confesses, 'Things are not as good on the home front as they could be. I think a little time and space for each of us may help.' She is pleased with herself. She has successfully conveyed the opposite meaning to the one that she really intends. Continuing the subterfuge she picks up a pen and circles the message on the blotter. 'Do you know what this is all about? I think I had a little too much wine; I appear to have forgotten'. She lies to create an alibi.

'You have invited Laura Street-Selous to Bay View –.'

'But I'm not due there for ages. When have I invited her for?' her feigned innocence is impressive and worthy of an Oscar.

'Not so much invited, more offered her Bay View cottage for herself for a couple of weeks starting from tomorrow afternoon. She telephoned you yesterday in a panic, I called you out of the meeting and you told her to go and spend a couple of weeks there as your guest. She needed to get away. To be alone.'

'Don't we all,' Jane replies softly, the pressure of the last few weeks showing in her eyes.

'You wanted to call your cleaning lady to ask her to put the heating on and give Laura the spare keys. Can you sign these before your meeting starts?' After placing a large pile of letters on her desk David adds, 'By the way, yesterday was a major coup, and you were magnificent. And don't worry about working this weekend. I've got it all covered. You go off to Paris and enjoy yourself.'

Jane watches her secretary leave and wonders. Magnificent was a strange word for him to use. She picks up the telephone and dials her cottage; the answer phone connects and she hangs up checking her watch. It isn't even seven thirty in the morning, no wonder the cleaning woman isn't there yet.

As she searches for Anne's home number she reflects on her daydream. Last night she had wondered what it would like if she were sexually free again. And then she had fantasised about paying an unexpected visit on the beautiful and confused Laura.

As she dials Anne at home she wonders if she can be bothered to even try to renew her love for Sally. Has it died, or is it just crushed by the pressure that she has been under to secure her latest contract? But then, while she worked there would always be just another contract to win, or bid to fight for. There really was no end to it. Business excited her in a way that nothing else, in her life at present, did. Then an image of Laura flits into her mind, and she realises that Sally no longer excites her, and she doubts if she ever will again.

The telephone being answered brings her full attention back to the here and now. She manages to catch Anne at home before she leaves for her church cleaning job. As Jane explains about Laura and her need for isolation she is concerned that Anne isn't reacting as she had expected she would. How she had expected her to react, and how this differs, she is unable to put her finger on. She puts the notion to the back of her mind as with one elegant long and perfectly manicured finger she presses the button and disconnects the call.

She decides that she would also like to go away on her own and find herself. As she replaces the handset she wonders if she would like herself if she ever found out who the real Jane Elliot is. The feeling that perhaps she wouldn't spurs her to address the pile of letters that are waiting for her attention. The pile David has just placed on her desk. She meticulously read each one prior to signing, amending or rejecting it.

PETER pours himself a cup of coffee and waits until the sound of the girls getting ready for school reaches the top of the Richter scale. With an indulgent smile he rises from his place at the breakfast table and walks into the hallway.

At the foot of the stairs he notices that the post had arrived, he picks it up, checks who the three envelopes are for and then calls up to the girls.

'Less noise, you're getting ready for school, not wrecking the house.' Aware that he has used the word "house", and not "home", he fans himself with the post as he walks back to the kitchen. He sits down and tosses all three letters into the open waste bin. 'Bloody circulars,' he comments returning to his coffee and paper.

Later, in his office, Peter allows himself a moment of regret. He had half expected there to have been a letter, or a card, from Laura. But he has had no communication at all from her since their argument the previous day.

In the past, when either of them was away, they would always manage at least one telephone call a day. But this time Laura appears to have vanished off the face of the earth, apparently without a care for him or the girls. He hasn't quite decided which hurts him the most.

There had been no indication that she would call him. No hint of where she was actually staying, or who she would be staying with. While not the jealous type, the lack of contact was beginning to erode the comfortable confidence that, up to now, he had been able to surround himself with.

When he can stand it no longer he calls The Gallery, and asks to speak with Sally Henry. When he is told that she is away, and will not be back until next week, his fears erupt as quickly as his world collapses.

WILLIAM has also woken with a hangover, but not as early as Doctor Wells had been stirred. William has the option of a lie in, and nothing to disturb his slumber but the affects of the alcohol that he had drunk so freely the night before.

He has actually been awake off and on for most of the night; however, in all honesty he has not been totally conscious enough to start regretting his earlier excesses. Or even to remember most of his actions. That would all come a little later.

It is only as the day wears on and snippets of his evening activities came back to him that he realises that he'll have to keep a low profile for the next few days. Then a memory of walking in the back door of the Anchor and Pig singing "Something Coming" from "West Side Story" at the top of his voice causes him to shrink further under his bedcovers and to mentally amend his calculation to weeks and not just days in hiding.

AMANMDA actually looks at her stepsister. If she hadn't heard it herself, then she just wouldn't have believed it was possible. 'Charlotte,' she says softly in reply to her request, '...we have to help mum and dad. Now is not the time for that.' The bus pulls in and silently they get on. Amanda finds a seat in the front and unusually Charlotte sits next to her. 'We'll get through this, but only if we stick together,' she says.

Turning away from Charlotte, Amanda looks out of the window and for the first time in her life she has to admit that her stepsister can be a nasty little bitch.

HER eldest daughter hands Anne Lesley the telephone, and as she gives her the receiver she mouths, 'Dyke Elliot'. Anne snatches the telephone and pushes her daughter away with the receiver. 'Don't,' she mouths back; but her daughter doesn't care. She walks away slamming the door to the sitting room behind her.

'Mrs Elliot, what can I do for you?' Anne asks, wondering if there is anything wrong.

Anne lives in almost daily fear that Jane Elliot will one day realise that keeping a cleaner on for her cottage is really a waste of money. She always fears that every time Jane does call her, it will be to say "thanks for everything but I have to let you go". With her husband on half time, her daughter being an unmarried mother and both her grown up sons still living at home, money is tight, and every penny of her cleaning cash is needed. White knuckles show the tension that Anne's feeling; however there's no hint of her inner turmoil in her vocal affirmations as she listens to her employer's request. She smiles, having tenants at the cottage means she'll have some real cleaning to do. Jane Elliot will have to keep her on now. She confirms the arrangements, hangs up and then walks into her overcrowded and over heated front room. Something has to be said. She is at the end of her tether; she turns the television off.

The row from the assembled family members, still dressed in their nightwear, mugs of tea and slices of thickly spread toast held between wagging fingers, is silenced when they see the look on her face.

'I need a holiday,' she announces. 'And as the only member of this family working full time; I plan to take one.' She pauses before adding in a defiant tone, 'On my own.' She walks to the door, aware that the whole family have been shocked into silence and are just staring at her. Even the infant appears to realise that this is a momentous occasion as for once, he isn't crying. Anne turns around, her hand resting on the door handle. If she'd known that it was going to be this easy, then she'd have done it before. 'And,' she adds. 'I expect that one of you will have got the dinner ready for when I get back from cleaning Bay View at twelve.' She opens the door and walks out with a degree of self-control that she hadn't realised she could muster.

The closing of the street door behind Anne signals to the rest of the Lesley family that they can start arguing and apportion blame. Anne walks away from the house looking ten years younger than she had the last time she'd made this journey.

CRYING in the toilets Amanda tells everyone to, 'please, leave me alone'. The reason for her grief she is not able to share with anyone, not even her closest friends. She had accidentally let it slip that it had started with a comment from Charlotte, but then she'd refused to say anything else. She is left alone, and Amanda doesn't know which feeling is worse, feeling hurt or the feeling that everyone who matters in her life has abandoned her.

SALLY drums her fingers on the desk as she waits. She notices that her hands are perfect, catching a glance of herself in the reception mirrors she can't help but realise that she is actually looking stunning and very sexy, in fact just how she likes to look.

Her request is acknowledged and organised with courteous efficiency; the type she likes the best. For the first time since she had received that telephone call from Jane she is happy. So they would not be spending this weekend in Paris together, but if she put herself out a little, then they could still be together. Now was the time for being considerate, and she'd acquired consideration by the bucket full last night.

Sally had spent most of the previous evening getting drunk and thinking how hard-done-by she was; when a sudden dose of realisation in the shape of her being violently sick brought her self-pitying session to an abrupt end. Her beloved Jane didn't deserve a woman who couldn't stand on her own two feet. She needed a woman who was strong, resilient and as dependable as Jane herself was. Sally had to prove that she was all those things, and more, much more. As she had cleaned her face she had decided that she had to be unselfish. She would return to London after the conference ended on Friday. She would even miss the farewell lunch to demonstrate her commitment to Jane and her business.

Her plan was that she would turn up at the office with champagne and caviar for the workers; not enough to get drunk, only enough to motivate and reward. Then she would offer to stay and help. She had helped Jane with a lot of her work in the early days. They had designed, drawn, produced and packed countless articles working long into the night on a diet of love, sex, and smiles. Then as the money started to roll in, champagne and caviar were added to the list. They could do it again. If she knew Jane, and she did know Jane, there would only be a couple of people working with her. If she were lucky, then the other people would see that once Sally arrived they would be superfluous and take the opportunity to slip-away early. So, she would bring, all the way from Paris, France, three chilled bottles of the best Champagne, packets of crackers, oceans of soured cream, whole fields of diced onions, jars and jars of spicy capers and as much caviar as she could smuggle through customs. She'd feed Jane while she packed. And then Jane would feed her while she packed. Just as it had been in the old days. Then, with the dawn light just starting to glow over London, she and Jane would sit cuddling each other before making love on the floor of her office recapturing their love as it once had been.

LAURA turns the radio off and drives in silence. The voices in her head have stopped arguing and she is able to enjoy the tire noise and occasional glimpse of the sea as she nears the coast.

She drives to the address she has been given, a small mid terrace house in a narrow back street leading to a church. In truth, the road is so narrow that she hadn't liked driving down it. But the alternative, leaving her car with all her precious paintings and materials stacked on the back seat in a car-park while she walked there, was an alternative she wouldn't even consider. Blocking the whole road she parks outside the house, switches on her hazard warning lights and then takes the two steps to the door.

A young woman in jeans and a grubby T-shirt that's covered in baby sick answers her ring.

'Mmmm?'

'Mrs Lesley?' Laura asks.

'No, she's with the hens. I -.' The young woman turns away from Laura and screams at the top of her voice. 'Anne, she's here.'

The steps of someone walking quickly from the back of the house to the front are felt as soon as the words leave her mouth. The child in her arms doesn't react. It must be used to loud noises Laura thinks none critically. An older, more homely woman comes to the door with a set of keys in her hand. She hands them to Laura as she speaks.

'Mrs Street-Selous?' she asks wiping her hands on her piny.

'Yes. Mrs Lesley?'

'I'll not shake hands,' she says, as Laura holds out her own right hand. 'I'm all covered in flour. I'm in the middle of making tea, feeding the hens and one thousand and one things; so I'll not hold you up. That your car that's blocking the lane?'

'It's okay. I've left my "I'm parking illegally lights on".' Laura feels deflated as her humour is cast aside.

'Happen that's maybe okay in London. But in these parts we show more consideration for each other. Doctor Wells will want to get to the vicarage after surgery. Do you know how to get to the cottage?'

'No.'

'Penalton's in a valley. There're two roads one in and one out. The one you've just come on is Main Street. At the corner there ...' she points to the road Laura has just driven down, '... where you turned into here, this being Church Street, that's where Main Street becomes High Cliff Road.'

Laura smiles; she recognises the road name from the address, Bay View Cottage, High Cliff Road, Penalton on Sea. 'So it's close?'

'Very. Go along here, then turn right, then right again and then at the main road right again and then keep on out of the village. Keep going up the hill until you come to Bay View on your left hand side. About halfway up. If you get to the fields you've gone too far.'

From deep within the house a disembodied voice advises, 'There's road works that way, Ma. Send her up Sandy Beach road, down Fish Lane, along -.'

'That's too complicated.' Anne interrupts the voice. 'You follow my directions and you'll be fine. Down there, then turn right, then right again and then right at the main road and then keep going. You can't get lost.'

'My way'll take her to the door avoiding the road works.' The owner of the unseen voice grumbles.

Ignoring the voice she informs Laura, 'I've done for today, I'll pop up in the morning to check you're alright and have everything you need. You've food in the fridge, butter, milk, cream, jam and home-made bread and scones. Oh, and the heating's on, just as I was asked.'

The sound of an impatient driver tooting, very gently, on the horn summons Laura to return to her car and seek the cottage.

WELLS looks at the figure sleeping in the childhood bed of his daughter. The unshaven cheek lying against the collar of an old pair of pyjamas that his wife had bought for their son causes him to bite gently into his lower lip. It had all been so simple last night. Even to his drunken haze; it had been the easiest solution to a messy problem. But now when alcohol isn't making him so brave, as reality curbs his bravado and the cold light of day flickers across the young face he wonders if, last night, he had really been sensible at all. The figure lies comatose. He looks so young, innocent and careworn that even now, Wells is glad that he's offered him, what he expects is his first comfortable bed for weeks.

He leaves the room closing the door silently behind him, unclear how he will get rid of the smell of earth, sea and an unwashed body out of the room once his guest has left.

Leaving the sick-room he makes his way to the kitchen. Placing the tray safely on the counter he empties the cup of cold coffee down the sink, rinses the cup and allows the water to run long enough to wash away all the tell-tale traces of the unwanted beverage. Taking the glass jug from the tray, he pours the contents back into the milk bottle before replacing it in the door of the fridge. He slides the sugar bowl back to where it lives, on the work surface; he picks up the now empty tray and places it on the rack above the canisters before finally picking up his own mug of coffee. He wants to keep himself busy as it stops him from fretting.

All morning he has been trying to stop himself worrying about what would happen if his guest refuses to leave. He has a memory of last night actually asking Day about his position in such an eventuality. But right now he cannot recall how Day answered; or even if Day had answered. Besides, it's now too late. He will have to cross that bridge if it happens. Until then, he has given the young man enough drugs to keep an elephant docile for a week. It is best to let him sleep and regain his energy. There will be plenty of time for talking once he's better.

He rattles the pill bottle in his pocket. After they had got him to bed last night, Wells had picked up his things to put them in the washing machine; it was then that the bottle of pills had fallen from his bag. He had looked them up in one of his medical journals. The pills, or rather the reason that the lad needs them, are a worry. He would have to talk to his guest about them, hopefully later today if he were lucky, but definitely in the morning, he can't leave it any later than that. It would be hard enough getting him into a hospital without trying to do it at a weekend. No, he has to talk to him either today, or in the morning at the latest.

He puts all the lad's clothes in the washer and turns it on. Even if they all shrink they can't be in any worse condition than they are now. When he wakes, he will suggest that the lad takes a look through any clothes that his son left behind. If any fit him, he'll be more than welcome to take them. Last night Day, Phil and he had managed to get the lad into an old pair of pyjamas that his son had left behind when he first flew the nest to go to medical school all those years ago. So the chances are that he will find something else that fits him.

He pictures Day and Phil as they had been last night when they tried to put the sleeping boy to bed. They had tried for ages to guess his age. It had been hard, obviously he had lived rough for some time, but on reflection they all felt that he was the same age as the girl whose bed he is now sleeping in, late twenties. He makes a mental note to call both his children and tell them what has happened. While he doesn't expect them to do anything, he'd feel better if they knew.

BRENDON wakes, sleeps, wakes and then sleeps again. The self-preservation alarm that he'd developed on this trip, the one that wakes him when danger or strange circumstances are about to happen, appears not to be working. Or, perhaps it is working and the knowledge that he is safe, is letting him sleep.

He wakes to the daylight burning his eyelids through the glass of an attic window. His eyes open instantly and slowly as he takes in his surroundings. He tries to move, but the action is difficult. He doesn't appear to have any control over his body. An overwhelming sense of calm settles on him as he tries to remember the events that have led up to this moment.

The bed is warm and soft. He snuggles into the mattress and wriggles his feet in an attempt to tuck the duvet around them. He is warm, clean, and dry, states he's not expected to feel ever again. He can't remember where he is, or how he got here. Comforting, familiar noises reach him from downstairs; a radio broadcasting the "Today Programme" is quietly keeping someone up-to-date with world events. Not for him he thinks as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Radio 4 he knows that station, it represents middle-class England, it's old-fashioned, respectable, and very, very safe.

With a smile on his features he drifts into a deep and uncomplicated sleep, his dreams are pleasant and hopeful.

Later Brendon stirs as a desperate thirst wakes him demanding that he satisfy it before rest will be offered to him again. In a deep half-haze of comprehension he notices that the room has been changed. A jug and glass of water now stand on the table by his bed. The glass is filled, as is the jug. Several times he tries to reach out for them, stretching his arms and desperately straining to raise his inert body. After each attempt he gives up, lying back into the deep warmth of the bed. The water is as far out of reach as if it had still been in the tap.

His thirst erupts until he knows that he has to reach the glass, or call for help. Leaning over the side of the bed he stretches, reaches and then stretches even further until he is able to grasp the prize. He tries, but fails not to spill any of the precious contents. With precision timing he seizes the glass, lowers it to the floor and then drops his head over the side of the bed in what is one clumsy, jerky, but ultimately highly successful movement. He takes a mouthful of the cold clean tasting water, inevitably spilling as much as he swallows. He repeats the action, and at each attempt he increases his consumption and reduces the spillage. After he's emptied the glass he drops it on the carpet, an action that is easier then returning it to the bedside table. He then lies in the same position, head hanging over the bed, arms dropping to the ground, until sleep claims him back.

Once again he stirs, opens his eyes and notices that by the bed has been placed a cup of tea; a beverage that is now cooling. The glass has been refilled and returned to the table. He manages to bring his upper body into a semi-seated position in order to drink the tea. In his state he doesn't notice the skin that has formed; or the tiny fly that had drowned and is now floating on the surface. He is aware that the radio is still on. Some programme he doesn't recognise is softly filling the airwaves. For the first time he notices that on the far wall there's an old railway clock. He makes a mental note to check the time, but at this moment he doesn't care what time it is and sleep soon reclaims him.

Brendon stirs, opens his eyes and gazes into the eyes of someone who is sat on his bed. 'Mother' he says before falling into the gentlest of slumbers.

Brendon wakes, this time he needs the toilet. Panicking slightly because he doesn't know the layout of the house, and he knows he isn't in a fit state to start searching for a bathroom. As the fear of wetting the bed brings a red tint to his cheeks he notices that a chamber pot has appeared at the side of the bed where he had previously left his glass. 'No', he tells himself. This is too personal a service to expect a stranger to perform. If he can get back to sleep, then he'll be able to block the urge. The very presence of the chamber pot means that he is less likely to need it. Sleep embraces him while he wonders if he actually knows this house and the owners. With unerring accuracy they appear to anticipate his every need, perhaps they know him.

Tossing and turning Brendon eventually wakes to find a figure standing over him. The man smiles and turns to speak to someone else who is thrown into deep shadow by the bright sunlight that is flooding in through the dormer window. Brendon tries to focus on the other person, he thinks that it looks like a man in uniform, but he can't be sure. He falls into a deep and troubled sleep.

Panic dreams fill his mind as he wills his body to recover. A man in a uniform can only mean that they had found him, and that he had to get away. The bed is delicious, the warmth welcoming, but it had gone on for too long. Now they know where he is, he has no alternative but to run away. No matter how kind they are being to him, he is still a prisoner. He has to escape.

MISS Jones takes her morning tea back to bed. This is the type of decadence that she normally only allows herself when she's ill; but after her heroic exploits of the previous night, she is determined to reward herself.

Sipping the hot liquid she makes a metal list of all the people she'll actually tell her story to, and to all those who she'll not be taking into her confidence. She wonders if she'll get both her name and her picture in the local paper, perhaps even on the telly. She'll enjoy being a celebrity, and there is a lot that she can tell; but only if asked. Perhaps she'll see if that mobile hairdresser can come and shampoo and set her hair. After all, she wants to look at her best if she's going to get her picture in the paper.

By the time she is dressed Miss Jones has decided that only a select few Villages will be given access to the story directly from her lips. People she likes; she doesn't dwell on the fact that there are not many in the village who fit that description. And of those who do, not one of them is under the age of sixty. People who have been unkind or have snubbed her will be left out of this, what the press would call, "major breaking story" that she's been at the centre of.

Eventually opening the door on the new day Miss Jones has a wonderful smile that lights up her whole face, dances on her lips and shines from her eyes, even the lack of sleep from the previous night does nothing to dim it.

DAY wakes with the alarm. He sits up in bed, he runs his hands through his short black hair. Slowly he turns to Penny to ask, 'Did last night -?' he begins

Laughing she interrupts. 'It did. And you promised Wells you'd go up there later this morning to make sure he can turf the young vagrant out, if needed.'

'I was really grateful for him offering to put him up. I didn't want to allow it, but where could I have got him a bed at that time of night? Besides, I don't think he'll murder Wells in his sleep.'

'You can never tell.' The look of horror on his face makes Penny sit up and hug her husband.

Realising Penny's simply having a joke he continues reflecting his tone contemplative and flat. 'I think that just to be on the safe side Wells gave him enough knockout drops to keep him asleep until next month. He was adamant that he'd be no threat. Wells is a wiry old thing. He wouldn't take unnecessary chances.' He pulls the covers off the bed and hangs his legs over the side. 'I know I can justify my decisions, if I'm ever called to. But I wonder if we took the easy way out last night. Wells was pissed.'

'What!'

'Well, perhaps not pissed, just a little worse for drink. I wonder what's happening in this village.' Day notes as he walks into the bathroom.

'It's full of lonely old people. Perhaps having a needy waif and stray will be good for him. I think I remember you saying something about being certain that the kid wasn't local.'

'I didn't recognise him,' Day answers, as he turns the shower on and waits for it to reach the right temperature. 'And I know most of the village kids. Hell, Penny, I've caught them all stealing from shops, bunking off school, drinking behind the bus shelter, having under age sex, parties, smoking, or at least trying to buy fags from the village shop. I know all the kids in this village. Besides, he looks as if he'd been living rough for weeks. And the smell! I think his dip in the sea was a blessing all round. I hate to think what he must have smelt like before it.' Day finishes his sentence and steps into the shower drawing the curtain behind him. The warm water revitalises him as it splashes, not only over his muscular body, but over everywhere else as well.

'It must be hard for the doctor,' Penny Day continues as her husband showers. 'He's still living in that big house. How long's Mary Wells been dead? Must be all of 15, 20 years or more? Them kids even finished university. It can't be much of a life for him living alone like that? They don't bother with him much. Which is awful when you think that he and Mary used to be the centre of village life when she was alive. He's done well bringing them two kids up. I hear the girl, what's her name now? It's an odd name, whatever it is. I always thought it sounded like an old maid's name. Now, what was it?' Penny looks into the middle distance as she thinks for a moment or two. 'Prunella, that's it. I hear that Prunella's got a consultancy job at the hospital. She's done so well for herself. They say she'll marry another of the consultants and live in luxury all their lives. The lad, I think he's just started medical school last -.' She interrupts herself with a correction. 'He left the village the same time as our Sue took that hairdressing course. That must be, well she's been qualified for two years, so he must have been gone for three years this summer. Now what's his name? It was something unusual and I think began with a B, or had a B in it somewhere. You know I always wondered if our Sue and he would get together. They used to play together such a lot. What the hell was his na –.' Penny Day stops herself. 'Dave? Dave!' she calls getting out of bed quickly and walking into the bathroom. 'Dave,' she adds entering the steamy room and noticing that her husband is now shaving and realising that she will have to hurry to catch up if she's to have his breakfast ready on time. But for this observation, she decides, he won't mind waiting. 'Dave could ...' she seats herself on the side of the damp bath oblivious to the moisture that is now seeping into her red nylon night-dress. '...this lad that you fished out of the sea last night,' she lifts her leg and admires her neat ankle; the sexy night-dress caresses her thighs before draping across the wet floor. '...could he be Wells own son?' In answer to the look on her husband's face she reminds him. 'Well perhaps he was sent down from university. These things happen in the best of families. And if I'm not mistaken, Wells himself was in trouble when he started practicing. Isn't that why they sent him to rot in this sleepy hole? They say it runs in families.'

Mid stroke Day turns to his wife, with her womanly inquisitive nature and tendency to gossip she's a better detective than he'll ever be. 'That's a thought.' he says resuming his shaving. Looking at Penny in the shaving mirror he adds. 'That would explain a lot about last night that I don't yet understand.'

Thursday evening

'AND how do you think that will help the situation?' Amanda yells at Charlotte. Get out of my room and don't come back in here until you've stopped being so selfish.' She flings her book across the room, masking the sound as Charlotte rushes out, slamming the door behind her.

Amanda replays the scene to herself, wondering if it really had happened. Charlotte had come into her room without knocking or asking if it was convenient. She had just opened the door and walked in. It had taken all her famous persistence to persuade everyone in the family that they had to knock on her bedroom door and then wait outside until they were invited in. She knows it sounds petty, but it isn't too much to ask. In that respect she is very like Laura, she needs her privacy, a space to call her own. On the whole the family had respected it, so when Charlotte had, earlier, rushed in she'd assumed that there was something very, very wrong.

As soon as Charlotte had sat on her bed she had burst into tears. Amanda had walked over to her and gently taken her in her arms, she often acted as if she were the elder sister. In reality Charlotte was older by four months, but Amanda, with her confirmed scholarly ways had the greater maturity, so with her arms round her stepsister she had asked her what was wrong.

Charlotte had cried and Amanda had offered comfort. It was her mother who had gone missing and Amanda felt slightly guilty that she'd not been more aware of her stepsister's pain. She would make it up to her.

Charlotte had held her eyes and asked, in a voice full of self-pity. 'Why did the bitch leave? The boys at school call me names now. James said he doesn't want to go out with me no more 'cause I'm from a broken home. And it's your dad who's to blame. He's no better than he should be. It must be true what they say about him being a crook and swindling –.'

And that was as far as she'd been allowed to get. At that point Amanda had thrown her out of her room.

As the door closes behind Charlotte and the book falls to the floor, Amanda feels so alone. She flings herself on the bed that has so recently been occupied by her stepsister and cries.

CHARLOTTE softly closes her own bedroom door behind her. She is confused and scared. All the adults in her life are not behaving as they should and now Amanda is behaving irrationally as well. She sits on the futon by her window and gazes out onto the street below. The traffic is flowing, but not fast enough if the sound of blearing car horns is anything to go by. She watches, but she doesn't see.

Her mother has left home and not bothered to call to let them know where she is, or even if she is safe. For all Charlotte knows she could be dead in a ditch at the side of the road. Her stepfather had earlier called them to say that he would be home late, he had some unfinished business to attend to, and that they should go to bed and not wait up for him. And now her stepsister has just thrown her out of her room for trying to get a little human comfort into what, for Charlotte, was becoming a very bleak life. Life could be cruel; and then it got worse.

PETER agrees to have the call put through. His hands shake as he picks up the receiver. 'Laura,' he says brightly. He impresses himself by his restraint as throughout the conversation he curbs the urge to ask her "what the hell do you thinks you're doing?" Instead he contents himself with, 'How are you? Where are you? And when will you be back?' in rapid succession.

'I am safe, in answer to the middle question. I don't know for the last one, and as for the first, didn't you read my letter?'

'It was unfair of you to give it to Amanda.'

Apparently refusing to rise to the bait she asks again, 'So, did you read it?'

Refusing to be side-tracked he replies, 'For all that you and she are close, she's only a child and doesn't deserve to have that level of responsibility placed on her shoulders. And by you of all people.'

'I don't agree. I appreciate your concern; she is after all, as you never tire of telling me, your daughter and not mine. Perhaps that's why I find it easier to see her as the young woman that she has grown into and not still as the child she was, but is no longer. As we'll not agree on that subject, do you want to spend my entire telephone call arguing over the method of my getting the letter to you, or would you prefer to discuss, as the adults that we're supposed to be, the contents. I ask again, did you read the letter?'

'I did.'

'And?'

'And what, Laura?'

'Just that, and?'

'And this is like pulling teeth, Laura. Tell me what's happening. What can I tell the girls?' Again he uses the scattergun approach to questioning that doesn't allow Laura time to answer one question before he asks another.

'I am safe, and I will call home each night. That is if you want me to?'

Peter realises that he's not swallowed since the call started; and that the saliva has now collected in the back of his mouth. He releases his breath freeing the build up at the back of his throat, unsure if the question has an ulterior meaning or not.

'Of course we want you to call. Why wouldn't we? Laura, I am trying, for the sake of the girls, to make this as normal as possible. Normally, when either of us is away from home, we would call home every night. You can't just...' he loses his thread and tries to pick it up again. 'It will look odd. You must call, even if you don't want to talk to me, you must talk to the girls.'

'How are they?'

He resists, with difficulty, the urge to demand to know if she cares or not. Her behaviour indicates that she doesn't. With a softer tone than he actually feels, he tells her. 'Great. Charlotte's a brick. You should be very proud of her.'

'I am,' she replies softly. 'Of both of them actually.'

'Amanda is harder to comfort –.'

'Comfort?' she demands. 'Why should she need comforting?'

He laughs, 'Come off it, Laura. Her stepmother suddenly run off, doesn't say where she's going, or how long she'll be away for, or who she has left with, and then the said stepmother gives her a letter to give to her father. Wouldn't you expect her to need comforting? You're...' He leaves the words unsaid.

Laura doesn't rise. Instead she says. 'I'm just completing some paintings for my first exhibition. I've gone off on painting trips before and you didn't mind then. Besides, by giving the letter to Amanda I knew I could guarantee you'd get it. Would you rather I'd have put it in the post? Or propped it up on your pillow for you to find when you got home from work? That would have been very Princess and Pea stuff, and not me at all.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm safe, and I'll have my mobile on all the time.'

'Why won't you tell us where you are?'

'Because you'd ...' her voice trails off. She knows that saying that he would interrupt her work wouldn't sound convincing enough. But it is the only reason she has.

'We could come and spent the weekend ...' he leaves the rest of his request unvoiced. He doesn't want to face rejection again.

'That's what I mean, Peter.'

'So you will be away this weekend?'

'And probably next.' She stops, maybe in reply to his sudden and loud intake of breath. When he doesn't say anything she continues, 'It all depends on how long it takes. If the painting goes well, and I hope it does, then I may be back the following week.'

'We miss you, Laura,' he tells her softly, wondering why he can't accept that this is just another one of her painting trips.'

'And I'll miss you. I will call. Please, just leave me alone. I have to finish my work. I love you. Must go.'

He tries to make out if the voices in the background are those of a man or a woman. So, he tells himself as he tries to return to his work, Laura is not alone.

As his office staff leave for the night Peter removes the list of names and numbers that he's copied from their shared address book. He calls the girls and tells them that he will be home late. He has been unavoidably detained at work and had unfinished business to attend to. They exchange pleasantries and to stop the erosion of his confidence further, he picks up the telephone and dials the first number. He knows that she'll still be at work, surrounded by her loyal and adoring staff. She is a workaholic. Besides he has seen in the paper that she has just won another major export contract. Jane Elliot will still be at work, so he'll call her there.

Peter has spent most of the day thinking about what he will say about his wife disappearing. He's tried the, "Hello, I'm Peter, husband of Laura, please can you tell me where she is, I appear to have lost her?" but it doesn't appear to be the right approach. Finally he decided to say as little as he needs to. He's even written a script that, off and on throughout the day, he has been rehearsing. Listing to the ringing telephone, aware that he is now word perfect, he feels foolish as he speaks the words aloud to himself.

The call is eventually put through. Feeling very small he stands up, his back to his office, the office of a very successful businessman.

'Am I speaking to Jane Elliot,' he asks. He knows it's a silly response to the call being answered, "Jane Elliot speaking", but he is on automatic pilot and doesn't know if he dare deviate from his prepared script.

'Yes. What can I do for you?'

'I'm Peter Selous, the husband of –.'

'I know who you are. The reason for your call is?'

Peter thinks she sounds brittle and cold, as if she already knows why he's calling. She doesn't sound at all like Laura has described her to him. He knows that Laura, years ago, almost had a lesbian affair with Jane; and that Jane had been what could only be described as sexually predatory in her attempted seduction of his wife. He feels emasculated by the sound of her voice. He is sure that she can help him, but he doesn't hold out any hope that she will.

'Laura has gone off on one of her painting trips.' He pauses to take a breath, his voice unsteady at the start of his half-truth.

'Yes.'

'I cannot find her contact details.' His voice is firmer; he's found a way to use words that don't actually make him lie.

'And,' she prompts without giving anything away.

'And I wonder if you know where she is?'

'I have her mobile number, if that will help. But then you must have that. Why not call her yourself and ask?'

Peter hits his hand into his forehead. He'd been a fool. Why hadn't he seen that? 'Good idea. Only ...' thinking fast he tells her. '...the girls want to send her a welcome and good luck card. You know she's working flat out for her exhibition in three months' time. I trust you'll be able to attend. I'm looking forward to meeting you. Laura talks about you a lot.'

'Laura has told me all about it, and yes the date's in my diary.'

'Good. Now this card, where do we send it?'

'I think, Peter, that that's a lovely gesture. You should be proud of your girls. It's so sweet of them. Couldn't you just ask Laura for the address, she wouldn't need to know why you need it, would she? You wouldn't have to tell her, so it shouldn't spoil her surprise.'

'I was going to send flowers, the post code and house number or name are all I need ...' he tries fishing, aware that he has the information he needs, but he is determined to see how far Jane will go.

'My advice to you is to call Laura and ask her yourself. I must go my meeting's about to start. Good luck and see you at the exhibition.'

'Bitch' Peter says as he drops the receiver back in the cradle. It bounces and falls off, landing at the side of the instrument. He sighs as he picks it up and carefully replaces it. His call was humiliating yet he now knows where Laura is. There's no need for any another calls. He leaves the office and decides that he can allow himself a drink in his local.

Peter turns into his street and then walks away from his house. The lights are off in the girls' bedrooms and only the landing light has been left on in an attempt to offer him a cheery welcome. He walks swiftly back to the Partridge and orders a pint. He feels guilty that he's not told them that Laura has rung. He'll tell them over breakfast in the morning, and by then he'll have worked out a reason, other than the real one, for not telling them sooner.

Sipping his second drink he reflects on the two calls that he's made. He'd called Sally Henry and been told she was away. He'd then called her partner, Jane Elliot and been told to call Laura. From the computer address list he has also removed the telephone number of place in Cornwall. It had been listed under the name of Jane Elliot. Who hadn't been very helpful; in fact she had been quite obstructive. While not a gambling man, he'd bet all his savings that Laura is staying at the cottage in Cornwall that belongs to Jane Elliot. He doesn't know if he should admire the woman for her loyal support of a friend, or hate her for not telling him directly. After all, a true friend would help her save her marriage, not encourage her run away from it. Not for the first time he wonders if Jane and Sally have ulterior motives for taking Laura away from him and the girls.

WELLS puts the telephone down and decides that he has to talk to his guest. The call has disturbed him; he has been told that nine pills could be nine days supply, or less, depending on the prescription. Whatever, he has to get his guest to a hospital and have the treatment assessed and the correct drugs administered quickly. The urgency in the voice of the specialist was real and palpable. He climbs the stairs and enters the room.

The unmade and empty bed is a shock, but he is pleased that his guest has managed to get himself up. That's a sign of a healthy recovery. Picking the chamber pot up off the floor he notices that it's empty. He leaves the room and walks along the corridor towards the bathroom. The door is wide open, his guest is not inside. He peers round the door. The room is empty and to his untutored eye, it looks as if it has not been disturbed since he'd prepared it with fresh towels last night when he had agreed to let the lad stay. Feeling nervous, he calls 'Hello,' a few times as he walks around the house checking each and every room. When he doesn't find him, he rings the police house and asked Day to come over, and to come sooner rather than later.

Both men search the house and find no evidence of the guest. It is Dave who notices that the window in the bedroom has not been closed properly.

'This is how he got out,' Day announces. 'Down the roof, onto that wall and away through the field. You've seen the last of our friend. You can be sure of that.'

'We need to find him,' Wells replies, the panic rising in his voice.

'Why? I'd have thought his scampering away's a blessing. You did your Good Samaritan bit and the lad legged-it before he could become a nuisance. What more do you want?'

Fingering the bottle in his pocket Wells wonders where patient confidentiality ends and a legal investigation begins. As far as he knows the lad hasn't done anything wrong. He keeps quiet.

'Let's hope he finds someplace nice and warm to sleep,' Day continues, pulling the window shut before locking it. 'There're plenty of barns around here where he can kip for the night. He'll probably steal some clothing off a handy washing line, and that's the last we'll hear of him. I'll put a call out, just in case. Don't worry. But do call me if he comes back. I'll hazard a guess we've seen the last of him. Bit ungrateful of him to run off like that, don't you think?'

Wells fudges an answer hoping it will keep Day from prying further. 'We don't know what brought him here in the first place; perhaps he had an appointment?' Deep down in his heart Wells also hopes it's true, and that his guest does actually have an appointment, an appointment with a hospital. But where such a hospital could be in this area he doesn't know. The nearest one is over sixty miles away, and if the lad plans to walk that far without his medication, he'll never get there.

As Wells let Day out he feels guilty, without the pills the lad could be a danger, if not to other people, then at least to himself. He would have liked to have been able to believe Day, but he knows that once the lad realises that Wells still has his pills and his clothes, then he will be back. It is only a matter of time. He is bound to come back for them; will it be under cover of darkness, or will the lad just walk up to the door and offer an exchange, his clothing and possessions for his son's pyjamas. Wells feels that he isn't safe, and wonders if he should tell Day. Not for the first time he looks up and catches Day looking at him as if he is waiting for him to confess to something or other. The man is obviously a better detective than he'd given him credit for. Much better, he thinks as he fingers the bottle of pill; and wonders when was the last time that his run-away guest had taken one of them.

ANNE actually likes Laura. She has not spent much time with her, but she likes what she has seen. She decides that when she calls in to see her on Friday morning she will tell her some of the more interesting stories about the cottage and its bloody history. She will tell a few of the selected ghost stories, a couple of local myths and perhaps a tall tale of sea-fairing folk. Not enough to actually frighten her off or make her feel unwelcome. Sufficient so that when the gentle sea breeze moans like a real person or whistles round the chimney pots as if threatening to remove them, then Laura will welcome some extra company to sit with her quietly, especially at night. Through Laura Anne sees her own plans to get away from her family and spend some time at the cottage begin to take shape.

MISS Jones had held court in the village shop all day. By the time the day ends she has been invited to houses for tea that she's never been inside before; despite being born and living in the village all her life. Later as she sits by her own hearth, Barker at her feet she smiles at her guest and asks her to pour tea for them both, being a celebrity, Miss Jones confirms, is tiring.

Sipping her tea she recounts, once again, the story that her guest has come to hear. 'I saw him, and no one believed me. Then, at twenty past midnight, I looked out of my window and saw him standing there. Silly bugger I thought to myself, he's picked the one night of the year to camp in Smugglers when it gets flooded at high tide. I watched Dave and Phil rescue him. I saw it all. It was like one of them cops and robbers show on the telly. Only more exciting. They took him to the Doctors, who kept him in. So he must be ill, but not ill enough for the hospital'.

Life at the centre of village life was good, and Miss Jones was determined to enjoy every moment of it. She bites into one of the biscuits that her guest has brought. She can't remember the last time she had a full packet of biscuits in her tin.

JANE had said 'good night' as her team left, but she hadn't look up. She has a lot of work to sort out if she's going to be able to fly down to Cornwall on Friday afternoon. She had booked a flight for herself that morning. It would be a surprise for Laura. She isn't prepared to think beyond that.

The call from Peter Selous had been an annoyance. If she were honest she had been expecting him to call. The fact that Laura had not been gone for more than twenty-four hours would have been an endearing feature in anyone else. But in Peter Selous, it was just another example of his possessive nature. No wonder Laura needed to get away from his tight little clutches.

SALLY stands by the buffet and counts the minutes until she can retire to her room and call Jane. The end of this conference can't come soon enough. Someone comes up to her and reluctantly she allows herself to be engaged in conversation.

'I don't eat almonds,' the woman replies, as Sally takes a dish off the buffet table and offers them to her, after taking a handful for herself and slipping one into her mouth.

'Are you allergic to them?' she enquires, with very little interest in the answer or the woman herself.

'No, call this strange.' The woman bites into her lower lip and actually blushes.
Curiosity aroused, Sally prompts her with greater interest. 'Strange?'

'I think someone's trying to poison me.'

Unsure of the right approach Sally stifles her laugh, and says with impressive self-control, 'have you been to the police?'

'Yes, but they don't believe me.'

She doesn't make the obvious reply, instead she satisfies herself with the bland reply of, 'they don't, until the body's found. Sorry. I didn't mean that.' Sally corrects herself in reply to the look of horror on the other woman's face.

'It's true, and arsenic tastes like almonds,'

Sally secretes the half-masticated nut into a paper serviette and slips it into her pocket. She returns the dish of nuts to the buffet table. 'But surely they wouldn't poison communal dishes. They could kill everyone here.'

'I know. That's why I never eat food that's been lying around. Exposed to whomever to slip whatever they want in. You can't be too careful.' She adds before walking away.

Sally looks shocked as she watches her walk outside into the early evening Paris sunshine. Had she really been serious? She calls one of the waitresses over to her. And in fluent French asks her if she recognises the young woman who is stood in the doorway. The waitress looks at her for a moment. She replies that the woman is a minor film star before returning to her duties.

Her appetite regained, Sally helps herself to the crackers topped with Caviar and circulates with the other guests.

LAURA cries after her call to Peter. She doesn't want to but somehow she feels isolated and desolate, just like the moors that surround the cottage.

When she had arrived at the cottage she could hardly contain her excitement as she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Even Mrs. Lesley had been wonderful to her. She had given her the keys and told her that she'd be by in the morning to check that she was alright. Stood on her doorstep she had told Laura that she had left milk, butter and clotted cream in the kitchen fridge, plus a few home-made scones and jam, in the bread bin and cupboards. Laura had been so grateful that she'd wanted to hug the woman. Her thanks had been genuine, but now that Laura has seen the scones, and holds the pot of home-made jam in her hands, she feels that her thanks have not been enough. She will arrange to have the largest bunch of flowers sent to her as a thank you gift. Perhaps, so as not to embarrass the woman, she will arrange it for when she is back home.

Back home? She has only just opened the door to the cottage and doesn't want to consider that awful moment when she will have to leave this idyllic place. For the first time for months she feels carefree.

Walking round the cottage Laura falls in love with its charm, the classic décor, and Chinese covers, which in truth she finds a little too fussy for her tastes; but the sea views are to die for. She finds that Mrs Lesley has made her a bed up in the guest bedroom. A room with sea views on three sides. With glee she throws open the casement windows and calls to the world that she loves it and everyone in it. Guilt makes her close the window and go off to explore the rest of the cottage before emptying her car.

The cottage is explored quickly; there will be time for a leisurely inspection later. She will ask Mrs Lesley to show her around and tell her what rooms she can use, and what rooms Jane likes to keep private.

As she unpacks the car she notices a sinister figure lurking outside the cottage. Its face is covered, it smells strongly of fish and she can't tell if it is male or female. She determines that the next item that she brings in will have to be removed from the side of the car that is nearest to the lurking figure. She picks up several large paintings before deliberately turning to face the shape and wishing it a cherry 'good afternoon'. The figure mutters something before it hurries away.

Finding herself in the kitchen she butters a couple of scones which she then piles high with home-made jam before crowning them with masses of Cornish clotted cream. Keeping the theme as 'English afternoon tea', if not a little late, it being six fifteen in the evening, she makes a pot of tea. She selects a bone china cup and saucer and fills the matching milk jug with the fresh full cream cows' milk that Mrs Lesley has left in the fridge for her. She selects the plastic Chinese tray which she covers with an old-fashioned tray cloth; it seems a shame, but it adds to her feeling of decadent luxury. Placing the tea things carefully, she leaves the tray and opens the French windows. She carries the tray out and places it on the patio table before she walks to the edge and gawps at the sea view over the balustrade. Fastening her coat, donning her woolly hat and gloves she drinks her tea and eats the scones on the patio, the wind blowing the sea fret into her hair and face. Laura loves every moment.

WILLIAM pulls on his old fishing jacket. He doesn't wear it often, but today he needs the anonymity it provides when he pulls the hood over his face and lets the sleeves cover his hands. He decides not to walk towards the village, but to turn away from it and continue up the hill, past Bay View cottage, over the fields and then to come back the same way.

As he walks up the hill he notices a car in the drive of Bay View. He would normally welcome Jane when she visits. He enjoys her company and finds her to be stimulating and challenging in her values and attitudes. He is aware that her visits were getting shorter and shorter and the time between them longer and longer. But today, he isn't up to answering her probing questions, especially about his hangover. The how he got his hangover is not too bad, it's the why he got it that he doesn't want to discuss with anyone, including himself. He decides that he will call in on her, but he'll leave it until the morning.

He crosses the road before he notices that the woman unloading her car isn't Jane Elliot. He watches as she picks things out of a car and she takes them inside; things he doesn't recognise as belonging to Jane. He crosses the road and slows his pace planning his arrival at the gate to coincide with her return to the car. Hangover or no hangover, he needs to make sure that his friend's cottage is not being taken over by squatters. The woman has already unloaded several easels and what looks like an artist portfolio case and taken them into the cottage. As her neighbour he can't be too careful.

He realises that she has spotted him, in reply to her greeting he wishes her 'welcome' trying to change his voice slightly so that he won't be recognised when he calls on her in the morning; when his hangover, hopefully, will be gone. For now he quickens his pace and heads for the fields.

DAY sits in his chair and settles down to read the evening paper with his third bottle of lager clutched in his hand. It's the night Penny goes to the WI meeting, so when he comes in from work he brings himself a fish and chip supper and gets a video from the rental shop. He then takes a bottle of lager out of the fridge and settles down to enjoy a night on his own.

He's happyish over the outcome from the incident with the lad he'd rescued from Smugglers. He would have preferred it if he'd been able to interview him. But at least the lad was no longer his problem having scarpered at the first opportunity. Day reflects on the look that he had seen on Wells' face as he left the house. He had looked scared, and while they had searched his house, Day feels that Wells is actually expecting something nasty to happen. Perhaps this is the affect of guilt; it does strange things to the most unlikely people. With hindsight, it's obvious now that Wells had taken the lad in to ensure that he could make a clean get-away, and as soon as possible. Collusion between the lad and Wells was looking more and more plausible. In his book, while it was worthy of further investigation, he doesn't believe that the lad and Wells are really into anything criminal. But all things considered, Penny must be right, there has to be some connection between Wells and the lad. He makes up his mind that he will go back to the Surgery in the morning and see if he can unravel any more of the puzzle.

BRENDON has at last regained his mobility. Whatever drug it was that they had given him is starting to wear off. He has been in enough institutions to know that they will keep him so deeply drugged that he'll have no will to escape; let alone opportunity. He remembers a conversation that had drifted into his sleeping brain about hospitals and the police. In fact, he is sure that he had seen at least one policeman in his room. He had been standing in deep shade at the far side of the room, by the window, as if trying to be unseen. Brendon had observed him, his stance, and while his uniform was not clear, by his bearing it was obvious that he was an official visitor. An Officer was probably outside the room now, on guard, waiting for an excuse to call for help and have him sedated again.

The sound of the early evening TV news catches his attention. This, he realises is his ideal opportunity, if not to escape, then at least to reconnoitre the cottage. Should he be discovered while he's exploring and planning his escape, he can simply claim he's looking for the toilet.

Then Brendon notices the window and realise that he doesn't need to go to all that trouble. Stealthy he crawls out of the window, and with a cunning that impresses himself he pushes it closed behind him. While initially an act of camouflage, it satisfies the eco-warrior side of Brendon who is reluctant to leave the window open and let the heat escape.

Gently he inches down the roof until he manages to clamber onto the wall. Conveniently the wall has a gentle incline that follows the slope of the ground until he is able to safely jump off. Landing gently on both feet he walks quickly across the open field trying not to attract attention.

He rests at the top of the hill, looking down on the village and shivering. He feels guilty about stealing the pyjamas. But as the man had removed all his clothes there isn't anything else he can do. He knows that's what they do in prison; they steal your clothes so you can't escape. But he has, he's free even if he's very cold.

The lights from Bay View draw his attention as they flood the garden and light all the way down to the sea. He smiles as he watches a woman who is seated outside, huddled against the cold wind. She appears to be oblivious to everything but her drink, the view and the gentle mist that has settled over her hair and face. Even with her back to him he knows that she is beautiful. He walks to his left and notices first, that she is smiling, as he had known she would be. But more important, he notices that there is a shed between the cottage and the footpath. He decides that that is where he'll spend his first night back on the road.

He creeps to the shed, checks that he has been unobserved. The shed is unlocked and he opens the door carefully. The hinges are well oiled and the door opens silently. Stepping inside he notices its residual warmth from the sun and feels welcome. The shed has one side facing the sea that's all glass. While excellent for warming the space, it's no good for privacy. He will have to be up and away before first light.

At the moment the shed is still very warm, having been heated by sunlight, but he knows from past experience that it will be cold before long. He steps inside and closes the door. He allows his eyes to get accustomed to the light before he starts to take stock of his situation.

The garden furniture is stacked up against a wall, the cushions and covers in plastic bags. He arranges the furniture to form a bed; he removes the cushions from their protective covers and collects the sacks and rags that are stored on an upper shelf. His bed made, he snuggles into the pile.

He is trying to forget that the man and policeman have taken what are left of his supply of pills. He starts to shiver, he is unsure if it is from the cold or as a direct result of the fear that is now feeding on him.

Friday

LAURA wakes to smells and sounds she is not used to, to bright sunshine and joy overflowing in her heart. Today, she decides, she will paint and paint and paint until the sunsets and she can't hold her brushes anymore.

She dresses quickly, throwing on some old clothes that had once belonged to Peter. Pants and a shirt of his that she always carries with her.

Attired she rushes out of the house. She races down the path, pausing at the edge of the sea just long enough for her to roll her trouser legs up, and push the sleeves, which up to now had been flopping below her fingers, up over her elbows, then without thinking she runs into the sea.

The cold takes her breath away and she let out an involuntary expletive. Covering her mouth she looks around to see if there is anyone she needs to apologies to. The beach is deserted, and at this moment in time, Laura could believe that she is alone in the whole wide world.

Forcing herself to acclimatise her feet by splashing in and out of the cold water she studies the wave pattern and the grey water against her now very white feet. Suddenly she is filled with the joy of the earth, and Laura splashes around, calling and calling for joy at the top of her voice until exhausted from her exertions, and noticing that her clothes are more than just damp round the edges, she reluctantly leaves the sea.

Her manic moment over, she slowly climbs up the steep path back to the cottage. She strips off in the kitchen and walks to her bedroom to put on dry clothes that are more suitable for an artist to work in.

Dressed again, she puts the kettle on before going into the garden to peg out the shirt and trousers; hoping that the seawater hasn't done them any permanent damage. Perhaps it's her romantic nature, but she likes to have something that smells of Peter with her when they are apart. It gives her comfort in her moments of regret and pain as she kids herself that the arms of his shirt actually still contain his arms; and that he is holding her tightly. As she finishes her domestic chores she starts to go back inside, when a voice, summons her as it calls from over the hedge. Standing by the gate is an old woman and a tiny dog.

'Morning,' Laura says, while walking to the opening. 'Isn't it just a wonderful morning?'

'Going to rain later,' the old woman replies, before adding, 'you're new. Mrs E let you have the cottage, did she?'

'Jane Elliot and I went to university together, she's letting me stay for two whole weeks.' Sensing that her caller is harmless, and is not going to go away that easily, Laura adds. 'I've just put the kettle on, and Mrs Lesley has ensured that I'm well stocked with provisions. Can I offer you a cup of anything?'

'Bit early for me.' The old woman looks disparagingly at Laura, and then in a tone of voice that sounds, to Laura, as if she is putting herself out by agreeing, she adds, 'I'll spare you a couple of minutes.' Before the words are out of her mouth the old woman is opening the gate and letting herself in. 'I'll leave Barker here,' she says, as she bends down and ties the dog to the stem of a rose bush. 'It's a bit cold for sitting on the patio, or I'd bring him with me. Mrs E doesn't like him being in the house,' she says, before adding, 'But the kitchens nice enough.' She stands still and turns to look Laura in the eyes as she adds defiantly, 'if you like chintz, that is.' The blow issued, she continues into the chintz filled kitchen. Then she removes her heavy overcoat which she hands to Laura, seats herself at the head of the scrubbed pine table before further adding to her comfort by removing the cushion from the chair that is placed next to hers and putting it behind her back.

Laura smiles, she does agree with her about the chintz, but as she now feels that she's been reduced to the role of serving wench, she is not going to let her guest know. Being too lazy to walk to the hall and hang the coat on the hat stand, Laura slings it over the banister rail. Besides, she doesn't want the old biddy to feel too much at home.

Walking back to the kitchen and noticing how her guest seems to be settled, Laura manages to put the stab of regret behind her. She had actually been looking forward to having her morning coffee on the patio. But she bows to her guests wish as she starts to make the coffee.

Checking how she takes her refreshment gives Laura the perfect opportunity to add, 'and, sorry, I didn't catch your name?'

'That's because I didn't give it. Did you say coffee? I don't drink that foreign stuff. I'll have a nice mug of tea. Lots of milk and two sugars, and don't stint on the brewing. I likes it strong. If it's them cheap teabags, that Mrs Lesley likes, then I'll need two of them in a mug. And I like my tea in one of them china cat mugs that Mrs E keeps in her dining room sideboard. The oak one with the glass front and Chinese lettering down each side.'

Shocked, Laura walks into the dining room, a feeling of unease settling on her as she removes the requested mug from the perfectly described cupboard. Whoever this woman is, she certainly knows her way around this cottage. She blows the dust out of the first mug she retrieves and hopes that Jane doesn't actually keep them for decorative purposes only.

'This one okay?' she asks. A nod answers her as her visitor continues with their earlier conversation as if she'd not been interrupted.

'You can call me, Miss Jones.'

Laura opens her mouth to introduce herself and then close it again without a word being uttered.

Cutting across Laura's attempt to introduce herself, Miss Jones asks, 'how long you been here?'

'I arrived yesterday.'

'Pity, you missed the drama, then.'

'What drama's this?' Laura asks, with little enthusiasm. What could possibly happen in this sleepy village?

Sipping her tea Miss Jones slowly recounts, once again, her adventure story. If her part in the rescue is slightly exaggerated, then her audience isn't to know, or to mind.

As Miss Jones talks Laura studies her face and the mind of an artist captures every detail, each line, each movement and each skin shade drop into her memory bank to be dragged out later when she may have the need for such a face to complete a painting. Laura hopes that it will not be too much later, she aches to draw Miss Jones as she is now, animated with her back to the sea and the sunshine catching the grey in her hair and turning it to liquid silver.

'It began at tea-time,' Miss Jones begins, using the practised pace of an experienced storyteller. 'When I saw this young lad climb into Smugglers Cave. I was in two minds about calling Day, as I didn't recognise him. The lad, not Day, 'course I'd recognise him; he's been around forever. But this lad, I didn't think he was a local kid up to a prank. I thought it more likely that he was a drug smuggler or something like them criminals on the telly. He looked dangerous. I think he had a gun. I saw something slung across his shoulders. It could have been one of them sawn off shotguns, I don't know. Anyway, he scaled the cliff like an expert, obviously up to no good. I noticed that Billy Berkshire –. Have you met Billy?'

'You're my first visitor. But I'm sure I'll get to meet him soon enough,' Laura confides.

'Well don't bother. He's as much use as a chocolate fireguard. He calls out to the lad, and when the lad doesn't hear him, he just goes off to the pub! So it was left to me to raise the alarm. Me, on my own, and me the oldest resident in the village. So, I decided to go back home and call Day, he's our local bobby; as I said, he's not much use either. He has the uniform but not the brains. He didn't do anything about my warning. As I said, uniform but no brains. But I didn't know that he'd ignored my warning until gone one in the morning when I saw the kid standing in the mouth of the cave. I looked out of my window and saw him just standing there. Up to his neck in seawater he was. Silly bugger I thought to myself, he's picked the one night of the year to camp in Smugglers when it gets flooded at high tide. Now I knows for sure that he's not local. No local lad would be that daft. Smugglers isn't normally affected by the tide, that's why they used it to store their booty. But that night was a spring tide, and the cave gets well and truly flooded. He could have picked any other night of the year and he'd have been okay. Silly fool! And he could have got a tide table from any number of places. Well, I watched Dave and Phil rescue him. Phil is, but you won't be meeting him in his professional capacity. He's the landlord of the pub. He and Dave rescued the lad. I saw it all. It was like one of them cops and robbers' shows on the telly, only more exciting. I'm sure there was at least one shot.'

Miss Jones stops talking just long enough to take another swallow of her tea and for Laura to try and identify the intermittent noises that are coming from outside. With her back to the kitchen door she can't see anything, and as Miss Jones or her dog don't appear to be bothered by it, Laura decides that there is obviously nothing to worry about; so she turns her full attention back on the story, and observing the teller.

'They had to wake the Doctor. Then they kept the suspect up at the surgery. So it must have been bad. I think they're hiding him. He may even be dead, perhaps they used a bit too much of that police brutality on him that we hear so much about.' She then drains her cup before standing up. 'Now if you don't mind, I can't stop here all day entertaining you, I have to give Barker his walk. I think I heard him a while back, he'll be impatient to get off.'

As Laura escorts her visitor to the garden gate she wonders if she could ask Miss Jones if she can paint her. At the gate, as they part, Laura decides that it would be better to approach the subject another time.

Turning to return to the cottage she notices that the washing has vanished. 'Shit,' she says, realising what the earlier disturbance must have been. She runs to the balustrade and looks over the side; disappointment floods her as she realises that there's no sign of the clothes. She walks slowly down to the beach, trying to catch any sight of her washing. But there's nothing to be seen.

Something shiny and white in the rockery catches her eye. She leaves the path and scrambles over the rocks until the tips of her fingers can reach it. She feels a fool when all she retrieves is a white plastic supermarket carrier bag. Her natural curiosity makes her open it and look inside. Automatically she removes the contents. Trembling in her hands are several spoiled drawings of exquisite detail and depth. She retraces her steps back to the footpath, trying not to lose either her footing or the drawings.

In the kitchen she carefully peels the papers apart and spread them over the table to dry. Most are past salvaging, but there is enough detail left to realise that they had been executed with great skill. Obviously another artist lives in the village. She'll have to enquire.

WILLIAM knocks on the door, if he heard the expletive emanating from within, it doesn't make him change his plans. He raises his hat as Laura greets him through the top half of the open stable door that separates her from the outside world.

'My dear, I'll not stop long. I just want to introduce myself. I'm a friend of Mrs Elliot, and on her behalf I'd like to welcome you to Penalton.'

'Do you wish to come in?' Laura asks hoping he'll not.

'Not this time,' he replies, as he takes in the paint-splattered top that she's wearing. 'I see you're busy. Perhaps we could arrange coffee or a drink one evening? Even paradise can be lonely.'

'Thanks, that's a very kind offer. And as you suspect, I would like to be alone just now,' she replies. 'The sound of a drink is very inviting. However, to make up for my lack of hospitality, why don't you come here later? I've got gin, tonic, lemons and Mrs Lesley has ensured that I've got lots of ice. So if you come back at, shall we say seven tonight, we could have that drink? I'm so looking forward to my first G and T on the patio. Sorry, I didn't catch your name, I'm Laura,' she adds, as she holds her hand out to him, and to his credit he shakes it, even with the paint splashes. 'Jane and I were at university together.'

'I'm William Berkshire.' He explains. 'What did -? No,' he interrupts himself, raises his hat and explains. 'The questions will keep until seven tonight. I don't want to turn up empty handed; can I bring some black olives as my contribution?'

'I love black olives,' she replies, as William turns away.

The joy that had filled his heart returns and can't be dampened, even by the fact that he is now compelled to go back to the village for the first time since the night of his eternal shame.

Inside the village shop William stands to the side while Miss Jones recounts her heroic part in the local excitement. She casts him a look of disgust that he tries to ignore; hoping that he has been able to demonstrate his superior nature by asking, in a clear and confident voice, if they have any black olives.

'Drunk, calling out over the sea wall and now black olives,' Miss Jones says in a loud voice to no one in particular, as she attempts to push past him.

'Miss Jones,' he enquires very politely. 'Have I done something to offend your sensibilities?' He asks the question in such a way as to imply that such a thing would be impossible.

'Mr. Berkshire,' she replies, 'I only says as I find. When I am trying to save a poor lad from drowning and a certain male resident of the village screams over the sea wall at him, I wonder. Then when the said gentleman sees that his call has not drawn the poor lad's attention, and he does not try again, I also wonder. Does he go and call the coastguard, No? Now that's the action I'd expect from a man who has lived this close to the sea for as long as some around here have. No names will I mention. In this village we didn't use to stand by and watch each other drown, even if that person is a terrorist.'

'Terrorist, Miss Jones?'

'He could be for all we know. That's why they've taken him away. But you're trying to get me to forget my story.'

'And that is all that it is, Miss Jones, a story.'

'Oh, is it, Mr. Berkshire? Well then why did I see the landlord taking you home at well after closing time? I'd say that a man who tries and fails to warn of imminent danger, and then goes off and gets drunk, I'd say that such a man is forgetting his Christian duty.'

'And I'd say that I don't know what you're talking about. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to track down some black olives.'

William walks out of the shop with a little more haste than he'd entered it. He is embarrassed by her revelations, and hopes that the rest of the village won't believe her. She's known to be an old gossip. But it worries him. He can't remember seeing any one climb into Smugglers that night. Let alone calling out a warning to them. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair. Had he really walked away from someone in danger? Was that why he'd got so drunk that night? In his memory he'd been quite euphoric when he'd set off on his walk. So getting drunk would have been the last thing on his mind.

ANNE is sensitive and realises that she has called at a bad time so she offers to come back later. Laura ushers her into the kitchen.

Anne picks up the still damp drawings and asks, 'some of yours?'

'No. I found them, in the rockery. Do you know who they belong to? I'd like to return them, if I can.'

'No one I know round here paints. Berkshire teaches piano and music, but that's not painting.'

As Laura makes coffee for herself and Anne, they chat about the domestic arrangements and after they've finished their drinks they walk round the house together.

They start at the top of the house, 'This is their room,' Anne tells her. 'I think it best if you don't use it. Actually, you've no need to come up these stairs at all. I wouldn't advise it for several reasons. You can live with noise, I take it?' Anne asks, as she leads the way back down to the next floor. 'On this floor, you can use any room you like. I put you in the front room because it has the view and no visitors.' She walks away quickly, 'Bathroom and two other bedrooms, one next to yours and the other one here, across the corridor from you. Don't worry about the noise in the little back room, no one ever died of noise, did they? And that's all it is.' She opens the door to the back room. 'You'll notice this room has a door leading into this corridor and another door over there. That door leads to the back stairs. If you go down them you'll come to the dining room.' She turns and leads Laura back down the main staircase. 'And down here we have the front room, running the whole length of the house, leading to the summer house. I see you've set yourself up in there. Good, I can always wash the paint off the floor tiles. I don't know how I'd be able to get it out of these Chinese rugs and carpets; being so thick they soak up all the dust and dirt like there's no tomorrow. So, if you happened to spill anything on them, I'd never be able to get it out. Back this way.' Anne walks into the hall and then along to the dining room with Laura looking more and more like a prospective buyer every second. 'There's nothing much to say about this room, a little cold and dark for my tastes,' she says, opening the door to the dining room and then standing back to allow Laura to step into the room ahead of her. Anne doesn't enter the room herself; instead she looks around the hall as if deciding what still needed cleaning. Laura emerges moments later. 'But then what can you expect with its history ...' she trails off and leaves the room returning, with Laura in her wake, to the kitchen.

'This is the room I've spent most of my time in, since I arrived,' Laura announces.

Anne notices that she looks confused, as if she's trying to work-out something that she wants to ask. Anne smiles internally, her plan is working. 'This and your bedroom are the best rooms. I'm never troubled in here, if you know what I mean,' Anne says, as she watches Laura put the kettle on. Laura is gazing out to sea with a puzzled expression set over her features. Anne wonders if she needs a little more prompting, but decides to let time and the natural noises of the cottage take their course. Unless, that is, Laura asks the right question.

Placing another coffee in front of Anne, Laura asks, 'do you have a long association with the cottage?'

'I've cleaned it for eight years. Before then it was a derelict wreck. A shell of a building that no one would chose to live in. Well, no one from the village that is ...' Again she ends her sentence as if something important has been left unsaid.

'It seems a pity that such a nice place was left to go to wrack and ruin. Do you know the history of the cottage?'

'I do, as does everyone in the village.'

Laura settles herself in the chair, she's already had one slice of village life, and now she's eager to hear another. 'What can you tell me about it?'

'I'm not so sure you want to know. What's Mrs Elliot told you?'

'Nothing,' Laura looks away, as if trying to remember something. 'As far as I know they found a derelict cottage, loved the location. Worked on it for years and turned it into their dream home. You came to work for them, and you not only clean the cottage, but you also keep an eye on the place. I think your husband does minor running repairs. But that's all. So I know nothing about its real history. What can you tell me about the previous inhabitants?'

'A childless couple had it.' Anne looks at Laura who is nodding encouragement. 'He murdered her.' She stops talking and waits for the words to sink in.

'Gosh,' Laura replies.

Which Anne thinks is a feeble reaction. 'The story is,' Anne continues, 'that he stabbed her in the bedroom. The room where Mrs Elliot now sleeps. She managed to get away and she ran into the back bedroom, the one with the two doors. But he caught up with her and stabbed her again. She kicked him; he stumbled and that gave her enough time to run to the dining room. That's where he caught up with her and finished her off. Some say twenty stab wounds. Some say as many as fifty. But no one knows for sure it was all so long ago.'

'The murder would have made the papers?'

'Not in them days. There was very little interest. She was a foreign girl and to be honest, not one of the locals cared.'

'But it sounds as if it was a brutal attack?'

'It was. The place was a mess. There was blood everywhere. Or so I'm told. It was a blessing when the roof came off in the gales of '63. It cleaned the place up a bit. But no one wanted to live in it after that. Besides ...'

'And what happened to the husband?'

'He hung himself shortly afterwards. Some say he couldn't live without her. Some say he couldn't live with the guilt. Some say it was her ghost that drove him to it. Who can say? No one ever found out why he did it. And she lies to this day in the churchyard. Well, they say she lies, but there are many in the village who say she doesn't. Lie still that is. If you gets my meaning?'

Laura laughs. A nervous laugh, 'Are you trying to tell me that the village gossip is that this place is haunted?'

'I wouldn't like to say, I'm sure. Besides, it all happened so long ago. Before my time, I wasn't even born when he killed her. But some of the old folk in the village will say it's so. Some wouldn't even spend the night here if...' She trails off, looks at Laura before continuing apolitically, '... sorry. Am I scaring you? It's only silly folk law. Like the werewolf or Frankenstein. Pay no heed to me. I'm just a silly old woman repeating tales out of school.' Anne then abruptly changes the subject 'Now, to more important matters. How and when would you like me to clean? I'm paid to do two mornings a week. You say when you'd like me to come.'

JANE boards the flight carrying a small black leather case that holds a few essentials; otherwise she has everything she needs for the weekend at the cottage. She smiles as she remembers the shocked looks on the faces of her staff as she announced that she was leaving early as she was going away for the whole weekend. She will have to do it more often; it isn't so much that they take her for granted, it's that she takes herself for granted.

The small plane takes off and heads for the West Country, Jane watches as the landscape slips away underneath her. She declines all refreshments and pretends to be asleep so that she can reflect on her arrival and how she will manage the first few "sticky" moments alone with Laura.

SALLY is also flying, watching Continental Europe slip into England's green and pleasant lands. She accepts all the glasses of champagne that are offered, but she stoically refuses to be drawn into conversation with anyone. She wants to be alone with her thoughts, and dwell on that sweet moment, that wonderful moment, when she will arrive at the office and see her darling Jane.

During the flight, which she undertakes with a constant supply of champagne and the biggest smile on her sensuous lips, the air crew decides that she is drinking too much to be pregnant, so she must have just been proposed to. They all comment on how happy she looks and take pleasure in refilling her glass and imagining what it is that is making her beautiful blue eyes dance so.

WELLS mechanically eats his breakfast, and realises that the thought of being alone in the house until afternoon surgery is haunting him. He finishes the last slice of toast, drains his cup, runs the hot water and washes his few dirty dishes before leaving them to dry on the draining board. After wiping the surfaces he checks that the bin is empty, drops the tea bag into it and then goes in search of his hat and outdoor coat.

Closing the door behind him he realises that he's not even decided where he is actually going to walk to. He doesn't want to go into the village; the last thing he wants to do is to meet other people and be forced to talk to them. He needs isolation and fresh air so that he can let his mind work out the answer to his present dilemma.

The day that had started off gloriously has now given way to a steady drizzle. He quickens his pace until the incline of the hill force him to slow down and rest by Bay View cottage.

'Hello' a voice greets him.

'Good day,' he replies, turning to look at the woman who's addressed him. 'You're not Mrs Elliot?'

'Jane's a friend of mine, we were at university together. I'll be here for a few days. Pity the weather appears to be breaking down.'

'The forecast is for rain for the whole weekend and then sunshine after the start of next week.' He points to the sea with his left hand, 'You have to see the sea when she's angry. Some of my happiest memories are when I've been sat on that patio watching a storm raging at sea. And then just as you get to feel a little superior, the wind whips the spray up and it splashes in your face.' Aware he may be coming across as slightly depressed he adds, 'Jane gave some good parties, summer and winter. I'll not keep you,' he announces. 'But I do hope we bump into each other at a more socially convenient time. By the way, I'm Doctor Wells.' He holds out his hand and is rewarded with a very firm handshake.

'Laura Selous. I hope you'll join me for coffee or something stronger when the weather's better. Or worse if you prefer it.'

Wells agrees, not so much because he wants to, but more as a way of terminating the conversation and being allowed to continue his solitary walk. By now the rain is falling as a depressing steady drizzle and while he doesn't want to go back home, he doesn't want to stand about exchanging idle chit-chat. He has a more important decision to make.

He turns around at the top of the hill and gazes at the village; nestling in the valley as if the sea and mountains are trying to contain it. He makes a snap decision and quickly walks to the police house.

Day answers the door. 'I was going to come and see you.'

'I've saved you the trip, unless you have to see the room again?'

'No, come in.' Day stands aside to let Wells enter. He indicates for him to go into the front room. Then he calls Penny and asks her to make coffee. He takes a few deep breaths and then enters his own office.

'Has there been any news of the lad?' Wells asks, as Day closes the door.

'No, but then people don't report stolen washing. We only get told about it when someone just happens to mention it down the pub. I'm not expecting a sighting, well not just yet. Why?'

'I'll come to the point, Day. We need to find the lad.'

'Is there a medical reason I should know about?'

'He's a ...' Wells tries to find the words that will indicate his patient's illness without breaking confidentiality. It is harder than he expects it to be. 'A ... a. He's a danger in his present state.'

'Danger? How?'

'Day, the lad's on medication. That's all I can say at this stage, unless you get a case and need to question me, officially.'

'Is this danger that you mention a danger to himself, or to other people?'

'Unsure, it could be both.'

'And this medication, how do you know about it?' Day continues, his questioning gently yet competently.

'I found a bottle of pills in his bags. I asked a colleague at the teaching hospital, he told me what they were for. He needs to take them daily.'

'And if he doesn't take them?' Day asks.

'I said he'd be a danger. Isn't that enough?'

'To other people?'

'That's possible.'

'To himself, Doctor?'

'That's probable.'

'And what do you suggest I do, Doctor?'

'We need to get the pills to him.'

'When did he last take them?'

'I don't know, Day.'

'How do you know he doesn't have another supply with him?'

'I don't. But he only had the one bottle when we put him to bed the other night, and I've still got it.'

'I could search the cave and see if he's left anything. Perhaps he was planning to go back and retrieve whatever he didn't manage to bring out with him when we picked him up. It's a long shot, considering the tide that night, but it's worth a trip, just to be sure.' Day offers.

'I agree, I think it's unlikely.'

'I'll let the hospitals know we need to talk to him. He's probably reached the Cottage by now.'

'Day, that wouldn't do him any good. I also found a soggy sheet of paper that I think's what's left of his prescription. He can only get these pills with a prescription.'

'But you could prescribe them for him?'

'No, not without the prescription he's been given. The pills are the result of a lengthy medical examination, days and perhaps weeks of study and observation. If he doesn't go back to the doctor who originally prescribed them for him, then he'll have to go through the full medical procedure before he can be prescribed them again.' Wells says, all too well aware that to non-medial people the whole rigmarole may appear to be too complicated. But he knows that it works, and safeguards the innocent.

Penny enters the room and Wells stands up. He declines her offer of coffee and walks to the door. Day follows him.

As Day opens the front door he asks, 'I have a runaway kid who's on serious prescription drugs and no way that he can get any more without having a full medical. Great.' As Dave stands back to let Wells pass he asks, 'are you in any danger?'

'From a half-starved lad running around in my son's pyjamas? I'm not a fool. I've considered the possibility at length, and I don't think so.'

AS he closes the door behind Wells, Day can't help but feel that the bravado of his last few words were actually a very thin veneer.

'He didn't stay?' Penny states the obvious.

'Our Doctor is a very worried man, I think.'

'Why?'

'If that lad's his son, he's worried. If it's not his son, he's also worried. Apparently the kids on some prescription drugs and he needs a top up of them PDQ.'

'Do you think the kid will try and break into the surgery to get them back?' Penny asks.

'I think that's what's worrying Williams.'

'Not his kid then?'

'That doesn't necessarily follow. I'll have that coffee, if it's still on offer?' Day asks, reluctant to go to work and aware that what had started as a minor incident is now growing out of all proportions.

THE girls sit trying not to catch each other's eye. The atmosphere is stifling, each blaming the other for their mothers and now their father's disappearance. The telephone rings in the hall and they both race to it. Charlotte is the first to pick it up.

'Mum, it's good to hear your voice. How are you? When will you be back? Can you do me a painting of an elephant? I need one for my art project next week.' Charlotte uses the same scattergun approach to questioning that her stepfather does. She listens with a smile on her face and then hands the receiver to Amanda.

'How is it?' Amanda asks as she settles herself onto the bottom step.

'It's wonderful. The most glorious place on earth. You'd love it, sea, sky and the most wonderful light.'

'So you'll have lots to show us when you return?'

'No, I'm getting very little done. I've had four visitors this morning. I feel like Victoria Coach Station. But they are real characters and I'm just dying to capture them on canvas. I also found a horde of paintings in the garden. Spoilt, but the skill with which they were drawn is impressive. I'm going to do some detective work to find out who painted them, and why they threw them away.'

'Tell me about the cottage, is it just perfect? Jane Elliot has wonderful, if not a little fussy, taste.'

'Amanda, the cottage is so her. But the setting, I'll bring you here sometime, if they'll let me. You'd love to stand on the patio and paint the sea. In fact, I've an idea of a family portrait with all of us sat on the balustrade and the sea in the background. But enough of my future plans. How are you? Dad home yet?'

'Not yet, Mum. We miss you.'

'And I miss you. Tell Dad I called, and give my love to Charlotte.'

Amanda hangs up and notices that Charlotte has been standing silently in the hallway. 'Sorry, did you want to talk to her again?'

'No.' tears spill down her cheek.

Amanda walks towards her and takes her into her arms. 'She does love you.' She tells her talking softly and unsure if she's be heard over the loud sobs.

PETER swears as the traffic stalls to yet another halt. At this rate he won't get to Penalton before Monday morning. He feels guilty; as if he's also run out on the girls. But last night they had all talked about it; and it had been agreed that someone needed to go and talk to Laura. Damn it, he wants to go himself, bring her home safety; back to hearth and home or at the least reassure himself that she still loves them.

He had tried, on numerous occasions, to tell himself that he was being foolish, but the worry in the back of his mind he just couldn't ignore. In a jealous rage he decides that Laura is at the cottage with both Sally and Jane; both of whom are well known for being sexually predators and Laura, his precious Laura, is still an innocent.

Slowly the car inches past Slough, Reading, Newbury and then he comes to another complete standstill. By the time the traffic to Wales leaves the road it is pitch dark and he feels in need of a hot drink and a rest. The loss of time causes him to speed excessively on the few occasions that the traffic conditions allow him to.

His temper grows as the traffic, outside Bristol, stops, crawls, stops, crawls and then stops again. He wishes now that he'd caught the train.

BRENDON wakes to find that the woman in the house is already moving about. He crouches behind the furniture hoping she wouldn't be able to see him. He watches as she dances on the beach, as she returns up the path, undresses in the kitchen and then as she hangs the damp clothing on the line with the same intensity as Laura would later on watch Miss Jones.

He can't believe his luck. She pegs out good quality clothing that look as if they will fit him. He smiles as he notices the warm pants and what appears to be a brushed cotton shirt. He feels guilty, but the cold has been seeping into his body all night. He shivers, wondering when and how he'll be able to "liberate" his new clothing.

The sound of voices draws his attention to the gate in the hedge. An older woman walks up to the cottage as if she owns it. She ties her dog up outside then the younger woman follows her into the kitchen; closing the door behind them both. The shadows in the kitchen indicate that the door will be closed for a long time.

Eventually Brendon summons up enough courage to creep out of his hiding place and approach the house. He crouches under the kitchen window and listens intently hoping to catch some of the conversation that may indicate how long he will have before they emerge. One voice is talking, a long and monotone monologue.

He is on the verge of moving until some words flicker into his brain and are interpreted. He freezes and settles under the window to listen. They are discussing him. He smiles to hear himself described as an expert climber and as a gun-carrying desperado. He wants to laugh out loud, to go inside and tell them that he really is harmless. He shivers and knocks over a plant. He has to get back to his safe hiding place, but only once he'd liberated the clothing from off the line. He falls to the floor and crawls round the side of the cottage. He counts the seconds, and when he doesn't hear the back door opening, he decides that his accident isn't of any interest to them. In a half crouching position he runs across the patio towards the washing line. Determined not to be visible to anyone, he lies on the ground under the clothing. By tugging at each garment he manages to release the pegs and send them flying into space. The clothing drops safely into his open arms. He then crawls back to the comparative safety of the shed.

Keeping his eyes on the house he wriggles into the clothes, putting them on over his pyjamas. He is pleased with the fit. He will need a coat, to replace the one he's lost; as yet he's unsure how he'll find one. The idea of going back to the other house is not appealing, besides, he doesn't know if he will be able to find it, or even recognise it again.

As there is no more warmth in the shed Brendon hugs his knees to his chest as he tries to maintain the little warmth that he still has in his body. All day long, with longing in his heart, he watches the comings and goings from the house. Every now and then he hears words, smells food being cooked and coffee being made. And each time the back door opens he can feel the warmth within. Each time he sees her, framed in the door way, paint splattered and with the tools of her trade held in her fingers he ached to join her. To ask her what she is working on and most of all, to have some human company. He feels tears slide down his face. He desperately needs some softness, someone to help him. Without his pills The Voice will soon be back and he'll be left with no alternative than to obey. He rocks himself gently back and forward without trying to stem his tears. He doesn't want The Voice to come back and start telling him what to do. But he really doesn't know how, all by himself, he'll ever be able to keep it away.

Friday evening / night

DAY stands in the empty bar and orders a pint and cheese sandwich.

'Nothing there?' Phil asks. Pulling the pint and checking it's clear.

'Fools' errand. But I had to make sure. I'd look a fool if I said I would and didn't and then someone else found something incriminating.'

'Who else would be looking for the lad? I take it that, Inspector, you were out looking for him again?'

'Come on Phil, you know better than to ask me about police business.'

'On police business, are we? Then -,' he takes the pint off the bar in a threatening movement. 'You won't be having this?'

'Give that back; or I'll close you for ... Well I don't know what for; but I'll think of something. That night we found the kid. A little bird told me that Berkshire and Wells were in here; and that you had to take Berkshire home because he was drunk. Is that true?'

'Is that little bird a big bird with an even bigger beak that she can't keep to herself and is she called Jones? Now what have you heard? She can be quite spiteful with some of her tales.'

'Is it true?' Day asks.

'Do you think it has any relevance?'

'I'm asking the questions.'

'Sure they was in here that night, Day. But Berkshire doesn't drink that often, so he can't hold his liquor. He didn't actually have that much. But he did need my help to get home. He was just in a very good mood. The Hudson kid has just won a scholarship or something to study music at some important school in London. He has to pass an entrance exam, but Berkshire said he'd do that no problem. So he was in here celebrating. He's an okay man, if a little girlie, if you know what I mean.'

'That mine, love?' Day addresses the waitress who walks into the bar carrying a sandwich on a chipped plate. She appears not to be too impressed with his powers of deduction; he's the only customer in the bar. 'And Wells, he's a man used to handling his drink, and I saw him when he took the kid round. What was he in here celebrating?'

AS Miss Jones takes Barker for his evening walk she doesn't actually want to be noticed by Berkshire or Laura as they take their leave of each other at the gate to the cottage. Suddenly she finds something fascinating at the foot of a massive bush that actually covers her whole body.

JANE wakes when the unexpected noise flies from her unconscious mind and settles in her conscious being. She opens her eyes to see the flight attendants moving quickly round the cabin trying to reassure frightened passengers. The voice of the captain breaks into her thoughts.

'We are experiencing a problem with one of the fuel pipelines. To ensure the safety of everyone on board, I will be landing and terminating our flight today at Southampton Airport.' The rest of the sentence is lost by her own thoughts as they bombard her with questions.

Jane presses the call button. The attendant swiftly appears.

'What's happening? I have to be in Cornwall tonight.'

'There's another flight leaving an hour after we get in; I will try and book you on that, if you'd like? It will get in around ten.'

Relief dissolves her panic, 'Thank you.'

'Do you want me to book you on that flight?'

'Yes. First class and can you arrange for a taxi to meet me at which ever airport we land and take me directly to Penalton?'

'I can, but it's miles away.'

'It's can't be that far.'

'The Captain explained, earlier, perhaps you were sleeping. The only flight we can book people onto is going to Newquay and not Plymouth. Southampton doesn't have any availability for flights to Plymouth until Sunday morning, sorry.'

'Newquay, but that's miles away. I'll never get there tonight.'

'I can arrange for you to stay at the Hilton, and then arrange for your transfer in the morning. You could finish the journey by taxi.'

Resigned to her fate she smiles at the stewardess and says, 'Please, will you make those arrangements for me. By the way, I didn't quite hear all the announcement, what's wrong?'

'The fuel line has broken and the engines are not –.'

'I don't need to know any more,' Jane interrupts. 'Thanks. Do you know how long it will be before we land?'

The Captain chooses that moment to make his final announcement and turn on the "fasten seat belt" signs. The flight attendant smiles at Jane before returning to her own seat.

SALLY throws open the door, arms held wide with goodies as she calls aloud 'Hello workers.'

The audible gasp escaping from the group astounds her. With growing suspicion she walks into the main office of her lovers company, with chilled champagne and goodies piled high in her duty free bags.

'Miss Henry,' one of the three people working there addresses her.

Sally recognises the face but can't put a name to it. Nor can she name the other two people who are with him. All she knows is that one of them isn't Jane.

'It's good to see you.' The unnamed man adds in a voice that implies that it isn't good, to see her, at all.

'I've brought goodies all the way from France. I was working on the philosophy that if Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then I'd bring the mountain!' The lightness to her spirit has to be forced. Something is not going to plan. 'So, here I am?' Sally is fast getting to the point when she'll have to ask the one question that she really doesn't want to know the answer to.

'Miss Henry,' someone says gently. 'Jane's not here. Was she expecting you?'

'Obviously not,' Sally replies, deflated and unsure how long she will be able to keep her tears at bay for.

'She's gone to Cornwall. It was unexpected.' The speaker adds as if that will ease her pain.

'Sorry. Her loss then. Let me leave these for you.' Sally puts the bags on the floor and feeling stupid flees the room as the tears stream down her face. 'Make sure you eat and drink your fill. To you, from me, with love.'

Outside, in the street, Sally hails a taxi and demands to be taken home without the obligatory running commentary. She wants to be alone with her thoughts in order to plan her next move. Jane had, if not actually lied to her, at least told her a half-truth. Anger fills her body and she physically shakes with rage.

If the taxi driver had glanced at the reflection of his passenger in his rear view mirror then blank eyes would be all that he'd have been able to see.

'Clear off.' He calls to another driver. 'Silly fool! Did you see that?' he asks of no one and yet of everyone. 'That guy indicates left and then turns right, right in front of me. Some fools shouldn't be on the road.' He adds while shaking his fist through his open window at the other driver.

Sally doesn't join the conversation; she reflects that it could be that on the road, as in life, things are not always what they appear to be. Concern and fear start to soften her anger and pain. They had said that her departure had been sudden. Perhaps there had been an accident at the cottage. They had said that Jane had left for Cornwall. Something must be wrong, and as Sally hadn't told anyone that she was planning on coming home early, then Jane wouldn't know to tell her. Besides, Jane wouldn't like to worry her, especially if she thought Sally was miles away and unable to get home. And if Jane had set off for Cornwall, then at least she knew where she'd find her.

Leaving the taxi, she pays and tips him well. Meeting his look of surprise she turns away as she informs him, 'Things are not always what we think they are.'

Once inside she changes into her motor cycle leathers, puts her credit cards in her pocket, and takes both helmets from the shelf in the hall before running down the steps to the integral garage.

It has been a while since she's ridden the bike, but it doesn't take her long to get back into the rhythm of the road. As expected the cars are stationary so she is able to weave between them, her progress unimpeded by the volume of traffic. The joy returns to her heart as she covers the miles that will bring her closer to her lover.

PETER slaps his hands on the steering wheel. He hadn't expected anything like this volume of traffic. If his plans had gone as they should have, then by now he should already be sat in the cottage with Laura. Instead he is still stuck in traffic, the same traffic that he's been stuck in since he left London over six hours ago.

He calls the girls and tells them that his arrival time will be delayed; and that they should go to bed because he wouldn't be calling them again until he's having breakfast with their mother in the morning.

'DAD says he doesn't think he'll get to the cottage before 2 am.' Amanda says as she replaces the receiver.

'The traffic?' Charlotte asks.

'Yes. He said we'd to go to bed and he'd call when he and mum are having breakfast.'

'I wish I were with them.'

'Me to,' Amanda reflects.

'We could, you know.'

'Charlotte, what are you suggesting?'

'Keep your voice down. Nan's in the kitchen, and she'll hear. Why don't we catch a train, look ...' Charlotte takes a map from between the covers of her book. 'I've been looking at the area. We catch a train from here and then a bus to Penalton. It can't take more than a few hours. If we caught the first train in the morning, we'd be with them in time for breakfast. Or lunch at the latest. What you say?'

'It looks a long way, and besides dad said we'd to stop here.'

'Don't you think it would be a lovely surprise for them if we both turned up to unite us all as a family?'

'What if they need to be alone?' Amada asks, with great sensitivity.

'They can be, after breakfast. We'll find something to do and give them space for themselves. Go on, live a little. What you say?'

'How do we get the money for train?'

'We ask Nan to loan it to us. We can pay her back when we can get to the bank on Monday. What you think? Go on, Amanda, live a little?'

THE sound of the knock on the door brings Laura from her thoughts as she gazes intently at the half-finished painting on her easel in the summerhouse. Swearing under her breath she glances at the clock and notices that it is starting to get dark. Dropping her brush into the water pot she goes to open the door.

'I am so sorry,' she confesses, allowing William to enter. 'I just forgot the time. You go through; and I'll change.'

Quickly Laura turns on the shower and steps under it. Is it the cold water she wonders, that is making her shiver, or is it the half remembered conversation with Anne that morning? This is actually the first time that she's been upstairs since she'd got dressed after going paddling at day-break. While she will not admit to deliberately avoiding the upper floors of the cottage, now she has actually left the ground floor, she does feel slightly unnerved.

Towelling herself vigorously she dresses quickly, in a sleeveless tunic and matching green leggings that match her eye colour and enhance her feminine curves.

She finds William in the kitchen admiring the drawings, which have by now dried out in the sunshine.

'Some of yours?' he asks.

'No, I found them. It's a mystery and I'm going to solve it. Do I assume by your answer that you didn't draw them?' Laura asks.

'Dear lady, let me assure you that I have no more skill with a paintbrush than, than ...'

'Than I have with a piano,' Laura adds, when his obvious inability to complete the sentence has hung between them for too long.

'Are they good drawings?' William asks, as he picks one up and looks at it with a careful, if untrained eye.

'I'd say they're excellent. No. No I wouldn't.' Laura replies walking over to him and taking the picture from between his fingers. 'I'd say they're exquisite. It's a pity they're spoilt. But this one,' she replaces the first one and selects the drawing that is lying on the very edge of the table. It's a picture of a seagull in flight. 'Look at it.'

'I can tell that it's an unusual perspective, looking down on the bird like that, as if the artist is flying above it. It's not the usual view, is it? The detail, what there is of it, is very fine, it's almost three dimensional. I feel I can almost touch it.'

'I can almost hear it,' Laura adds, looking at the picture, 'I wish I'd drawn it. Now, drinks.' After replacing the picture lovingly on the table she returns to her hostess role. 'G&T?'

'I did manage to track these down.' William holds up a supermarket plastic pot of big juicy black Spanish olives.

Her mouth waters at the sight of them. 'They look perfect.' She digs around in a cupboard. 'Here put them in this dish while I fix the drinks.' Laura hands him a genuine Spanish olive dish.

'Gosh, even the right dish, look there's a tiny section for the stones. Jane does have all the right stuff, doesn't she? And it's obviously locally made in ...' William turns the dish over and looks at the unglazed base, 'In Spain,' he adds, as if disappointed by the general description. Jane goes to Spain quite a lot I gather. I guess that's where she picked this up.'

'She does like the heat. Ice and lemon for you?'

William nods as he spoons the contents of the plastic tub into the green and orange olive dish. 'Pity but they're already pitted, so as we won't need the pip section, so I'll pile them all over. If you knew what I had to go through to get these, then perhaps we wouldn't eat them.' He stops talking as Laura walks to his side and snatches one of his them from the dish.

'Talk for yourself, I love olives.' She puts the whole fruit in her mouth and bites it in half. The look of joy on her face indicates better than words, the taste, texture and pleasure that it has just given her. However, just in case he hadn't realised her verdict she adds, 'and these are very good. Where did you get them?'

'The supermarket in Penderrick, it's the largest town in the area,' William replies to the questioning look on his face. He puts one of the olives in his mouth. 'They are good. In fact, I did try them in the shop. They have a massive olive bar and you're encouraged to try before you buy.'

'I could do that. Would they notice how many I tried before I bought any?'

'I think they would limit you. But it all very continental and, and thank you,' he adds, taking the offered drink.

'Is it too damp for the patio?' Laura asks, walking to the kitchen window and looking out on the drizzle.

'Not if we had a brolly?'

'William, are you always this romantic?'

'I know that you really wanted your first drink on the patio. I'm game, if you are. It isn't raining that much, is it?'

'Just one problem,' Laura replies between mouthfuls of olives. 'I didn't bring an umbrella with me.'

'I'm sure Jane has one. In fact I've seen a great big one somewhere. Let me think. Oh, yes, I think it's normally kept in the dining room. Shall I go and see if I can track it down?'

Laura finds the conversation with Anne flooding back into her, and the earlier sensation of unease returns. 'Please,' she asks, sipping her drink to drown her fears. She catches sight of the kitten mug that she'd used earlier for Miss Jones and the feels the sense of unease trying to settle on her all over again. She takes another sip, tops up her glass with tonic and awaits the return of her guest.

'I can't find it. It was a big old fashioned thing, one with a long spike on the end.' If William notices Laura shiver at the word spike, he doesn't comment. 'I've a golfing umbrella in the car; I'll go and get that.'

Shock that he's driven there clouds her reaction until she hears the closing of the door that indicates that she is alone. Instantly, at the sound of the door closing Laura can feel someone, or something, watching her.

'Come on now,' William calls, as standing in the doorway he tries to put up the most enormous umbrella that Laura has ever seen. 'You bring the drinks and a cloth to dry the chairs with. You're carriage awaits.'

Laura laughs, removing all her misgivings on a flow of warmth and manly charm. She glances at the dishes of nuts and crisps that she'd put out earlier in anticipation of the evening; she decides that she doesn't need to take them out with her. The olives will be more than enough.

'Are you sure that that thing's not meant to be set over a table and chairs? It looks large enough to me?' she asks laughing, as she hands William his drink. 'Cheers,' she says, her eyes dancing in the moonlight.

'Cheers. But if you're going to be rude about my golfing equipment I may just take it and go home.'

A sound startles Laura. She jumps, feels something touch her. She turns round and looks into William's eyes.

'Something wrong?' he asks, innocently concerned.

'I thought I heard something, felt something. I'm just imagining things. Now, what were we talking about?'

'You heard rain on a tin roof,' he indicates the shed, which she notices for the first time does have a tin roof. 'And you felt the ends of the umbrella, when you jumped I accidentally touched you with the tips. Living in a cottage as old as this one, you'll hear all sorts of strange noises. Just close your eyes and go back to sleep.'

Laura is about to ask him about the noises when the air sea rescue helicopter flies overhead making conversation impossible. The searchlights illuminate the bay, turning night into day. William waves enthusiastically to the men flying overhead. They have the cargo hatch door open and wave back with as much enthusiasm. Laura notices that the two men in the cockpit didn't wave, but the two men, hanging out from the open cargo hatch and the one, who is literally dangling out of the helicopter and suspended in a safety harness, do return their greetings. She copies their actions and waves enthusiastically to them.

All conversations, especially ones about noises and things that go bump in the night, are lost in the roar of the mechanical monster that always brings joy whenever it turned up.

Laura is pleased with how companionable William is. He has a wealth of stories and a style of self-deprecating charm that makes her warm to him. Even shivering on the patio in the cold and wet can't dampen her enthusiasm for the time she will spend in Penalton.

'Laura,' William asks, after a particularly involved story, 'did you leave the kitchen door open for a reason?'

'No, in fact I closed it, I'm sure I did.'

'The winds up here can do almost anything.'

'I think we could go in now. I've had more than my first drink out here. What were you planning on doing about food, William?'

'I have a stew cooking in the oven. I knew you'd have this madcap idea about drinking in the cold. So I prepared something that would warm me up when I got back home. You're more than welcome to join me, but you'll have to walk back with me?'

'I'm impressed with your planning. I would love to.' She surprises herself by actually meaning it. 'But there are a few things I must finish here before I turn in for the night. I hope the offer's open for another night?'

'It has been a wonderful evening, Laura. I hope to see you again. Perhaps you'll come to me for dinner one night next week. As I said when we met, it can be lonely even in paradise.'

'And this is paradise.' Laura reminds herself as she turns away from the cottage and looks out to sea. 'I'd like that. William.' At her words he turns, rests warm and caring eyes on her. She realises that this is not the time or the place. She has to put foolish notions of ghosts' right out of her mind. 'Thank you,' she replies, on the spur of the moment. 'It has been wonderful.' She goes inside and closes the lower half of the kitchen stable door. William holds the top half in his hands. She turns to face him over the closed part of the door, then she reaches up to kiss his cheek. 'Good night.'

'Good night,' he replies, handing the top section of the door to her and so closing his actually departure off from her view.

It is eight fifteen when Laura closes the door behind William and walks into the centre of the kitchen. The empty dishes of nuts and crisps catch her attention. She can't remember eating them; but who else could have? She considers the ghost stories that Anne had told her and then scolds herself. Ghosts don't eat she reminds herself as she returns, with limited enthusiasm, to her painting in the summerhouse.

She reflects on the work she's managed to do that day and decides that she isn't in the mood to do any more. The idea of a bath and then bed appeal as she covers her paintings with the old sheets she'd brought with her. She is curious as to why she isn't hungry, and after further refection she decides that if she had eaten the nuts and crisps, then that would explain both puzzles.

As she climbs the stairs she decides that she isn't able to face a trip to the bathroom.

AS Anne sits in the kitchen she isn't expecting a visitor so, when the doorbell rings and her youngest son brings Doctor Wells in to see her, she can't hide her surprise.

'Coffee?' Anne offers.

'Thank you, but no. I was wondering if you could do me a favour.'

'I'll try, please, Doctor, won't you sit down.'

'This is difficult,' Wells looks at the woman who is seated opposite him and then looks into the middle distance as he asks his favour.

WILLIAM had approached the evening with Laura with little enthusiasm. He had liked what he saw of the woman when he had first met her. But an evening with an unknown artist; he just doesn't know what they will find to talk about.

But he had enjoyed the evening, and while she was an attractive woman, he was pleased that she hadn't taken any advantage with her feminine charms.

What is tugging at his memory, as he walks the short distance back home to his lonely stew, is what had Laura been on the verge of asking him as he left? He'd have to talk to Anne in the morning, and see if she has been up to her old tricks again.

BRENDON hadn't dared hope. He'd heard enough of the conversations during the day to realise that the woman, who he now knew to be called Laura, was staying in the cottage alone. He'd even drawn a rough plan of the house built up from the details that he'd overheard from some of her many visitors.

The door was easy to open, but the last inch creaked softly, so he hadn't risked closing it behind him. It was at this point that the helicopter had flown overhead and flooded the kitchen with light. The instant that he saw his paintings he ran towards them. Some of the detail was still there, but most had been washed away. He felt sad standing there just looking at them in their sorry state; and before he knew what he was doing he'd eaten the bowl of nuts that had been left on the table.

As he starts to eat the crisps he makes his way to the front of the house and the summerhouse where Laura had been working. Her paintings are laid out around the room. He can see them clearly now that they are illuminated courtesy of the air sea rescue service. He stands still as he admires them, she has talent, and he aches, once again, to share it with her.

The crisps eaten; he wipes his hands down the front of his shirt and softly walks up the stairs. He too has heard the tales about the ghosts and the stabbing. But the thought of another night in a soft bed is worth the risk. He doesn't like to admit that The Voice has told him that he needs to be inside the house. After all, if there is anything in the ghost stories, then Laura will need him on hand to protect her. As he sees it, he isn't so much "breaking in", as being "on hand" as her guardian angel.

He finds the room without difficulty; even to him it feels cold and damp. He leaves the door to the back staircase slightly open, just in case he needs to make a quick exit. The other door he pulls to; so that from the hallway it will look closed. But if he needs to escape that way, then he won't have to turn the doorknob.

He removes his outer clothes and gets into bed, pulling the sheets and blankets over his head. After a couple of months sleeping rough, any bed is welcome. He is soon asleep and will remain so, oblivious to the eventful happenings that are taking place all around him.

Friday after midnight Saturday

ANNE can't sleep. It's now all too close and she is nervous. At midnight she gets up, dresses quickly and warmly; putting her outer clothes on over her nightdress. Stealthy she leaves her bedroom without disturbing Stewart, her husband. Then she quits the house without disturbing the family, and later, she walks along the cobbled streets without her footsteps making any audible sound in the still night air.

She heads to the cottage, and for a long moment she stands outside looking up at the dark windows. Opening the gate with care, ensuring it emits not a sound; she slips into the garden and walks around the cottage. If her nocturnal activities disturbed the slumbers of anyone, they are not the dreams of any of the sleepers in that cottage. Their dreams remain undisturbed by her activities, if not by the activities of others.

Periodically she lowers herself to the ground outside the dining room and puts her ear to the floor. Or she stands on tiptoes and looks into the room. Appearing satisfied, she turns away and as silently as she had entered the grounds she quits the cottage. After closing the gate she looks back at the dark windows and realises that she is actually envious of the undisturbed sleeper within.

With greater haste than she had made her trip to the cottage, she returns home. Silently she unlocks the street door and lets herself in. Quickly and silently she walks to her bedroom, undresses and climbs into bed besides her still sleeping husband.

MISS Jones watches as the will-o-the wisps moves slowly towards her house. She runs to her window and after picking up the powerful torch, the one that lives by the casement window, she flashes it twice. The will-o-the-wisps doesn't react to her signal. She tries again, and again, and again. Nothing. No reply. No acknowledgement. In a desperate attempt to gain their attention, she flashes the light, bangs on the window, and then flashes the signal again. Still no reply.

She pushes her face against the window, peers into the darkness; her own torch, now switched off, hangs loosely by her side. She needs dark in order to study the code. The other light flickers on, then a pause, then it goes off, then there's an even longer pause. It repeats this pattern. Not a pattern she recognises. The rhythm is soporific. She knows all about the mesmerising affect that they can have on unsuspecting people.

She walks to her wall chart. Shining her torch on the poster she checks the dates. She thought so; it's not even the right night. Their rendezvous is not due for ages. She looks out of the window again and wonders if she should call Day. Perhaps this is not a friendly ghost, but a burglar out casing the local houses. Or that terrorist. The one they'd tried, and failed, to capture earlier. Perhaps he's returned to the village to ... To do what she doesn't want to imagine.

Fear creeps over her face. She clutches her chest and staggers towards the door. Opening it she calls softly to Barker who wakes the instant her hand touches the doorknob. He gives her one quick look and then runs into the room, stops at the foot of the bed, looks at her as if he were checking something out. She smiles and he leaps into the centre of the big double bed. Miss Jones climbs back between the sheets, pulls them over her head and gives in to a slight tremble. Then a hand jerks from beneath the covers and pulls the little dog to her frail body.

JANE orders a sandwich and a glass of dry white wine to be sent to her room. When they arrived she consumes them with little appetite. While she has booked a taxi to meet her at the airport, she doesn't hold out much faith that this sleepy hotel will be able to fulfil her complicated request.

Now, in the early hours of the morning, she definitely isn't sure. She places the tray outside the door and returns to the cold unwelcoming bed. She will try to get some sleep, and then if that doesn't work, she will go back to the airport and see what transport they can arrange for her. Earlier she had checked that she had her driving licence with her, so if there really is no other transport available, she will hire a car and drive herself there.

She had hoped that her enforced night of anonymity would be nice. She had determined that her mobile telephone would remain firmly switched off until Monday. She had wanted the luxury of being an unknown woman in an unknown town. But now she is, she is painfully aware that there is something important missing from her life.

Waking in the strange cold bed, in the middle of the night, she is lonely. In the dark she runs her fingers over the empty half of the bed. Even she knows that she is missing something. But what that something is she doesn't know. Deep in her heart she is becoming aware that chasing half way across the country after Laura is not the answer she's seeking.

As she drifts into sleep she realises that she has stopped thinking of this journey as ending when she gets to the cottage and Laura. The future is uncertain. But whatever it holds, she knows she will survive. She is a born survivor, and all she has to do is to live through the next few months; which if her intuition is anything to go by, and it is more often right than it is wrong, she is in for a few very unpleasant times.

LAURA had tossed and turned, waking at every noise both real and imaginary. Several sounds had indeed disturbed her slumber. And as many actually woke her. Lying with the covers around her neck she is determined not to open her eyes. She tries not to move. She holds her breath and listens; part of her hoping that she'll not hear anything in the "dead of the night". The other half of her is hoping that she will hear something. Anything as long as she can identify what it is and then go back to sleep.

Ghostly images fill her mind as she screws her eyes together. Still in her self-imposed darkness she turns over trying to block out the sounds of the night. But however hard she tries, the sounds in her head will not go away. She tries very hard to sleep. Sleep dances alluringly in front of her eyes, tempting her until she is on the verge of dropping off; then she'll hear something and be instantly awake and fretful.

She listens, straining every nerve end, but the sounds never come when she's alert. The memory of the ghost story comes back, again and again. Screaming murderous and frightening ghosts fill each non-dreaming moment. Until eventually she is compelled to grope in the dark for the switch to turn her bedside light on. As soon as she opens her eyes she realises that there is nothing to see. She switches the light off and settles back down to sleep, her body exhausted while her mind races with endless possibilities. She has a strong urge to go to the toilet, but the very idea of leaving the safety of her bed will not allow her to move.

'There are no such thing as ghosts,' she tells herself softly. 'No one has ever been killed by a ghost,' she adds, trying not to dwell on the contradictory nature of her twin mantras. 'I am all alone in this cottage,' she concludes, settling herself under the sheets. 'I am going to sleep and wake in the morning with the sunrise. And I will find the cottage just as I left it last night. 'Shit!' she mutters into the sheets, as her heart pounds and her eyes shoot wide open. There is no denying it; that was the sound of a creaking floorboard. She holds her breath, straining to listen for any other sounds. 'It's not happening,' she says aloud, allowing the sound of her own voice to fill the void. 'No one ever died of noise.' She repeats the words that Anne had used earlier on; wishing that the older woman were here with her. She desperately needs another person to share this lonely vigil with.

BRENDON wakes without realising where he is. He lies on his back looking at the ceiling knowing that he needs the loo; he's reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed that he has finally managed to get warm. The Voice calls to him. So softly at first that Brendon is able to ignore it. Then with mounting insistence it demands his attention as, later on, it will demand his actions.

He has slept for over three hours, far longer than anything he's been able to manage while he's been sleeping rough. He's discounted the night he spent at the Doctors. That night he was drugged, and drugged sleep doesn't count, it isn't natural. He feels rested for the first time in years. The house is warm, the heating apparently on constantly. The carpets are thick and comforting to his bare feet.

He gets out of bed and goes in search of a bathroom. With some unseen guiding hand supporting his quest the first door he opens is the bathroom. He goes inside, closes the door behind him, turns on the light and then bolts the door against unwanted visitors.

His biological needs attended to he automatically flushes the toilet.

LAURA doesn't immediately recognise the noise. But instantly she knows that the noise is real. Slowly an image floats into her mind and she manages to identify the sound. She snatches her old grey overcoat, grabs the glossy magazine from her bedside table, rolls it up tightly and then leaves the room before she can change her mind. 'There are no such things as ghosts,' she tells herself. 'And even if there are ghosts, they don't need to use the loo,' she scolds as she flings the door to her bedroom wide open. An action that is as rash as it is unplanned. For there is now no going back, not from the moment that she decided to fling the door wide open and step into the hallway.

Outside her room she notices the light is still on in the toilet. Now she has confirmation, she knows she's dealing with a living person; a toilet using ghost wouldn't need the light. She puts the hall light on and stands behind the bathroom door, slowly raising the magazine over her head.

Brendon realises what he's done the moment his hand releases the chain. It's too late. He turns the light off, and waits until he is sure that no one else is moving around. Silently he opens the door and steps into the hallway.

Laura notices the door opening; but she hasn't realised, until it's too late, that she has hidden herself in such a position that the outward opening door will actually pin her between it and the wall. The door, that is threatening to squash her, arrests its progress and starts to move away from her.

They see each other at the same time.

Brendon notices Laura, her hands raised above her head holding a rolled up magazine. She is dressed for bed with a very masculine overcoat over what appears to be silk pyjamas. She is slight, and even with raised arms she wouldn't be able to reach the top of his head. He's made contact. Not in quite the way he had hoped they would meet, but she now knows that he exists.

Laura sees a half-starved youth in old fashioned pyjamas who looks as if he hasn't bathed in days. He is unshaven, dishevelled and his bare feet are red and sore. He's tall and lanky. She lowers her arms. She doesn't need a rolled up copy of Cosmopolitan to protect herself from him.

'I'm Laura,' she says, unsure if he belongs to the house or not.

'I know.'

'Did Jane tell you I was staying here? I wish she'd told me about you.' She looks at the magazine. 'Sorry about that, I wouldn't have hit you.'

'My fault. I'm sorry to have startled you.'

Laura hears an educated voice with a hit of an accent. She decides he must be one of the many unorthodox friends that Sally and Jane attract. Unorthodox, just like her.

'So; whose friend are you?' she asks.

'No. I'm -.' Brendon looks away. As he turns back he adds, 'I shouldn't.' He turns away again, unable to make his confession. Telling the truth will surely end in his eviction from the warm bed and the chance to get to know his fellow artist.

By his obvious display of fear and rejection Laura understands the strange noises she's been hearing during her stay; as well as the missing crisps and nuts. 'You don't know Jane Elliot, do you?'

'No.' Brendon replies quietly.

'You don't even know Sally Henry, do you?'

'No.' he replies even more quietly. In fact if Laura hadn't seen his lips move she wouldn't have known if he'd answered her or not.

'Care to tell me who you are?' She folds her arms across her chest, the rolled up copy of Cosmo still in her hands.

He looks frightened. 'I came for my paintings.' He stammers.

The ludicrous nature of the situation makes her suddenly burst out laughing. Uncontrollable raucous laughter that releases her pent up fears and causes her to weep in relief.

'I'll go,' Brendon offers turning and setting off for the stairs.

'You stand just where you are.' He freezes. 'How do you fancy a cup of coffee and a fry up?'

'You're not going to call the police?'

'You said you'd come for your paintings. Which are excellent, by the way. I'd like to talk to you about them. We could talk in the morning on full stomachs, or we could do it now as we're both wide awake. Besides, I'm not going to get any sleep now. And I know for a fact that your last meal was crisps and nuts. But I don't know when you ate before that. I guess it was a long time ago. But I would like to know why you've come for your painting in your pyjamas?'

'I'll get dressed.' Brendon stops talking. 'These are all the clothes I've got.' His eyes met hers before he adds, as a quick after thought, 'With me. The others were stolen.' He doesn't like the idea of lying to Laura, but that isn't exactly a lie, more of a half-truth. The doctor had taken his other clothes. He stands tall and faces her as his natural confidence returns.

'Here,' she takes off her overcoat and hands it to him. 'It will be a little short; my husband's not quite as tall as you are. Go on, put it on, and then we can have that fry up. I don't know about you, but I'm starving and I'm very glad that you're not a ghost.' Laura walks back to her bedroom calling to him, 'You go down and put the kettle on. I'll join you in the kitchen as soon as I've found a wrap.' Her stomach lets out a loud rumble as she closes her bedroom door behind her.

PETER turns the tape off and drives silently into the village. It is Saturday but only just. He's no idea where the cottage is. He had correctly assumed that as it's called Bay View, then it would be on one of the two hills. He decides, or is it just logical that it will be prominent and easy to find. But on this journey not all his thinking had been logical.

He drives slowly down the first hill, then across the village and along Main Street before driving slowly up the opposite hill. It's too dark to see anything. At the top of the hill he turns the car around; drives back the way he has come, crests the top of the first hill and then executes a sweeping U turn which brings the car to face the village. He parks on the road.

He peers into the inky darkness before him. A few lights are visible on the horizon, ships at sea he assumes. But there is nothing visible on the land, no creatures stir, no vagrants beg, and there are no drunks to throw up over his shoes. The village is asleep; and it's obvious that it doesn't intend to have its slumbers disturbed that night.

He removes the torch from the glove compartment and his coat from the back seat and sets off down the street; searching out house names and numbers as he goes. His progress is marked by the occasional flash of his, sadly inadequate, torch.

SALLY opens the throttle and doesn't stop until the numbness in her bum means that she really has to rest. She calls into a motorway service station, refuelling both herself and her bike.

Eating her sandwich standing up she notices how her feminine style always draws attention to her motorbike. She enjoys that first moment when she removes her helmet and allows her long red hair to flow over her shoulders. It never ceases to draw gasps of amazement from the crowd. She tousles her tresses with her long fingers and her eyes close basking in the admiration of other people. Her only concern is that they don't appear to realise that she's female before she removes her helmet. When she had first started to ride a bike she had checked her appearance in every mirror that she past. Even in thick leathers, it is obvious to her that she is a woman. And in these figure hugging leathers, leathers that had been selected by Jane because they actually accentuated her curves, it is surely obvious that she is all woman.

With a roar she speeds into the night, enjoying the feeling of power under her as the tire noise reverberates through her body. She sings at the top of her voice as she rides, unaware if her singing is in or out of tune as the wind whips the sound away from her ears and sends it spinning into the ether behind her.

THE girls heard the sound. The both turn and see their Nan stood in the door way, her lumpy figure in dark relief against the landing light.

'Now, are you going to tell me what you're planning?' she asks.

They both look at each other then turn away the moment their eyes meet. In unison they swallow; the heavy saliva of guilt that has instantly accumulated at the back of their throats when the door opened and they realised that they had been caught.

'I'm waiting,' Nan says. They still don't answer. She walks into the room. 'You'll have to tell me sooner or later. Were you planning a party here while you're on your own?' As there is no reaction she tries another hook. 'Friends invite you to a party?' Again there's no reaction. 'Unsuitable friends invited you to a party?' she asks, not bothering to hide the laughter in her voice. 'Can I come as well?' she requests, squashing her bulk between the sisters. Sitting on the bed with them on either side of her she continues fishing. 'I cannot remember the last time I did anything risqué. But when I was young, that was a different story. So, are you going to tell me what you're planning that cannot wait until the morning?' Gently she removes the sheets of paper that the girls have been trying to hide from her ever since she entered the room.

'We were going to catch a train and visit mum and dad.' Amanda confesses.

'Is that all? So what have you found out?' Nan asks.

This time it's Charlotte who breaks the confidence. 'That we needed to be on the overnight train, last night, if we want to arrive in time for breakfast.'

'And we couldn't afford that,' Amanda adds, sadness edging her voice.

'That would be nice for you,' Nan adds, looking from girl to girl as she nods in agreement. 'But how about for mum and dad?'

'Why wouldn't they want us to ...?'

'Amanda, when a man and a woman have things to sort out, they need to be alone. That doesn't stop them loving the other people in their lives. Only -,' she stops talking and hugs each of the girls in turn. 'Only, they want to shelter you both from as much of their pain as they can.'

'Has mum left dad?'

'Not to my knowledge,' Nan replies, softly.

'But didn't he hit her the other night.' Charlotte asks.

'I spoke to your father about that. They did have a row, a blazing humdinger of a row. But it turns out that she was the one doing the actually fisticuffs. It was she who hit him.'

'Does that make it easier?' Amanda asks, after a moment's quiet reflection.

'I don't know.'
'Is it money? Are they arguing over money? At school they're saying he's been embezzling his firm. Is that true?' Charlotte hurries on to ask her question before she loses her nerve.

'Some money has gone missing. But it could be anyone. Naturally all the senior staff are under suspicion. Your school friends are just picking on your dad because he's your dad and he works there. In some other school, with some other kid, the kids will be picking on them just because their father works there. You dad has had nothing to do with the missing money. I'm sure of that. And so is your mum.'

'Then why have we suddenly got more money. Dad said we can afford to go on a family holiday and have the school field trips as well.'

'And mum has bought new things for this house. Where has all the money come from?'

'Your dad has just pulled off an important contract, and he's being rewarded for it. He is good at what he does. Now, if you want my advice. And I know that when I was your age I didn't want anyone's advice. Except possibly my own and that of the Head Boy. Who incidentally never even noticed me. But here's my advice, for all its worth; ignore it if you want. But I think it's good advice. Leave your parents to sort themselves out this weekend. Give them space. You know how you like your own space when things get rough?' Their Nan looks from one to the other. 'I remember occasions when you've gone flouncing off up the stairs and slammed the door to your respective rooms. Do you recall such occasions?' They both nod. 'You needed your own space. Your own "me time" to reflect and decide what it is that really matters to you. Yet you both came back down to the family. Am I right?' she looks lovingly at both of them and smiles. 'Or am I'm right? You just leave your parents to find each other, and then to come back to find you both. Can do?'

Charlotte gets up off the bed, kisses her Nan on the cheek. 'I'll say good night then.' And she makes her way to her own bedroom and the sleep that she realises will come fairly soon.

'And what about you, Amanda?'

Amanda sighs, pulls her bedcovers back and gets into bed. 'I fancied the adventure, on the train on our own, just the two of us. But I really wasn't looking forward to facing mum and dad when we got the cottage. I wasn't that convinced they'd be happy to see us.'

'They would, but it would interfere with their needs just now, and, they'd worry about you running off on a journey like that. Besides, what did you think I'd have said about it?'

'Nan, sorry, but we weren't going to tell you.'

'So what did you think I'd do? Not notice that you'd gone?'

'We were going to leave a note.'

As she bends to kiss Amanda on the forehead she answers, 'That appears to run in the family.' Then she turns the light off and walks out of the room

BRENDON and Laura have eaten their meal in silence, each one feeling comfortable in the company of the other. After the rush and bustle of getting the breakfast things cooked and served hot, it is a joy just to sit in companionable solitude reflecting on what has happened and what is to come. Looking down at his swollen and sore feet Laura speaks first.

She indicts his feet with a slight inclining of her head as she cradles the last drops of her coffee. 'Does that mean you've no shoes?'

'I had them ...' he looks at his feet; his legs reach out in front of him stretching between his body and Laura. He stops talking; he doesn't like lying to her.

'I know. They were stolen,' Laura offers.

'Not stolen, more taken and just not given back. I guess that's stealing.'

'Whatever you call it.' Laura doesn't want to pry; she knows that she really doesn't want to know about some of the experiences that her guest would have had to endure during his period on the road. 'Where did you learn to draw?' she asks, knowing that this is safe ground; and also to satisfy her own genuine curiosity.

'I had a teacher. She was rather like you. In fact she was a lot like you. She got me interested and somehow she was able to bring out my talent. I was at Art College until ...'

Obviously any instinct for self-preservation that Laura had had she has now forgotten. She genuinely likes the lad and wants to nurture his talent. 'Were you going to paint down here? Is that why you've come all this way?'

'How do you know how far I've come?' he asks in a rather sullen tone.

'The accent. It sounds Scottish to me. Am I right?'

'Yes. Edinburgh.' He again tells her not the whole truth. 'And I was at College in London.

'Is that where you ...' This time it's Laura who doesn't complete her sentence. She had wanted to ask if he was doing drugs or had he walked out on his course for a valid reason. She realises, as she speaks that she doesn't have the right to be so personal; well not yet anyway.

Brendon is fully aware that he doesn't want to tell her the truth and frighten her off; yet he also doesn't want to lie to her. He becomes clumsy with his words and evasive.

He snaps back at her, 'why do you want to know? Who sent you? That's my business. I don't have to tell you.' He stands up his hands resting on the table as his eyes burn into hers.

Laura is taken back by his outburst. She has obviously touched a nerve; a very raw nerve. She will put a chair up against the door when she goes back to bed. She decides that drawing is the only safe subject. She searches around for a question that he cannot misinterpret. Eventually she finds it.

'Are the pictures for sale?' But as soon as she says the words she realises that these were also inadvisable. She looks into his eyes and hopes.

The Voice calls to him. "She's trying to trap you." Brendon notices that his hands have started to shake. He puts his mug down onto the table with more force than is necessary. "Assert yourself." The Voice says. "Do it!"

To external observers Brendon appears to be having an internal fight. Laura studies him as he towers over her dressed in borrowed pyjamas that are far too short for him, old gardening coat that belongs to her husband and a face that hasn't seen a razor for weeks; if not for months. But in the eye of an artist Laura can see what her mother would call a "presentable young man". And what either of her daughters would class as being "dead fit". She thinks his features are noble and classical in that traditional Greek God way. In other circumstances he would be a catch for any girl she realises without embarrassment. Epilepsy; she considers? Schizophrenia; she considers? Anything's possible. Even cold turkey from some hard drug; but that's less likely. She knows this because he rolled his sleeves up when he offered to cook the bacon for her. She remembers being told that people who injected drugs never expose their arms. Besides he has no visible marks on either of his arms. She isn't totally stupid; she had looked while he cooked the breakfast.

'I have an exhibition next month. I can sublet you a wall and you could show some of your own drawings.' Laura offers. 'But I get to select which ones. I'm not having you eclipsing my pathetic talent; not at my first show.'

'Do you think I'm good enough for an exhibition?' he childishly asks as if seeking praise. He then relaxes enough to return to the chair.

'You know you are. I'd buy them. Even in the condition they're in. With a simple frame they'd still be stunning.'

'Even in that condition? Spoilt. Ruined.' As Brendon says the words he wonders if he is really asking her if he could be valued, respected and even loved. He looks away; especially because he wants to know if he could be loved by a woman like Laura.

As he speaks Laura wonders if he is actually talking about his paintings.

'Yes,' she said softly, 'Especially in that condition. It actually, for me, adds something very special and unique to them. You'll make perfect painting in the future. These talk of hardship, suffering and pain.' She picks one up. 'This one. It's the one where you're looking down on the sea gull. It's, well, the only world I can use is exquisite. You know what I thought when I first saw it? That only another sea gull could have captured that moment with such an intensity of feeling. You obviously have a gift for internalising your subjects. That may make it hard to sit for you.' As soon as the words leave her mouth she wonders if she should have said them. Then she decides that whatever his problem is her pussyfooting around the subject won't help him.

'Is that why ... I've often wondered. You see -.' He takes the painting from her, puts it on the table and signs "to Laura from Brendon".

He looks at it, 'I hadn't seen it that way before. I thought everyone saw life like I do,' he adds, handing her the painting. 'This is for you.'

'Brendon?' she reads aloud releasing her breath. It's the first time she's ever said his name and it electrifies both of them. 'Thank you. You have a unique view and you have an exceptional gift that can capture and reproduce that view. Don't throw it away.' She reaches out and places her hand on his bare arm. 'Please?'

The Voice laughs at him. But with her hand on his arm he feels that he can fight it; with or without the medication.

'Having someone who has talent have faith in ones work is one hell of a rush,' he tells her, staggering the words as if he were trying say each one before pronouncing it. His face glows and he appears to increase in height.

'And the name?'

'You mean spelling it with an "o" and not an "a". Would you believe there was a mistake on my birth certificate so I'm stuck with it for life?' He recounts easily the fantasy that he's woven around his name. A name he picked from the phone book on his first day in the UK, a name that he himself copied down wrongly.

'No.' Laura confesses.

'My mother was Irish –.'

'So was mine, so we'll have no Irish stereotypes jokes here, thank you.'

'I was christened,' Brendon stops and looks at her. 'I had the water on my forehead, the white dress, in fact the full works. Is it any wonder I changed my name.'

'So it is deliberate?'

'I was told to get a gimmick so that even if they don't notice the art they'd notice the artist with only the one name. As well as how it's wrongly spelt; so they'll come to see me.' He looks away and lets out a small laugh. 'It's all so far away.'

'With your type of talent ...' Suddenly Laura feels as if she's actually at the very moment of a birth. The stillness is oppresses yet it delights her. Something is going to happen to this young man and she may be the catalyst. 'Brendan or Brendon, however you spell your name, believe me talent like yours doesn't need gimmicks. Sure you need a break and an agent. But you have real talent. Do you want to see what I've done? Check-out the competition. That's if you want a wall at my exhibition?'

He wants to tell her that he's already seen what she has been working on. But now she's invited him to look he can't admit to infringing on her privacy. He flushes, just as he can never admit to having seen her naked in the kitchen.

He meets her eyes and with genuine enthusiasm says, 'yes please, if you want to show me? Have you anything finished?'

'No. Come.' Laura leads him into the summerhouse, turns on all the reading lamps that stand by each of her paintings. She then takes the sheets off the canvases before standing back.

With only the soft low light from the lamps the paintings have an ethereal glow. For some time they stand silently in front of the first picture, a seascape. To their eyes the painting is definitely lacking something. Laura had removed the sheet before she remembered that she isn't satisfied with this one.

'Is that the view from the patio?' Brendon asks.

Laura decided not to ask how he knows. 'Yes,' she replies.

'I think the proportion of patio to sea to sky is too large. May I?' Brendon picks up a pencil and approaches the picture.

'I wasn't happy with it. But I don't know why.'

'Is it your first attempt from there?' Brendon asks, his back to Laura as he adds detail to her painting.

'Yes? Do you think repetition will make any difference?'

'It does with me. With my first of anything I never get the perspective quite right. What do you think of this?' He stands back and reveals a new faint line to indicate where he thinks the patio should end.

'Your right, the balance was off. That's where I was going wrong. And I tried and tried to get it right. Have you been on the patio?' Laura asks.

'A couple of times, only briefly.'

'It's impressive how quickly you've picked perspective up, and retained it.' Her complementary fishing brings results.

'I spent last night in your shed.' Brendon confesses in a rush. 'And I stole some clothes from your line. I'm sorry.'

'I'm sorry too.'

He looks mortified and stands still waiting to be ordered out of the house.

'Sorry that someone like you. Well no, not someone like you. That anyone has to be reduced to sleeping in a shed. And keep the clothes if they are of any use to you.'

'Are you real?' Brendon asks, before adding, 'you're so kind.'

'Do you want to see the rest, or are you ready to go back to bed, it's almost two am?'

'I'd like to see them in daylight.'

'I'll say goodnight then. Sleep well, Brendon, and I'll see you at breakfast.'

SALLY knows the roads to the cottage very well. She has decided not to drive through the village; but to take the back roads that will bring her out above Bay View cottage. That way she can turn the engine off at the top of the hill and coast home. Her alternative option, which she rejects because of the lateness of the hour, would be to drive up the hill using full throttle.

She stops the bike as she crests the hill and looks over the village towards the sea. She brings her gaze closer to home and catches her first sight of the cottage. She loves it here.

She allows the bike to freewheel to the gate. She parks by the gate and with stiff and aching joints climbs off the bike before stretching her body and enjoying the freedom of movement. Silently she opens the gate and walks to the garage. Opening the side door she returns for the bike and manoeuvres the big machine quietly until she has stored it safety away. This action is easy because the garage is empty. She recognises Laura's car parked on the drive. But unless she has come by train, there is no sign that Jane is already here. She bends to retrieve the helmet and feels the prick even through her leathers.

Deciding not to disturb the household, she uses the outside toilet. Her leathers removed, she checks her calf and notices the red mark beginning to grow. She makes a mental note to check the rose bushes in the morning; the thorns are becoming lethal.

Silently letting herself into the house, Sally makes her way to her bedroom.

IF Peter hadn't started to walk along the old dirt track he may have seen the lights from a motor bike as it coasted down the opposite hill to a silent stop. He would never know just how grateful he should be that he didn't spot the bike and head towards it. He is actually very lucky that he is lost while trying to find a cottage that he had glimpsed from the road. A cottage that, in his torch light, had looked as if it was perched on the edge of a cliff.

He walks back to the main road and continues his isolated search. Cold starts to replace his anger as he walks from house to house. Once he's walked the length of the first hill he feels warmer but his fingers are numb from holding the torch. As the cold penetrated his hands shake; he is forced to hold the torch even tighter to prevent it from wobbling. The tighter he holds the torch, the colder his hands became and the more he shivers. He wishes he'd brought some gloves.

In the town centre he quickens his pace. He's decided that the cottage wouldn't be in the village. Once he reaches the other hill he switches on his torch and once again starts to check for names and numbers.

The uphill walk warms him, and before long he finds that he is enjoying the exercise and the fresh air. There are fewer cottages on this side of the village so he is able to check all the dwellings while he is still warm.

Peter reaches the top of the hill without finding the cottage he's looking for. Then the impossibility of his situation strikes him. The cottage could be anywhere. He decides to walk back to the car and drive the route; that way he'll keep warm and be able to search at the same time.

He looks out to sea and sees perched on the edge of a cliff a cottage at the end of a long drive. That has to be it he decides and starts to walk quickly towards it.

A derelict ruin appears in his flashlight only when he is very close to it. His trousers are now wet from the long grass and his spirits sag as his flashlight starts to fade. He swears under his breath. Dejected he returns to the road and walks slowly towards his car. This is a silly way to try and find his wife.

His return walk doesn't prove anymore enlightening. He drives the route several times wondering what he should do next.

A light flickers in an upstairs window of a cottage at the far end of town. A foolish man's hope calls him towards it. He drives keeping one eye fixed on the light. If it's not Laura then it might be some night owl who may be willing to help him. The light goes off as he starts his assent of the hill.

He drives to the top of the hill, again. Peter parks his car, climbs out of the vehicle, closes the door very quietly and then very slowly starts his recognisance sequence all over again.

This time he has decided that he will walk to the front door of each house and check all vehicles. He feels foolish that he hasn't thought of that before. He will recognise her car; if not the cottage. With renewed confidence he resumes his search. He is rewarded at the top of the hill on the right hand side. A stunning cottage; or one that will be in daylight, nestles in the lee of the cove overlooking the bay. Beautiful, but the best sight is that her car, covered in leaves and dew, is parked in the driveway. His Laura and he has found her. His manly pride engulfs him as he breaks into a quick jog back to the car.

Silently he drives to the cottage, coasts to a stop blocking the driveway and settles down to sleep on the back seat.

LAURA suddenly feels safe. She doesn't know if it's knowing that there is someone else in the cottage with her, or having a full stomach. But within a few minutes of returning to her bed she feels an overwhelming sense of calm descend on her. She sleeps well, very well.

SALLY slips on the nightdress that has been arranged decoratively at the foot of the bed. She opens the window and breathes in deeply as the cold air stabs her eyes. She turns the radiator off and slips between the ironed linen sheets.

In the bed of the woman she loves, wearing the nightdress of the woman she loves, Sally Henry closes her eyes and drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep from which she will never wake.

Friday/Saturday

THE slight tremor that runs through the ground as the feet come close to the murderer's hiding place alerts the murderer to the approaching danger.

The eyes that turn towards the moving shape are cold, dark, totally devoid of any compassion. If it had been in their mind to kill that night it had not been a conscious thought. The deed was carried out, done with an almost disinterested strike, fatal, swift, sure and emotionless.

Not waiting to see the affects of their action, the murderer moves away with a furtive, but graceful natural action that could have been described as sensuous, very sensuous. And a movement that all too often is associated with a deadly tempter. Hardly a blade of grass moves as the murderer silently seeks refuge in a safer place.

Leaving the scene of the crime and disappearing into the dark folds of the night the murderer is unfeeling. Danger had threatened, and they had protected themselves the only way they knew how. They are safe again.

Is it appropriate to reflect on the short and difficult life of our murderer? Perhaps someone would attest to the lack of criminal responsibility due to an unfortunate and violent upbringing. With eloquent words they would seek sympathy for an innocent who had been removed from their home. They would shape words and sentences of agony as they describe the killing of siblings and parents. In detail they would tell of the wanton shootings, the battering and clubbing to death that would lead inexorably to this final act of destruction. They would talk, in softer tones, about the inevitable consequence. The killing of an innocent victim because no one stopped our murderer from being removed from between dead bodies before being dragged halfway across the world as little more than cargo of an illegal and cruel trade. If they were clever, they could gain sympathy for the brutal crimes that had been perpetrated against our murderer. They would shower the jury with academic and worthy studies about how brutalising regimes produce brutal and very occasionally killers who are on the edge of being real live Zombies. They would conclude that the killer needed the Jury's help and support and not the feel of the black heeled boot as it crushed the lifeblood out of all that resisted it. Jackboot justice our killer knows only too well; having lived daily with the reality of the weaker being stamped out by of a stronger.

Our murderer would not use such sentiment to describe themselves. They would say, "That's life. When danger threatens you strike your opponent before they strike you. If you don't, you're dead. It has always been so". They would kill in cold blood, and accept their own death in the same uneventful way.

True only to the laws that they had been brought up with, our murderer slips out of the garden that is now too dangerous and goes in search of a warm dark place where they can hide and sleep in safety.

Saturday morning

Laura wakes at first light feeling refreshed and with a strong desire to burst into song. She loves life and wants to make the whole world happy. She throws the covers off her bed and stretches to greet the thin early morning sunshine.

She takes care with her appearance; dressing in true bohemian style with her hair caught up in two large clips and pinned off her face. The floating skirt and top skim over her figure and by hiding it make it all the more enticing.

She dances down the stairs, glides into the kitchen and is in the middle of filling the kettle when alarm bells start to ring. It couldn't be? Can it? Leaning over the sink she manages to take a closer look. It looks like it is. She places the kettle on the work surface, checks the wall clock and then opens the back door. The top half swings open letting in the glorious morning that she yearns to have enter. She cannot leave the cottage as the closed lower portion of the door prevents her. But nothing will be allowed to spoil her joy. She is smiling as she bends to remove the bolt from the bottom of the door.

All sorts of feelings assail her as she takes the few steps towards the drive. She quickly confirms the ownership of the vehicle. The steamy windows beckon her to look inside; otherwise she'd have assumed it was empty. Peter Selous lies sleeping on the back seat. He is wrapped in an old travelling blanket with his coat rolled up to form a make-shift pillow.

Her smile lights up her whole face. He can still surprise her even after all this time. She taps gently on the window as she wonders which witty comment she should make.

She finally settles on 'Did you pay at the meter?' Then she can't remember anything until she pulls herself out of his embrace and leads him into the cottage.

A GENTLE, yet persistent knocking on the roof of the car wakes Peter. In a half dreaming state he sees his wife standing on the pavement with the most stupid grin on her face. She looks so beautiful that it is almost too painful for him to look at her. So he simply takes her in his arms and kisses her.

SALLY Henry has her eyes closed. She is not asleep. She will never open them again. She will never feel the arms of her lover around her, and she will never be betrayed by her lover ever again. She is dead.

THEY sit drinking coffee and looking into each other's eyes while Laura decides what she should do. Words would have broken the spell, so she looks at Peter and reflects on the joy that his actions have brought her. Occasionally she gives out a little giggle as she considers that her important executive husband, big boss and leader of industry, has driven for miles and miles, sought out an unknown cottage and all before falling asleep in his car so as not to disturb her own slumbers. As she revels in his action, she realises that she loves him more and more.

'Is it something I've done?' Peter asks, seeing her face light up and dancing with what he hopes is joy.

She opens her mouth but as she can't find the right words she gently moves her head from side to side and smiles as tears of joy spill over her lids and glisten on her cheeks.

Peter looks at his wife thinking that she's never looked so radiant, or that he has never loved her so well.

He has to ask, 'Did I do right to come?'

'No,' she tells him, a scolding tone to her voice. 'Absolutely not. I needed to be alone. We agreed I'd to be free. But do you know what, Peter,' she gets up from the table and walks towards him. She positions his legs to make a lap on which she promptly and proprietarily sits. 'I am so glad you've come. I'm so glad you had to sleep in the car last night.'

Peter, sensing he can gain extra points for further suffering puts his arms around her waist and in a voice that is designed to be pathetic, he tells her, 'and I had an awful drive here. It took me over twelve hours. I didn't even get a stop; only to put petrol in the car. And the car was not very comfortable and I got cold walking up and down that blasted hill looking for you. And -.'

'And you're the second waif and stray that I've cooked breakfast for in this cottage,' she interrupts.

Totally confident of her love Peter asks, 'are you starting a new hobby. Soup kitchens for down and outs?'

She kisses the top of his head, 'Are you hungry?'

'Love, or food?'

'The choice is yours I've a wonderful bedroom. Care to see it?'

'At the risk of being labelled unromantic, and having you tell all your friends about it, I'd prefer the food first. And ...' he raises his arms up and places his nose inches away from his own arm pits before pulling away quickly. 'I think you'd prefer it if I had a shave and shower while you start cooking breakfast.'

Laura laughs. 'Are we getting old or am I losing my charms?'

'You know,' he looks at his watch, 'I've not eaten for over twenty hours.'

'And I hope you've not had sex for longer than that?' she demands, her voice light with mock anger as she leaps off his knee and lights the gas rings.

'What we having?'

A noise overhead tells Laura that Brendon is up and moving about. 'Company for breakfast,' she tells him, glad that Anne has left enough food to feed an army.

'Company?' Peter asks, as the footsteps come closer. 'Human, or is that a local elephant you've rescued from the zoo?' Suddenly he feels very happy. Peter doesn't know Jane Elliot or Sally Henry that well but he does know that they both have very light footsteps. Whoever it is that spent last night in the cottage with his wife, it isn't either of the owners.

BRENDON wakes starving and is sure that he can smell the scent of freshly brewing coffee. If he listens carefully he is able to convince himself that he can actually hear the bacon sizzling in the pan.

He springs out of bed with more enthusiasm that he's had for getting up for a long time. The bathroom is a luxury, and the shower a glorious experience that makes him want to sing out loud. He resists the urge; he likes Laura too much to inflict his singing voice on her. Laura had said that he had an exceptional talent, to expect two gifts would just be being greedy.

He descends the stairs, two at a time, expecting another intimate meal with his muse and oblivious to the sounds he is making.

He puts his hand on the door handle and then realises that while he has showered, he's not combed his still damp hair. He uses the hall mirror to run his long fingers through his unruly mop of jet-black hair. Satisfied with his appearance, he turns towards the door. His progress is arrested by what he thinks is the sound of voices in the kitchen. Standing outside he listens as the voices die away. Laura had invited him for breakfast; but now he is unsure if the invitation is still on offer or not. His lack of confidence around her causes him to hesitate just a little too long at the door.

The moment is gone. He cannot enter; not without knowing who else is in there with her. Who is taking his place opposite her at the kitchen table? Images fill his mind as he reflects on the intimate meal they shared in the small hours of the morning. A large dose of jealousy awakes and then feeds The Voice.

"Didn't take her long, did it? She won't want to know you now; not now there's someone else. Didn't take her long to see you for what you are. Go back to the gutter, that's all you're fit for. She lied to you last night. And you were a fool to believe her. You've no talent." The Voice tells him.

As he turns to go back upstairs he tells The Voice, in no uncertain terms why he is taking this particular course of action. 'It's purely because this is a small village and if it were known that a man had stayed, in the cottage alone, with Laura all night then the village gossip would ruin her reputation.' Her voice arrests his progress.

'Breakfast on the table in –.' Laura opens the door to the hallway as he turns to face her. 'Good, you are up. I thought I heard you moving about. Breakfast's ready. I hope you are.' She turns back towards the kitchen, holds the door open to allow him to precede her. He stands in the hall and indicates for her to come out to him and close the door behind them.

'Is it...? Are you ... You have a visitor? Shall I go back upstairs?' Brendon asks, once the door is closed and he is alone with his muse in the hallway.

'Nonsense. No. Not at all. You were here first. Come on in...,' she opens the door, takes hold of his hand and pushes him into the hot and steamy kitchen. '... and meet Peter.'

Brendon sees a tall self-assured man who obviously hasn't shaved either. He feels more relaxed until Laura tells him who he is.

Peter notices an incredible shy and handsome young man with very long designer stubble. A young man who is actually wearing his clothes; clothes that are slightly too short for him, enters the room behind his wife. Uncharitably he wonders if designer stubble is still in fashion. He knows his pants and trousers aren't; that's why he lets Laura use them for painting in. How they got from his wife to this young man he doesn't want to imagine. But he's sure that he'll be told, sooner or later. All he had to do is to control the urge to rip the clothing off him, throw him out of the cottage and demand that Laura never sees him again. With his heart pounding he keeps the green-eyed monster at bay by feeding it large reality checks. If this boy is her lover, then she'd hardly introduce them to each other. Besides if Laura was to take a lover he'd rather she took a handsome boy who is young enough to be her son than either of the frighteningly beautiful and ever so successful Jane or Sally.

Would she? The green-eyed monster asks him in a moment that seemed to extend into infinity. A moment that starts when the lad first enters the kitchen until his wife speaks.

'Peter this is Brendon, an artist friend of mine. Brendon, this is my husband.' Laura looks at him and instantly realises why Brendon is blushing. 'Peter, perhaps you've some longer clothes with you? As you can see, the ones you've already lent Brendon are not quite long enough.'

Obviously used to her unorthodox approach to life Peter resumes his seat at the table and indicates for Brendon to join him as he replies. 'I'll see what I've brought. Not a lot I'm afraid. I do have a pair of my old trainers in the back of the car.' Perhaps it's nerves but Peter doesn't notice Laura as she glares at him in a futile attempt to get him to stop talking. 'You are welcome to borrow then, size ten. Will they fit you until we can get you something –?'

'Thanks, but don't go to any trouble on my account.' Brendon snaps.

To Peter this reply is ungracious, to Laura it's painful and embarrassing.

Laura pushes Brendon into a seat and starts to dish out the breakfast. 'This is going to be a little difficult for all of us. Brendon, I've run away from Peter. Peter, we don't know what Brendon has run away from, but like us, he's also a runaway. And Peter, Brendon, Peter over there has run away from our girls. There, we all know everything that we need to know about each other. The thing is that when love hurts our natural reaction is to run. Eat up, we have to make plans. Peter, I've offered Brendon a wall at my exhibition. He's very talented, and he's given me one of his pictures. It's up in my room. I'll show it to you later.'

'A fellow artist, well a joint exhibition will be good for Laura. You know, she won't admit this, but she's a little nervous of producing enough paintings for this show. She's been hell to live with the last few months, and now it's only weeks away! Well, the pressure, that's why she's runaway. So it would be wonderful for her, and her loved ones, to share it with someone.'

Laura instantly loves her husband even more and by the look of delight in Brendon's eyes, she realises that he will now be able to accept the gift of free space in her exhibition. Well done, Peter, if only last night she'd been able to think of that reason herself then it would have saved some of the embarrassing silences.

'So, will you both be working for the rest of the day? I see the light's good? I could make myself useful and bring food and provisions back from the village and cook meals as demanded by you working artists?'

'That would be lovely,' Laura answers for both of them. Nudging Brendon she adds, 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. With Peter here to take care of the household chores, I can finish my patio scene and you can show me how to do it properly.'

'Brendan –.' Peter begins.

It is Laura who interrupts and corrects him. 'Peter, it's actually Brendon, with an "O".'

'Sorry, Brendon.'

'It's silly, really,' Brendon says, without looking up. In fact he's not looked at either Peter or Laura during the whole of the meal. 'I always wanted to be like the writer Jerome K Jerome.'

'Three men in a boat.' Peter asks.

'That's the one.'

'Great book. I always wanted to replicate their journey. Well, perhaps leave out some of the more embarrassing moments. I don't much fancy swimming naked in the Thames these days. Come to think of it, swimming in the Thames, clothed, or starkers wouldn't be all that attractive.'

'I think I read it at an impressionable age,' Brendon confesses, 'I not only wanted to do the trip but I also wanted to be a writer like him.'

'Perhaps we can do it together sometime, Brendon.' Peter suddenly realises what he's said.

'Sure,' Brendon replies realising that while Peter may mean the offer right now; if he got to know him he'd regret making it.

Peter looks at the lad. He hadn't sounded too enthusiastic. Shock peels through him as he realises that he is actually disappointed. He'd have liked to play at being Harris, George or Jay with this young man. He may even have been persuaded to take a dog along. The initial pain of rejection mellows as he realises that perhaps it's natural for a lad of Brendon's age not to want to be with a man of his. In fact, now he thinks about it, the very notion of two people enacting a book is stupid. He'd been a fool to suggest it. But, as he meets Laura's eyes, he has to face it that there is something very appealing about this young man. It's almost as if Brendon were an injured creature and he, Peter Selous, has to nurse him back to health. He holds Laura's eyes and realises that she has seen him in that light as well.

Laura breaks the tension that is building. 'Brendon, I know Peter really means his offer.'

'I do,' Peter says, realising that he cannot disappoint the lad. Brandon has obviously had many adults hurt and disappoint him in the past.

'Let's see,' Brendon replies, before putting another forkful of food in his mouth.

'Brendon, what were you saying about wanting to be a writer?' Peter asks, hoping to steer the conversation onto safer ground.

'It was a gimmick. I could be Brendon C. Brendon. But Laura tells me that I don't need a gimmick. That I can make it on talent alone.'

'I like the name,' Peter says, taking his plate to the sink. 'I'm not qualified to comment about your talent as an artist. Can I clear the table? All this talk of talent; I think you should both be exercising some.' Peter returns to the table, removes some more dishes and stacks them in the sink. Brendon gets up to help; his offer is politely but firmly declined. 'You two have work to do. I'm going to shower, and then take a walk to the village, when it opens at nine.' Peter doesn't tell them why he knows when the shop opens. He would be embarrassed to admit that last night he had looked longingly at every sign in every shop window. If he had not found the right village, then he wanted to know how long it would be before he could get inside somewhere that would have some warmth.

He smiles at the uncomfortable memory, before adding, 'then I'll come back with food for lunch, tea and dinner. I'll prepare lunch, and sleep until you ask me to dish it up. Unless you've got ideas of us going into town and painting it red. You are both, after all, artists. So who better to pain the town red with, than artists?'

PETER whistles, loud and shrill as he walks into the village. For the first time in ages he feels alive and in love with life. He smiles at people in the street, greets everyone with a cheery 'Hello' or 'Good Morning' and in the shop purchases enough food to feed an army.

He walks back to the cottage with so many bags that he can hardly carry them. His happiness spills over and drips onto the pavement behind him. Even the overcast sky and constant drizzle can't dampen his spirits.

He stands by the gate and looks out to sea. It's the most beautiful place he's ever seen, and he knows now why Laura has been so reluctant to give up her isolation.

He enters the kitchen, the door being left open for him, an action that causes him to ache for a long-gone more innocent time; but obviously not long gone here in Penalton. He prepares a simple sauce for the pasta, combines all the ingredients and puts the dish into a very low oven. He makes fresh coffee, and puts a stack of biscuits on a plate, sets a tray, and then as he's told them he will, he goes in search of the bedroom that Laura had been using.

Inside the room he picks up the picture that Laura had left on the dressing table. While not an expert on technical execution he does like the drawing.

He strips to his underpants and before crawling into bed he calls the girls and leaves a message on the home answer-phone. Then he switches his mobile off and snuggles into the sheets that still smell of Laura. Pulling the covers around his head he quickly falls fast asleep.

In his dreams, he can't have been happier than he is right now, as he floats in exhausted elation and drifts into the most delicious sleep.

THEY had been painting for a couple of hours when Laura suggests coffee. The smell from the kitchen could not be ignored any longer. Brendon is reluctant to stop and Laura admires his tenacity. The steady drizzle, while not normally the best weather for painting, is creating an eerie light that Brendon has managed to capture perfectly; and Laura hasn't.

She returns with the tray, sits on the arm of a cane chair and while nibbling a chocolate digestive she watches and studies him. She knows that he isn't even aware of her. He most probably didn't even realise when she left the room; let alone when she returned; and as for the coffee, even the smell hasn't penetrated his conscious mind.

'Brendon,' she calls softly, as if waking a sleeping infant, 'that is so good. It's just breathtakingly beautiful; it makes me want to cry.'

'It's a painting from the heart.'

'I can tell that.'

'Are they people you ...' she wants to say "people you love", but she felt that that is too intrusive. It is obvious that he has suffered. So she satisfies herself with the word 'know?' to end her question.

'My family in Yugoslavia. They are all dead.' He tells her in that matter of fact way that confirms that he doesn't want to talk about them.

'Brendon, Peter and I may say or do things that are insensitive.' She walks to his side. 'Forgive us, if we do. Please feel free to tell us if we overstep the mark. But otherwise, accept our desire to help you in any way that we can.'

'If I accept this charity from you? How do I pay it back?'

'Two things. One, it's not charity any more than my accepting this cottage for free, from a friend, is charity. It's a gift, something that we do because we can afford to. I will make her a small gift of a painting. A token of my appreciation, and she'd expect nothing else. I am doing the same for you. And one day, you will do the same with your own personal wealth.'

He laughs, an unpleasant mocking laugh. 'I Slavan Idreski, rich?'

'You have a gift that people will pay for. Don't lose sight of that.' While aware that perhaps this is the first time that's he's used his real name, Laura decides not to draw attention to it. This aspect of his life appears to be very, very painful. To keep the conversation light she repeats, 'A lot of people will pay a lot of money.'

He wants to demand why. But he catches sight of her and mellows so he decided not to ask his question. She has been generous and welcoming; it would be rude not to accept it. Instead he asks, 'And the second reason? You said that there were two.'

'Peter was right when he said I was concerned that I cannot produce enough pictures for my exhibition.'

Laura is angry with the look of "And other tales" that is spreading over his now bitter and twisted face. She realises that he has lived through some very traumatic experiences; but now, that he is on the receiving end of genuine hospitality, she had expected him to be a little more appreciative.

She continues in the same tone without, she hopes, betraying what she has just felt. 'I'm not concerned. I'm actually scared. I don't have the time to produce what I want to. And if my first show's a flop I'll never get another one. So if you fill some of the exhibition space for me, we could offer it as a joint project, then we would both gain. You have a show in London; and as for me, I'll get to keep my reputation. Now, will you help me?'

Brendon runs the range of emotions from elation to fear. He has managed to keep The Voice under control while he paints, but he's unsure what will happen next. He has to tell her and he isn't looking forward to it. He takes a mug and pours himself a slug of strong dark black coffee. He sips it without tasting, feeling or being warmed by it.

'I have a problem,' he confesses softly.

Without words Laura demonstrates that she'll not judge him and that she is prepared to listen. However her heart is pounding, she had known all along that this moment had to come; she just doesn't want it to happen now. She smiles encouragingly at Brendon and prays she'll be strong enough to cope with whatever it is that he's going to tell her.

He lets out a long, low sigh and then confesses, 'I hear voices in my head.'

Laura holds herself very still as she tells herself that voices in the head don't mean that he's a murderer or even likely to harm anyone. She sits still trying not to scream for Peter to rescue her.

'And?' she prompts, not confident enough to say anything else.

'I am on medication and that keeps The Voice suppressed. I know that you know all about me being rescued from the cave. I overheard someone telling you.' Brendon is aware that as he makes his confession that his accent, the one that he has tried so hard to suppress, is slowly rising to the surface, and his sentences are reverting to the pattern of his early English lessons.

Brendon stops talking and Laura reflects on the conversation that she'd had with Miss Jones. She works out that he must have been hiding in the shed for a couple of days, in fact since before she arrived. With great determination she smiles and holds his eyes, silently encouraging him to continue with his story.

'I had pills then, they are with me no longer.' Brendon feels he's lost all control over his English vocabulary and that he's stuttering like an untrained fool. He is more embarrassed by his words than by the actual nature of his confession. He lifts his head as it had almost dropped on his chest and looks at her. 'You now want that I go away?'

'Straight away -.' Peter starts to say as he enters the room.

Laura hears Peter talking in his most commanding and authoritative tone. She is both shocked and relieved as the tears fall from her eyes. Brendon looks crestfallen and resigned. Peter completes the sentence while they are both of his audience are still in shock

'...to the nearest Doctor or Hospital. Hell, what's happening here?' Peter walks into the room and looks at Brendon and then at Laura. 'Laura,' she looks up at the sound of her name. 'The 'phone book. Damn! You'd better get that,' he adds as the doorbell rings.

Before any of them can move the door opens and a voice calls, 'Laura, it's me. Where are you?'

'Anne, we're in the summerhouse. Anne I need a hospital urgently. Where's the nearest one?' Laura asks.

Anne runs into the room her eyes flickering from one person to the next. What scene she had been expecting to find, that the other three don't know about, is anyone guess. If her eyes are anything to go by then the three dishevelled figures standing in front of her are a big disappointment.

'What's happened?' Anne asks, looking at Laura; the only person she recognises. 'An accident, you said?'

'Anne, I'm so glad you're here. Can I introduce you to my husband Peter,' Laura points and Peter nods his head in acknowledgement, 'and my friend and fellow artist, Brendon ...' They also exchanged nods, '...with an "O" not an "A". Brendon is working with me on my exhibition. But unexpectedly we need to get him to a hospital. Where's the nearest one?'

'Cottage or casualty?' Anne seeks clarity.

'Casualty,' Peter decides, after a very short pause.

'Casualty?' Anne asks. 'The Cottage is closer.'

'No, they'll be too small and Anne -. Can I call you Anne?' Peter asks.

'Please do.'

'Good, Anne, give me directions to each and we'll try one and if we get no joy, then we'll try the other.'

Laura rips a sheet of paper from her sketchpad and hands it and a pencil to Anne who starts to give clear and easy direction for Peter to follow.

'It's not to scale, but you'll find it okay,' Anne tells him, as she hands over the sheet of paper.

'Thanks, Laura, take care. Come on, Brendon, we need to go.' He kisses Laura on the cheek and watches with pleasure as Brendon copies him.

'Why not call them?' Laura asks, wishing they didn't have to leave. 'You've just had one very long drive.'

'This isn't something they can sort out over a phone. Besides if we're there, they can't ignore us, can they?'

'Take care,' Laura whispers, as she realises she's lost the argument.

She walks with them to the car as Anne starts cleaning the kitchen. She waves watching as they speed off down the hill. Her heart is heavy as an unpleasant sensation continues to grow inside her. Irrational fears that she will never see them again, or that life will never be the same, eat away at her heart. Is this what it's like to live in a war-torn country she wonders? Each time you're away from your loved ones you fear that you'll never see them alive again. The day that had started so well dissolves into a depression that is matched by the steady drizzle that is now turning into rain.

As she turns to return to her painting her dejected spirits are obvious in her stance and walk. She glances at the front of the cottage and notices the window to the front bedroom is open. As that's the room that Jane and Sally share and as such was unused last night, Laura assumes that the window must have blown open. She enters the kitchen and smiles at Anne who is elbow deep in the washing up.

'The window to Jane's bedroom has blown open. Shall I go and close it?'

'I noticed that on my way here. My first thought was to wonder if Mrs Elliot or Sally had decided to come down for the weekend. There was no car, so I assumed not. But you'd know if they arrived after I left. And then, when I arrived and saw your friends, I wondered...' Anne leaves the accusation suspended in the air as she concentrates on her cleaning. Cleaning up after other people is what she does best, she thinks bitterly.

'I'm sure they've not come. Besides, Jane did say she was busy this weekend. And I know for a fact that Sally's in Paris.'

'Nice for some.'

'Yes they do have an enviable life. I really don't like going into their room but I really don't think the window should be left open like that. Shall I go and close it?

'No. I'll see to it. I normally run the duster and the cleaner round that room at least once a week. Leave it to me. You just get back to your work, and I'll do mine. Which room did the young man sleep in?' Anne asks, in a tone that she hopes will not betray the real reason for her interest. 'I'll start in there when I gets upstairs,' she adds, offering a plausible reason for her enquiry.

'The small room in the back,' Laura answers with deliberate slowness while watching her reaction. As expected there's no facial change, but hidden in the foaming washing-up bowl, Laura's trained eye notices that, the water moves slightly rippling out form the point where Anne's hands enter the liquid before radiating outward. Anne is a very controlled woman who is used to hiding her emotions. Laura knows that her hands, even as they are now plunged beneath the waters, are trembling.

Laura returns to the summerhouse and her work wondering what secrete Anne has that connects her to the little back bedroom. Now that she has real people staying in the cottage with her this nonsense about ghosts is obviously just than pure nonsense. She picks up her paintbrush with renewed energy. She has solved the puzzle of the unknown artist. She now has another puzzle to solve. Why the tall tales and what really is the link between the little back bedroom and Anne Lesley?

JANE knows it has been a mistake. She sees Laura, Peter and someone else standing outside her cottage as her taxi starts up the hill. This isn't where she wants to be.

'You said it was up here on the right?' the driver asks.

'Do you mind ...' she starts to say slowly. 'I don't think I can face this.' She says more to herself than to the taxi driver. 'What a day. Can you drive back into the village?'

'As you say.' The taxi shoots past the cottage and Jane looks at it feeling detached. He turns around and heads back to the centre. After pulling up in the main street the driver checks the legality of his actions and then turns to his passenger. 'Now where to?'

'Do you fancy breakfast? I'll pay. There's a café over there. It does good food and if you're quick you'll get a window seat with a sea view. You can then pick me up in an hour and drive me back?'

The driver smiles, it's like Christmas, he's had a safe fare and is being paid to eat breakfast. His large and well-maintained stomach gurgles in anticipation and thanks.

'Okay with me,' he tells her. As she start to leave the vehicle he asks, 'only, where's back?'

'The airport or station? Whichever is the quickest way to get me back to London?'

'I drive you to a mainline station and you get on a train. The service is fast and frequent; even on a Saturday. I have ...' he fishes in the pile of papers that are "filed" on his front passenger seat. 'Here it is,' he turns around and holds out a train timetable for her.

'I tell you what. You check the airports and trains for me. I'll be back in an hour, at say...' she looks at her Rolex, '...twelve fifteen'. You can park here for that long. Then you drive me to the airport or the station, whichever gets me to London the quickest,' she adds without waiting for his reply. Assuming others' acceptance of her plans is natural for Jane. She turns away and then spins round to face him. With her body on the outside she leans her head to his window and says, 'I've left a bag on the back seat; will it be safe there?'

'I'll lock it in the boot for you. Back at twelve fifteen? I'll be here?'

'Yes,' she agrees, slipping him two ten-pound notes. 'Have a good breakfast and if they'll do a take-away get a coffee and Danish pastry for me? Black coffee no sugar and any Danish will do. As I remember it they do a really good sultana and lemon one.' She turns without waiting for a reply and starts walking towards the cottage that had once been her dream home.

As Jane walks away her feet feel leaden and her spirits as damp as the air around her. She notices the sea view; and she doesn't care. She notices Miss Jones, on the other side of the rood and, with perfect precision, snubs her. Any feelings that she had for this village are long dead. Like her love for Sally? She feels guilty, but the truth is that she no longer loves her. She turns halfway up the hill and looks back towards the village. She no longer wants any part of this place to be a part of her life.

Her steps automatically take her to the cottage. She stands at the gate and can see Mrs Lesley busy washing up. While she can't hear the sounds, she knows by the movement of her lips, as well as her long association with the woman, that she's singing. She smiles as she wonders if Laura will mind the selection of Hymns and Spirituals that are her cleaner woman's constant companions along with the duster and vacuum.

She rests against the wall of the garage. The vista spreads out for her to admire. It does nothing for her. She feels as if something inside her has died. This is not where she wants to be; not now. She knows that she doesn't want to wake up here in the morning. And she certainly doesn't want to retire here. That would be a living death. The quaintness that she had once loved now appals her. She realises that she's come all this way just to be able to bid it a fond farewell. At this moment all she actually wants to do is to get away and never come back.

As she looks at the murky horizon she realises that Laura actually belongs with Peter. Bay View cottage belongs with Sally. And as for her? Her future is uncertain. But she knows now, beyond all doubt, that it lies in a totally different direction. She laughs. She had to come hundreds of miles, pay out a small fortune and spend an awful night in a cold strange bed to discover the truth. But now that she has discovered it she knows that it is right for her. Like the old saying; she has actually found the truth out in her own back yard. She looks at the ground and her image, reflected in a puddle, catches her eye as she realises that she's actually found the truth, not only in her own back yard, but also in a muddy puddle in her own back yard.

Pushing her body from the wall she takes what she knows will be her last look at the cottage and walks quickly back to the waiting taxi.

As she climbs back into the car she feels hunger pangs for the first time since she left London.

THE taxi driver looks at the notes, and then at the "no food or drinks to be consumed in this taxi" sign. He realises that Danish pastries will be hell to vacuum up. But then his passenger looks like the type of woman who doesn't make a mess, no matter what she eats. In fact, to him, she looks like the type of woman who lives on a diet of fresh air and champagne.

He places her bag in the boot, locks the car, and once again checks that he is legally parked. While his passenger had said that it was okay to park there; it's his license that's at risk so it pays to double check. To her type illegality doesn't matter; they buy their way out of trouble. Once happy that his taxi is safely parked he sets off to find the café and his breakfast.

He eats the best breakfast that he can remember; the sea air fills his lungs as the sausage, mushroom, egg, fried slice, bacon and tomatoes fill his stomach. He munches his slices of white toast and orange marmalade as he looks over the Atlantic Ocean and decides that he'll bring his family here, one-day. It's paradise on earth. And whatever it is that his passenger has to do here, she has a stunning location to do it in. He has actually decided that Penalton must have been her birthplace. He's romanticised that she moved away and made good and is now wondering if she can come back. Perhaps there is no one left for her to come back to. He has actually started to feel sorry for her. While he had fun guessing the real reason for her visit; he knows that whatever the reason is, this has been a very painful journey for her.

He returns to his car as he sees her walking quickly down the hill. She appears to be lighter, with a spring in her step that hadn't been there before. Whatever it was that she's done while she was up that hill, he decides, it has been good for her. Placing the white paper bag that contains three sultana and lemon Danish pastries on the back seat, he holds the door open for her with one hand while in his other he holds the coffee cup.

'Good trip?' he asks.

'The best. Now, get me to the airport or station. I have to get out of this village and never come back.' The words are spoken with a defiant note that makes him hand her the coffee, close the door and then carefully and smartly start the taxi and head to the airport.

Saturday – late morning

ANNE flees from the kitchen the moment she is sure that Laura is not going to come back. The dishes are left unwashed and the rubber gloves abandoned on the pine table.

She enters the dining room and drops to the floor before placing her ear to the carpet as if listening. All appears to be as she'd expect to find it. She rises from her squatting position, her stiff joints not letting her move as quickly as she would have liked. She leaves the room and walks upstairs.

She knocks on the door to the back bedroom and then throws it open. It's tidy. The bed has been slept in but the covers have been replaced and on the pillow lie the top half of a pair of pyjamas; neatly folded. There is no other evidence of occupation. Whoever this kid is he is tidy. She opens all the cupboard doors then all the drawers and then she peers into the wardrobes. There's no baggage, no personal items, no sign that anyone has slept in the room. Except the top half of a pair of old fashioned pyjamas that don't seem as if they belonged to either of the men that Laura has just introduced her to.

As she walks down the stairs Anne reflects. Women wear pyjama tops on their own, men usually wear the lower half. Did Laura sleep in the back room and let the men sleep -. She cuts off her own thoughts as she reaches the hallway. Happens there's a perfectly reasonable reason as to why the trousers of the pyjamas are not in the room. She'll look out for them.

Anne returns to the kitchen and plunges her bare hands into the hot washing up water. Her fingers toy with the bubbles as she reflects on the three people who spent last night in the cottage. Had they been in any real danger? Were they really what they claimed to be? It's strange that the lad doesn't have any personal possessions with him. She would have to talk to Laura, to try to allay her growing fears.

The washing up finished she pours the water into a mop bucket and takes it outside. Pausing under the dining room window she checks that she is unobserved. In total isolation and unseen, other than by the deadliest of cold dark eyes, she hesitates. The water in the bucket oscillates as each step brings her nearer to her destination, the large bay tree. The dark dining room window looks out onto the road and the large bay tree that is used for both culinary and decorative disguise. The tree that has been growing in the same tub for years draws her attention. She puts the bucket on the soil before bending down and putting her ear to the ground.

Apparently satisfied, she tips the water onto the plant. It spills over the tree moistening the leaves and making them shine in the watery sunshine. It dampens the compost bringing to life the smell of freshly tended and loved soil. It seeps into the wooden half barrel, spilling over the metal rings and between the parched wooden slats before finding the quickest way to earth. Then it runs in rivulets over the cast iron grate, one of the ugly aspects of Bay View cottage that the tree is used to disguise. She sighs, and returns to her chores.

Alone in the guest bedroom she wastes no time in searching for hidden bags and cases that Laura may have brought with her. The obvious hiding places don't produce any results. Perhaps she's being paranoid.

She runs the vacuum cleaner over the carpets, flicks the duster round the surfaces and then repeats the process in the back bedroom. The bathroom she cleans with care. She loves the shine that she can achieve with very little effort on this little used bathroom suite. She dries the bath, the basin, toilet and the unused bidet and then goes in search of Laura.

She finds her standing back admiring a picture of a foreign family who look as if they've been tortured. Not what she'd call a pleasant picture.

Anne distracts Laura from the pencil line sketch as she asks, 'Do you want me to do in here?' She walks over to the cane furniture and plumps the cushions on the settee and then on both of the chairs. 'There doesn't seem that much –.'

'No. Thank you.'

'Were you planning on keeping the furniture pushed against the walls like this?'

'It does give me more floor space. Which I need for my easels and things, besides, any accidents will be contained to the hard flooring. And, with the furniture out of the way like that, it gives me an unobstructed view of the sea through the patio doors.'

Her explanations finished Laura wonders if Jane's instruction to make "yourself at home" had actually extended to moving the furniture around. She notices that there is a neat pile of dust where each of the chairs had previously stood. She realises that Anne will also have seen them and may think that it's a sign that she's not doing her job properly. She decides that, on this occasion, her needs have to come first.

Laura asks, 'if you don't mind, and you don't think Jane would mind, do you mind leaving this room while I'm here?'

'One room less for me to worry about. I shouldn't think Mrs Elliot would mind. Besides I'll give it a thorough clean once you've left. I can do the whole room before I put the furniture back in its proper place.' She walks to the door.

'I'll put everything back as I found it, Anne. Don't worry.'

'There'll be no need for that. You enjoy your stay and leave the cleaning to me. By the way, I've all but finished for today. I've just to check the main bedroom. I'll take a look at that window and see if there's any reason for it to have blown open. Happen it just wasn't on the catch properly. If it needs attention I'll get Mr Lesley to come up with me on Tuesday morning. We agreed next Tuesday didn't we? Only I do have my other work to fit around you.'

'Next Tuesday will be fine. By then my husband will have left, and that...' she hesitates. 'That will be one less person for us to worry about,' is all she can think of to end her sentence.

'And your artist friend?' Anne asks, never one to miss an opportunity. 'How long will he be staying?' As she speaks she steps out of the doorway and re-enters the room.

'I don't know. He's to finish his exhibition paintings as well.'

'Is this one of his?' Anne asks, walking towards the picture that she had seen Laura admiring when she'd first entered the room.

'Yes. Do you like it?' Laura laughs. 'You've no need to answer that. I can see by the look on your face that you don't.'

'It's a bit brutal for my tastes. The picture I really like is the one you've got on the dressing table in the room you're sleeping in.'

Laura notices, not for the first time, that Anne's language while being perfectly clear has an ability to convey that she doesn't belong here and that she is only a temporary resident. She has tried to disregard the feeling; but it's getting harder. I will just have to try even harder, she thinks to herself as she answers.

'That one is also one of his.' Laura states. 'Sometimes as artists we have to capture both the beauty and the brutality of life. We don't have a choice.'

'I have a choice as to what I hang on my walls.'

'We all have the choice to turn away, Anne. That's the prerogative of man and ostrich.'

'That's as may be,' Anne snaps, as she walks to the door. 'As I said I've to check the main bedroom, flick over the surfaces, then I usually have my morning cupper before going home. When I put the kettle on, do you want me to make you a cup of something?' Anne asks.

'Coffee, black and no sugar would be lovely. Would you mind if I join you in the kitchen?'

'Not at all,' Anne lies wishing that guests would learn to stay in their proper place. 'I'll yell when it's ready.'

Anne leaves the room exasperated. She feels Laura tried to put-her down over the painting. She may not be an educated woman; but she knows what's going on in the world. That's why she tries to help out whenever she can. A little smuggling to help other less fortunate people never did anyone any harm. Hers is a truly victimless crime. Laura had no right to assume that just because she doesn't like a gruesome drawing that she's uncaring.

She puts the kettle on as she walks through the kitchen. Picking up the duster from the hall table she tucks it under her arm. She then walks to the first floor. Still angry she snatches the vacuum cleaner from the middle landing and carries it to the top floor. She flings the door to the main bedroom open and steps inside. It is as she is walking towards the window that she notices that it is actually securely fastened open.

In slow motion she turns towards the bed and notices, for the first time, the still figure under the mound of covers. She covers her mouth with her hand and backs out towards the door, whispering.

'Sorry,' she says softly and in such a way so as not to wake the sleeping figure. A form that is instantly recognisable as Sally by the long flowing red hair that is spread over the pillows and falling across her face.

Retrieving the cleaner she continues in her backward crawl until with her hand on the door handle her flesh starts to creep.

She drops the cleaner and watches as it falls from her fingers and rolls away before perching on the top step. By design and nature it rocks gently, then settles and then rolls down the flight of stairs clattering on each step and spilling the contents of the dust bag as it goes.

'Damn, more work, and with me just finished,' were her first thoughts. Her second are, 'I'm in for it now. Now I've woken Sally for sure.'

She snatches at the door handle and is going to close it when she notices that the figure hasn't moved. Even Laura has been disturbed by the sound of the falling vacuum cleaner; and she was at the other end of the cottage. She can hear Laura calling up from the ground floor, asking if she's all right and does Anne need her to come up. Anne notices that her voice sounds full of concern and that her offer of help appears to be genuine.

There is no way that the accident can't have disturbed a normal sleeper. Anne glances into the room. The figure lies still. There is no evidence that Sally has made any movement since Anne first entered the room.

'She must be ill,' is her last sane thought.

Walking to the bed she peers at the figure. Fear forces her hand to reach out. Anne sees what she is doing and is powerless to stop it. She touches the figure and her screams fill her mind, her lungs the house and then the air outside.

LAURA hears the disturbance and walks into the hallway. On receiving no reply to her offer of help she stands for a moment with one foot on the bottom step trying to decide what she should do next. She is about to turn away when the scream spurs her to mount the stairs and run to Anne's side.

ON Paddington station Charlotte and Amanda look at the train to Penzance, they don't know it yet, but its position on platform one will impact on their decision. They check the timetable and then the ticket machine.

'We've not got enough money,' Amanda notes.

'So, what do you want us to do, give up?'

'I don't see what else we can do. Nan gave us all the money she had, and even if we add to it all our own money, that's still not enough. Besides, we'd then have to wait for the bank to open and we'd miss the train.

Charlotte looks at the departures boards, checks the signs over the platforms and says, 'over there,' she sets off at a purposeful pace. 'It's wonderful I like trains.' She stands back and watches the other passengers getting on the train. 'We could just get on and see what happens. It's Saturday so I bet they don't even check tickets. Besides, we can hide if a guard comes.'

'Charlotte, it's not right. What if we're caught? Besides, we'd never get through the barrier without a ticket.'

'We don't have to. Our train's on that open platform. We can just get on and forget to get off.'

'No.'

'Amanda! What if we bought a ticket to the first stop, got on, pretended to fall asleep and miss it? Would that make you feel any better?'

'No. It's wrong. Come on, let's go back. With this much money you could buy that top you liked. Nan wouldn't mind. And I'd willingly give you my share. It's just so much money.'

'Then they shouldn't make travel so expensive. Come on.'

They walk quickly along platform one. There is no barrier, no guard and nothing to prevent them from just getting on the train in London and getting off in Cornwall.

'LET'S try Casualty,' Peter says to Brendon as they walk towards the hospital. They walk slowly; the trainers that Peter had given him don't fit and by now blisters are growing on each of his heels.

They take a number from the counter before joining the rows of seated individuals each waiting their turn.

'Do you want me to come in with you?'

'I'll be fine. Peter, you're not expecting much from this are you?'

'I'm expecting them to give you some pills. Any more would be a pleasant surprise.'

'I don't think that will happen. The best I can hope for is an appointment for an assessment.'

'But that's silly! What are you meant do to for medication in the meantime?'

'They have to make sure that I need them and that I'm not going to take them unnecessarily or sell them on the black market.'

The conversation is terminated as the number that Brendon had been given on arrival flashes on the display board and an automated voice in a sing-song tone asks, 'Ticket holder number seven to the waiting room, please'. Brendon limps slowly; looking back at Peter before finally disappearing behind the curtain that sections the patients off from the waiting area.

BRENDON walks behind the curtain and follows the instructions. After he's been seated for a short a while he is approached by a nurse. She smiles and takes the card that he's already completed and signed.

'Oh,' she says, after reading it. She hands the card back to him and then goes off to talk to another member of staff.

Brendon can't help but notice that they are whispering together and that every now and then they both look at him. Noticing that he's noticed them noticing him they look away quickly.

The nurse comes back to him, requests his registration form and then returns to the doctor who read the card. She turns her back on Brendon and in his mind's eye he can see her mouth the word 'Shit'. She turns back to face Brendon, smiles and then quickly walks off the ward taking his card with her. She burst through a door at the end of the ward; the door has not swung fully closed when she starts talking.

'I've got a loon-.' her words are cut off by the closing of the door.

Brendon shivers, while he's not actually heard her words properly, he is pretty sure that the word she was saying, when the door closed behind her, was "lunatic". He feels hot and cold at the same time.

The Voice calls softly to him. "Just go. They are not going to help you. What do you expect? There's nothing here for the likes of you." Brendon tries to ignore it, his headaches and he is thirsty. A water dispenses draws his attention. He walks over to it and helps himself to a drink of cold water. He keeps his back to the other occupants of the ward; he is sure that they've all heard her words and are now avoiding him. He perceives that they actually shift away as he walks past them.

The paper cone doesn't hold much liquid, so he refills it; aware that the door at the far end of the ward has opened. Two people enter the ward. Brendon refills his cone and drinks it. Stooping to re-fill it for the third time he realises that there is a commotion behind him. He tries to ignore it; he's had too many experiences of being forced to participate in the pain of other people to let himself get involved.

He re-filled the cone as The Voice filters into his mind just as the water caresses his burning throat.

'He's gone! He was -.' The desperate words are interrupted. However, in Brendon's ears, the sounds of people urgently searching for someone else remain and bring with them memories of frightening situations.

'He's over there,' the nurse says her tone one of evident relief.

Footsteps walk, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room as they march towards the fountain. Only Brendon remains disinterested in the proceedings. The hand on his shoulder causes him to jump and spill the water.

'Mr,' the doctor looks at the card, 'Brendon?'

'Yes. Sorry about the spill,' Brendon answers.

'That's okay,' the doctor replies. 'I'll get a nurse to clear it up for you. Mr Jones will see you now. If you'll go with him.'

Mr Jones leads the way through the swing doors and into a small room. Brendon enters as The Voice mocks him with each step he takes.

'Sit down, Mr Brendon. Now, what can I do for you?'

Slowly, trying to think over the headache and pain Brendon tells the doctor about his condition and the loss of his pills.

'Which police station did you report the loss to?' he's asked.

Brendon hesitates and then replies, 'The local police in Penalton were involved at the time of the theft,' he looks away.

'And you are of no fixed abode?'

'I'm looking for accommodation. I left London -.'

'Yes you people always come here. Think access to pills and rooms will be easy away. Well, I've news for you, it isn't. We don't just give pills out to everyone who turns up on our doorstep and demands them you know. There are procedures and I am sure you'll know I can't issue you these particular pills without your repeat prescription.'

'I lost that at the same time as my pills were stolen.'

'That was very careless of you. Technically I cannot treat you. You will need to find yourself somewhere to stay. Then you will need to register with a local doctor. And he will need to refer you to us. So to start the ball rolling, you need accommodation, and for a room you'll need employment.' He speaks as if he's recounting obvious details that Brendon should have sorted out before coming to bother him. He continues his lecture as if he's addressing a child.

Naively he asks, 'how far are you off from finding yourself secure lodgings, and employment?'

'Without the pills, I have very little chance at all.'

'With that attitude, I agree. I cannot, will not, give you any pills. In fact I'll go as far as to say that when you leave here, you'll be empty-handed. Now, what work, and accommodation are you able to organise for yourself?'

'I had my pills stolen. I had enough pills to keep me until I found work and somewhere to stay. But now that they have been stolen I need help so that I can look for work and a room.'

'And what contingency plans have you?'

'I need help. I hear voices if I don't get my pills and when I hear The Voice, I also get blinding headaches. I have one now.'

'That, the headaches, I can give you something for. Or, if you prefer, you can take over the counter painkillers. I need to register you for the clinic, which you're lucky; there's one next week, on -.' he checks a calendar on the wall, 'Friday. Where shall I send the registration forms?'

'Can I pick them up from here?'

'No. I need confirmation that you need the medication you're asking for. How do you suggest I get that?'

Aware that his question is being ignored, Brendon decides to let it drop. The option of the Friday assessment is good, but he can't get back to the hospital, let alone last until Friday without his medication. He decides to let the process take its course and then leave as soon as possible. 'Can you call my doctor in London, ask him? He'll be able to confirm that I need them.'

'I could, if you'd provided that information.' He hands the form back, indicting the section for Home Doctor that has not been filled out. 'Care to fill it out now?'

Brendon puts the name and address. 'I don't know any more,' he says as he hands the form back.

'Not a quick call then? Okay, is there anything else I can do for you today?' he asks, as if he'd already done something to help Brendon solve his problems. Noticing that he isn't saying anything, the consultant writes out a prescription for painkillers.

'What do I do about The Voice?' Brendon asks.

'How have you controlled it in the past?'

'The pills.'

'Yes. Yes, I know about them, but before you were on your current medication, how did you control The Voice then?'

Hateful images smash into his mind. Brendon screws up his eyes and wills them to go away. Slowly raising his long lashes he looks at the hospital consultant. The futility of his position almost reduces him to tears. He stands up and takes hold of the prescription as The Voice says "I told you so". Brendon looks downcast and walks away.

'See you Friday.'

'We will see,' Brendon replies in a tone of futility, resignation and desperation. 'Friday is a long time away.'

As he opens the door another doctor enters as the door closes behind him he hears the consultant saying. 'That's the problem when dealing with those types. They're just so unreliable. I gave him an opportunity and –.' The closing of the door cuts off the rest of the sentence; an action that Brendon knows has cut him off from his last hope.

Brendon forces a smile to his lips as he looks for Peter. The pain in his head is growing worse, and appears to be in direct competition to the pain in his feet. Every movement hurts his head, and every step hurts his feet. He digs deep within himself to find someplace where he can bury his physical agony; he has enough to contend with trying to manage The Voice.

PETER tries to read but gives up after finding nothing but out of date TV guides or ancient celebrity magazines. He looks at his watch and decides to call Laura.

Automatically he fishes in his inside pocket for his mobile telephone. Then his trouser pocket, then his other trouser pocket. He checks the same pockets for a second time, then a third. He quickly goes back to the car to check if he's left it in there. He returns to the reception area and asks if a mobile 'phone has been handed in. It is only as he is asked, 'Are you sure you had it with you?' that he begins to doubt himself.

He can remember getting up after his nap; he remembers seeing it on the bedside table. Then he'd gone downstairs hoping to have a coffee, at which point he'd overheard the conversation between Laura and Brendon. Then the rest had been racing round trying to get him to a hospital. Now as he thinks about it clearly he can picture the phone still on the bedside table, where he'd put it after calling the girls.

He looks at his watch and goes over to the reception desk. 'My friend has just been taken into the waiting room, is there any indication as to how long he may be? I need to make a call and I've forgotten my mobile.'

'You can't use a mobile telephone here. There's a coin operated pay-phone you can use. It's over there,' she indicates the call box and then returns to her work.

Inside the call box, something he's not used for decades, Peter pulls all his change out of his pockets and stacks the silver coins on the ledge. He splits the pile into three, one for the girls, one for Laura and one for emergencies; the calls he may have to make later on.

His first call is to the girls; they will be able to tell him Laura's mobile number. He dials home; he is impressed with himself for actually remembering that number. His mother answers, swiftly replies to his questions and understands when he says that he doesn't have time to talk. He confirms that everything is fine, that he has found Laura and that she is glad to see him. He doesn't enlighten her about the rest of their adventure; there will be time for that later. They agreed he'll call home that evening, when the girls will be back from their shopping trip. There will be plenty of time then for chatting.

When he calls Laura, he still has most of the first stack of coins left. The line is engaged and it automatically switches to an answer phone. He leaves a message and is in the process of ending his call by telling her how much he loves her when he adds, 'must go. Brendon's just come out, and he's got a big smile on his face; so it must be good news. I'll take him into town to get him some shoes that fit, so we'll be a couple of hours yet. Love you.' He hangs up, collects his piles of coins then leaves the phone box.

'You look happy; is it good news?' Peter asks, as they leave the hospital together.

'As I expected, they want to see me next week. I have been given a prescription for the headaches that come when I hear The Voice.'

'What type of prescription? The same pills as you were on?'

'Not quite the same but they will help when The Voice comes.' Brendon looks away; he doesn't like telling lies, but he knows that anything else would result in Peter getting annoyed. He doesn't want a scene; he doesn't want Peter to get upset over him. He doesn't need short term gains; what he actually need is a long-term solution.

With guilt still heavy on his heart he agrees to the shopping trip for new shoes; providing that he doesn't have to walk very far.

They drive to the town in silence, Peter enjoying the drive, and Brendon finding that he needs all his energy to try and reduce the growing control that The Voice is gaining over him.

Peter accidentally finds an out of town shopping complex; he parks the car outside a shoe shop and jokes about luck as Brendon limps inside.

A spotty teenager approaches them asking, 'you want help, Mate?'

Peter looks at the shop assistant and then at Brendon; who in comparison looks like a man but in reality he knows that there is very little difference in age.

'Soft socks, and shoes, size ten, wide fittings.'

'See a pair you like. Point them out; and I'll get them for you.' The assistant demands.

'We'll see everything that fits that description. It's comfort that's important at the moment, not looks.'

The assistant obviously dissatisfied with the answer tries again, 'but we've so many! Can you at least give me a colour and style?'

'Anything. You pick,' Peter firmly insists.

'But there're so many, we could be here all night.'

'How about that?' Brendon points to a boot on the display stand, soft brown leather with a thick padded sole and laced front. 'That looks soft and shouldn't be too difficult to get on and off,' he adds, before wondering if they will be too expensive. He is handed the boot. As expected it's soft and smells of good quality leather. 'Have you anything like this, but it doesn't have to be leather,' he adds, hoping to reduce the cost. The assistant returns the boot to the stand and starts to walk away.

'No. It has to be leather,' Peter corrects, walking to the stand and returning with the admired boot. 'Here, try it on. Can we have the other one, please?' Peter asks the departing sales assistant.

Putting the boot on is painful; but manageable. Brendon takes a few steps and the boots seem to melt around the contours of his feet. He's not seen the price; he decides that he has to know. He sits down and takes them off.

Misunderstanding Peter asks, 'do you need another size?'

Turning the boot over Brendon looks for the price ticket as he answers, 'no, these feel good,' with a hesitant note in his voice.

'We'll take them, plus a couple of pairs of socks and do you have any plasters?'

'I have.' A woman trying shoes on with her child who is seated just behind them, says. She opens her bag and hands Peter a packet of plasters. 'With kids this age I need them all the time. Here help yourself.'

'They don't change as they grow older,' Peter replies, taking the packet and kneeling down at Brendon's feet. He selects the right size plaster for each blister before gently applying it using minimal pressure. The assistant comes back with socks that Brendon puts on for himself. Then he puts the boots back on. He feels good about his feet for the first time in ages.

Brendon observes closely as Peter hands the plasters back and thanks the woman. Watching this simple exchange he feels his faith in human nature, a faith that has been destroyed by his hospital experience, restored.

'It's always so touching and unexpected' Peter remarks, 'In fact, I think someone once said something about the kindness of strangers.'

'Street Car Named Desire, the character,' Brendon laughs as Peter looks at him and then turns away. 'Do you know the story?'

'No.'

'Read it sometime. Change the sex, and I think you have my story.' He shakes his head. 'No, not my story. It's the story of all my countrymen and women.' He becomes sullen as if he's already said too much. Softly he adds, 'that's silly. There are some similarities, not many. Your generosity has made me happy, and with great happiness comes stupidity of the mouth.'

Peter wonders what it is that he is trying to hide behind the language differences. Whatever it is, it has touched a nerve and, it is obvious to Peter that Brendon isn't ready yet to expose that part of his life. And if not yet, perhaps he'll never be ready. He will have to wait. Finding a less intrusive subject he asks, 'Do you recommend the book?'

'It is not my favourite.'

'You are very well read,' Peter comments as they leave the shop, with Brendon only slightly limping by his side.

'I like books.'

'Literature and art, is there any end to your talents?' Peter asks and instead of walking to the car he drags Brendon into a clothes shop.

'I'm not good with clothes.' Brendon admits.

'Neither am I. What do you think of this?' But in trying to select items that would be suitable for Brendon, Peter embarrasses both of them.

Peter selects garments that Brendon puts back, refusing anything that he considers too expensive. In the end, he agrees to have the basics and they ask the shop assistant, a very pretty girl, to select a pair of jeans, three T-shirts, two jumpers and one coat that will fit him. Brendon appears delighted by the items, and he doesn't appear to notice when Peter adds a packet of Y-fronts and shaving items to the shopping basket. In truth, Peter feels left out; it appears Brendon only has eyes for the pretty sales assistant, who insists on measuring and touching him at every opportunity.

The garments purchased, Peter insists that Brendon change into them. The young man that walks out of the dressing room is very presentable and Peter enjoys the admiring glances that he's on the edge of when they're together. He wonders if this is what it would be like to have an attractive son.

Brendon feels his mood lift as they drive back to the cottage. With support from Peter and Laura, he knows he can survive until Friday.

JANE arrives back at the city airport and joins the anonymous queue for a taxi. It had been easier in Cornwall, there people had wanted to serve her and not expect that she'd be grateful for their attention.

Eventually she clambers into the back of a black cab and as the driver turns to face her to ask "where to?" she realises with a stab of loss that she doesn't really know where to tell him to go. There are only two places that she can go in London.

One is her office. That provides her with the identity she fits best. It gives her a role that doesn't require any meaningful relationship with other people. There she is safe, able and willing to fulfil all the duties that are required of her in her role as owner of Elliot Creations. She could go to the office.

Or she could ask him to take her home. Home is where her raw emotions are packaged and displayed in the very furniture that is arranged to the latest design specifications by the latest design guru on the polished mahogany floors. Or in the paintings that hang on her walls; or the very choice of colours and fabrics. Her desire is always to use only the best; which often means the skins of the most endangered species. It all screams that she has no taste, plenty of money and no social responsibility. She doesn't so much share a world as pay so that other people can go without.

She gives the taxi driver her office address. The Saturday traffic is heavy as Kamikaze shoppers launch themselves and their purchases into the direct line of her taxi. She clings onto the roof handgrips for dear life and is excited that she is actually back where she belongs.

She asks the taxi driver to stop two streets before her office. She wants to walk in among the over-crowded streets. Be hustled and bustled until she feels she has to fight for her very right to have enough space to be able to breath. She needs to feel the power that London gives to everyone who lives there.

Paying him with large notes and not waiting for the change she is determined that she will lose herself in the multitude of shoppers. The streets are heaving with people who all act as if they are determined to find, in these the last hours of the retail day, the very bargain that they had been searching for all day and have not yet found. This is the London; the vibrancy of life that she needs to make her feel fully alive.

She pushes, shoves and almost mows people down as she inches her way to her office. Hot and bothered, battered and actually bruised she arrives in her office building with hair and makeup in need of a slight touch up. She doesn't care; she loves city life and doesn't ever want to lose it. The security guard greets her by name. She loves it even more.

'Mrs Elliot, are you working today as well?'

'I've a few things to do that I couldn't finish before ... Before I got called away Friday night. So, I'm here to ...' She turns her eyes to watch the lift indicator descend through the floors. She reflects on what it is that has really brought her back to the office on a Saturday night; and what it is that she really wants to get out of life. The lift arrives, the doors whisper open. Turning shining eyes on the security guard she concludes, '... finish what it was that I left unfinished yesterday.'

'All work and no play,' he calls as she steps into the lift.

'Make Jill a very happy woman,' she replied loudly as the doors close and she is whisked away to her floor.

Standing in the lift, her image reflected on three sides she closes her eyes and asks, 'is this what I really want?' The lift glides to a halt.

A disembodied voice announced, "Floor ten, Elliot Creations. Doors opening. Floor ten, Elliot Creations. Stand clear of the closing doors, please."

Jane smiles as she walks to the door of her company Head Quarters. This is all that excites her. All she really needs from life. This is where she belongs.

The reception area is deserted, Jane has often been in the office alone and she knows it always feels good. She walks through the outer office and into the inner sanctum that houses her private quarters. She flicks a switch and the lights come on. Here in her office, at the very heart of the organisation, she is in total control.

She walks into the well-appointed kitchen and with a shock realises that her coffee maker is still on. She removes the heated jug, pours the contents down the sink, throws the old grains from the filter into the bin and then starts to make fresh coffee.

She hears a noise as the coffee starts to gush through the filter system. 'Who's there?' she demands.

'Jane,' her secretary rushes into the kitchen. 'I didn't hear you come in. What happened in Cornwall? I thought you were there until Monday. Sorry, I should have cleaned up before we all left last night.'

'David,' she meets his eyes. 'David?' she repeats lowering them. 'What are you doing here?'

'I came back to clear a few things up. After we left last night I forgot to do a few odds and ends.'

'And did it go well?' Jane asks.

'We produced, packaged and delivered the consignment. They called this morning to say that it had arrived, and that it was just what they wanted. I did leave a message on your mobile.'

'I had an accident. It's not working,' she lies. She looks around at her immaculate desk, the designer planned office, and as the trappings of success scream at her, "Welcome Home" she realises that she's no need to lie. She turns to David and confessed, 'that's a fib. I turned it off. Promised myself a whole weekend without it. And I managed it, until ...' she doesn't finish her ambiguous statement. She doesn't want to tell him about the pain barrier she's been through in the last twenty-four hours.

'And was the trip to Cornwall successful?'

'It was very successful, David. And now I'm home where I belong.'

'Didn't you belong in Cornwall?' David asks his eyes fixed on the coffeemaker; he avoids looking at her during this intensely personal exchange.

'No. I think,' Jane hesitates. Then she starts her sentence again, 'I think I've run away.' She walks to her desk, takes her seat and while her fingers play with a pen she swivels round in the large leather chair.

'From Cornwall?'

'No. Actually what I first ran away from was here. It was when I was in Cornwall that I realised that I didn't want to run away from my life here. I love it.'

'It's good to have you back. We managed very well on Friday night, but it wasn't the same without you.'

'Thank you, David.'

'I mean it. And Cornwall?'

'That's over. I'm going to sell, or give the cottage away. Cornwall, and that side of my life is over. I've realised that out grown it and ... And it's time for the new me to emerge from the chrysalis and be born anew.'

David Smith hands his boss, Jane Elliot a cup of coffee, takes his to a chair by her desk, sits down carefully and looks at his employer.

He enquires, 'is this the start of a new range?'

'Yes, David. A new range of me. The public has had enough ranges of fabrics, cosmetics and of all sorts of 'ics's' that I've decided that I now need to reinvent myself.'

David takes a sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes on his employer he asks, 'why does the old model need reinventing?'

'Because, dear boy, I'm fed up with it.'

'Did the trip to Cornwall bring this about? Or was the trip the end of the journey?'

'I've finished with Sally. Shit.' She holds his eyes. 'Don't you dare breathe a word of that to anyone else. I've not told her yet. You see she's in Paris this weekend.'

'She's not,' David corrects her.

'How do you know?'

'Sally came here last night,' he enlightens her.

'What?'

'She turned up with champagne and caviar. Obviously she was expecting you to be here. It was actually very embarrassing.'

'Are you sure it was her?'

'Very, we met at the last Christmas party, and Sally isn't the type of woman one forgets.'

'She is stunning. But, David, what happened.'

'I was so shocked that I'd told her you'd gone to Cornwall before my brain was in gear. I did leave a message -.'

'I know, on my mobile. Don't worry, you weren't to know,'

'I'm sorry, Jane. It all happened so fast. I told her you were in Cornwall and she left leaving us so much food that it was unbelievable.'

'Any left?'

'A bottle, which we decided to leave for you. A little caviar and the usual accompaniments, she brought, sour cream, capers, onions, the works. There's still plenty left in the fridge. If I'm honest, after she left we all felt awful, not at all like celebrating. Care to picnic on the office floor?'

'Like old times, David?'

'It used to be fun.'

'You bring the leftovers. I feel like pigging out.' Jane isn't angry with herself. She doesn't even despise her actions. Sally had brought foods for them to share; little treats that they had often indulged in. In the past they often satisfied their mutual pleasure and appetites. Sally was not here, her secretary was, and this was the first day of the rest of her life.

So it hadn't turned out as Sally had expected it would. But the break had been necessary; if painful. She would not be made to feel guilty for falling out of love any more than she would feel guilty about falling in love.

Jane watches as David brings bottle and glasses, and then food; which he places on the low glass coffee table at the far side of her office. She walks over to the table and drapes herself on one of the two curved settees that surrounded it. David goes in search of paper plates and kitchen towel. He's a good-looking boy; she finds herself thinking as they enjoy the food and converse about her only passion – Elliot Creations.

It is after midnight when Jane gets out of the taxi and unlocks her front door. As she lets herself into the hallway she calls for Sally; an automatic reaction. Closing the door she realises that there will be no more need for automatic reactions. From now on, it will be spontaneity all the time. She looks at the answer phone. It flashes, several times.

When the caviar was finished she had still been hungry so she and David had gone on to a posh restaurant. She was now very intoxicated and unable to play or listen to her messages. She kids herself that her new found status as a free woman is the only reason why the drink went straight to her head. She believes that she had taken David out purely to thank him for all his hard work over the weekend. Her generosity to him obviously brought on by the removal of certain barriers during their shared picnic in her office.

Boss falling in love with secretary, so old fashioned, so out of date, so not real, so not her. But then getting drunk was so old fashioned, so out of date, so not real, and so not her.

Staggering up the stairs she eventually finds her bedroom. The door is open and she manages to walk through it at the second attempt. She staggers into the room, collapses backwards onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Images of David fill her mind. She turns onto her stomach. He is an attractive man. And that's the point that scares her. He is a man. She cannot deny that she is drawn to him. She feels an energy, a passion for him when they are together, or as now, when they're apart. But he's a man and she is a lesbian woman. Her sexual desires are not a switch that she can change at will. They are constant, and men are not sexually attractive to her. Yet she has to admit, if only to herself, that with David she does feel an attraction. There is something that pulls her to him; no matter how hard she tries, she cannot not deny it.

DAY answers the telephone and listens. He knows the hospital consultant; Day attended a social event where he was the after dinner speaker. His status and standing in the area are well known.

'Had a lad here today. I think he may be the one you're seeking.'

'Have you a name or address?' Day asks.

'Name given, Brendan, but it's spelt funny, Brendon, I think he's foreign and the name's made up. His surname is Brendon as well, as I said, spelt with an o and not with the usual a.'

Day is annoyed, he doesn't try to do medicine, so doesn't expect medics to try to do criminal investigations. 'Did he give a doctors name?'

'Yes, Patel in Kensington Rise, London. You can probably chase him quicker with your records than I can from here. Let me know if there's anything you'd like me to do. I've made an appointment for him for Friday next week at the Schizo clinic.'

'He is schizophrenic, then?'

'That's my guess if the medication, he says he's on, is what I think it is. Nuts aren't my specialism. Best can give Doctor Wells a ring. Pru. Wells, she's the consultant who runs the clinic.

'That's the daughter of our own Doctor Wells, isn't it?' Day asks.

'Yes, but they don't have much to do with each other. Fortunately for us, this is a case of unlike father unlike daughter.'

'Both in medicine,' Day observes hoping to get more information.

'And we all know why she took to taking care for nuts. Was there anything else, Inspector?'

'Yes, why did she go into psychiatry?'

'To understand her father better; and to avoid any hint of a link with him. She wants to make a name for herself not have one applied to her. If you get my meaning?' A buzzer starts to ring and he excuses himself before hanging up.

Day cuddles the receiver and wonders.

MISS Jones opens the door and allows Wells to enter. She looks up and down the street as if trying to make sure his arrival has been unobserved. Satisfied she closes the door behind him. She actually carried out an identical scene when William arrived, unexpectedly, on her doorstep less than ten minutes ago.

She indicates for Wells to hang his coat up and then to follow her into the living room.

The men nod at each other as she takes her chair and pulls Barker onto her lap.

'I don't like the cottage being occupied,' Wells says as soon as they are settled. 'I am concerned that we may have an accident.'

'We cannot do much about it now. We can't ask her to leave.' William notes.

'But, Billy, we can't get in to see the cargo.'

'I have a plan there. I was going to take Laura out for the day.' William holds his hands up to silence their protests. 'Hear me out. We will drive along the coast and then my Old Faithful car will break down and we'll have to spend the night in a B&B. That will give you time to move the cargo. By the way, isn't Anne supposed to be here?'

'I called round the other day,' Wells enlightens them. 'She's agreed to search the cottage and see if this friend is anything other than someone who has innocently and inconveniently arrived to spoil our plans. I expect she'll be here soon.'

'It must be important; to keep Anne away,' Miss Jones notes, before adding, 'if we have to move it. Where do we move it to?'

'You have a cellar, so why not here?' Wells asks.

'Never. Why do we need to move it? It'll be safe for a couple of weeks. That's what you said,' Miss Jones adds in an attempt to justify her reluctance to have the items stored with her.

'It's safe as long as the weather remains cold and wet and that woman, staying at the cottage, is just a visitor. What's keeping Anne?' Wells demands.

'She's due to clean the cottage and then come here directly; to tell us if she found anything out.'

'Miss Jones, do you want to ring her?'

'I've no reason to. She'll turn up when she's something to say to us.

William gets up, 'Is that a police siren?'

'Coming this way?' Wells confirms.

'Towards the cottage ... Do you think we're too late?'

'Please, Miss Jones. If they've found it, they'll not be able to trace it to us. They'll blame the owners of the cottage, or the visitors. There's nothing to link us to anything,' Wells confirms.

William walks to the window. 'It's the police car, and Day's getting to use his siren. I think I'll walk past the cottage, nonchalantly like, on my way home. I'll call you both later if I need to.' They all walk into the hallway. William asks, 'Let me go first, as I'll be walking in that direction. Then you go after I'm clear.'

He leaves the cottage furtively, checking that he's not been seen and walks briskly home.

Miss Jones lets the Doctor out making a big show of his departure. On the doorstep he hands her a plain sheet of paper that has nothing at all written on it.

'This should clear it up,' he says in a voice marginally above conversation level. 'If not, call me. Good day.' He adds, raising his hat before walking off in the opposite direction to that taken by William.

Saturday Evening

AS Peter drives the car up the hill he notices Laura standing by the gate to the cottage. Gates which, to his casual glance, appear to have police tape across them. Her stance, the agitated way that she is peering down the road and her very posture scream at him to come home quickly. He presses the accelerator and races to a halt across the driveway. He and Brendon exchange worried glances as he applies the handbrake, running it noisily over the notches.

'Thank God,' Laura calls, almost not waiting until he's out of the car before she throws herself into his arms. 'I've been trying to get hold of you. You left your mobile. She's dead.'

The instant that he has hold of her the stench of drink fills his nostrils to such an extent that if she had been any other woman, other than the one that he loves, he would have pushed her aside.

Peter pulls her closer to his body and says, 'come here. Slow down. Who's dead?' The insistent sobs are his only answer and cause his flesh crawl. 'Oh God, No!' he screams. 'Not one of the girls?'

'No,' Laura lets out a long, slow and deep sigh.

'Shall we go inside?' Peter asks.

'We can't. We've to stay with William. He lives next door. It's all been arranged. That's why I was trying to get hold of you. She's been murdered.' She glances at Brendon; a look of abject horror is staining his features.

Laura leads the way to William's house. Once inside the sitting room she falls into an armchair. She is followed reluctantly by Brendon and then Peter who had remained behind to check that the car was securely locked. He closes the back door once he knows that they are all safe inside.

'And where's our host?' Peter asks, removing a bottle of scotch from the table. As he does he notices that Laura has already reduced the contents considerably. There are two clean glasses; he hopes that they have been put there for him and Brendon. Even if they haven't, he's decided that, that's the use he's going to put them to.

'He's with the police I think. He rushed out of the house. I managed to pick the whisky up from the village shop. I had to do something while I waited for you. But I didn't want to be gone long in case I missed you and you tried to get back in the cottage; and couldn't and you'd not know what was going on.'

'Come on. We're here now. Come on, tell us what's happened.'

Laura is shaking and crying with relief and shock. Brendon is white and refuses to make eye contact. Peter pours neat drinks and hands them round.

'Here,' he says, passing a glass to Brendon, and then one to Laura. He gulps his, emptying the contents with one swallow. Then he pours himself another, even larger, slug before turning round to see if anyone else needs a refill; they don't. He notices, with some amusement, how they both sip their drinks in that same girlie fashion that he had always assumed court ladies used to use when taking tea with the queen.

As if afraid to break the silence no one speaks. Instead they sit in an unknown room, each one alone with their own hellish thoughts.

For Peter the joy of the morning and the shopping trip is long forgotten. For Brendon the fear of his own past paralyses him. As for Laura, the sight of her first dead body is etched into her artist's sensibilities; she doubts she'll ever be able to see anything ever again without the image of the dead body of Sally Henry ghosting the scene.

'Can you tell us what happened?' Peter asks when he can't stand the silence, being punctuated only by the sound of the ticking clock, any longer.

'You'd been gone for only about ten minutes -. No. More; we were about to have coffee. Perhaps an hour or more. When I came to wave you off. It was as I came back inside. I noticed the window to the main bedroom was open. I asked if I should close it but Anne said she'd do it. She finished her chores, put the kettle on and before making coffee -. She always has a coffee before she goes home.' Laura stops talking and looks at Peter who is staring at the French Clock that commands the mantelpiece. She looks at Brendon who is transfixed by a spot on the elaborate red and gold carpet. She continues, 'just before we had coffee Anne takes the Hoover to the room. She's going to close the window. The next thing I know is I heard a loud crash and then she screamed. And then ... Sally, Oh God, Peter!'

At the sound of his name Peter rushes to her. Kneeling by her side he holds her close to him. She swallows, returns his embrace, pulls away slightly and then stares down at his face as she makes her confession.

'My first thought was what will happen to my exhibition, now. Christ, I'm such a selfish bitch.'

'Sally is ...?' Peter is still unclear about what state Sally is actually in; but he doesn't like to question Laura directly.

'Dead. Anne found her dead in bed. That's why she screamed. I ran into the bedroom without thinking. It's the first dead body I've ever seen. We called the police and they've been at the cottage all morning. That's why we're here. I did try to get hold of you. But you'd not taken your mobile wit you. Then word got round the village, as it does, and William turned up and told me that we could all stay with him until the police ...' she trails off. 'I don't know if I want to go back there ever again,' Laura sobs.

'Laura, Laura, you're safe now.' Peter holds the trembling body of his wife as she repeats the story between large sobs. He looks around for Brendon to ask him to bring Laura a tissue or some toilet paper so that she can blow her nose. He isn't there. Brendon has actually left the room. He is impressed that the lad has such sensitivity. He'd expected him to want to stay to hear all the gory details, as he himself would have done at that age, but then Brendon is not like any teenager that Peter's ever met before.

'Has anyone called Jane?' he asks, fishing in his own pocket for a handkerchief and hoping not to make things worse for Laura.

THE train pulls out of the station as the girls stand at the bar and drink their coffee.

'See this is the second stop, and we've not been asked for our tickets, I told you it would be easy,' Charlotte whispers to Amanda.

Amanda with an "I told you smile" on her lips nudges her stepsister in the ribs and points to her left. The ticket inspector enters the bar smiling; Charlotte smiles back at him.

'Oh, sorry,' she manages to say between mouthfuls of coffee as if she's really only just realised what he wants. She presses her lips close to his ear as if she doesn't want the college student, the one who's stood next to her, to overhear her. 'Our parents are up front they have our tickets. Please don't let on. I've said I'm twenty,' she whispers with a mischievous smile and a nod towards the student who hands his own ticket over without a mummer.

'How far you going?' the ticket inspector asks.

'All the way,' Charlotte replies with an obvious hint to the student, who totally ignores her.

'Holiday?' the ticket inspector persists.

'We're going to visit our parents,' Amanda adds before Charlotte can stop her.

'We're stepsisters,' Charlotte confesses hoping the inspector will believe her and wishing, not for the first time on this trip, that she could actually abandon the boring Amanda.

With mounting fear Amanda watches as the inspector collects tickets in the next carriage. 'He's going to remember us and come back. We can't hide forever,' she whispers, 'it's only a train.'

'Chill out, you worry too much. This way.' She leads Amanda to the rear of the train. 'He came from this direction; so he'll not be back this way until he's checked the rest of the train.' The connecting door open and they step into the carriage.

'This is first class,' Amanda comments as they walk through the carriage.

'I can see that. Just keep walking.'

They arrive at the end of the train in time to hear the guard announce that they are about to arrive in Bristol Temple Meads.

'We'll get off here,' Charlotte commands. 'With a bit of luck the inspector won't have got to the front carriage. But -.' she remains quiet as the train pulls into the station.

'Come on then, you open the door,' Amanda demands eager to get off the train. 'I think I can see the inspector coming back towards us, and he looks angry. I bet he checks the first class carriages at every stop.'

'You worry too much. It's simple; we mustn't hurry or draw attention to ourselves. And while the train is in the station we actually don't want to be on the platform any more than we can help. If the inspector looks out, and sees us, we're done for. We need to time this just right.'

'You've done this before,' Amanda realises. Her comment is more of a statement than a question.

The door opens from the outside and an elderly couple stand back to let them get off.

Charlotte graciously bends down and lifts their cases into the carriage for them. She tells Amanda to, 'keep the door open until I get back.' Then to the couple, she adds, 'here, let me help you. Is this your carriage?'

'Seats one and two, carriage H,' the man tells her.

'That's just here. Let me put these in the luggage rack for you.'

'We don't want to put you to any trouble,' he confirms.

Charlotte assures them that she has all the time in the world to guide them to their seats. She points out where their reservations are and then joins Amanda on the platform just as the guard starts to walk back to close the door.

'Thanks,' she calls to the guard. 'We'll see to it. Just settling Ma and Pa.' She closes the door and waves enthusiastically to the train carriage as she and Amanda walk towards the exit. 'Smile and wave,' she demands.

'What the hell were you doing back there?' Amanda demands over the noise of the 125 pulling out of the station. Charlotte, to her horror, looks alive and sexy.

'Get a life,' she snaps, before setting off along the platform and away from the exit.

'We need to get back to London,' Amanda says, breathless after having to run to catch up with Charlotte.

'I thought we'd agreed that we're going to –.'

'No, Charlotte. Stop this now.' Amanda surprises both herself and Charlotte with her commanding tone. 'I mean it, we must go back. And we must buy tickets. I don't ever want to have to go through that again.'

Charlotte looks at her. 'Let's just see how close we are?' She runs to the departure board before Amanda can stop her.

Amanda is determined; she will stay where she is until Charlotte sees sense. But she can't help but admire her reckless nature and wish that she could be more like her, always ready for adventures, less staid. She watches her stepsister arrive at the information boards. Charlotte scans them and quickly finds what she's looking for. A gesture indicates that it's not good news. Amanda watches as Charlotte runs her finger over the surface, her index finger tapping each entry that is of interest to her. She even hears the word "shit" from where she's standing. She watches as a dejected Charlotte walks back towards her.

'When's the next train?' Amanda asks hoping Charlotte will realise that she actually means next train to London.

'That stupid thing,' Charlotte snaps. 'It's ages. We'll never get there.' She kicks at the bench while Amanda, relieved, sighs and smiles.

'It's been an adventure, we can go back now.'

'But, Amanda, we've come this far. We'll not be there for lunch, but we can still be there –.' She is cut off by her telephone ringing. She looks at the display and says, 'It's Nan.' She hands the modern mobile to Amanda, 'You talk to her. I'll go and check the times again. Let's hope I've missed something.'

'Hi, Nan,' Amanda says trying to sound like a girl out shopping.

'Dad's just rung. He's fine, as is mum. They'll call you later tonight,' Nan tells her.

'That's great news, Nan. Thanks for letting us know.'

'Do you know when you'll both be back?'

Guilt, adrenaline and fear almost make Amanda confess. Then she notices Charlotte walking back towards her and says, 'Around six? Is that okay? We fancy having a bite to eat with some friends we've just bumped into.'

'Just you enjoy yourselves. And be good girls,' she adds as if she has some knowledge of being young and reckless. They exchange farewells and Amanda hands the phone back to Charlotte.

'You're right, it's hopeless we'll not get there until early evening, and then we'd have to get from the station to Penalton. So close, but no cookie. You'll be pleased to know there's a train to London in ten minutes.'

'Good. I'll go and get the tickets.'

'Oh, Amanda, you're so boring. We got here okay; didn't we?'

'Yes. We did and I don't want to do that ever again. My heart's still pounding.'

'Come off it, live a little. What can happen if we do get caught?'

'Charlotte, I said no. And besides I don't fancy telling Nan that we've been caught fare dodging. And don't you think that mum and dad have enough to worry about without having to cope with us being arrested for a criminal act? Well don't you?'

'But we wouldn't be caught so they would never need to know. You saw how easy it was. Come on. It would be our little secret, just between you and I. They're always saying we should share more.'

'Share things, yes, but not a criminal conviction. No thanks. We buy tickets.' That said Amanda sets off for the ticket office.

'Buy one for yourself then. I don't need one.'

'Don't be silly, Charlotte.' She turns to face her when suddenly the perfect reason for purchasing a ticket comes into her mind. 'We may have got here, but we've not tried to leave the station. Look, over there. The barriers are all ticket operated. And when we were looking for the train at Paddington, remember, all the platforms had barriers.'

'The one we used didn't'.

'One out of how many, ten, twenty? And what do you think the chances are of us arriving on the platform that we left from? Come off it, fun over. It's time to act like adults.'

'Be boring you mean?' Charlotte sulks.

'Being sensible is how I'd describe it. Paying for what you want. I'll get the tickets.' By the end of this speech she has reached the exit and is now wondering how she is going to get off the platform in order to buy the tickets.

DAY checks the manual. He has to follow police procedure. As he's never lead a murder enquiry he has to find out what those procedures are before he can head it. He's checked with his superior, who has told him to isolate the scene of the crime, remove the body, get the autopsy started and then wait for him to arrive. It was fun when the activity started, but now, as he waits for his superior to turn up, he's bored and prone to flights of fancy more suited to detective fiction than detective fact. In the many daydreams that have filled his mind since the body was found, dreams like him quickly arresting the murderer and being hailed as a local hero is his favourite.

His superior, Tom Wilson, asks him lots of questions that Day feels foolish about not being able to answer. Laura Selous had answered all her questions in a clear voice. Her husband, when he eventually showed up, was less inclined to be forthcoming. The lad, as Day still thinks of him, was not available for questioning as he had run away, again. But this time Day has a good idea of where to start looking for him. He's proud that he was the one to suggest looking in the cave and has already formed the arresting party.

Day leads the search, he has to be active, he doesn't much like passive police work. As he walks, from the cottage to the beach over the glistening sands; he calls to his team telling them to join him at the foot of the cliff.

'Fresh footprints,' he points out, 'and they come form the cottage steps, go across the bay, and if I'm seeing right ...' he peers in to the distance, '... they end at the foot of Smugglers.

'Only one set, Inspector. He must still be in there.'

Day sprints towards the foot of Smugglers Cave, one set of prints, one cave, one fugitive and one police force; he is about to arrest his first murderer. His chest puffs out with pride; it has really been just too easy.

As they walk over the sands Day call encouragement to Brendon, not wishing to frighten him into doing anything foolish. As he arrives at the foot of the cave Day calls out, 'Brendon, son,' he likes the human touch. 'Lad, that cave's not safe. You've been around here for a few days; so you'll know it's been raining off and on all that time. And when it's not been raining, we've had steady drizzle. That's fine for us, we're on the coast. But inland, on the hills, it's been raining heavily for three days. That rain fills the streams, which fills the rivers, which runs to the sea. It's normally a couple of days after heavy inland rain that we notice our rivers starting to fill. Flood warnings are being issues. You may not have noticed, but there's a small stream in the cave. It comes off the hills. And it will flood. Not enough to fill the cave, but before long it will be a mighty torrent. So, come on down, lad, and save yourself being washed into the sea later on.' He waits; there's no sound from the cave.

'We could go up and get him?' an Officer offers.

'Let's give him another try,' Day says quietly to his team, before calling out to Brendon. 'Lad, I've spoken to the doctor at the hospital, he can arrange for the specialist to come to see you. But you'd need to give yourself up. And we'll secure the services of a good lawyer. Just show yourself, and let us see you're all right.' Still Day doesn't receive an answer.

'The footprints end here, Inspector. He must have climbed up.'

'And if he climbed in then he's still in there,' Day observes.

A second officer, who has been searching round the base of the cliff, joins the group and adds, 'the prints end. The only other option is that he walked backwards to the cottage using his own footprints.' They all look at the prints and disregard his elaborate theory.

'Too tricky I'd say? I'd say a running man made these prints. He could run here but not run backwards. That's just not possible.'

'I agree. He's still up there. So, which one of you's going to get him for me?' Day asks, and is pleased by the reaction from his two subordinates.

'I will,' they both offer simultaneously.

'I've climbed this cave since I was a kid,' the local Officer, a man who grew up with Day, announces.

'I climbed for my uni.,' the other Officer, a man on secondment for the duration of the investigation, boasts.

'Why don't you both go? That way, if he tries anything silly, you'll be able to take care of each other. I'll wait here; provide reinforcements. Or arrest him if he should try to run.' Day walks to the cliff face, finds a ledge and sits on it before taking a cigarette out and lighting up.

'That's dangerous,' one of the Officers calls to Day, while he negotiates the cliff face.

'So's police work, I'll survive. That's if I don't die of boredom while waiting for you two to make a simple arrest.'

The two men scale the cliff and disappear into the cave. Voices fill the air. Day leaves his seat and positions himself so that he can see into the opening of the cave.

'Keep me informed, lads. Have you got him yet?' Day asks.

A disembodied voice replies, 'still looking, Inspector.'

They search on for a few more minutes; the powerful police torches illuminating every inch of the cave.

The local officer comes to the mouth of the cave, puts his torch away and calls out as he throws something down to Day. 'He's been here. But he's not here now. We found these –.' He tosses the new boots down.

'You sure?' Day demands.

'It's not a big cave, Inspector. There's no place for him to hide.'

Day picks the boots up of the ground, 'These are new. You really think they're his?'

'That Selous bloke said he'd just bought him a pair of brown, thick soled lace-ups. They fit the description.'

'Seems a silly place to leave them. Okay, lads, come down. We have a barefoot runaway on our hands.' Not for the first time in this investigation Day feels out of his depth.

ANNE walks home oblivious to everything. She opens the door and steps into the hallway. The noise assails her ears and causes her to freeze. She stands immobile in the passageway; the door handle still in her hand, the door wide open and she cries aloud.

Her husband is the first to come and see what's going on. He takes the door from her, closes it and gently pushes her into the kitchen where once he's managed to get her to sit down; he starts to make her a cup of tea. Slowly he fills the kettle, lights the gas under it and then looks around. He puts two mugs on the draining board before coming to a stop. His inability to find the tea forces him to call for help.

Their daughter in law flounces into the kitchen; she takes one look at Anne and diagnoses "woman's troubles". She orders him to leave the kitchen. She produces the tea canister, as if out of thin air, puts a tea bag in each mug which she then fills with hot water. She adds plenty of sugar to one, splashes milk around, fortunately some of it manages to colour the tea. She then uses her fingers to fish the tea bags out before throwing them onto the work surface and blowing on her burnt fingers. She stirs the tea before the teaspoon also joins the tea bags, in that it too is abandoned on the work surface. She then hands the sweet tea to Anne. The whole process has been undertaken without the two women exchanging a single word.

Time loses all meaning as Anne sits holding the mug of cold tea and crying until they call the doctor. Wells orders her to bed, sedates her and then apparently, eager to get away, rushes to the door telling them that he'll be back in the morning.

As they start to close the street door behind him Wells puts his foot in the frame before turning to face Stewart Lesley, Anne's husband.

He tells them, 'she's delirious. She may say some strange things. Don't listen. It's just shock. It does that to some people. There's nothing to worry about. Pay her no heed. The words are meaningless. She's just in shock.'

BRENDON runs from the house his new boots softening his footsteps making his escape silent. He flees down the hill running to Bay View cottage. Ducking under the police tape he makes his way to the patio and then carefully he runs down the steep steps and onto the beach.

As he runs he pictures that innocent day when he'd watched Laura run down these very steps to play in the sea. He tries not to dwell on his image of her coming back up, stripping off and walking away from him. It is all so long ago. He had wanted to make contact and he had met her. They had become friendly and now for this to have happen. Murder. He realises that he's no longer safe in this village.

At the bottom of the path he stops to catch his breath. Smugglers Cave towers over his head.

The Voice urges him on; but not to the safety of the cave. "Just walk into the sea. End your pain. No one will miss you," it tells him

'No,' he calls, as he starts running towards the cliff refusing to listen to the mocking voice as it urges him on to end his days quickly.

He leans against the cliff catching his breath and tries to remember snippets of previous conversations. Anything to try and block out the ugly sound of The Voice.

"They said that you'd be safe in there." The Voice reminds him. "And you nearly drowned. They don't want you safe. They don't want you in their village. Walk into the sea. I dare you."

'Spring tide. The cave is safe at all times other than at the spring tide,' Brendon calls aloud trying to silence The Voice as he realises that it will now be safe to hide there. After his last experience it would be the last place that anyone would think to look for him.

At the foot of the cave he stops to take his boots off. He ties them together. He then sits down on the sand, tugs his socks over his feet, rolls them into a ball and stuffs them into the left boot. He stands up, brushes the loose sand off his jeans and with the boot laces tied together he hangs them round his neck. He knows that he will climb better in bare feet.

He remembers the cave differently. He has no memory of the natural ledge that makes a tiny seat or the tiny stream in the cave floor that glistens in the sunlight. He removes his boots from around his neck and puts them on the ledge. The cool damp sand between his toes feels soothing.

Safe inside he sits down to wait as The Voice berates his inability to do anything right. The cave is cold and damp. He wishes he'd remembered to bring his new coat. Tears spill onto his new clothing yet he does nothing to stop them. He resigns himself to their soporific effect and hopes that he can drift off into a gently slumber.

The sound of voices wakes him with a jolt. Having fallen asleep sitting down, Brendon finds that on waking he cannot move his left leg. Urgently he rubs feeling back into his limbs. Once he's regained his mobility he moves stiffly, dragging himself to the front of the cave and looking out over the moistened sands. Three men are coming towards the cave and shouting at the top of their voices. Men in uniform are calling his name. He crouches behind the opening and listens as they form a ring around the base of the cave and call out warnings about the dangers of flooding. Warnings that he knows are not true. The high spring tide is over.

He decides that they will soon climb up to look for him, and if he doesn't want to be caught, he has to find some way of hiding. Taking advantage of the full daylight he starts to explore the cave.

The side walls are smooth and moss free. The back of the cave smells musty and damp. He notices that the small trickle of water appears to rise from under the back wall. He tastes it; it's clean water. Behind the wall is a source of clean water. He checks the back wall for gaps. He feels a tiny crack on the left-hand side. He manages to force his fingers into the gap and follow it up one side, along the top of the wall and then with greater ease as the gap widens. Soon he can push his fingers inside. At about shoulder height he discovers that his whole hand fits, then his arm, and eventually his whole body can just squeeze through an opening in the side of the wall.

Alone, frightened and cold The Voice encourages him to go further, to get stuck behind the wall and die the horrible slow death of starvation and thirst. This time, alone and frightened, he does as he's told. Wriggling between stone walls that are so close together that he can only just turn his head round to see the light; he advances away from the cave mouth. Ahead of him it is pitch dark. Each gasp of breath sounds to his ears as if it is going to be his last.

Scratched, bleeding and sore he inches his way down a narrow natural tunnel until he can no longer see the light coming from the cave behind him. He closes his eyes and uses his fingers to feel his way. Sight in this darkness is useless.

The ground trembles, and he hears voices. Looking back he can see shapes dancing before his eyes, they compel him onward, his eyes are screwed tight shut, wriggling, inching, inexorably drawn to the unknown.

He stands gasping for breath. It takes a long time for his heart to stop pounding. He opens his eyes, and detects a slight brightening of the darkness. He inches towards it, slowly, carefully and silently.

The passage grows wider; he can walk normally and feel the fresh air flowing all around him. He quickens his pace until voices above his head arrest his progress.

"These are the ghosts that have come to take you away," The Voice says to him.

'People, that's human voices,' Brendon snaps back.

"Ghosts," The Voice corrects.

'No, people,' Brendon insists. But his confidence is fast seeping away. 'Leave me alone. You said I'd die in the tunnel. And I didn't. You don't know what you're talking about!' As he shouts the voices above his head stop.

Fear causes his flesh to crawl. He inches his way out of the damp dark hole and back towards his cave.

The journey back is not as frightening, familiarity makes it quicker, and he has that tiny crack of daylight to guide his progress.

He squeezes himself along the passageway back into Smugglers Cave. Once there he carefully checks the outside world. The men have left, but when he inspects his shelf he discovers that they have removed his boots.

He sits down, making sure that he is out of view. He watches the world and wonders how he murdered that poor woman.

WILLAM, as agreed, walks past the cottage trying to find out information while pretending to offer his help. On learning that Sally Henry has died in mysterious circumstances he goes cold and insists that Laura leaves the cottage and stays with him. When she announces that she has her husband and friend staying with her he automatically includes them.

As Day has already told Laura that she cannot return to the cottage, his offer is gratefully accepted. William settles Laura in, gives her a key, and then rushes off, claiming a previous engagement that he can't get out of.

WELLS expects the shape in the bushes to move as he approaches the door. He looks around and notices that one of the seconded policemen is just about to walk past the surgery so he calls out to him, 'good afternoon, Constable.' And then walks up to his door.

'Evening, Sir,' the Constable acknowledges as Wells walks by.

To the person hiding in the bushes, under his breath, Wells mutters, 'come to the surgery door. I'll be there in a jiffy. It'll look more natural.'

Wells rushes through the house, down the steps to the surgery and then, innocently, opens the main door; letting William creep in like a common thief in the night.

'We have to treat this as a military operation, Billy. We cannot assume that it has anything to do with the death of Sally. For all we know she may have died of natural causes,' Wells says without preamble.

'But what if she hasn't? We have to get into the basement and see if the cargo's still safe.'

'Look at the weather, Billy? It's cold and wet; hardly the conditions to wake the dead.'

'They're not dead, only ... Only ...? I don't know what they are only. But they are not dead. And a woman has died in the cottage. Are you proposing that we wait for this to blow up in our faces?'

'We don't know that her death has anything to do with our cargo. Besides it will be out of there by next week. Sit tight. Don't say or do anything foolish. You'll bring the whole edifice crashing down on us and for no good reason. There's nothing to link us to her death,' Wells reminds him.

Reluctantly William listens; he's not convinced as his reply indicates. 'But what if there is a link?'

'We'll cross that bridge if we have to. Besides I've a contact at the mortuary; he'll let me know the cause of death as soon as the autopsy's been performed.'

'Look, Wells, why are they cutting her open if her death was natural?'

'That's just normal procedure for anyone who dies and is not receiving medical treatment. I saw her. I can't say for sure. It looked as if her heart just gave out. She died peacefully in her bed. It has been known. I remember reading about a case when a woman, on the eve of her wedding day, just died in her sleep. The death certificate stated that the cause of death as happiness. Who knows what Sally Elliot was up to last night?'

'And this woman, the one who died on her wedding day, did she have a deadly cargo in her cellar?'

'Get a grip, Berkshire. It's not alive. Not awake. However you want to phrase it. It's many things but, at the moment, it's not deadly. It will be, eventually, I grant you,' Wells adds in order to silence William's impatient interruption. 'Look I'm as concerned as you are. But we don't know if she went anywhere near the cellar. In fact as far as we know she doesn't even know the blasted cellar exists.'

'Or that there are a couple of usable passageways between it and Smugglers? Come off it, Wells, you're not a fool. Besides, even if they didn't know about them think of the recent development? Or are you saying that it's serendipity that an unknown lad finds the cave and is then invited to stay on at the cottage by an unknown woman? Has anyone checked with Jane to see if this woman really is a friend? Backs to the wall time, Wells. It's backs to the wall. I can't be the only one who thinks it's all too risky?'

'What do you want me to do? Call them up and tell them that we want to return their cargo. Do you want us –.' abruptly he stops. 'William, can I offer you a drink?'

'No. I've to get back. I said I'd only be away a short time. Wells, have you considered the possibility that one may have got free?'

'It would be dead within the hour.'

'And does it need an hour to kill?' William asks.

'It's a baby. Don't be silly.' In a more conversational tone Wells adds, 'what will you say to your house guest when you get back?'

'Laura? I'll ply her with tea and sympathy and if that fails; I'll try alcohol and see what I can find out about her that way. Another point, does Day know about the cellar?'

'As far as I know no one knows; only we four. And if we all keep quiet then no one can link anything to us. Here -.' He unlocks his medicine cabinet and places a bottle on his dispensing table in front of William. 'It's just a tonic, mild sedative, but if you're asked you can say that you came here to ask me for something for Laura. That would be a nice neighbourly thing to do. You may even want to take a swig of it yourself.'

'Are you suggesting anything?'

'I am offering you my professional advice; a sedative for an overactive mind. Take it or leave it.' Again changing the subject Wells asks, 'and how is that musical prodigy of yours?'

'How can you -?'

'We need to be normal, Billy. I heard he got a scholarship to some famous music school up in the Smoke. Well done both of you.'

William runs his hands through his hair, retrieves the bottle of tonic and wonders just what is happening in his life. Since he's learnt the news about Jason he hardly recognises the man that he has become.

'Jason will do well. He'll do very well,' he tells Wells. 'I'll go now. But I'm not happy; and I fail to see why you're so relaxed about this.'

'Go home, Billy. Be yourself. And if you are worried then my advice to you is to keep your windows closed.'

Sunday Morning

JANE wakes and stretches. The sunlight is pouring into her bedroom. She turns over and remembers. Pain, anger, fear and regret are suppressed by a generous dose of joy. Her life is changing.

She showers, dresses with care and then walks to her office via her favourite breakfast bar. After ordering her coffee and Danish to go, Jane notices the life all around her as she waits. The breakfast bar is full of ardent lovers; people who obviously hadn't known each other before last night. While they all have the look of established couples their eager questioning of each other implies that they have only recently met; perhaps at a party, a show or dinner. She smiles to herself, she knows all the signs. They would have spent the night making love. Then in the cold light of morning they would have to leave their beds of passion and find neutral territory where they can measure their new-found love against a large dose of reality. And there is nothing more realistic then a coffee bar on a wet Sunday morning. She takes the proffered brown paper bag and leaves; leaving the lovers to their mental discovery as they had physically discovered each other's bodies last night.

'Back so soon?' the security man greets her as she steps out of the revolving doors.

'It's you, James. I cannot have a day without seeing you,' she replies walking to the lift with a smile on her lips that penetrates her heart and lights up her whole countenance.

'That's understandable,' he replies, without irony in his voice but with a broad grin on his face. 'That's why I have to have this job. If I'm not behind a desk women just throw themselves at me. It's embarrassing and, besides, the Mrs doesn't like it.'

'I would have thought she'd be pleased that her man was in such demand.' The lift arrives and she steps inside. 'I know I would if my lover were so popular.' The doors close so no one sees the look of pain that replaces her earlier genuine smile.

As the lift glides to her floor she is annoyed that such a meaningless and silly exchange has shot to the very core of the problem with her relationship with Sally. She had minded, and minded very much that other people were attracted to Sally. The lift doors open, she steps out and as they close behind her she realises that that isn't quite true.

She fishes the office key out of her briefcase and lets herself in. Flicking a switch illuminates her suite of offices as her mind is lit by the notion that it was not the fact that Sally was attractive to other people that had caused her to stop loving her. It was the fact that Sally herself never ceased being attracted by other people. That had been the problem.

Seated at her desk she unwraps her pastry and removes the lid off her coffee. The aroma fills the office and increases her hunger pangs. Laying the paper serviette on the desk she places the pastry in the centre. She tears a small piece from the corner which she puts in her mouth as she reads the top document in the pile that had been placed, just as she likes them, on the side of her desk.

She spends the next two hours, nibbling pastry, reading, signing and amending the letters that David has left for her attention. When she's finished she walks into his office and places the leather folder, containing the pile of letters, on his desk. She hangs around and looks at his office. It's cold and there are no personal items. Nothing to show what his life outside the office is like. She realises that she knows nothing at all about him, and yet, she is drawn to him.

She sits in his chair and wonders. She could check his details by looking at his application form. But those are not the details she wants to know. She wants to learn about him in a more intimate way. She could arrange for them to have lunch together. She presses the record button on his memo machine and speaks.

'David, will you cancel any arrangements for both of us for Monday lunchtime? I'd like you and I to have some time together. If you can arrange that? I suggest I take you to lunch; on the firm, naturally. Can you book a table at ...' She trails off and then inspiration strikes. 'Book a table for two in your – and I do mean your favourite restaurant.' She smiles to herself. That will give her an indication of his likes, dislikes and social ambitions.

Is she in love she asks as she walks to the water cooler and pours herself a drink? If this isn't love, then what could possibly be the reason for this strange attraction to him? She takes a sip before starting her slow walk back to her own office and the remaining paper work. As she walks she asks herself if she can possibly be in love with someone who is between 20 to 25 years her junior, her employee, and worse, a man?

A persistent ringing eventually draws her attention. She looks up to try to identify where the sound is coming from; her briefing papers momentarily put aside. When she realises that it's coming from the internal intercom, the one situated on her receptionist desk, she stands up and starts to walk towards it. As soon as she moves it stops. And immediately when it stops the telephone on her desk rings.

She snatches the telephone up and answers by saying, 'Elliot Creations, Jane Elliot speaking.'

'Mrs Elliott?' Jane recognises the voice as belonging to the security man. 'Sorry to call you directly,' he continues. 'I did try the intercom, but I didn't get an answer.'

'That's okay. You've got me now. What can I do for you?' she asks, not bothering to keep the tone of exasperation from her voice. He had seen her enter the building; so he must have known she was alone in the office.

'I've two police officers here; they need to see you. Can I send them up?'

'Of course,' she replies, wondering if he'd expected her to meet them in the foyer for public viewing. 'You put them in the lift and I'll meet them at this end. Thank you.' She hangs up and walks to the lift doors.

While she waits for the police she speculates on what minor disaster may have happened to involve them. Perhaps, she thinks with some desire, the cottage has fallen into the sea. She smiles, if that were the case then she could claim the insurance money and save herself the hassle of trying to sell.

The lift doors part and two police officers step out. Jane notices the male officer, big and solid, she glances at his feet. In his case the stereotype is true; his feet are massive.

'Come through, please.' She holds the door to her offices open and as soon as they are all inside adds, 'I'm Jane Elliot, what can I do for you?'

The woman officer smiles and speaks for the first time. 'Is there somewhere we can sit down?'

It takes Jane all her strength to lead them into her own inner sanctum. A strong desire not to hear what it is that they have come to say massages her brain. When they declined her offer of coffee she knows it's serious. She silently prays that it's not an accident involving David.

'We need to talk to you first. Then we'll make you some,' the woman officer says sitting by her side. 'Mrs. Elliot, I have to tell you that the body of Sally Henry was found at your cottage in Cornwall yesterday morning.'

'Yesterday?' Jane gasps. 'Yesterday. But that's ... What was she doing there? She was in Paris and here. Yesterday, are you sure?'

'We've been trying to get hold of you –. Sorry.' Mike, please?' She turns to her colleague who goes off in search of tea making equipment. If this is the reason why he joined the police service; then he is well satisfied. If it isn't; then he's hiding his disappointment well.

The woman officer walks to Jane's desk, removes the box of expensive white tissues and brings them to a dry eyed Jane.

'I do need to ask you a few questions,' she says as her colleague returns carrying cups of tea. She notices the delicate china as it is placed in front of her and looking up at her colleague she raises an eyebrow at him. 'We can do it now. Or we could come back. Or you could come to the station. Whatever you prefer.'

'I'm not guaranteeing being able to answer any of your questions, but go ahead and ask them now,' Jane agrees.

'Before we do, is there someone you'd like to have with you?'

'Are you telling me I need my lawyer?' she gasps.

'I was actually thinking more of a friend. Were you going to be alone tonight? I'd like to think you had someone with you. People need someone special at a time like this.'

Jane reflects, her lover, the woman she was going to dump is, conveniently, dead. She regrets her death, but it's saved her having a very embarrassing conversation. 'I could call someone,' she finally agrees.

'Go ahead.' The officer picks up the cup and saucer before settling back in the chair and sipping as befits the incredibly delicate bone china cup.

Jane calls David. He's not answering so she leaves a message on his answer phone asking him to call her at the office as soon as he can. She then hangs up and returns to her chair.

'You can start. My friend will be some time.'

'Mrs Elliot, when was the last time you saw Miss Henry?'

Still dry-eyed Jane sits with her hands in her lap looking into the middle distance; and she answers their questions truthfully, but without the benefit of the "whole truth".

LAURA wakes in the arms of Peter and snuggles closer into his chest.

'You awake?' he asks pulling her even closer.

'Not fully, and I don't intend waking just yet. So if you'll shut up.'

'I cannot remember what we decided to do about breakfast,' Peter unromantically notes.

'You want to wake me up just to talk about food?'

'I think I remember William saying something about going fishing at first light. I think I heard him moving about this morning. Well someone left early. You think he has a lover?'

'And they need to sneak away in the night? Shut up and let me get back to sleep.'

'Did he say if he'd be back for breakfast at nine?'

'Okay, I'm so I'm now awake. What time's it now?'

Peter looks at the clock on her side of the bed. He can't quite make out the digital display. He sits up, pulls her closer to him, checks the time and says, 'quarter past seven. Are you ready to get up?'

Laura yawns, pulls away from him and snuggles back into the duvet. 'You shower and shave and then I'll be ready.'

Peter walks to the bathroom, pausing to look over the banister to see if he can see William moving around. The house is still and noticing that all the bedroom doors are closed he enters the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He showers, shaves and then goes back to their room.

'It's a great shower,' he says as he opens the door. Laura lies sleeping, the duvet covering her body exposing only her nose. He sits by her side, smiles at her, runs his fingers along the line of her jaw, and after he's placed a gentle kiss on her forehead he comments, 'you made me get up under false pretences. Okay sleepyhead. You stay there. I'll go down and see if I can help, I'll bring you coffee when it's ready.' He stands up, bends down to kiss her and then quietly leaves the room.

On the ground floor Peter walks from room to room looking for his host who is nowhere to be seen. As he passes the front door on his way to the kitchen he glances at it. The chain, which he had watched William put on just before they all retired for the night, is now hanging free and the bolt has been drawn back. He accepts this as irrefutable evidence that William has indeed, as he indicated, gone out on one of his early morning fishing trip.

In the kitchen he opens drawers, cupboards and peers into canisters until he finds the ingredients for breakfast, the equipment to set the table and most important of all, the ingredients for making coffee. He hums as he works. His domesticity is famous with all their friends and makes Laura the envy of all the women in their life, all the women except Jane Elliot and Sally Henry.

He stops himself mid chore; the coffee grains suspended over the percolator. This is the first time he's thought about Sally since he got up. He wonders if he should see if Laura is awake yet. She has taken her death badly; so perhaps he shouldn't leave her alone. He hurriedly makes some coffee, prepares three mugs, two he fills as soon as the coffee is ready. The last mug he leaves next to the percolator for use when William returns

BRENDON wakes cold and damp with water poring over him. He shivers and struggles to escape from the fast flowing stream. The river had risen during the night and is now flowing over the whole of the cave floor.

He clambers to the top of his ledge, tries to balance, fails, slips and falls into the freezing water. He tries again, and again, and again as the derisory laughter from The Voice fills his mind.

"Throw yourself in. It's quick and painless," The Voice says.

'Shut up,' he screams as he tests the water level. Starting at the edge he discovers that while the river is very fast flowing, the water level is quite shallow; reaching only as far as his ankles. He is able to maintain his footing with ease. His success spurs him to wade further into the river. In the centre the water reaches to his calf but is so fast flowing that it makes it difficult for him to keep his balance.

He falls. The speed of the current and the shock, at being toppled over, allows the water to carry him towards the opening. Grabbing thin air he struggles as The Voice laughs. His arms flail, as his hands, legs and feet try to hold onto anything that will stop his inexorable rush towards the cave mouth. By chance he eventually manages to wedge himself across the opening as the water dashes over him before splashing down the cliff edge and joining the sea.

He lies, saturated, his heart pounding as the gentle murmur of The Voice mocking him fills his head.

"What you do that for? If you'd not tried it would be over by now. Don't be a fool. Let go. Go on let go. You know you want to," The Voice tells him.

Fighting The Voice renews his strength and by refocusing all his energy he manages to cling to the side of the cave and pull himself free of the waters. He plods along the edge of the river until he is forced to crawl. On reaching the mouth of the cave he looks out to sea. Breathing heavily and peering into the dawn light he feels as if his very soul is being sucked out of his body so that at any moment a discarded empty shell will fall into the murky depth beneath him.

The tide is in, the drop from the cave mouth to the sea he estimates to be about three feet. He looks back and realises that he is standing in the middle of a waterfall. He laughs aloud; this cave will be the death of him.

He is wet, cold and lonely. The Voice offers him companionship, warmth and oblivion. In gentle tones it asks, "Where are you going? I can offer you a warm place, somewhere where you'll not have to paint, read books or feel pain ever again. Come with me where it's safe, warm and you don't need to think about anything."

He stands at the cave mouth and looks down. The indomitable power of the sea swirls below his feet. The unstoppable flow of river to sea catches his attention as it follows its own inexorable process.

"Join it, become part of it," The Voice whispers. "At last you'd be part of something great. It's easy. Just one small step. Just put one foot in front of the other. Go on. Even you can do that."

Brendon feels the sudden gush of water that sweeps his feet from underneath him. As he falls he realises that his body no longer belongs to him. He can watch it, as if from a distance, as it is carried away. Without feeling he knows that he is being taken to the edge of the cliff. This time he does nothing to prevent it. So now he is falling into the deep sea, and he wonders how loud a splash his body will make.

The breath is knocked out of him as he hits the water. The sea is cold and dark. It chills him to the bone as he falls under the protective folds of the waves. He opens his eyes and can't see anything. Automatically his body stops its descent and starts to rise towards the waiting early morning light. His head breaks the surface and instinctively he gulps in life-saving air.

The natural reaction to preserve life takes over and he starts to swim towards the beach. His strokes are strong and determined; but he doesn't have the stamina or skills required to make such a long swim without frequent periods of extended rest. He turns on his back, the cold water no longer able to shock him, and floats. Once rested he starts swimming again; heading towards the beach using an ungainly backstroke. His legs kick with power, but his arms are failing wildly and are of little use. Progress is slow and if the situation had not been life threatening it would have been comical.

Brendon swims rests, changes strokes, rests, swims, changes strokes and rests. During his periods of rest he either lies on his back, or treads water. Standing upright he faces the thin warmth of the sun, his body is supported by the water as he holds his arms out as if he is being crucified. He closes his eyes as he takes little steps and dreams of hot far away beaches. By treading water he is able to rest, maintain some warmth in his body and at the same time keep The Voice at bay. Eventually, while trying to tread water he realises that he is no longer floating. Delight fills him as he points his feet downward and can actually feel the sand against his big toe. He tries it again to confirm that he isn't dreaming. At full stretch he can just touch the firm sand on the bottom. Beach, and at low tide this won't even be wet. He screams for joy and relief. He hadn't wanted to die. He really doesn't want to do as The Voice instructs. No matter how pleasantly it had described death he wants to live. To be fully alive, to be with people, paint, read books and make love.

When he had first fallen into the sea his mind had been filled with images of his body lying dead on the beach. In his more optimistic moments he had seen his body washed ashore, a lone seagull perched on his back. The pretty shop assistant, who had been so kind to him, is walking on the beach. She would spot his body lying there, run to him, shoo the bird away, fall at his side, take his body in her arms and cradle his head in her bosom. His wet hair would stain her thin silk blouse with sea water, turning it opaque and showing the forbidden flesh within. Then she would bend and with a kiss she would bring his lifeless body back to life.

The fanciful dreams of a young man are forgotten as he arrives on dry land. He staggers up the beach, water pouring off him, crying and laughing at the same time. He collapses above the high water line and falls into an exhausted sleep.

LAURA wakes, again; her husband is sat on her bed. He smiles; concern filling his features as he hands her a mug of sweetened coffee. She sips it and finds the taste to be unusual; yet welcome.

'Thanks,' Laura says, having tried the beverage.

'How are you?'

'I know she's dead. That I've seen her body. But I'm okay.' Laura continues to sip the coffee. 'So you don't need to sweeten my coffee anymore.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.' She drinks the remainder of the liquid. 'Yes. You go. I'll be down when I've dressed.'

'I ran a bath for you. It's ready. Only ...' he hesitates, summoning up all his courage as he requests, '... leave the door unlocked, just in case.'

Laura's too tired to argue. 'Okay,' she replies and watches and listens as he leaves the room and clumps down the stairs. She hears his singing as he removes pots and pans. She loves him dearly but he does make rather a meal out of making a meal.

She is surprised, as she sinks beneath the warm water, that she aches so much. Listening to the sounds of a normal day she refuses to feel guilty. Sally had had a wonderful, if short, life. She had encouraged many unknown artists. Some of her pet artists are now very famous, and their fame had done Sally's career no harm at all. But Sally had taken the risk, launched, cajoled and encouraged inexperienced artists like herself. She owed it to Sally to make the most of her talents.

Laura returns to her bedroom wrapped in a large hard bath sheet. Having had time to pack a few clothes, before she left the cottage yesterday, she has a few to choose from. She selects a stunning skirt and a top that flows and shapes itself to her figure. Her reward is that Peter admires her as she puts her dirty mug in the sink having joined him in the kitchen.

'So what time's breakfast?' Laura asks revelling in his admiring smile.

'I'll start cooking when I know what everyone wants. William said he'd be back at nine.'

'Time for another coffee, then.' Laura pours herself the last of the coffee, refills the percolator with water and then replaces the grains. She is sat down, cupping the mug in her hands, when they hear the door opening.

IN the dark, and taking care to be unobserved three people are standing around watching while a fourth figure removes the bay tree from the iron grid and gently places it, and the pot, on the driveway. Two figures then bend down and, using their fingers, remove the protective grid. With the skill of experience they lift it clear, side stepping the other two before placing it on the gravel by their feet.

Two of the figures simultaneously turn their torches on, before disappearing down the access point that the grid has been covering. The second pair now free of the grate quickly follow.

They reform into a tight group once they are safe in the cellar under Bay View cottage. William steps outside of the circle, switches on the main light and then re-joins the group.

Anne shivers as she looks towards a small wooden box that is situated some fifteen feet away from them. When she had first seen it she had decided that it looked like a packing case for DIY equipment. Now it sends shivers up her spine whenever she thinks about it. And since the arrival of Laura to Bay View, thinking about the cargo has been an hourly occurrence. And since the death of Sally Henry the box and the cargo it contains are never out of her thoughts.

They start to walk towards the box. A few steps and then as one they stop as if mesmerised and waiting to be given permission to approach closer.

Wells is the first to tire. It's only a box with a few eggs inside. No one was ever hurt by a hatchling. He has to demonstrate to the others that he is above fear. Calling on all the grains of his medical training he walks towards the box with long confident strides. He's the local doctor; he'll solve this little difficulty for all of them.

William has much less confidence. But he has his manly pride. He is more reluctant to have the two women sense the fear that is nestling in his heart than he is to approach the box. He sets off ahead of the two women; yet skilfully manages to keep behind Wells. William walks with a slow and deliberate step.

Miss Jones notices the men walk towards the box and she quickly catches up with Wells who she then keeps in step with. This is an adventure, and she wants to enjoy every moment of it.

Anne, realising that she is now left all by herself, reluctantly follows them. Her only motive, for approaching, is that she doesn't want to be left alone.

They arrive separately at the box. Wells first and he rests his hand on it in that proprietarily style that is the reward of the brave. The others arrive and group themselves close to each other. Wells takes the lid in his hands. His hands shake slightly as he starts to raise it.

It is Anne who arrests his progress. Her fist pushes his hands, knocking them back and forcing the lid to resettle.

'Look,' she says pointing to a hole in the far side of the box. 'Did anyone notice that damage when we first found it down here?'

'It could have been.' Wells walks away, searching for something, while the others remained frozen to the spot. He selects a dry twig that has blown in from the tunnel and brings it back with him. He pushes the box with the twig. The twig snaps; the box doesn't move.

'Here,' William hands him a larger piece of wood, part of a chair that has all but disintegrated in the damp cellar. 'Will this do?'

Wells slaps it into his hand; the twang indicates that the wood is still sound. 'Keep back,' he instructs. He indicates with his left hand for them to move away. With his right hand, while maintaining his position at arm's length from the box, he holds the chair leg and pushes the box with it so that the damage side now faces them. He slowly walks back to the box, and examines the hole. 'I think it's old.' He pronounces. He indicates the straw that's sticking through. 'We're okay.' His tone of voice changes to reflect the less serious status of the box. 'Now, I'll take the lid off, come on you lot. I need at least one of you to look for me.'

As a group they step forward and watch as Wells removes the lid. As the other three prepare to peer inside Wells lifts the lid clear of the base.

Anne screams in his ear, he slams the lid down and drops the chair leg as William turns white and Miss Jones grabs hold of Anne. To the observer it is unclear if Miss Jones is supporting Anne or the other way around.

As if to an unspoken command they all take a step away from the box.

Fear makes the words stick in his throat but eventually Wells turns to the group and asks, 'Well, what did you see?'

It is William who answers, eventually. 'I don't know about the rest of you. But I saw five whole eggs and one ...' he looks away and stops talking. Had he really seen it?

'Come on, Billy, spit it out, or do I have to lift the lid again?'

'No,' they chorus.

'Then tell me! What did you see? It's better to work with the truth than guesses.'
When it becomes obvious that the others aren't going to tell him Miss Jones stammers, 'There's one hatched egg.'

'How do you know it's hatched?' Wells demands.

'It's split in two and empty,' William retorts.

'That could be a result of the previous damaged,' Wells continues, testing a logical alternative theory.

'It's hatched,' Anne answers for the group. Her tone flat and authoritative. 'I've watched birds and hatchlings all my life. One of them's loose. It may be in here right now looking at us.'

Anne and Miss Jones cuddled closer. William looks as if he would like to run away but he can't physically move.

'Okay,' Wells says, before slowly walking back to the box. His hand is raised to lift the lid when Miss Jones yells at him.

'Stop! What, in the love of all nature do you think you're doing?'

'If Anne's right and one has hatched, we've got to check where it is. And it's sensible to start by finding out if it's still inside. If it's not, then we know that we've got a runaway on our hands.'

'And if it's still in there, and you poke your finger around, then we'll have a more immediate problem. You can't go about disturbing it,' Anne observes.

'I'll be gentle. If one's hatched, and then just ...' his hope is dying fast, even as he speaks the words. His tone changes, 'we have to find out,' Wells announces turning to face the box.

'Why?' William asks. 'Why don't we just leave them here? Get out of this place and then tell the others that they were all smashed on delivery.'

'The general murmur of agreement seems to confirm his suggestions as being the one that almost the whole group can agree do.

'No,' Wells says slowly.

'Let's smash them and the box now. That'll be an end to it.' Miss Jones suggests.

'No it won't. We'd still have the hatched one to contend with,' Anne says.

'It will be dead by now, they come from Africa. And we've had freezing temperatures and solid rain since they arrived,' Wells says. 'And we were told that in this temperature they wouldn't hatch. The evidence of our eyes, sorry, your eyes,' Wells corrects himself, looking at each of them in turn and pausing as if to allow them an individual opportunity to confess that they hadn't actually seen the broken egg. They don't respond. He continues, 'we need to know if we have a runaway on our hands, or if it's curled up asleep in the box. Damn it, it's only a baby,' he snaps placing a hand inside the box. The other three stand back and watch expecting that at any second now he will be killed before their eyes.

Carefully Wells removes the five dormant eggs from the box. Then with even greater care he removes the two halves of the sixth egg. Even when he is forced to stretch down, to try to retrieve the chair leg from the floor, he doesn't actually take his eyes off the box. When he is unable to locate the chair leg Williams picks it up and hands it to him.

Wells pushes the chair leg around inside the box noticing with some relief that there's no resistance. He doesn't know if he should be relieved or not. He picks the box up, taking care that there is nothing hiding underneath. He starts to tip the packing out onto the table top.

The other three group members gasp audibly as together they all take another step back and away from the box.

The stuffing cascades to the table top. The inside of the box is in clear view. It is empty.

Sighing, Wells turns to the group. 'We have a runaway.'

'It's only a baby. What damage can a baby snake do?' Miss Jones asks.

'Miss Jones, I don't know. But Billy's right. I'll go back and report what's happened here. I'll check the net and see what we should do next. Help me ...' he waves his hands over the box as if he's just lost his appetite for the whole process.

'Anne's right when she said earlier that we should smash the lot and be done with it. Why don't we?' William picks up the chair leg and holds it aloft.

'Stop,' Wells commands as William relinquishes the chair leg and Wells puts his hand out to receive it. 'Let's just see what we have here. When we agreed to take this cargo we were told that they were harmless. We'll put the eggs back for now, and then we can decide what to do later. After I've got some more information and clearer instructions. I'll research the net. If we can meet up at the usual place, what time?'

'If you mean my front room, it will have to be after church.' Miss Jones confirms.

'Then it will have to be after lunch,' Anne adds.

'Two thirty it is then. That will give me time to make all the calls I need and to check the web and perhaps print off a few articles. Come on, let's all go home.'

MISS Jones goes home and changes; now as she kneels on the floor of Saint Peter and Paul she prays that her little pension-fund, which is how she's seen her smuggling activities up to now, will actually turn out to be safe.

It is as they stand to sing the first hymn that she notices the long object strung along one of the high beam over the alter. She stifles a scream, hiding it in a cough and a wrong note that embarrasses her; but not as much as actually screaming out loud would have done. She sits down and stares at what she has now definitely identified as being a basking snake. The sun pours in through the stained glass windows landing along its back and making the patterns dance in multi-coloured beauty. As the hymn draws to a close she wonders how she should draw the Vicars attention to it. Transfixed she watches it. It doesn't move.

During the reading she keeps her eyes on the snake; convincing herself that if she keeps looking at it then it can't attack. She tries to assess how long the creature is. From where she's sitting she can see that it's very long. In fact incredibly long for a new-born creature. She reflects on the size of the egg that it has come out of and how she was shocked when she first saw them. She'd been expecting something the size of a sparrow's egg, dainty and fragile. Instead they had turned out to be very large and almost as if they were made of burnished leather. Could something that long and thin have emerged from one of those eggs? She looks again at her snake, something glides past her ankle and she freezes. Were there two? Had two hatched from the same egg? She looks down to see a copy of the order of service blowing around in the breeze. The shape above still hasn't moved. But then snakes, if someone is watching them, or are about to kill their prey, can remain still for hours.

The service ends and with unseemly haste she makes her way to the front of the church and looks up.

'It's ugly,' a voice close by says.

She turns to see another member of the congregation by her side. Someone to whom she has never spoken, not in all the ten years he has been coming to worship in the church.

He adds, 'you saw it as well?'

Wondering who else has spent the entire service transfixed by a basking snake above the high alter she smiles and then turns her eyes to follow his gaze as the man tries to explain.

'I think we should pin it over the back of the beam. We have tried to rest it on the top, several times, but it always manages to work itself lose. I'll talk to James on my way out.'

'What is it?' Miss Jones asks.

'That? That up there? That think looking for all the world like the snake that tempted Eve? That's the cable for the loop T-hearing system.'

'Is that all?' Miss Jones smiles at him. 'It's beautiful. You just leave it where it is,' she adds as she turns and walks swiftly away.

He watches her leave wondering what the old bat is on, and if he can have some. Later, as he discusses the wiring with the Vicar, they both hear her laughing.

ANNE starts to make dinner but doesn't get any further than peeling a potato. She slumps into the chair and sits waiting.

Her eldest grandchild wanders into the kitchen and approaches her. Anne doesn't notice. She remains oblivious; even when his mother comes in to collect him. Mother picks up the infant and walks quickly back into the living room.

'I think someone should go and see to Ma. She doesn't look well.' She informs the rest of the group as she sits down, infant on her lap.

'She's okay. She's making dinner,' the father of her child replies.

'She's not well I tell you. I'm a mum myself. I know about these things,' snaps the teenager who has more maturity in her voice than years on the calendar.

Reluctantly Anne's youngest son walks to the kitchen. He puts his head round the door and says, 'okay, Mum?'

Anne doesn't notice. Doesn't reply and doesn't react.

'She seems fine to me,' he replies returning to the room and slumping back in his chair in front of the telly. 'Did I miss anything?'

The mother of her first grandchild dumps the infant in its father's lap, storms out and walks to the kitchen. She sits down, beside Anne, and takes Anne's hand is hers.

'Anne, love, do you want to go back to bed?'

No reply.

'Shall I call Doctor Wells?'

No reply.

'Come with me,' she says standing up and gently taking Anne by the hand and leading her out of the kitchen. They walk to the main bedroom and carefully she puts Anne to bed. She draws the curtains and softly shuts the door behind her.

In the hall she dials the surgery. It's engaged. She leaves a message on his answer phone and decides that she'll call round there on her way home.

WILLIAM lets himself into to his house, drops his fishing tackle at the door, and walks into the kitchen to the smell of freshly ground coffee.

'Just in time,' Peter turns to face him. 'I can now start cooking, what would you like?'

'I'll shower first, and then I'll have ...' he realises that his nocturnal exploits have made him hungry, '... bacon, sausage, eggs – two fried, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast and coffee. Got that?' he asks, his tone lighter than he actually feels.

Alone in the shower after the grime, that clung to him in the cellar is washed away, William has an overwhelming urge to be companionable. He returns to the kitchen and sits next to Laura.

William asks, 'how did you get him so well trained?'

'Lot's of hard work and a pre-nuptial contract.'

Peter put plates of food in front of them while Laura pours them all fresh coffee.

'I enjoy cooking,' Peter announces, putting a mushroom on his fork and using it to break the yoke of his fried egg. The yolk runs all over his plate and surrounds his mushrooms.

William watches the egg break and wonders.

'Did you call home,' William asks; hoping to change the direction of his own thoughts.

'The girls are well, we said we'd not be able to go back home today. The police are happy for us to move into the B&B –.'

'Nonsense. I'll not hear of it. You can stay here for as long as you like. Especially if you feed me as well as this. But you'll not have to mind the odd piano lesson.'

WELLS takes his marmalade sandwich and tea to the computer; he waits as it finds his search engine. He then types in the words Black Mamba, and pressed the go button.

The information scares him and reassures him in equal measure. It doesn't answer all his questions but it answers most.

As he prints off the linked documents he notices the menu. He stares at it, reading each word, then each letter until he is sure that it does say what he thinks it says. It is encouraging him to "Buy Black Mambas". He looks again at the menu; buy them? Were they smuggling an item that could be bought and sold over the net?

His hand rests over the button until he decides that he doesn't want any evidence that will link him to the snakes. He closes the site and leaves his office.

In his bedroom he sits on the bed and calls his daughter. After the preliminaries are over his daughter takes control of the call.

'You're having fun in sleepy Penalton,' she notes laughing. 'What with escaped snakes, smuggling and women being murdered in their beds. Oh, and I forgot to mention the screwed-up lad I'm seeing next week. And they say retire to village life; I'm not so sure I could keep up with it.'

Sunday afternoon

THE blazing sun shines as the girls walk either side of their Nan. They pray they won't meet anyone they know as they walk home after the boring church service they've been forced to attend.

'Can we have lunch out?' Charlotte asks.

'I think you girls have had enough excitement for one weekend, don't you? Besides, have you any money left to pay for it?'

They both look away.

'See what's come of your lying? And it doesn't end here. I'm not going to be able to keep this from your parents. You, or I, will have to tell them when they get back?'

'Why? Knowing about it will only hurt them,' Charlotte notes.

'You should have thought about that before you stole out of the house and lied to me. Especially as I'd clearly told you that you couldn't go.'

'Shouldn't go,' Charlotte corrects her. 'You said that we shouldn't go'

'That makes it worse. Did you enjoy the service?' Their Nan asks, aware that they had both fidgeted all the way through.

'No,' Charlotte answers, honestly if, not very tactfully.

'Well I had hoped it would make you both think. Or didn't you listen to the sermon. It was on lying and damnation. So perhaps it was a little close for comfort for you both?'

'Nan, I don't believe in all that stuff. When you're dead you're dead. And that's all there is to it?' Charlotte retorts unkindly.

'And you, Amanda? What did you think of it?'

Amanda reflects and finds that she is unable to answer. 'I don't know. How does it change things? Sally Henry is still dead and mum and dad are not able to come home. Have the police arrested them?'

'No. But they were both staying in a house where a woman has died. The police just need to question them. Then they'll be allowed home.'

'So you don't think they killed her?'

'Charlotte! That's an awful thing to say about your own parents.'

'Well why not? Dad had motive and mum had the opportunity.' Charlotte adds wondering how the role of being the misunderstood daughter of a pair of notorious killers would suit her.

'And what motive would either of them have?' their Nan demands.

'Mum and dad argued and if Sally hadn't given her refuge and encouraged her to run away then she couldn't have left. Perhaps Sally discovered dad embezzling his firm so he killed her to silence her. She's the type to try her hand at extortion.'

Amanda and her Nan stand open mouthed blocking the pavement as they watched in horror as Charlotte relays her theories.

'And as for mum perhaps she's turning lesbian and tried to have sex with Sally. And Sally refuse her advances and so she killed her. No! Perhaps it was Sally who tried to seduce mum.'

'Charlotte,' her Nan snaps. 'I've had enough of this rubbish. It's not nice to talk about your parents, or anyone, like that. Come,' she sets off with the girls trotting behind her. 'You may not be able to paint like your mother, but you've certainly inherited her creativity. Only all yours has gone into your over active imagination. You'd better become a novelist.'

Amanda stops as she remembers something. She is unsure why it has suddenly come into her mind, but it has. She runs to catch up.

'But I saw her. The other day. In town. Sally Henry, that is, not mum. She was with an old man. She called him Leslie; he said he'd come up from Penalton to see her. He had a box with him that they both looked in it. He was asking her to stop doing something. I couldn't quite catch what it was as just at that point the waitress walked in front of them. And by the time she'd walked away Leslie was saying that he'd make sure the cottage was safe. He looked old and, compared to her, ugly. And now I'm being told she's dead. I don't know what to think. Should I tell the police?' Amanda asks.

Her Nan has stopped walking and is looking directly at Amanda as she asks, 'And how do you know this?'

'We were in the coffee bar practising our lip-reading. I'm getting very good. But I'm still not good with foreign accents.'

'Aren't the Lesley's the handy-man and his wife at the cottage?' Charlotte adds walking up to the house, unlocking the door and exhausting her knowledge and interest in Bay View cottage at the same moment.

'That must have been what they were talking about,' Amanda adds following them both into the house. 'Not interesting at all then.'

'That's enough! You girls go and get changed. I'll have dinner on the table in a quarter of an hour. Isn't it bad enough that your parents have got caught up in all this without you both trying to play amateur detective.'

MISS Jones decides to take Barker for a run along the beach, the tide is low and he enjoys playing in the surf. The fact that he'll be covered in sand and have to be thoroughly scrubbed, which will take her most of the afternoon, is an added incentive. It will stop her thinking.

She walks slowly, adsorbed in her inner thoughts as Barker barks at the waves, the gulls and the air. Humiliation still stings after her experience that morning in church. She's just glad that she didn't screamed out loud. That would have lowered her credibility a notch or two. And after spotting the terrorist in the cave she was enjoying being back in the limelight and at the centre of attention.

She sees the shape that is half hidden in the sand and quickly turns away from it. She is having no more shocks today. She calls Barker as she heads off back towards the harbour wall. The dog, runs to the mound of clothing that is lying above the high tide waterline and, barks at her.

Turning she calls the dog. He faces her and barks across the deserted sands.

'Come here,' she commands, secretly shocked that Barker should disobey her. She calls louder, hoping that this time she'll have the right authoritative note in her voice. Barker whines, and starts nuzzling his snout into the still mound.

She wants to ignore him; but she is hurt, deeply hurt. First she has almost made a fool of herself in church and now this. Her beloved Barker, who only ever nuzzles with her, is doing it with some discarded clothing. That's their special caress, the one that they alone share, and now he's refusing to obey her.

Feeling very foolish she walks towards her dog as tears well into her eyes. Her blurred vision makes walking difficult, causing her to trip over tufts of grass and half-submerged boulders. This new behaviour of her dog is a worry. She tries calling him again. He still doesn't come to her. He's never disobeyed her before.

Through her tears she can make out the little shape of her dog as he sits over his find and whines. When she stops, as she frequently does to remove the sand from her shoes, he looks at her and whines even louder.

'What is it, boy?' she asks as she nears him. He barks, the soft bark he uses when she's sleeping and he's caught short. 'Let me see. What you have -?' she stops speaking. Miss Jones bends down and pats Barker on the head. 'Good boy.' She stoops and listens for a heartbeat.

Something sounds; she isn't exactly sure what it is. But whatever it is there is a very faint echo. Barker tries to sit on her lap; she pushes him away and takes hold of a wet wrist trying to feel the pulse. Nothing. Again she pushes Barker away before trying, once more, to find the pulse with her finger. Faintly she feels a flow, very softly, gently but definitely moving. She sighs and falls back on her ankles.

'He's alive boy. Well done,' Miss Jones gets to her feet. 'I wish I had one of them mobiles,' she tells her dog. Then she adds, 'come on. Life in this village just gets better and better.'

Barker and his mistress walk to the public telephone box in the high street from where she calls the police house. She has no doubt that her diagnosis will be taken as accurate. Hasn't she been a nurse all her working life? And doesn't she run afternoon sessions for Doctor Wells in the summer when all those silly tourists come down, sit on the beach all day and get sun burnt? She knows a body, and she knows a barely alive body. She has saved his life. Well, if truth be told, Barker found him more dead than alive, but it is she who has sought the help that will actually save him.

'SUFFOCATION? But there were no marks around her neck. So how?' Day asks.

'You asked for the cause of death. She was suffocated, by having the passages of her airways stopped not mechanically; as by strangulation, but by constriction; probably by poison.'

'She was poisoned.'

'Yes.'

'How?' Day continues seeking clarity as the more he looks into this puzzle the murkier it gets.

'There's a stab wound about a third of the way between ankle and knee. It looks as if the poison was administered there.'

'Strange place to strike? Injected by needle?'

'Some type of sharp, small, pointed instrument. Can't say for sure. There's one main puncture wound, and a slight graze, probably made by an attempt at a second stab.'

'Anything else that may help me?' Day pleads.

'Buy me a drink?' The voice on the other end of the telephone replies.

Day declines the offer and returns to his detailed study of his office wall. The wall that he has covered with post-it notes and is using to identify sequences, locations and, if he is honest, to actually give him some structure when he feels that all he's doing is fumbling in the dark. Murder, and in his village, he still isn't sure if it's a welcome break to the routine or a damned inconvenience.

Day is engrossed arranging his post-it notes to some pre-ordained order when the door opens. He's unaware that Penny has entered his office until she puts a mug of tea on the table by his side.

'I know when you're in the mood for comfort food,' she says, placing a bacon sandwich next to the mug.

'It's like this -,' he starts to say, as he takes his first bite.

'You eat I'll tell you what I see,' Penny says, finishing his sentence for him. 'I've seen these walls of yours so often over the years we've been together. You always do them when you're trying to solve a problem. On this one, we have green and yellow post-it notes. Each has a name on it. Laura Selous, Peter Selous, the Doctor?' She raises her voice into a question and looks at him. 'That's strange; but you must have your reasons. I'm not so sure why some are green and others yellow?'

'The yellow ones are the people who are involved and had an opportunity. The green ones are the individuals with motive,' Day enlightens her.

'So some people,' she checks the notes, 'will have both yellow and green.'

'That means they are involved, had an opportunity and the motive. And that's most of the people on my list. But, actually not the most obvious candidates for a poisoning. Normally that's a woman's crime.'

'That's sexist. Oh -!' Penny checks the post-it notes and then looks at them for a second time. 'Has one fallen off the wall?' she asks, as she looks around her feet and under the table.

'I don't think so, why?' Day asks, interested in knowing who she thinks he could have forgotten.

'You have Jane Elliot on a green post-it note; for motive. I agree there. But I can't see her yellow one, the one for her having had the opportunity.'

'I didn't do a yellow one for her?' Day replies tentatively, wondering what he's missed.

'Why not?' Penny enquires.

'She didn't have one,' Day answers carefully. He looks at his wife over his sandwich as he adds, ever so slowly, 'as far as I know?' He's lived with Penny long enough to know when she knows something that he doesn't.

'Then you've not been getting out enough,' Penny says, as she picks up the pile of yellow post-it notes and , after he's put his sandwich down, she hands them to him. 'You should spend more time in the village shop.' She hands him his pencil.

'And what would I find out if I did?' he asks, smiling with his pencil poised.

'That Jane Elliot was here in the village the morning that Sally died.'

'How do you know that?' Day demands, truly astounded.

'How does anyone know anything around here? Miss Jones said that she'd seen her getting out of a taxi and walking towards the cottage.'

'Funny no one mentioned it when I interviewed them.'

'Miss Jones can be very off-hand; but she's rarely wrong,' Penny adds.

'She's very observant; in fact she should be doing this, not me. So that's another.' He writes the name of Jane Elliot across the post-it note, peels it from the pile and then sticks it on the wall in front of him. He continues, 'each person, whose name is on that wall, had the opportunity to poison Sally Henry. One of them did, but which one?'

'Why have you got William Berkshire on the list? I grant you he's a little strange but he's harmless, isn't he?'

'That's how most people, who don't know murderers, describe them. Blast! I need to think, will that bloody phone never be silent?' Day snaps.

Penny answers the telephone and mouths, 'It's Miss Jones,' as she hands her husband the receiver.

He reluctantly accepts the instrument from her, announces who he is and then listens, unable to get another word in.

'That bloody woman,' he snaps, replacing the receiver. 'She's always where the action is.' He stands up and slips his jacket on. 'Put her on the list as the main suspect. She's just found Brendon, or whatever he calls himself, washed up on the beach. She thinks he's still alive.' He looks at his wife and his unspoken insult, Miss Jones frightening him to death, remains a silent secrete between them.

'You'd better go, before the lad comes to and dies of shock.'

'Stop it,' he says, kissing her and realising that she has actually just said what he'd been thinking, but she had managed to phrase it in a nicer way. 'Can you check that an ambulance is on its way? She said she'd called one, but just check for me.' He kisses his wife who has followed him to the door. 'I'll keep you posted.' He says winking at her as he walks towards his car.

BRENDON realizes with deepening sadness that the woman prodding him with a stick is not his dream shop assistant. He lies still, wondering how long before he will shiver and alert her to the fact that he is awake.

It's the dog that makes him move. By some mysterious sense, known only to the tiny creature, it rushes at him before vigorously licking his face. Brendon throws his arms over his head and laughs aloud. A nice affectionate laugh. As he moves he realises that he is actually in a great deal of pain.

'Ouch,' he says still lying face down in the sand.

Miss Jones speaks, 'Didn't think you was a goner. I've called the police and the ambulance. They'll move you when they see fit. Happen you have a name?'

'Brendon, with an O,' he announces, using the same mysterious tone that Laura had used when she had introduced him to Peter. Having heard Laura use that little affectation he has decided that he likes it; and that he will use it himself from now on. It makes him feel so English.

'Well Brendon, with an O, you that artist fellow that's been staying with young Laura Selous?'

With her back to the sun Brendon is not able to see the face or clothing of his saviour. He guesses that she is older than her voice sounds. There is something vaguely familiar about her. Only at that moment he doesn't want to talk. So he is proud of himself for managing a weak reply to her question when all he actually wants to do is to drift back to sleep.

'Yes,' he answers weakly.

His visitor appears to have other ideas. She sits by him on the sand, and calls her dog. 'Happen you know all about the murder of that poor girl up at the cottage?' She looks at him and then continues. 'You don't want to talk about it. That's okay; you'll tell me after the trial. Come from far?' she asks.

'London,' Brendon replies, his need to be polite outweighing his impatience to sleep again.

'London?' she says, her tone disapproving. 'I used to work at Saint Thomas, that's a big teaching hospital. You may have heard of it.'

Brendon desperately wants to ask her to leave him to sleep. But his thinking processes are slipping in and out of his native tongue and he loses his ability to communicate in English. A grunt escapes from his parched lips. He's unsure if it's out of pain or frustration.

'Here,' Miss Jones says.

Brendon feels his head being turned towards her and a damp cloth smoothed over his face. He licks his lips and discovers that the woman has now cupped her left hand and is holding it in front of his mouth. It contains a small amount of water, while her right hand rests lightly at the back of his neck as she supports his head. The memory of the kindness of strangers comes back to him again as, once more, he feels safe.

'Sorry, it's water I normally carry for Barker, my dog. But it's clean; I filled the bottle from the kitchen tap this morning. Go on; sip it. But in your state I wouldn't recommend too much. Don't you worry, ambulance'll be here soon enough.'

He cranes his head upwards; supported by the woman he manages to take a few sips of the sun-warmed water. A gurgling sound shoots from between his clenched lips. As he falls back to the sand. Brendon hopes that she'll realise that the gurgle was his way of saying "thank-you". Now if she'd just let him sleep he'd be content.

'I wish it would hurry up. I've a meeting with the doctor at two. Well, if I'm late –. Oh look. There's Day coming towards us. But no ambulance. Pity, he's the first one here. But then again he is local and the ambulance has to come from ...'she considers and then decides. 'Who cares where it comes from just as long as it gets here? But here comes Day over the sands and far away. He's here and they're not. Mind you he's not much use. I always say he's got the uniform but not the brains.'

Brendon now knows who she is. While he still doesn't know her name. He remembers that it was during her visit to Laura that he stolen the clothing. They had sat together in the kitchen, she and Laura, and she had used that same phrase then. That Day had the uniform but not the brains.

'Well, Miss Jones,' a man's voice adds to the sound scope.

'I called an ambulance. It's not arrived yet,' Miss Jones says.

'Penny's checked; they're on their way. She called a moment ago to let me know. I brought this. Do you think he'll need it?'

Brendon is aware that he is the subject of and not a part of their conversation and hopes that now she has someone else to talk to he'll be allowed to go back to sleep. He feels a hard blanket being placed over his body and tucked under his shoulders.

'I'm unsure,' Miss Jones answers. 'His clothes are wet through. Jeans were never very good; they soak up the water. Mind you, if he's broken anything they'll hold it in place better than any splint. He should be all right with the blanket it will give him a little -.'

They both stop taking and a great sense of relief settles over all three of them as they hear a siren in the distance. Miss Jones bends down and whispers.

'It'll soon be over. They'll have you right in a jiffy.'

Day stands up, 'I'll get them to drive over the sand. It's hard enough in several places.' He walks away.

Brendon is aware that Miss Jones is keeping up a running commentary with the occasional nudge that prevents him from drifting into the sleep that he so desires.

'Look at Day run. He looks like a blue jelly on legs. He's waving his arms in the air. The ambulance is just coming down the hill they'll not see him. He's running along the sea wall and pointing back at us. He's now running into the road. The fool'll get himself run over and then they'll have to take him to hospital as well as you. Good, they've managed to pull round him. One man's getting out and he's now taking to Day. They have both gone to look at the ground. He's left Day and is now walking round the front of the ambulance and talking to the driver. They are looking at the sand and it -.' She stops talking.

Miss Jones prods Brendon with a stick and in the silence he hears his own heartbeat.

She continues the narrative. 'Looks like they're going to drive over the hard sands. Oh -,' and she truly sounds as if she's excited by what she can see. 'Yes, he's got his front wheels on the sand. The one driving is waving to the other one who's checking the sand in front of the vehicle. This is exciting. You should see him; he's jumping up and down testing how firm it is. Silly buggers! If they were local they'd just drive over it. Come to think of it if they were fifteen-year-olds in a stolen car they'd be doing wheelies by now. Is that what they call them these days, wheelies? Oh, he's well away now. Look at him racing.' She laughs. 'Now the other fellow's having to run like the clappers to keep up and as for Day. Well, he'd not pass his police entry physical these days. That man needs to eat a few less bacon sandwiches.' As soon as the ambulance stops Miss Jones gets up and walks towards it.

Suddenly a man is bending over Brendon. 'Okay, Mate, we'll get you to hospital.' He removes the blanket and starts to feel his body just as the second ambulance man arrives.

'Nothing's broken. Let's get him on the stretcher and into the van.' The first one calls back to his colleague.

Brendon feels himself being man-handled with obvious competence; he relaxes into their care and is soon aware that he is being driven at speed along the narrow twisty country roads.

'ANNE will not be joining us,' Wells hands round the information that he's already printed off. 'Black Mambas ...' he starts reading, '...are the most feared snake in Africa. And we have introduced six to Penalton. One is most certainly running lose. That is if snakes can run lose. I think the time has come to destroy the remaining eggs.'

There is silence.

'How?' William asks.

'I'm not sure. Pierce a small hole in the side of each shell? Smash them? I don't know. But I'll see to it.'

'I wish Anne were here,' William offers. 'She'd know how to destroy them; what with her keeping hens and all that.'

'We don't need Mrs Lesley; I can incinerate them if it comes to it.'

'And what if it's the escaped snake that killed Sally?' Miss Jones asks the obvious question that they have all been avoiding.

'She died of suffocation,' Wells replies, using his best medical manner. 'I think the snakes we have are venomous not constrictors. But I'm unsure if...' Suddenly he stops talking as a snippet of a previous conversation had come back to him. A snippet that sucks the fight out of him. He looks round the group and walks to the door. 'Forgive me, Miss Jones,' he turns to face her. 'Billy,' he nods at him and then turns away as a remembered image flitters into his conscious mind. He turns as white as a ghost and as he puts his hand on the door handle it visibly shakes. 'I'll get rid of them. I must go. I'm so sorry. This is all wrong.'

WILLIAM looks at Miss Jones as they both try to rationalise the sudden departure of Doctor Wells.

'It's been one of those days?' William offers as an explanation.

'Have you any idea what's going on?' Miss Jones asks.

'He didn't look well.'

'I think I'm going to have to get used to living without the extra income.' She looks at him. 'Care for a cup of tea?'

'Thank you, but no. I need to get back to my guests.'

'You have that artist woman staying with you, don't you?'

'News travels fast,' William acknowledges.

'And how is she?'

'Unaware she's been living for two days over a nest of deadly vipers. I wish we knew for sure what Sally died of.'

'Don't you like the excitement?' Miss Jones asks, her tone implying that she does, quite, like it.

'Miss Jones, I do not. Why did we get involved?'

'Because, like most people, we're greedy. We wanted something for nothing. Besides, the cottage was an eyesore.'

'It's beautiful now. Inside I mean. And out. That patio. That view. Do you think we'll ever go back there?'

'It's not the first violent death that that cottage has experienced, and believe me, it won't be the last.'

'Miss Jones! You don't believe all that nonsense about the fisherman and his wife. It's just a made-up story to keep the tourist away. Isn't it?' William asks as an afterthought.

'It's a good story. And Anne was the best at telling it. She even convinced me that it was true; and I was the one who made it up in the first place. Happen some ghosts should be left to sleep. Do we know what will happen to her?'

'Who, Sally?' William seeks clarification.

'No, Mrs Lesley. She needs the money for cleaning Bay View. I think it'll depend on Mrs Elliot. Wonder what she'll do with it now?'

'Sell it, most like. I have noticed that her visits down here are getting fewer and fewer. The cost of keeping that place on must be prohibitive, even the pittance she pays the Lesley's is cash that she doesn't really need to spend. And now with Sally gone,' William adds his tone sad yet resigned.

'I'll not miss them.'

'But if it's sold to people wanting to live there we'd have to close up.'

'But we're already closed. Aren't we?' Miss Jones asks.

'What if we just say no to anything that's alive, or likely to be? It was okay with the drink and fags and such. And we can continue to scare off any buyers we don't like,' William adds, his tone wicked and mischievous.

'The police will find the cave and the passage.'

'Day and his men searched the cave looking for that lad; and they didn't find it. We can't stop now.' William looks at her. 'I can't give piano lessons until I curl up my toes and die. I need the cash.'

'But Sally arranged all the deals for us? We can't manage without her.'

'Miss Jones, what makes you think that?'

'It was her house; she must have known what was happening.'

'Oh, she knew about it. She gave permission for us to use the basement and she got a cut. I'd go as far as to say that she made Mrs Elliot buy the cottage so we could use the basement. Didn't you see any of the plans when they went on view?' William asks.

'Yes, I watched with interest at each stage.'

'And didn't it strike you as odd that Mrs Elliot didn't mention plans for the cellar? With her money she'd have filled it with wine and port for herself. Not let us use it free for our consignments. If you ask me she never knew it existed.'

'William, she must have? She dealt with the builders?'

'She didn't, Sally did all that. Sally did all the site visits and Mrs Elliot did all the London shopping. Now I often wondered why things were arranged like that.'

'Mrs Elliot was into design and fashion.'

'And Sally was an artist. She'd not have had all that chintz. But now we know why. Take my word for it, Mrs Elliot didn't know, but Sally did. And I'll tell you this for nothing; she may have planned the drops but she wasn't the brains behind it,' William confides.

'Who do you think is?'

'Didn't you see the way Wells went pale? He thinks the death of Sally by our snake wasn't an accident. You know that Sally and his daughter have been lovers off and on since his daughter went to London to go to medical school?'

'How do you know that when I don't?' Miss Jones demands. She is starting to feel that she may not be as observant as she likes to think she is.

'I didn't; until just now. But now I'm sure and I'll tell you why. Are you ready for that tea yet?'

DOCTOR Wells closes the surgery door as he waits for his visitor to sit down.

'Why are we meeting here?' Prunella Wells asks.

'Why not?' Wells replies.

'Seems a strange place that's all. So what's on your mind, Dad?'

'The eggs.'

'You said you'd smashed them. So what do you want me to say?'

'You don't mind?' Wells asks surprised by his her reaction.

'We'll lose money. A lot of money. But so what. It'll take us a while to regain our reputation. But that's nothing I can't handle.'

'This morning you made some comment about a dead woman.'

'Yes. It's the talk of the hospital.'

'I called Day, and he said that the news hadn't been released.'

'That's as may be,' Prunella reaches for her mug and takes a sip. 'You forget being stuck out here rotting. But in the real world of hospitals senior staff talk to each other. Is this what you called me about?'

'Why should it be of interest to you?'

'Come off it, Dad. A woman dies in the village where you live. Don't you think it's right that I would take an interest? Or ask the post-mortem team about it? You've been out of the main-stream environment too long.'

'I need to know how did she die?' Wells demands.

'Suffocation.'

He shakes his head and feels like crying. 'Don't lie to me, I saw her. There was no indication of suffocation on her body. Her face was unmarked, and I've been -.' His voice rises in decibels so as to prevent her attempted interruption. 'I may have been put out to grass a long time ago but I'm not stupid.'

'Dad, I never said you were.'

'So why then, are we smuggling poisonous snakes?'

'What are you accusing me of? That I got you to smuggle the snakes in, in order for one of them to hatch prematurely and kill Sally? Even Miss Jones, with her imagination, would say that that was a tall order.'

'You can buy them on eBay,' Wells tells her angrily.

'What the snakes?'

'Yes. Black Mambas. They're not a protected species. You can buy them on the net.'

'Dad, don't be silly.'

'I looked them up. There was a link for buying them. So why did we smuggle them?'

'Did you check if you could actually buy them or not?'

'What do you mean? The link was there?' Wells defends himself, fully aware of his lack of expertise with the new technology.

'But could you use it? Next time you log on try it. I think you'll find it's a standard menu. But if you actually do press the "buy" key you'd be told it's an option that isn't available. Trust me. You cannot buy them on eBay. Come on tell me what's up? You're suspicious about something; what is all this about? We were asked to take a consignment of snake eggs. I'll call and let them know that we had to destroy them. What is it that you want me to say?'

'I don't know.' He looks away. 'Did you know Sally Henry?' Wells asks in what he hope is a conversational tone.

'Dad, what's this about?'

'Just tell me. Please humour an old man.'

'I met her here when she and Jane first moved in. We all went to their parties, remember, you me and -.'

'I'm not asking about what I know, damn you, Prunella. You know what I'm asking. Please, don't make this any harder than it is already.'

'I can't believe -! Okay, I admit. I danced with her on the beach a few times. She was a very attractive woman. Oh, and occasionally I'd bump into her in London, if I went up there for work.'

'Were you lovers?' Wells asks afraid of the answer.

'Now what the hell are you implying?'

'It's a simple question. Have you and she ever been lovers?'

The hesitation is noticeable. 'The woman already had a lover.'

'The woman was very attractive. Many straight women and men have a fantasy about seducing, or being seduced by, a beautiful lesbian woman.'

'Dad,' Prunella stands up. 'Sally Henry was sexually what people call "not fussy". That's not the type of person I go for. Besides I actually like men.'

'But sometimes,' he says, softly and gently, 'I know I'm old but I have lived. I am aware of the impact others can have on our emotions. Even the most level ones,' he adds quickly.

While he is not looking at Prunella he is aware that she is trying to interrupt him. He taught her that imperious stance; he isn't going to allow it to intimidate him. She may be a senior consultant but she is still his daughter and he's within his duty to chastise her. He continues without any allowance for her anger or his sense of betrayal.

'It can sometimes be human nature to be drawn to people that we don't actually like.'

'Dad, I'm going now; before you start asking me questions that a father and daughter shouldn't discuss. But for your interest I have no fantasy about three in a bed sex with lesbian women. In truth I have enough hospital staff, care assistants and patients offering me sex on a daily basis. More sex than enough to keep me satisfied. I don't need to chase wanton sexually predatory dykes. Even one as beautiful as Sally Henry.'

Wells looks at the closed door for some time after his daughter has slammed it behind her. His unease he puts down to realising that while he is satisfied with the answers that she has given him; he feels that he actually handled the meeting very badly.

'IT'S good of you to come,' Jane Elliot says to David for the hundredth time. 'Thank you; it really is good of you.'

'I was surprised to get your call,' he says, in a tone that effectively diminishes her repeated gratitude.

Jane hears a note of censorship in his voice. She feels isolated and can't explain, even to herself, why she selected him to be her confidante. 'Yours was the first number I called?' She replies. Her reply is more as a question than an answer. Quickly she looks away. Even to her it sounds hollow. 'I don't know why I called you. But I did. Thank you for being here for me,' she confesses.

'Did you think I'd refuse?'

'Because I'm your employer?'

There is a long silence as if David expects her to have another relationship in mind.

'It would be hard to refuse you as you are, as you've just reminded me, my employer.' He stresses the word employer.

She laughs, 'Do you think I'm going to try to seduce you?'

A look of abject horror smashes onto his features and David all but screams the word 'No!'

'Sorry, I can see how difficult this may be for you. Would you prefer to leave? I can call someone else ...?' Jane curtails her sentence; she really doesn't know who else she could call. Sally is dead and Laura is still at the cottage. Feeling alone and friendless she turns pleading eyes on him and prays that he will stay with her.

'I'll stay,' he confirms as he seats himself on the couch in her office. 'Would you like to talk?'

'What about?'

'About anything that comes to mind,' David suggests.

Jane doesn't reply.

David prompts. 'Loss?' There is still no answer. 'Pain?' The silence continues. 'Grief?' He looks at her before he adds, none too gently, 'if you don't mind me saying ...' Jane looks at him with hard eyes that are filled with pain. He stops fishing and shuts up.

'I'd stopped loving her,' Jane eventually confesses when the tension becomes too much for her to bear.

'That's not an evil act, unless ...'

Again Jane gives David a warning look and her hard eyes silence his observation.

Jane continues. 'I don't know why, or when, or if there really was a reason. But I stopped loving her. There wasn't anyone else. Well not for me.'

'And did Sally know?'

'She never will,' Jane replies, her voice hardly above a whisper.

'Not now. But she will have peace.'

'Her life wasn't peaceful. She wasn't faithful –.' Jane looks at him. 'Don't be shocked. I know you knew that she had other lovers. She wasn't one for fidelity. Besides, she liked men as well. I think deep down I really needed her to be totally satisfied by me and my love. And I couldn't be happy without that. But she wasn't like that. Fidelity just wasn't in her makeup. I kept thinking that if I let her have her freedom then she'd give the others up and come back to me when she was ready. I ached to hear her tell me that I was all she needed. But she never did. It just wasn't her style. I'd go home at night; she'd call me to say she was running late. Then when she'd eventually get home, in the early hours of the morning, it would be obvious that she'd had a good time. And I'd have spent the whole night sitting at home on my own like some love-sick teenager just waiting for her to return and spend time with me. All I wanted...,' Jane lets the tears fall for the first time. '...was a little quality time with her each and every day. But she thought that was boring. She often said I was boring.' She brushes her tears away. Using her famous pride and courage she stems the flow. She swallows, and continues, her tone even and emotionless. 'So I fell out of love. There were times when I could have killed the bitch. She mocked me. Faithful and frigid she'd called me. Lap dog Jane and other names that were more hateful because they came out of her sweet mouth. Said by those beautiful lips. Lips that could taste so sweet and sting so bitterly. And ... and now ...' she trails off.

'And now, she's been murdered. Conven-.' David is interrupted by the warning look from Jane that cuts him off mid word. 'So,' he uses a lighter tone and changes the subject. 'What will you do now? Sell the cottage and never go back?'

'That will be best.' Jane feels guilty but she cannot stop herself. 'I'll look for someplace. And it will be exciting finding the right location and property. But where?' Her face lights up as she speaks.

'The South of France,' he tells her, 'that's where I'd go.' Suddenly the South of France is where she most wants to be in the whole wide world. 'Sally didn't like abroad. It's strange when you think that she spent most of her working life in some capital city or other.'

'Is that why you both went to Cornwall?'

'Sally picked it. I bought it and together we created it.' Jane laughs and looks at the floor. 'Strange looking back on it now; you know it was all a series of coincidences.'

'What do you mean?' David prompts.

'Sally came home early one night. Said she wanted to drive and drive and drive until she stopped and then stay, for the whole weekend, wherever it was that we ended up. It sounded like the sort of crazy idea that she would have. So we set off and we drove -. No. She drove. I suggested turnings and places but she kept right on. Looking back now I wonder if she knew all along that the cottage was there and deliberately took me to it. I guess I'll never know. She could be very scheming.'

'And if she had fallen in love with a cottage in Cornwall and told you about it how would you have reacted?'

'Well it wasn't a cottage. It was a ruin. But I suppose I'd have been suspicious and checked all the men and all the women in the area to see which ones she was having, or was planning on having, sex with.'

'Bitter?' David asks, very gently.

'No! No, sorry. She was a bitch. A first class bitch. But that didn't stop me loving her.'

'So this new place. Any ideas?' David asks, bring their conversation back to a more comfortable subject.

'France, wine, cheese and bread. Do you speak French, David?'

'I speak six languages fluently, and yes, French is one of them.'

The realisation that she really wants to know everything there is to know about him comes back to her. She aches to ask him to help her find her new home. To ask him to teach her French; anything just as long as she can be with him. She stands up and walks to the window as a string of obscenities escape from her lips. She turns around and looks at him and then blushes before turning away.

'Jane,' David says softly, 'is pain this new to you?'

On the verge of confessing her love for him she is suddenly alert and pulls back. 'That's a strange question?'

'Just making conversation,' he lies; and they both know it.

'About pain?' Jane asks, unsure where this conversation is going.

'As a lesbian woman, who was once married, you must have had more than your fair share of pain in your life.'

'I have. Is that what we're talking about?' Suddenly she feels as if she were naked in front of him; while he remains a fully dressed enigma.

Continuing with the upper hand he asks, 'and does the loss of Sally compare to some of your other griefs?'

'David, David, David!' she screams. 'If only people knew just what hell I've been through. People hating me, despising me, calling me names and ... and ... and...' calmer she asks. 'Have you ever been hated, David?'

'I have been,' he replies defiantly, holding her eyes, making her feel as if somehow she were to blame for his pain. 'I was abandoned once by the one woman who above all others should have loved me.'

Monday morning

ANNE looks at her husband. She can't believe what he's just told her. She falls back on the pillows and in a thin voice says. 'I should have known. In fact, I think, deep down I did. What are we going to do now?'

'That depends on if you can forgive me or not?' Stewart Lesley asks.

'It's too soon to talk about forgiveness.'

'I've got to go and talk to Day. But I wanted you to know the truth before -. Before ... Well you know before what. Can you sleep if I leave you alone?'

'After that news? You expect me to be able to sleep?'

'Sorry?'

'Sorry,' Anne yells back at him as loudly as her feeble voice will let her. 'Sorry? You wreck my life and all I get is sorry. Do you know how –! No,' she interrupts herself. 'You don't have the first idea of what I am going through.'

'I know you're not well. And I really didn't want to have to tell you. But I must tell Day before his investigations uncover me. And I thought I should tell you first.'

'Confession may be good for your soul but it hasn't done mine much good. Not now. My life's turned upside down and then this.'

'And you think she'd have allowed your smuggling activities if I'd not got involved?' Stewart demands defensively.

'What? You knew?'

'Yes. Anne, I knew and I made sure Sally went along with it.'

'So it's my fault, is it? I hope you're not going to try an tell me that I drove you to screwing her just to protect me. Because I just won't hear it, Stewart Lesley. I just won't hear it!' Anne screams at him.

'Think what you like; put all the blame on me. I didn't ask you to go into smuggling. But once you had I had to make sure that you and the kids were protected.'

'Protect me? I wish you'd asked me first. I didn't need your protection.'

'What? I don't believe this? You stored your smuggled stuff in the cottage and thought that some ghost story would stop them going into the cellar? Mrs Elliot would have worked it out sooner or later, she's a clever woman,' he reminds his wife.

'And what makes you think that your rich harlot didn't tell her?' Anne screams back.

'It wasn't like that.'

'Oh, so there was something that it was like, was there? Well I'd like to know what it was.'

'No. You're making my involvement dirty.'

'Dirty? You had sex with Sally Henry and you don't think it's dirty. After some rough, was she? 'Cause you're nothing if it ain't rough.'

'Now you're being vulgar, Anne, and you know I don't like vulgarity.'

'Oh, so did she try you and then gave you up? Well did she? Found you weren't man enough for the lesbian slut.'

'Stop it, Anne. Stop it. Sally was a wonderful woman.'

'Yes, there she was screwing my husband while I was cleaning her shit up. That takes brains to organise; that does. All I can say is that I wish I'd know before 'cause then I'd have charged them more.' Anne adds, her tone bitter and hurt.

'We did -.' Stewart stops talking, looks at his wife and asks, 'is there any use me trying to defend myself?'

'What did she see in you? She could have had any man she wanted.' Tears are rolling down her face. 'No,' Anne sniffling the sobs back into her throat, 'correction. She did have every man and every woman that she wanted.'

'She was trying to find –.'

'Don't you dare tell me that she was misunderstood! Or that you were helping her, 'cause I just won't hear it. I just won't. The only thing she could see in you, Stewart Lesley, was a bit of rough. 'Cause that's all you've got to offer the likes of the Sally Henry's of this world.' Anne throws herself on the pillows, turns away from her husband and fumes.

'Sorry.' Stewarts says softly, as he walks to the bed and is about to sit down when he appears to think better of it. 'I'll go. You agree I should talk to Day?'

'Go ahead, it's just another stupid thing you've done.'

'I'll go. Do you want me to bring you anything back?' There is no answer. 'Anne, if he locks me up, will you please let the kids come and see me, even if ...' for a man without education he picks his next words with great care. '...even if you aren't up to coming to see me yourself. I'd like to know how you are. I love you, and there has never been any other woman for me 'cept you.'

Without looking back he walks to the door, yanks it open, gently steps over the threshold and softly closes it behind him.

Anne sits up, looks at the door, and then lies back down on the bed. It's actually a relief to have her suspicions confirmed. But where does that leave her now?

'THIS is a strange place? Why did you pick this restaurant?' Jane asks looking around the major high street chain.

'You said I'd to pick my favourite and sorry if I disappoint, but this is it?'

'But, David, why?'

'Because it's unpretentious. It is what it sets out to be. The service is efficient. The tables are clean and the room light and airy. Don't you like it?'

'I expected something more, a little more ...' Jane fails at her second attempt. 'I cannot picture you eating here that's all.'

'Did you know such places exist?' David continues.

'That's unfair, of course I do. I've seen them.'

'But never entered one? Before today that is?' David continues his challenge.

'Never. Well, not since I started making money. And never this particular one. I always get my morning Danish and coffee at the little breakfast bar by the office. Do you know the one?'

'Yes.'

'It's a bit of a dump to look at. But the food and coffee are excellent. I think the people who run it are Italians. Great food. Actually -.' Jane puts her wineglass down and tries the coffee. 'I'd say that this is excellent coffee, and this pasta is freshly cooked, you can tell.'

'And where did you picture me eating, if it's not in a place like this?'

That's a question that will stop her pulse. She looks at him and feels as if a rusting corkscrew is slowly pulling her heart out. 'I don't know, but I think it may have been some intimate bistro.'

'Take my boss to an intimate bistro?' He raises his glass and drinks from it.

'Okay, intimate was not the right word. Cosy? Is that better?'

'I like friends who play with words and languages. I come alive driving fast cars and wearing good clothes. I prefer my red wines to be very rough, my whites to be so crisp and so dry that they grab the back of the throat on the way to the belly and take no prisoners down with them.' David looks at her as she sips her wine as if each mouthful is a thoroughly unpleasant experience. He continues very slowly, 'and, for my sins, I actually do like my food; plain cooked or preferably raw. I don't eat, drink or love ...,' he continues even more slowly, looking at her, holding her eyes as if he's actually reading her soul, '... anything that's been messed with.'

'That's some life style choice. Are there reasons? Jane asks.

'Why would I need a reason other than preference?'

'It sounds so austere with not a lot of comfort?'

'I have comfort, loyal friends who I sit up with all night putting the world to rights. Friends I share books with and make stupid puns with until the early hours of the morning. I have all the comfort I want.'

'And do you let...,' she toys with her glass, '... these friends, get close?'

'I have close,' David confesses, very quietly.

'Very close?'

'Very, very close.'

This meal is not going as Jane had, in her mind, planned that it would. She is desperately trying to find the right conversation. She picks up the bottle of white, the contents of which she finds to be too brittle for her tastes. She starts to re-fill his glass. 'Last night ...' She looks at him and tries to read his reaction.

'Yes?'

'You were taking about pain, and being hurt,' she looks away.

'You'd better stop pouring that if you expect any work out of me this afternoon.

'Cards on the table, David?'

'You're the boss.'

'Can you forget that for a moment?'

'I will if you will. But it's dangerous,' he warns.

'David, I wanted this to be special, a thank you for last night. Not a boss and employee thing. I'd like to get to know you, as a man, not as a member of staff.' Jane wants to add that she's actually jealous of all the people he's close to, but she cannot. She doesn't understand what it is that is drawing her to him; and she feels ashamed for feeling drawn.

'You don't get it, do you?' David asks, his voice has a bitter tone.

'Are you that bitter and twisted?'

'No. I'm my own man. I just happen to have made the mistake of finding and then falling in love with the mother who abandoned me.'

'And you're going to hold all women responsible for her act.'

'No, only her.' David holds her eyes over his glass.

'Your mother?'

'Mother,' David looks away. 'That's the problem. You see I want her to love me. I need her to love me so much. Can you understand that?'

'I think I have some slight understanding.'

'Can you understand what it feels like to want someone to love you for yourself, and not just to assuage the guilt of abandoning you, the child she gave birth to?'

'I think I can understand more than you realise. But I will say that guilt is not a firm foundation on which to try to build a relationship,' Jane adds in a tone of confessional pain.

'You should –.' He stops talking, and drinks from his glass. The glass drained he refills his along with hers.

'Someone hurt you, and you're taking it out on the world. That's not very professional.'

'And you'd know all about being professional? Always knowing what's right for other people. Always making your mark. Always going in for the kill,' David demands.

'I didn't kill Sally.' Her voice is louder than she'd have liked it to be. She looks around the restaurant and then back at him. Forcing her tone to be, what she considers to be just on the edgy side of reasonable she adds, 'I don't know who did, or why she was murdered. But I had nothing to do with it. Now can we just have a nice conversation about -?' Someone walking past knocks into her chair; she feels as if she were being displayed. 'Oh, I don't know what about. You choose the subject.' She looks away, ruffles her hair with her left hand as in the other one she is still holding her glass. This meal is turning out to be a disaster. She regrets allowing him to plan it. Next time, she'll choose the restaurant. Somewhere intimate where they won't have people brushing past them every two minutes. Somewhere where the waiting staff come to them. Somewhere where they could have a private booth so that they can talk and listen to each other.

'Hurting the innocent,' David offers, as his chosen topic of conversation.

'A big topic. No one wants to hurt the innocent.'

'But they do. Did you ever hurt an innocent child, Jane?'

'I hope not,' she replies, as fear seeps into her heart. She tries to think how she can take the conversation onto ground that will be safer in such a public restaurant.

'Perhaps an infant when you thought that what you were doing was best for them? Could you have made the wrong choice, in that situation, Jane?'

'I don't know. What do you want me to say? You obviously have something specific in mind. Something you'd like me to confess to. But I just don't know what it is?' She is horrified to realise that she's shaking, crying and that her voice is a tone or two higher than she would like it to be. She wants to leave but knows if she can't stand up, let alone walk all the way to the door.

'Would you like to tell me why you're reacting this way?' David asks. As ever he is a mask of icy professional calm and detachment.

'I really don't know. Perhaps the shock's coming out. Thank you.' She says to the waitress who silently appears at her side and places a glass of water by her elbow and then leaves. 'That's kind. Or did you order it?'

'No, they noticed.'

'Oh, gosh, am I making a fool of myself? Do you think they think you're my toy-boy and you've just ended our affair?'

'No. You said I'd to pick my favourite restaurant, and I have. Remember, they know me here,' David reminds her.

'Sorry, will you be too embarrassed to come back?'

'They accept human weakness; that's why I like it.'

'And you think I don't?' As David doesn't reply she continues, 'well I do. I know I said some awful things about Sally last night.' She sips her wine, trying to get herself used to the fire it leaves at the back of her throat.

'I'm not talking about Sally Henry. I'm talking about you, and your own failings.'

'Such as?' Jane asks, trying to sound as if she will be receptive.

'Have you never given anything away, even for its own good?'

'Yes, often. I support many charities; I'll even give the cottage away.'

'I cannot believe -! Oh, yes I can. Perhaps I should have realised that it would be that deep in you. I guess that should make me happy. Happy because for you to need that many protective layers the pain must have gone very deep. That's good. That's very good. It shows that underneath all that polish, that you do still feel guilty about it.'

'David, what are we talking about?'

'Cards on the table, Jane?'

'Yes. This is a difficult conversation; no one's ever spoke to me like this before? Like I was a naughty child. David, what are you trying to say?'

'So, no one ever spoke to you as if you were a naughty child?' David asks.

'No.'

'Didn't they, Mother?' he asks softly.

'Was it your mother who hurt you?'

'Oh yes, and you'd know all about that. But why do you think that would be so strange?'

'A mother deliberately hurting her child? Yes, I think that would be strange. Not that I ever was -.' Something tells Jane to stop talking. She wants to hold him in her arms, pull him to her breast. He is obviously suffering, as is she, and she can't stop it for either of them. She wants to know how best she can reach out to him.

'So you were never a mother; were you?' he asks with a bitter and scornful tone to his normally lyrical voice. 'And just when I thought we were getting somewhere,' he adds, his tone still bitter as he looks away. 'I guess you're right, a mother feels pain, even when the child is gone. You a mother, or the lover of someone else; that's a sick joke.'

'But I nev –!' Jane starts to say.

'Think before you say that,' he interrupts sharply as he turns to face her. A challenging and warning look is fixed in his deep blue eyes. 'What were you never, Jane?'

She looks at him; his eyes remind her of the blue eyes of her own mother. His nose is so like the nose of David Woods; her first boyfriend. The one who got her -. She looks at his lips, kissable, warm just like her own. 'Oh my God.' Is all she manages to say as her professional polish is stripped bare.

'I say again, and I hope you're listening this time, hello, Mother?'

'Why?'

'If you don't mind, that question is supposed to be the prerogative of the abandoned child,' David retorts.

'Abandoned is such an ugly word. I prefer -.'

'I'm happy that we stick with the word I chose; abandoned.' David interrupts her.

'Abandoned implies that you don't want to keep something. And that's just not true about my baby. I did want to keep it.'

'Something? It? We are talking about a human life, precious, fragile and the only name you have for me is "It"?' he sighs, and looks away.

'I don't think judging anyone on actions alone is helpful.' Jane holds his eyes as he turns to face her. 'Please listen to why I did what I did. In those days everyone said that having it adopted was best for baby. And by the time I was due to give birth so many people had told me that I was stupid and not fit to make my own decisions, let alone the decision for a baby, that I believed them. They told me I'd made a mess of my own life and that I shouldn't do the same for my unborn child. So I agreed to the adoption. I never met the couple. But everyone told me how nice they were.' Jane is holding her head down and watches as big tears drip onto the table. She takes the paper serviettes that David hands to her. 'Thanks. Everyone said how nice, good, kind, sensible they were and that they'd be able to give you a proper home, unlike me. Were they good to you?'

'Very and I loved them dearly. But you, what happened?'

'The usual story. A man said he loved me. I believed him. We had sex and I got pregnant. I told him. He fled never to be seen again. I was a single pregnant child. Then some friends introduced me to a man. A man who was not your father. He agreed to marry me. I didn't love him and he didn't love me; but he offered you a home. And that was all I needed. Love, I could live without that, besides, I'd have you and we'd both be safe.'

'Not much of a life.' David notes.

'I didn't realise that then. But it didn't happen; he grew to hate me. Well, I think it was hate; you see he hit me. He told me I was a slag and that as no one else would have anything to do with me so I would have to put up with whatever treatment he wished to dish out. He said I was getting everything that was due to me. At the time I was seven months pregnant and that bastard hit me. I ran away to protect my unborn child; to protect you. I had nowhere to go. I didn't know anyone. I walked the streets and slept rough for a couple of nights. But that's not an option for long when you're heavily pregnant, so, eventually, cold and hungry I went back to my parents. They told me to go back to my husband and that if I didn't anger him then he wouldn't have to hit me. I couldn't go back, so I got a job and when you were born I. I, I -.'

'Gave me away. Like an unwanted package.'

'It wasn't like that. David, I loved you and so did the other couple. By letting them adopt you I could offer you the love of two safe parents. That was preferable to the love of a slut who you'd end up having to watch being hit by your father night after night. Well wasn't it?'

'He may have changed.'

'That's crap.' She is angry. The memories are still painful and Jane feels that he is judging her when he's no right to. She is no longer able to look at him.

He actually laughs. She glances up. He is shaking his head and looking at the table. He picks up his glass and drains it, he refills both their glasses before he finally speaks.

'Yes, it was. Sorry. We're not going back to work, are we?' He holds the empty bottle in the air and waves it towards the staff congregating behind the counter. 'Another,' he mouths. 'I think we could manage another, don't you?'

'Can we ...' she trails off. At this stage she doesn't want to alienate him so she doesn't finish her request for a better wine than the house red.

'Something softer?' he asks. She smiles as he walks to the counter, selects the wine, pays for it and then returns. Letting her try his selection he asks, 'Is this more to your tastes?'

'That's softer on the pallet. Thanks.'

'Please,' he says, filling her glass and then sitting down. 'If you're okay, will you go on?' He reaches across the table and gently touches her hand. 'Please go on; I am listening.'

'You were adopted and I was on the verge of going back to him when I met a woman who became my lover and convinced me that life could be wonderful. I filed for divorce and I realise now that I've never forgiven my parents. I have regretted my decision to lose you every day of my life. I turned my pain and anger into starting Elliot Creations. You could say that the Company was, still is, my substitute for you.'

'And your parents? My grandparents; are they still with us?'

'They are still alive. If that's what you mean. I pay for their nursing home on the South Coast. I think that's enough. I don't visit. They don't ask me to visit; so I don't.'

'That's a shame. How about your lover?' David asks.

'We parted. I've had other since. Then Sally came into my life.' As Jane looks at him she asks herself; can really be her son? He's so good looking; or would that description only be made through the eyes of a mother?

'The beautiful and tragic, Sally.'

'Yes, when you think about it, she was.'

'But, Mother, you loved her?'

'With all my heart, until she made it obvious that she didn't value my love.'

'How do you know that?'

'She –.' Jane stops talking. She reflects on how David has taken command of the conversation. He is doing it again; reflecting her character back to her and she doesn't like it. 'Go on, say it,' she demands.

'She didn't behave as you wanted her to.'

'No she didn't, David. That's right.'

'And you wanted her to behave in a way that you expected her to behave. Do you think control can be mistaken for love?'

'Did I stop loving her because she wasn't what I thought she was? Perhaps that's right. Perhaps I was wrong not to accept everything about her. But if I'd done that would she have done the same for me?'

'We are talking about you not Sally.'

'I guess you're right. But you know, David, just recently I've felt I was at a crossroads in my life. And now you've come back into it I hope that you want to be part of it?'

'So do I. But let's take it slowly.' He removes the bottle of wine from the table and pours for both of them. 'Go on.'

'I think that's about it; for me. So, I think it's now my turn to ask you questions. But where do I start? I guess for now; it's why now?

'My parents died the year I came to work for Elliot Creations. I'd always known that I was adopted. But in addition they left me a letter telling me that you were my birth mother. I felt angry, cheated, disappointed, and I admit, when I first realised who you were I did think that you'd be a free meal ticket.' They look at each other. 'But it didn't last long. After I received the letter I couldn't concentrate on anything but my own feelings. My studies suffered so I dropped out of university. Because I'd been a good student they agreed I could take a year off and then go back. I had to get to know you. I had visions of you seeing me and instantly recognising who I was and we'd go off into the sunset together never to look back. I'm sure you know the Hollywood stuff as well as I do?'

'Music, sunshine and happy ever after. Yes I know all about that.'

'Then I considered killing you.' Again they look at each other. David laughs first. 'The truth's never as good.'

'Thanks but suddenly I'm loving life and I want that sunset ending.'

'Let's see. No promises.'

'You're right; we need to take this slowly. Go on,' Jane encourages.

'I joined an employment agency and said I'd do anything as long as I got a job in Elliot Creations. I got a lowly post, worked damned hard, was spotted and offered a permanent job, still very lowly. I was promoted again and in a year I was working in your office. Six months later you'd a vacancy for a secretary; you never keep them very long, do you? I applied. Do you remember the interview?'

'No.'

'It was the first time we'd spoken. Other than the normal office talk. You know the stuff, "hello", "good night", "Merry Christmas", that sort of thing. At the interview you asked 'Can you organise my life for me, 'cause when I organise it myself it all goes wrong?' I asked how you liked your coffee and you said 'start Monday'.' David smiles at her as she struggles to remember the interview.

'I obviously recognised your obvious talents,' she lamely replies.

'It was strange to be alone in a room with you after all that time watching and waiting. All my fantasies of how we'd actually meet crumbled to dust with the words "can you organise my life for me, 'cause when I organise it myself it all goes wrong." I guess that's life,' he sighs.

'And are you happy, David?'

'Yes.'

'And you knew all along?'

'No. Not in the beginning. At the start I did wonder if the note had been a mistake. So I watched and examined you at every opportunity. For ages I didn't know for sure if you really were my birth mother.' He stops talking as they both savour the moment when their bond is made flesh. 'I really thought it could all have all been a bad joke.'

'What made you decide that it wasn't?'

'When I started to work closely with you, I noticed there were several things in which we were alike. And the more we worked together the more noticeable they became. I think I fell in love with you last year at the Christmas party. Do you remember the waitress tripping and dropping a tray of canapés on the floor?' David asks causing Jane to smile. A vacant smile that indicates that she's no memory of the occasion at all. 'And what did you do? Do you remember?'

'No.'

'Without a moment's hesitation you put your glass of expensive champagne down and went over to help her. You sent one of the other waitresses off with her to the loo so that she could tidy herself up and then you knelt on the floor and you, creator of Elliot Creations, you knelt on the fool and picked up all the canapés.'

'Oh! Don't tell me I then offered them round?'

'No. Is that the sort of thing that you'd do?'

'Perhaps once, David, but I would sincerely hope not now.'

'I'd have loved to have seen that side of you. The wild reckless, hard-up side.'

'Perhaps you will; one day. But let's hope it's not the hard up side. Please, go on, what else did I do that caused you to love me?' Jane asks.

'You left all your rich and famous guests and took the tray to the kitchen. Then you went to the toilet to see that the waitress was alright. Picture it. There you are in a designer gown that cost thousands. You are the centre of attention as befits your main promotional event of the year. The next image is of you oozing sublime confidence as you grovel on the floor helping a waitress. And do you know what the most amazing thing was?'

'No.' Jane smiles. She feels as if they have at last touched each other's hearts; and after the storms of their last two meeting the waters are now safe, tranquil and very, very deep.

'You were so dignified as you picked up the squashed pastry cases and mangled fillings off the marble floor; I knew then that I really, really wanted you to be my mother.'

PETER and Laura leave the house and walk towards the cottage. They stand by the police tape and look over at the view. Peter breaks the silence.

'It's so beautiful; it's hard to think that such pain can be found here.'

Laura watches a group of kids playing on the beach. They are calling to each other and prodding something that is half submerged in the sand. 'Listen to them; it's so good to hear the laughter of children.'

'Is that the infamous Smugglers Cave?'

'Yes. Oh look, the children have pulled something from the ground!' Her fearful tone attracts his attention. A long thin rope like item emerges from the sand. The children start prodding it with obvious disgust. One boy picks it up, twirls it around and around his head before chasing the other children with it. They flee screaming towards the road. 'What do you think it is?' Laura asks.

'Looks like a washing line to me,' Peter adds, not really interested.

'Bit thick for a washing line.'

'They have to be thick and strong to withstand the gales in these parts.'

'Some cable or other?' Laura speculates.

'It's probably something some visitor's left by accident because it got itself buried in the sand. Or it was thrown overboard from a ship and has now found itself washed up on the shore.' Peter looks at her and realises that she's not paying him her full attention. Whatever it is that is happening on the beach she's engrossed by it. His eyes follow along the same line as hers. 'In this area, it's probably a length of rope used for tying ships up,' he concludes.

Laura looks back and watches, slightly disturbed, as the children throw stones and pound the "rope" with sticks. 'Then why are they treating it with such disgust?' she asks.

'Kids. They need to have a hate figure at the centre of their play.'

'Are you now an authority on kids play?'

'Yes,' Peter announces in a light tone as he physically turns her away from the beach scene and back to face the cave. 'But there's a more mysterious question over there. See it?'

'No.'

'Doesn't it strike you as odd that the cave is there? On this side of the valley when the obvious place for it to be is on the other side?'

'I don't understand, Peter. What are you trying to say? Why would you expect it to be over there and not where it is?'

'The other side's more natural.'

'Peter, it's a naturally occurring hole in a cliff face. There's no rhyme or reason as to which side it should, or should not be on. It is where it is.'

'But there is -. Look, on the other side of the valley there's the pub; and all readers of schoolboy fiction know that all smugglers caves lead to inland hideaways. They bring the ships up to the cave mouth, unload and then carry the booty to a secret storage place underground. Didn't you ever read any proper books when you was a kid?'

'Obviously not the right ones. Next you'll be telling me that you want to climb in and have a look round.'

'Well, don't you?' Peter sounds surprised.

They walk back to the car. Peter unlocks it and waits outside until Laura is seated inside before he then turns away from the view and joins her.

'I think ...,' she turns to watch him as he drives carefully out of the village, '... that I've fallen in love with the place. I want to bring the girls here. I told Amanda that she and I could paint on the patio. She'd capture the view so well; she has an eye for that type of detail. Rather like Brendon.'

'Don't tell me you're nesting?' He reaches across and squeezes her hand.

'I cannot deny that I've fallen in love with the place. In spite of all the awful things that have happened here. Peter, I just love it.'

'Perhaps Jane will sell the cottage to us?'

'Could we afford it?'

'She may be offering it cheap. I cannot see how she'd want to come back to it after all that's happened here.'

BRENDON wakes and feels the hardness of the bed that is supporting his aching body. He sighs before opening his eyes. The smell of warmth, ironed sheets and cleanliness assail his nostrils. He doesn't want to open them to find out that his smell-scope isn't true.

But sounds that he can't recognise make him open his eyes and look round. The ward is clean, tidy and very orderly. Nurses are talking in low murmurs and intersperse their conversations by looking at each patient in turn. They appear to realise that he's woken up so two of them walk over towards him, while the third nurse leaves the ward.

'Sleep well?' one asks as they mess around with his bed sheets.

'Where am I?' Brendon asks.

'You're in hospital and we know about your schizophrenia and hypothermia. And as that's a lot of "ermia's" for anyone to cope with we think you should just lie there and rest. Our colleague's gone to fetch Doctor, he'll see you and then you have an official visitor. That's if you're up to it?'

The nurse returns with an unshaven man who snatches the chart from the foot of his bed, scans it and then asks the nurses to draw the curtain around the bed. Brendon is then left alone with the doctor.

'Nothing broken, you're obviously fit and health, if a little undernourished. You've had a battering, a lot of superficial bruising, but otherwise fine. Now, how do you feel?'

'Stiff and I ache. Doctor? I had some pills. I need some more.'

'Doctor Wells did send some pills in with Inspector Day. He said they were yours. I'll get you a new prescription once we've heard from your GP. The nurses will check your dressings, feed you up and make sure your stream of visitors don't tire you too much. We're moving you to a smaller ward now that you're awake. The police requested it; apparently you're a witness, or something, in a murder enquiry. Fortunately we're not busy, so we'll put you in the private room at the end of the ward.'

Brendon knows that he will find the isolation in the private room very comforting. He would have found the police questioning very embarrassing if he had still been on the main ward.

Once settled in the private room a nurse shows Inspector Day into the room, she looks at Brendon, smiles, hands him his "emergency call button" and then leaves them together.

Day coughs and asks, 'Why did you come to Penalton?'

'It's not really like that. I didn't set off to come to Penalton. I ran away and I just kept putting one foot in front of the other until I fell asleep in that cave. If I'd not been flooded out I'd have moved further along the coast the next morning and you'd never have known I existed.'

'And what would you have done further along the coast?'

'I was hoping to make a living painting and selling my paintings. Someone once said that it's easier to sell to tourists,' Brendon adds.

'So, you're a scam merchant. Are you?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Someone who sell shoddy rubbish to transient people who, as a rule, don't come back for refunds,' Day notes, rather unkindly.

'No. I paint well. Ask Laura. I'd paint whatever people asked me to paint. I'll paint a picture of you and your wife if you'll pay me for it.'

'Spoken like a true artist. Now you come to this village, as good as any other, sleep in the cave, get flooded out and end up with Mrs. Selous.'

'That's how it was.'

'Just a series of coincidences?' Day asks.

'Yes. I just ended up here – and there, with Laura.'

'From where?'

'I left London –.'

'Why, Brendon. Why did you leave London? I'm told there're a lot of tourists in London to paint for.'

'Do I have to tell you?'

'You could lie. But when I check up if I discover it's a lie then it will look worse for you.'

'Okay, I was thrown out of university.'

'Why?' When it becomes obvious that Brendon isn't going to answer Day adds, 'I can check, so you may as well tell me the truth.'

'I was disruptive. All this painting nice stuff. My family were murdered in front of my eyes and I need to paint out my anger and rage. But I'm told to paint flowers and birds and nice pretty pictures. So I lost my temper. I smashed a few things and I was told to leave.'

'When you say a few things; how many's a few?'

'I was told I did thousands of pounds worth of damage.' He catches Days eye. 'I don't see how the damage I did could have been that much. I was only in a studio. But that's what they said I did. I'm not proud of what I did. I just lost control. I guess that's why I'm on this medication'

'And the voice's you hear in your head? The doctor told me about them,' Day answers in reply to the raise eyebrow.

'There's only the one. And it tells me to kill myself.'

'Does it tell you to hurt other people?'

'No. Only myself.'

Finding Brendon's story comforting, Day adds, 'I've nothing further to ask. You have other visitors; do you feel up to seeing them?'

'Who are they?'

'Laura Selous and husband.'

'I will see them as soon as you've finished with me.'

Day stands up; cast another look at the lad who is reclining in the hospital bed and smiles. 'I'll show them both in.'

DAY leaves the ward and walks to the office. The Doctor, Laura and Peter are in there drinking tea and talking.

'Well?' Laura asks as soon as Day opens the door.

'As long as the doctor is happy for you to see him, I've no problem with that at all.

'How is he?' Peter enquires.

'You'll see for yourselves when you talk to him,' Day observes.

'Don't be too long with him,' the doctor asks as Peter and Laura leave his office.

'And what do you make of our young friend?' the doctor asks Day.

'I think he's genuine. You know what he said to me? We were talking about his painting and he offered to paint a picture of Penny and me for a price.'

'He was bribing you with a painting?'

'No, he'll work for money; that what all we professionals do.' Day turns around and looks into the ward. He can see Laura and Peter as they approach the open door of his private room. Brendon is beaming at them, and the embrace with Laura seems genuine enough while the handshake with Peter is firm and warm. As he watches them he realises how at ease they are in each other's company. That lad has caused Day a lot of sleepless nights and worry since he first came into his life. But after actually seeing him awake, seeing him interact with people he trusts and for the first time talking to him, his final assessment is that the lad is harmless.

Monday afternoon

CHARLOTTE and Amanda sit together for the afternoon break. They want to discuss the recent developments and no longer feel able to talk openly at home.

'So he's how old?' Charlotte asks for the third time.

'Dad didn't say. He's a university drop out with schizophrenia.'

'And he's been living with mum in Cornwall? Alone?'

'He's an artist. Apparently he's from one of those eastern European countries where they've been killing each other,' Amanda explains.

'Cool. You think they're having sex?'

'Charlotte! That's your mother you're talking about.'

'They must be. Did he say what he looked like?'

'No.'

'Then he must be very sexy,' Charlotte decides.

'Dad said he's a fellow painter, that's all.'

'So he'll be standing there; his chest showing under his smock and a come-and-get me now, rough and ready sexy look on his face. You think they pose naked for each other? And splash each other with their oil paints?'

'Charlotte!'

'But Amanda I can see it all. They'll be holding erotic poses, or overtly sexual ones for each other. I've seen some of that modern stuff, it's pornographic. Gosh Mums making porno painting with a druggie.'

'Charlotte! Don't let dad hear you.'

'Perhaps he's more like a pop star? Perhaps he's our age? That why she's not brought him home! In case one of us steals him from her?'

'Now stop this.' Amanda tries to end Charlotte's flight of fancy.

'No, he'll look like that bloke –.' She breaks off and looks at her stepsisters disapproving countenance. 'You can be such a prude, Amanda. You know adults still "do it". Mum's quite attractive for a woman of her age. Besides lots of women have toy-boys. So why shouldn't she? We should be proud she can still pull the guys.'

'No, she wouldn't do that.'

'Perhaps it's all your father's fault. He brought this on her with the financial worry and everything. It drove her away and ... and drove her into the arms of another man.'

Amanda snaps in an uncharacteristic outburst, 'just you stop this now. It's not true I tell you. It's not true; none of it.'

'Amanda, get real. She's an attractive woman. She deserves a little fun.'

'That's an awful thing to say about your own mother. Besides, mum's not the type to cheat on anyone; especially not on dad. I don't know how you can say such awful things?'

'Cause it's not awful. It's great she's having fun. And with a foreign loony. Just how cool's that? This just gets better and better the more I hear.'

'I don't want to be part of a dysfunctional family,' Amanda says.

'Then you'd better leave this one. Mum's an artist and they always have different rules. It's not that she's not allowed to have an unorthodox lifestyle; it's that it's expected of her to have one. Look at that woman who ran the studio; the one who was killed. Now she was unorthodox to the point of embarrassment. Mum's just testing the waters. Think of it; mum's pulling a toy-boy. That's something to brag about in class.'

The bell rings. It's a dejected Amanda who reluctantly walks to her class. Her slow steps emphasise her depression yet effectively cover up how eager she is to escape from her stepsister and her incessant fantasising about Laura.

Charlotte bounces back into school; she will enjoy the notoriety that this new information will afford her. She is soon in the centre of a group of other students regaling them with tales and descriptions which, as usual, have more to do with her creative imagination than with any real facts.

WILLIAM sits in the chair and listens. The playing is flawless and the interpretation unique. His heart fills with pride, his face impassive. The music stops.

'Jason,' he says as the boy turns to face him. 'What's your own view of your playing?'

'I think,' Jason looks away, embarrassed, thinks for a moment and then says, 'I know it was good,' he replies trying to underplay his achievement. He doesn't want to boast so he looks at his teacher for approval. As William doesn't contradict him he adds, 'in fact it was very good,' he says with obvious pride in his voice.

'It's important for a pianist to know when their playing is only good, and when it's exceptional. How else can you perform?' William stands up and walks to the piano. 'How do you think you will do in your entrance exam?'

'I'll do well. I've practised for hours and I know that the more I practice the better I get.'

'Jason, you sound just like me.'

'You've taught me well. Thank you, Mr Berkshire.'

'You have a great gift. But if you want to make it your life's work, and you do have the ability to go that far, then you will have to give up many of the other pleasures that life has to offer a young man these days.'

'I know,' Jason replies, softly.

'But your rewards will be great.'

'But only if I work hard,' Jason reminds him.

'From now on you'll have to work harder than you've ever worked in your life. You will practice until you hate the piano, hate the music and still it will not be enough.'

'I know the road ahead is going to be difficult.'

'You're right there. You've done your work for the exam well. But the work doesn't stop now. If anything it actually starts from the moment you walk out of that door. You know how hard you've had to work to get here? Well to maintain and improve, on what you are now, you'll have to give that degree of dedication and more each and every day from now until you stop performing. If you are prepared to do that, then Jason you will be among the greatest piano players of all time. And I've known you.' William smiles as he walks over to Jason and offers him his hand.

Jason stands up, accepts the hand of his teacher and shakes it. 'Thank you, Sir.'

'The next time we meet you'll have had the entrance exam?'

'Yes.'

'Then, from the next time we meet, you must call me William.'

'I couldn't.'

William laughs as he leads Jason to the door, 'When the world calls you Maestro I want you to call me William. And I'll call you, my friend Jason.' He opens the door for him and watches as he walks out of his life and into the world.

'Thank you, Sir.' Jason calls back, as he opens the garden gate, steps onto the pavement, closes the gate behind himself and says, 'I will call round and let you know how it goes. Thank you for everything.'

'Good luck for tomorrow, Jason. But don't ever forget that the more you practice the more good luck you'll have.'

William closes the door behind Jason. He walks back into the silent music room and is aware, for the first time, that what has become a major role in his life has just ended with the closing of his garden gate.

He sits at the piano and gently allows his fingers to drift over the keys. And his smuggling activities he wonders? Have they ended with the death of Sally Henry? He stops playing and puts his head in his hands. Suddenly the life that is still ahead of him seems sterile and lonely.

WELLS looks at his daughter. She is obviously concerned; she wouldn't have asked him to visit her at the hospital if she didn't want something. But he refuses to make it easy for her. So he sits in silence allowing her the opportunity to tell him, uninterrupted, what it is that she needs to say.

'We're not close, are we, Dad?'

'You've not shared a secret with me since you confessed to eating all your Easter egg before dinner. Gosh, that's a long time ago. If I remember correctly you reshaped the foil to make it look as if the egg were still intact.'

'And you told Mum.'

'She knew without me saying. You didn't eat your dinner. She wondered if you were ill. I couldn't have her worrying about you, could I?'

'I was how old, Dad? Five, four?'

'Is this why you asked me to come to see you; so you could accuse me of telling tales to your mother over a child's collection of Easter eggs?'

'No, Dad, she looks at him. 'Can we go for a walk? I fancy a stroll down the fields.' She looks at her watch, 'I've time to buy you a swift half in the pub if you like. We can talk as we walk. We used to do that, didn't we, Dad, when Ben and I were kids.'

ANNE had felt reasonably well when she'd woken that morning. She'd managed to stay in bed until after lunchtime sleeping and listening to the radio in equal measure. After a deep restful sleep she had emerged fancying some fresh air and a walk.

She lets herself out of the house and walks to the foot of Smugglers Cave. Looking up she feels the sea spray on her face and the wind in her hair. Two days ago she thought that she'd never be able to return. Now, with the elements all around her it feels good to be alive.

Feeling brave she walks to the private path that leads up to Bay View cottage. Slowly she ascends the steep steps, stopping every now and then to make sure that she notices the view, the flowers and the smell of the air. She stands at the top and turns around to look over the harbour. The ships at sea are just grey shapes on the horizon. The seagulls white blotches in an otherwise light blue sky. The air is fresh and tangy with salt. Life is wonderful.

She turns to face the cottage, purposefully takes the final three steps that bring her abreast of the police isolation tape. She draws in a deep breath and looks over it while automatically pressing it down with her finger. Apparently satisfied she turns around and walks swiftly back down the steps.

She runs across the beach, she is better, and obviously all she needed was rest. She climbs the sea wall and strolls along the harbour before disappearing, on impulse, into the pub.

She enters the public bar and sits at the counter. She smiles at the only other customer who silently removes his coat off the other barstool to allow her to sit down.

'Usual, is it?' the publican asks walking to the taps.

'Yes please, Phil.'

'Stewart with you? Shall I pour him one?'

'No, thanks, he's not joining me. I've escaped on my own.'

'Good for you, Annie. We don't often see you in here, alone, that is,' he notes placing an ice-cold half-a-lager before her.

'I needed to get out.'

'I did hear about your ... Are you ...?' Exercising publicans' tact he leaves both sentences unfinished.

'Much better, thank you,' she nods, before sipping her drink. 'Is trade good? It's been the type of a week that would drive the best of us to drink.'

The man next to her scoffs. 'And now the kids are saying they've found a killer snake on the beach!'

'What's all this about?' Phil asks.

Anne turns white.

The other man replies, 'by all accounts it's a long bugger. I've not seen it myself.'

Anne knocks over her drink, flees from her stool and hurries to the door.

'She's not been well,' Phil explains as Anne rushes into the street.

LAURA holds her mobile to her ear and laughs. 'Oh, Mum. Sounds like you've had a good time. Well, Peter and I will be setting off in the morning.' She listens. 'No, it's a long drive so we'll leave when we get up. We've promised our host here dinner tonight to thank him for his hospitality.'

'You sound happy.'

'We are.'

'Can I hear someone playing the piano?'

'Yes, Mum. William, that's the man we're staying with. He's a piano teacher. It's one of his pupils. Lovely, isn't it?'

'It's very good.'

'That's his star pupil,' Laura informs her.

'Quite a creative little village.'

'I love it here. Oh, Mum, I know I should be mourning the death of Sally, and I am sad that she has died. But I've not died and neither has Peter,' she smiles and turns to watch Peter as he walks up the hill, his whistle filling the air. 'Or the girls. Or you, or dad, or anyone else I love. In fact, we've found a new direction.'

'That's good. We all look forward to having you both home.'

'Have the girls been good for you?' Laura asks hoping to have a positive report back.

'I must be honest and say that there have been some sticky moments. Nothing I can't handle, after all I brought you and your sister up. Talking of kids; how's the lad that Amanda keeps telling me so much about?'

'We went to see him in hospital this morning. That's why I'm so late calling. If we'd not gone to the hospital I'd have been able to call sooner. You don't mind, do you?'

'No, 'course I don't mind. How is he? Did you get to see him?'

'Eventually, after the police had interviewed him,' Laura confesses, unaware that the mention of the police being involved will unsettle her mother.

'The police?' she asks, tentatively.

'Yes, they arranged for him to have a private room so that they could question him. It took a long time and Peter and I were kept waiting until they were finished. But when we eventually got in to see him he looked ill, but healthy, if that's not a contradiction too far.'

'And did the policeman say anything?'

'Not to us. But then we didn't expect him to. The Inspector was in the office with the doctor for some time after he'd interviewed Brendon. And then, as he left he walked over to the bed to say that he was going. So I think it's a good sign. Peter isn't so sure.'

'And what are his plans?'

'Who's, plans?' Laura seeks clarification.

'Brendon, who else were we talking about?'

'We didn't talk about the future. He needs to talk about his past first. He's an interesting –.' Laura hesitates. He isn't the kid that everyone assumes he is. He is actually a fully grown man who has experienced atrocities that no human being should have to experience. 'Man,' Laura concludes.

'I'll look forward to meeting him.'

'I need to talk to Jane. I've been unable to contact her. Has she called?'

'No, not while I've been here. The girls didn't say anything and there're no messages on the machine.'

'I have tried her mobile, left seven or eight messages, but no reply.' Laura sighs. 'I don't want her thinking I'm not bothering with her at this time.'

'She's a good friend, she'll understand. Perhaps she doesn't want to talk to anyone?'

'I did try and call her office earlier. But they said that she'd just left for lunch. I called again, just before I called you and I was told she wasn't due back in the office for the rest of the afternoon. Why they couldn't tell me that when I first called I don't know?'

'She's a busy woman. Is her being out of the office all afternoon so unusual?'

'No. They did say she looked radiant when she left the office and that when she called in they were convinced she'd been crying.'

'Her lover's just been murdered,' her mother reminds her gently.

'I appreciate that. But why take your secretary to lunch and not come back to the office?'

'She's in shock. You call her again and leave a message. At least that way she'll know that you care, and that you're trying to make contact. If she doesn't want to talk to you; then that's her prerogative. It sounds to me as if it's you who's feeling hurt.'

'You're right. I'll call her. Just a moment Peter's here with the shopping.'

'I can here that raucous whistle of his. He sounds happy.'

'I am,' Peter calls loud enough for all of them to hear, after kissing his wife he asks, 'coffee?'

'Thanks for everything, Mum. You'll never know how much we appreciate it.

MISS Jones decides that she needs to canvass opinion. She'd spent the night worrying. In fact she'd worried so much that she'd hardly slept. But in her sleepless contemplations her night hadn't been wasted. She had spent it studying the chart that she keeps in her bedroom. The chart that shows when a cargo is due to be dropped off and when one is being picked-up.

In the early hours of the morning she had compared the actual number of drops that they had had with the number of drops that they were booked to receive. There was one drop too many. Further study had proved that they were never scheduled to receive a drop for fewer than thirty-six boxes. Over several cups of tea she checked her figures and worked out that the last drop, the eggs, had not been on their schedule. There has been a mistake. The eggs are not theirs.

She had been elected as the smugglers "look out" because her reputation for being nosy allows her access into everyone's life. She also has the advantage of living in the first cottage on the point, so she is the first to see all the passing, and pausing, ships. She knows she will miss all the excitement if this "pension fund", as she has named her smuggling activities, were taken away from her.

She spends the morning pottering; trying not to think about being forced to live a life when the most exciting things that happens is to learn that another of the Lesley's boys had got another teenage girl pregnant.

As she settles down to eat her lunch she knows that she isn't ready to give up her "pension fund". They had made a mistake by accepting this cargo. It hadn't been intended for them. So there's no reason why they shouldn't continue; is there? In the past it has always been a nice little earner.

She clears her lunch things away, stacks them neatly on the draining board in preparation for the daily wash-up that happens only after she's eaten her evening meal. Then she settles down to do some serious thinking.

By three o'clock she has decided what she'll do. She'll call on Anne Lesley; who everyone knows isn't well. It will be seen as a neighbourly gesture. She'll take her that box of chocolates; the nutty ones in milk chocolate. She doesn't like nuts; they get under her dental plate and cause her distress. She was given them as a present two Christmas ago and until now there hasn't been an opportunity for her to pass them on. Then, she'll call on Billy Berkshire, one of his students has an important exam in the morning, she'll say she's calling on him to wish the kid well. Visiting the doctor is more problematic. She doesn't want anyone thinking that she's ill, and it's too soon to say that she's checking on the arrangements for the summer visitors.

As she stands up and puts her hat and coat on she decides that if she's asked why she's visiting the doctor; then she'll just tell them not to be so bloody nosy. The adrenaline flows through her veins. It feels good, she feels fully alive.

STEWART walks to the police house and Day ushers him into the office. After offering him a seat and taking his own behind the desk Day waits for the man to tell him why he's come.

Eventually Stewart says, 'How much do you know?'

'You tell me what you want to get off your chest.' Day takes a notebook out of the desk drawer and starts to arrange a series of pencils on the desk besides it.

'I guess you know all about the smuggling ring in Penalton?'

"Do I," Day thinks, tapping a pencil against his teeth? He keeps silent and nods sagely hoping to encourage Stewart to give him some information that he doesn't already know.

'They, the smugglers, use the basement under Bay View cottage to store the contraband.'

'How do they get it there?'

'There're a couple of passageways that lead from Smugglers to the basement. Hard to find; but not impossible. One of the passageways you can actually walk down. It's a very snug fit but okay if you're not afraid of tight places. The other's high up, in the roof of the cave, and that's used as a shoot for the cargo.

Day nods; he hopes his excitement isn't showing as he realises that this time he is about to be told something useful, if not pivotal to the whole of his investigation.

'You may find this hard to believe, but Sally Henry and I had an affair,' Stewart confesses.

Day can't speak, here's an ugly county yokel telling him that he's had an affair with a beautiful cosmopolitan lesbian like Sally Henry.

'Does this have anything to do with her death?' Day asks, trying hard to stifle his giggles of disbelief.

Day knows that some people will claim just about anything to have their moment in the spotlight. Especially if the other people involved are dead and can't deny their confession. But Stewart Lesley is as ugly as Sally Henry was beautiful. He wonders if it can really be true. And if it is and Stewart has come to boast, he wonders what he can charge him with. There must be something in the rulebook. Tarnishing a woman's reputation is one thing but when she'd just been murdered it's unforgivable.

Stewart continues, 'I don't know. But I want you to have all the facts so you can decide what has anything to do with anything and what doesn't. Sally and I had an affair. Well affair makes it sound grand. There was nothing grand about our relationship. She had sex with me when it suited her. The reason I'm telling you all this is because it gave me access to certain facts. Facts I'm now going to tell you. But you'll have to work out for yourself if any of them fit your investigations.'

'Go on,' Day encourages.

'I know for a fact that Sally knew all about the cellar and Mrs Elliot didn't.'

'How long did your affair last?' Day asks, still unsure if he should believe him or not. It sounds far-fetched; but Day cannot decide what he would gain by lying?

'Off and on since she's been here. I also came to see you, 'cause I went up to London the other week. She asked me to go up to see her.'

'What about?'

'The smuggling.'

'Was she part of it?' Day asks.

'No. I know that for sure.'

'How?'

Stewart sits on the front of his chair, his hands in his lap and concentrates on a spot on the floor. He is about to talk but each time he stops himself before the words leave his mouth. He lifts his head and looks Day in the eyes.

'I once found boxes of booze in the cellar. I, in all innocence, assumed she'd had a delivery and was waiting to unpack it. So, I went to ask her if she'd like me to bring some of the boxes in to the house. I was going to suggest a couple. The rest I offered to stack neatly along one wall. Sally was alone on the patio when I found her. I asked her what she wanted me to do with the boxes and she denied all knowledge of them. Judging by her reaction she really didn't know about it. Well, she decided that it must have been left by the previous owners, so we went down there and had a look.'

'And can you be sure that she really didn't know it was there?'

'Yes, I'm sure of that.'

'So how long's the stuff been down there? The building work took the best part of a couple of years? Day reminds him.

'I'll come onto that. If you don't mind I need to tell this in the order I lived it. Then you can ask your questions. That okay?'

'Yes. But before you go on, I need to know how you get in the cellar, through this tunnel in the cave?'

'No. You never wondered why they called the place Bay View?'

'They –?' Day looks at him. 'The cottage overlooks the sea; it's always been Bay View. It's got a panoramic view of the bay.'

'If you're being factual it's a panoramic view is of the harbour. And before they bought it, remember, it was called Harbour Lights. It was Sally who decided to rename it Bay View. After she discovered that in the dining room floor there's an access hatch to the cellar, and outside, there's a second hatch that she had covered by an ugly grid. She didn't want Mrs Elliot to know about the hatch, so she stuck an enormous pot plant on top of it.'

'That dirty big bay tree? I always wondered why they put it there. It blocks the light in the dining room. It must make it dark in there and spoil the view.'

'It does, but that's what she did. Mrs Elliot tried to get her to move it; but Sally wouldn't hear of it. For obvious reasons.'

'She didn't want Mrs Elliot seeing the access grid and asking where it went.' Day observes, pleased with himself and his deductive powers.

'Right.'

'Go on.'

'Well, eventually, they forgot all about it and they get used to the dining room being cold and damp. Besides, most of the time they're down here they live in the front. So they soon forgot about the tree.'

'So the bay of the view is the tree; not the coastline? Very clever, and Mrs Elliot doesn't know about it?'

'Not a thing. Sally made sure of that, claimed it increased her excitement. Which is true if her appetites were anything to go by.'

'You were saying? About finding the goods that first time?' Day moves the conversation on. He doesn't want to hear about his sexual activities, so he swiftly brings the subject back to the cellar.

'We went into the cellar using the inside entrance. She claimed that the goods now belonged to her. It's hard to believe, but we persuaded ourselves that the previous owners must have left them. In which case she was right and they would belong to her. I admit that to me the boxes looked new, but we put that down to no one ever visiting the cellar.'

'Even during all that building work?'

'She said they'd not put a cellar on their plans, so the builders wouldn't have a reason to go down.'

'You worked on that building? Were you aware of a cellar?'

'No,' Stewart replies, and Day doesn't believe him. 'I was only used for the outside. I did the gardens and built the shed. There was no need for me to go inside.'

'Okay, you were saying about the boxes. How many were there?'

'Thirty.'

'Big delivery?'

'Big drinkers.'

'Go on.' Day prompts.

'Well, when we opened the boxes we found that the stuff had sell by dates on. So it's obvious now that the previous owners couldn't have left them behind. She got me to carry one of the boxes into the house while she wrote a note and stuck it on one of the boxes we'd left behind.'

'Do you know what the note said?'

'I do. It simply said, "Rent money taken. Thanks SH".'

'And do you know what happened then?' Day keeps up his gentle questioning.

'As far as I know the stuff kept turning up and she kept getting her percentage. It was a secret she kept from Mrs Elliot. As I said before, that excited her.'

'How did you find out about the tunnel?'

'Do I have to answer that?'

'If it has a bearing and you don't ...' Day leaves the implication to sink in under its own weight.

'As I said being wayward excited her. When there wasn't anyone else for her to have sex with she'd have me. I was flattered. She called me her Gamekeeper. I don't know why but it seemed to please her. We often had sex in the cellar. Well one time someone came in and caught us at it. I only just managed to get my trousers up and leg it. She stood her ground and when she emerged, a few minutes later, she told me about the tunnel.'

'That wasn't very gallant of you?' Day observes dryly.

'She didn't have me for my manners, Day! Besides, I really thought she was following right behind me. It's quicker to get a skirt down then pants up; if you gets my meaning. But as she said, it was her house, and it was them, whoever they were, who were trespassing.'

'And did she tell you who it was who came into the cellar?'

'No. But the funny thing is I think she knew them.'

'Why?'

'Well we're giving it all we've got and then this shape appears apparently out of thin air. Up to that point I'd thought the cellar had been carved into solid rock. Then this figure pops out. I was shit scared but she just said "Oh". It was later that, as I stood outside getting my breath back and waiting for her to join me, I realised ...' he hesitates. 'Well the truth is that I'm running out of there thinking ghosts passing through solid rocks and she just says "oh" in a "tea with the vicar" tone of voice. Not shocked, scared, or surprised. If anything it sounded as if she was curious. So as I'm stood outside I reckon that she must have recognised the person.'

'Have you any idea who it was?' Day asks doodling on his pad.

'I didn't want to know. So I didn't ask. I had a few strange moments afterwards. A couple of days when I'd look at everyone who looked at me and wonder if they'd seen me at it with Sally and my pants round my ankles. It's not the sort of thing you wants your neighbours to see.'

'I can see that. And Mrs Lesley?'

'Leave her out of this. She knows I'm coming here. I told her today just what I've told you. It's my shame.'

'Why did you go to London?' Day asks.

'I'd often keep an eye on the cargo for her. Just to make sure that she got her "rent money", as she called it. There was a cargo the other week. A single small box. Small for smuggling; so I thought they'd already removed the stuff and just left her the rent. I opened it and found they were eggs. Nasty big things. I called her and asked what she wanted me to do with them. She told me she drew the line at animal smuggling and that it had to stop. She asked me to go back and smash them and told me she'd talk to the "main-man", as she called him, and let him know what she thought about animal smuggling. She sounded really angry. Then a little later she called me back.'

'Had she had time to make the other call?'

'Yes, it was about an hour, forty-five minutes, something like that. I don't think she believed me as she told me to come to London and bring the box with me. She said she'd arranged for a train ticket to be left at the station for me to pick up.'

'She summoned you to London, Day asks, his surprise obvious in his voice.

'Yes.'

'And you couldn't do this on the telephone?'

'No. She wanted to see them herself.'

'Why?' Day demands, his patience wearing thin.

'I thought she wanted to keep them.'
'You're saying you took a box, on the train, containing, how many eggs?'

'Six.'

'Six, yes you'd said earlier,' Day remembers after looking at his notes. 'So you took six eggs of some unknown creature –.'

'They weren't unknown to me, Day. I served in Africa after the war. I recognised them as soon as I saw them.'

'And they are?'

'Black Mamba eggs. So you could see how important it was for me to convince her that the eggs had to be destroyed.'

'Black mamba?' Day asks.

'Only the most deadly snake on earth. It kills for pleasure, so they say. Unlike other snakes it doesn't only strike its victim once. There are stories about them running amok and killing whole families; apparently just for fun. Well, it doesn't eat them, doesn't have a nest nearby, so it's not killing for food or to protect young.'

'But African snakes wouldn't hatch in our climate, would they?'

'Who can say? Out in the Bush we killed them on sight.'

'What's happened, to the eggs?' Day asks, trying to get the story back to the UK and the area he's responsible for policing.

'Still in the cellar, as far as I know. I put them back, like she said I had to.'

'Shouldn't we do something with them?'

'I'll smash them if you tell me to, Inspector.'

'We'll go and take a look when you've finished. Or is that it?'

'Yes. Unless you've any questions?'

'Did she ever say who this "main-man" is?'

'She never told me.'

'No pillow talk?' Day asks, wickedly.

'No pillow, Mate. But I wasn't the only one. Perhaps one of her other lovers may know?'

'How many did she have?'

'She never told me. But I suspect she had plenty. Try her diary. Did you know Sally deliberately brought Mrs Elliot to this place to get her to buy the cottage?'

'I thought it had been pure serendipity.'

'If I knew what that meant I'd say. She got Mrs Elliot to buy it, but the cottage wasn't the only attraction down this way for Sally. She and I always had sex in the cellar at Bay View. One time we were at it when one of her other lovers arrives and waits for her in the dining room. Sally got very excited about that.'

'And do you know who this other lover was?' Day asks, not really expecting a name but, hoping against hope.

'Yes. No. Well, I think I do. You see when I left I saw this distinctive car parked outside. Then one day when I was repairing the outside tap, the same car drew up again and ... Do I have to say who was driving it?'

'It may help. But why are you telling me this now if you're not going to tell me who the driver was?'

'Because you'll check, find out about her lovers and then I'd look guilty. So I thought if I confess, before you find out, then I'll be in the clear?' Stewart says this, not so much as a statement, but because he is genuinely asking the question that has been worrying him since Anne had first told him that she had discovered the body of Sally Henry.

'Did you kill her?'

'No. When I was with her in London, we did argue.'

'Heated?'

'No. We were in a public place, hot but not heated. And besides, when we parted we agreed I'd put the eggs back and keep an eye on them to see if they were removed. I was to give it a couple of days, if they were still there, then I'd to call her back so we could decide what to do. But time overtook us, and you know the rest. Are you going to arrest me?'

'No. Who was the other man?' Day demands softly.

'It wasn't a man.'

'Oh, who was it?'

'Driving the car was Prunella Wells.'

BRENDON turns over and looks at the clock. His future stretches out ahead of him, he is still unsure if he's going to be charged or not. He's been able to restart his medication so hasn't been troubled by The Voice. It's his own spirits that are now threatening to pull him down. He turns away as the door opens.

'Do you mind a visitor?' a voice he recognises asks.

He turns and sees, standing by his bed, the man who stole his clothes. He has a large carrier bag with him. 'What can I do for you?' Brendon asks, looking around for his new clothes, determined that he'll not lose them as well.

'I came to introduce myself and get acquainted.' He holds his hand out. 'I'm Doctor Wells. I treated you when you were rescued from the sea. I still have your clothing. Here -.' he holds the bag out to Brendon. 'What do you want me to do with them?'

Brendon doesn't know what to say; he is fast acquiring possessions and yet has nowhere to put them. He is still looking round the room when the doctor starts to walk towards the bedside cabinet.

'I'll put them in here and hang the coat on the door. I did clean them, as much as I could. I'm afraid the coat's stained.' He takes hold of the chair and comes to sit by his bed. 'I have dried them. Is there anything anyone can get you?'

'I don't know if there're going to be any charges?' Brendon asks, unsure if the doctor is the right person to ask.

'Hospital treatment is free at the point of delivery.'

'I know that. It was the police. He, the policeman who was with you that day, is he going to arrest me?'

'I don't think Day has any reason to arrest or charge you. What were you thinking he'd charge you for?'

'I'm unsure.'

'Vagrancy isn't a crime.' Wells informs him.

'Murder?'

'Now that is. But who do you think you've murdered?'

'They think that because I'm foreign and need pills that I murdered that woman.'

'If he comes to arrest you then you tell him that I say that you didn't murder her.'

'How do you know that?'

Wells turns away and looks long and hard at the back of the door, and then in a very quiet voice he replies, 'Because I know who did. Why they did it and how they did it.'

'Will you tell the police?'

'That's my duty as an honest citizen. I will tell them, if I must, when the time is right. But I hope that the individual concerned will have the good grace to do it themselves. And without my prompting.'

DAY and Lesley stand looking at the carnage. The box has been flattened, the half-formed bodies of the snakes have been crushed into the ground and the shells smashed, as if in a frenzied attack.

'That's an end to it then,' Day says.

'I'll clear this up, if you want me to.' Lesley offers

'I'll check with fingerprints and forensic and then get back to you.'

'Am I free to go?'

Tuesday

LAURA waves to her host as Peter pulls away from the curb. 'Thanks for everything, William,' she calls.

William stands outside his house watching them drive away until they vanish from sight.

Miss Jones walks up to him, 'I find that it's always flat when visitor go. No matter how glad you're to see the back of them, it's...' she considers before eventually deciding on, '... flat. And you've just lost young Jason Hudson as well. Happen making a cup of something for someone else would cheer you up no end?'

William smiles, a gesture he's surprised to discover is actually filled with warmth and good humour. 'I'll gladly make you a hot beverage, if you'll just come this way, Miss Jones?'

'Billy,' she says as she sits at his kitchen table.

'Would you like to go into the sitting room; you're more than welcome.'

'Kitchen's fine for me. I've been thinking.'

'So have I,' William adds quickly hoping that they have both been thinking the same thing.

'And did you come to any conclusions?' she enquires.

'That this incident has been horrendous...' He dries up, unsure if she's of the same opinion as he is. Being too forward could spoil his chances. That is if he has to "bring her round" to his point of view.

'Do I sense a but?' Miss Jones asks hopefully, when it became obvious that William is going to need prompting to end the sentence in the way that she wants it to end.

'I feel sad, very sad about the death of Sally. Of course I do. She was so young –.'

'But?' Miss Jones interrupts. She is impatient to see how the land lies.

'But we didn't cause her death. If that snake hatched and killed her, well that must have been a freak accident, surely?'

'I've been checking our drop schedule. That box wasn't on it. Whoever put it in there didn't leave it for us. So we've nothing to fear.'

'That is good news,' William agrees feeling very relieved and pleased with himself.

'Besides, I can't see how a newly hatched snake would be able to kill anything! Let alone a grown woman. She must have died some other way.'

'The Doctor's destroyed them; as he said he would. We've just to be more careful ...,' he smiles before he concludes his sentence with a half-formed question, '... next time?'

Miss Jones shoots William a look. Her smile broadens and she holds her breath hoping that she has heard him correctly. William concentrates on sipping his tea while she focuses on running his words over and over again in her mind until she is sure that she has actually heard what she wants to hear.

Eventually, when the cups are put down, William removes the tea cosy and teapot lid. He adds fresh hot water from the kettle and stirs the contents four times to the right and three to the left before he replaces the lid. He puts both hands on either side of the pot, smiles, as he picks the milk jug up in his left hand and the tea-pot in his right, and asks, 'can I pour you another cup, Miss Jones?'

'Go on. This is quite companionable. Besides, did I hear you right earlier? You did you say "next time", didn't you?'

'I did.' He looks at her as he covers the pot with the tea cosy. After making sure it's properly in place he continues, 'but I don't know if there will be a next time, do you?'

'Billy, you don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that.' She accepts the tea from him. 'I wouldn't know what to do with myself if we didn't have this little occupation. The summer job's fine, but it's just that, work for a couple of months a year. Whereas this one lasts all year round.'

'We will have to talk to the others?'

'Do you think they'll want to stop?' William asks. This is the one question that he has been asking himself since he came to his own decision; that he will continue his smuggling activities if he possibly can.

'I don't know,' Miss Jones adds truthfully.

'But by all accounts Anne took it very badly.'

'She's just an old woman,' Miss Jones, who is actually far older than Anne, adds rather uncharitably.

'She did find the body and Sally was almost her employer. She has a lot to put up with.'

'That's true; especially with that family of hers. I'll go and see her later. See what she wants to do. Besides, she'll need the money if her cleaning job stops and I can't see Mrs Elliot wanting to keep Bay View on; not now. Not after all that's happened. Can you?' Miss Jones asks.

'No, but I'd not want her involved if she isn't fully committed.'

'She's committed. She's had a hard life has that woman; she doesn't do things by half measures. What about Wells?'

'I'll go and talk to him if you like, man to man?

Miss Jones looks at him and wonders how he'll manage to have a "man-to-man" talk with anyone. 'Then we can see how the land lies,' she concludes, without showing any sign of her earlier, wicked, thought.

'Are we back in business?'

'I think we are. No, I know we are,' Miss Jones says, as they clink their teacups together.

LAURA leaves another message for Jane as Peter pulls into the first service station.

'I need to stretch,' he says pulling into a parking space. 'Do you want a drink or just to get on?'

'We've made good time. I'll just use the loo and then let's get back on the road. Unless you need a break?'

'We can buy something from the shop to eat as we go?'

'Fine by me. But, Peter, do you mind if I drive? I was getting a bit sleepy back there doing nothing.'

'Sure.'

They walk to the service station and Laura uses the toilet while Peter selects a couple of sandwiches, some chocolate and a couple of bottles of still mineral water. He pays, leaving the shop in time to join Laura on her walk back to the car.

'Were you serious about offering to buy the cottage?' Laura asks as they leave the building.

'We'd struggle, and we'd not be able to visit it that often, or keep Anne on as a cleaner or her husband as a handy man. But it may be possible. The question is -. And this is a big question; could you live there after all that's happened?'

'I don't really know. I was there when it happened. I was actually sleeping under the same roof as her as she died. So why should going back, or being there, not be okay? I was there then so what's the difference?'

'The difference is, that previously you didn't know what was happening, where as you do now. There's a difference, Laura, even if you can't see it at the moment.'

'I suppose so. I'm not sure. But I don't think it would.'

'What about on a winter's day with the wind howling and raging outside?'

'Peter, I said I can cope.'

Whispering, he asks, 'And when it's dark an' the house rustles, the timbers creak, the walls rock and you're all alone?' He stops talking; allowing the silence to mould all around them. 'Bang!' he shouts.

Laura jumps, screams and clutches her heart. 'Oh god,' she yells, fighting to catch her breath.

'And do you think you could stay at night, alone, under those conditions?'

'You fool you frightened me,' Laura snaps, still struggling to regain her composure.

'I was just testing. There's no point buying it, even for a song, if you can't stand being there.' They continue walking towards the car. 'Are you still happy to drive?'

'Perfectly,' she announces, having recovered from her shock. 'That was a stupid trick to play. And I don't see how it proves anything.' From a distance she electronically unlocks the car and then runs towards it. She gets in, leaving him to walk the rest of the distance alone.

Without speaking she drives out of the service station and re-joins the motorway.

'Did they mind you leaving your car? Peter asks, once she's settled on the carriageway.

'William said it would be okay. I left him the keys, so if they need to move it, someone can. Besides, it's still part of the crime scene, so it has to stay. They'll call me and let me know when I can retrieve it.'

'Where do we go from here?'

'I want to give my girls a big hug, talk to Jane and then we'll have to find out about the studio and the exhibition.'

'A bit drastic, I'd say,' Peter says laughing.

'What is?'

'Her dying just to avoid having to put your show on,' Peter jokes.

'That's in poor taste. But I'd better get used to it. I don't know how I'll stand, or what will happen. I assume Jane will inherit. What are we going to do about Brendon?'

'I was wondering when you'd bring him up. I like the lad, but don't you think we've enough on our plates? What with a fraud investigation, a murder and if that isn't enough, a crumbling marriage to contend with? I just can't see how I can take a waif and stray to my over occupied bosom, well, not just at the moment.'

'But he needs us and however inconvenient it is he needs us now. Not when we can fit him in to our busy lives; as you so nicely put it.'

'That's as may be, but if we don't sort ourselves out first, we'll not be of any real help to him in the long run. Besides, he'll not thank you for playing Lady Bountiful.

'I don't want to be his generous benefactor. He's got talent and should use it. I'm unsure how we can help him. I'd feel awful if I had to disappoint him about the exhibition.'

'Why should you?' Peter asks eating his sandwich and holding one out to her. She accepts and munches as she drives.

'I can't see it going ahead. Can you? Not with Sally being killed,' she observes.

'That could be the main reason for going ahead.'

'What? Her death? That's awful.'

'Crime sells, and a murdered ex-owner would be a great selling point.' Peter looks at her horrified expression and adds, quickly, 'albeit a little ghoulish.'

'I suppose it will depend on who inherits the studio.'

'So, Laura, let's not worry until we know for sure.'

'I would imagine whoever she left it to wouldn't want it closed for long.'

'At least by running it, as a going concern, it would be making money as well as being a nice tribute to her memory. It was always a good little earner as they say in the business.'

'She may not have left a will, she didn't expect to die. And then we'd be in a mess for years.'

'Not necessarily, probate would want to keep it running so they could sell it as a going concern after the lawyers had finished haggling over who got what. You may even get your old job back and you'd definitely get your exhibition. Good job Day didn't know about that or I'd be visiting you in jail. In some ways, if she hasn't left a will, that would be best for you.

'But not best for us?' Laura notices, as she finishes her sandwich and tosses the wrapper over to Peter to dispose of.

DAY walks to the bed on which Brendon is lying and checks that he's awake.

'The Doctor,' Brendon says, sitting up and turning to face Day, 'he said he knows who killed her. So you cannot arrest me.'

'I've not come to arrest you. But I do need you to clear up a few questions. But what was that, what you were saying just now, about the Doctor?'

'Doctor Wells, he was in here yesterday and he said that you'd not to arrest me because he knows who killed her, why and how they did it.'

'Did he give a name to this person?'

'No.'

'Convenient. Everyone a bloody detective. Thank you for that information; I'll call in on the good Doctor later. Now I'd like to talk about the time we found your boots in the cave. Are you able to confirm that they were your boots we found in Smugglers? You do know the cave's called Smugglers, don't you?'

'Yes. And the boots were mine. Peter bought them for me that morning.'

'Good, that confirms the positive I.D. we had from Selous. Care to tell me where you were when my men couldn't find you?'

'I found a narrow passageway. I squeezed inside and managed to walk into a dark open space.'

'What was in this opening?' Day asks knowing that at last he is getting his collaborating evidence.

'I couldn't see. There was very little light.'

'You didn't see anything?' Day persists.

'No.'

'Or hear anything?'

Brendon thinks for a moment. 'Yes. I did hear voices. Faint as if they were coming from over my head.'

'Could you make out what they said?'

'No. And they stopped talking when I made a noise.'

'So, Brendon, can you remember what sort of noise you made?'

'Feet shuffling, that sort of thing?'

'You didn't say anything else?'

'I'm sure I didn't.'

'Positive,' Day says very softly.

'No, now I think about it. The Voice was mocking me. Telling me that I'd be best to kill myself and have done with it. It told me to go down the passageway and get stuck inside so I couldn't get out. It said I would have to stay there and die of hunger and thirst. It was forcing me deeper and deeper and all the time I kept thinking that I would get stuck and die there. So when I didn't. When I came out into the dark open space at the other end I was yelling at The Voice. I told it that it that it had been wrong and that I wasn't going to die in that horrible way. My voice must have been loud enough for them to hear because they stopped talking as soon as I came into the dark open space.'

'Could you try to remember anything that was said? Anything at all that the voices were saying?' Day asks.

'I am unclear what you're asking?'

'Brendon, I am asking you, if you can remember hearing anything at all that the voices, the ones that were above your head, were saying as you entered the dark open space? No worries if you can't. Just you think about it, and if you can, even later on. You just you let me know. That's all.'

'I will.'

'Now, in this dark open space, could you see any shapes?'

'No it was dark and, as I already said, there was no natural light. So I didn't go very far from the passage in case I couldn't find my way back.'

'Did you know where you were? When you were in this dark open space?'

'No,' Brendon adds feeling that he's not been very helpful.

'Good lad. Now, this passageway, how long do you think it was?'

'I don't know. It felt very long when I first walked down it but the second time it didn't seem to take me that long to get back.'

'When you walked down it? How long do you think, roughly, that it took you?' Day persisted.

'I don't know. I don't have a watch.'

'Hours, or minutes? Can you guess?'

'I saw you arrive and I watched you leave. So however long you were there. That's how long it took me to walk down and back.'

'You said you walked down the passageway, how wide was it? Could you, perhaps, have carried something in your hands?'

'No. The Voice told me that I'd get stuck and die there; and when I was in the passageway I believed it. It was a tight fit for me,' Brendon looks at Day. 'You'd not be able to squeeze in. I did, just. But it was uncomfortable and I kept grazing myself on the walls they were so close together. I was able to turn my head but that was all. In fact I did turn my head when I heard your people enter the cave.'

'Did you know the passageway was there?'

'No.'

'It was just luck that you found it?' Day asks, aware that luck does sometimes play a part.

'I was desperate. In my country the police kill people and then ask their questions. I was very lucky to find it.'

'I don't believe in luck myself. How did you find it?'

'I was desperate. I saw the water. Tasted it and it was fresh. So I knew there had to be a way for the water to get from the outside into the cave. I was hoping that I'd be able to get out the same way. So, I was running my fingers over the walls and I found this crack which I followed, and after I'd followed it up the wall, along a bit and then back down. It widened until I could just squeeze behind it.'

'And then what.'

'At first I was just going to hide in the crack, stay there until your men left. But once inside The Voice told me to go in deeper and deeper and I realised there was more. So I walked in further and further. For me the further away I was from the cave, and your men, then the less chance there was of being discovered. I carried on walking until I came into the dark open space I told you about. It was too dark to search it and see if there was a way out from there. So I kept my eyes on the crack I'd just come through. I knew that that was a way out. I knew that your men would eventually follow me through or leave. When no one came through, I decided you weren't following me, so I came back the same way. As I said before, just in time to watch you all leave,' Brendon recounts.

'Okay, you've answered all my questions. I'll leave you to rest. If you do remember anything that the voices said, tell the doctor. He knows how to get hold of me.'

WELLS looks through the family photo album. He turns the pages slowly taking in each image as if he is trying to commit it to memory. He takes a sip of his whisky and wonders where he went wrong.

The album is filled with pictures of his wife, happy and smiling with normal children. Each snap shows them playing or doing innocent childhood activities. So why had they both become such monsters he wonders as he hears the doorbell and drains his glass.

He really isn't in the mood for visitors; he slips his dressing gown over his clothes and answers the door.

'Berkshire? To what do I owe the pleasure? I'm just about to take a bath. Will it wait?'

William looks at his feet and notices the shoes that Wells has on. He knows how to influence him. Very theoretically Williams turns around and looks up and down the street. He turns back to Wells and observes, 'I guess I'd better not come in. The neighbours would talk if you let me in dressed like that.'

'Sod the neighbours; nosy lot. I'll let whoever I like into my house, whenever I like and no matter how I'm dressed. Come,' Wells orders standing back and letting William enter.

Wells closes the door and slips his dressing gown off. He hangs it up as he would have done with any other everyday outdoor coat. He then leads William into his sitting room.

'Is it too early for a snifter, Billy?'

'That may be a good idea? Besides, it's almost lunch time.'

'Whisky?'

'I'll have a small one and a little water, if you don't mind.'

'Sit down, Man.' Wells occupies himself with the drinks and then takes the chair opposite to the one that William had seated himself in. 'Straight out with it, Man, you want to know if we're still smugglers, don't you?'

'Yes.' William looks at Wells. He is ever so slightly shocked by the directness of his approach.

'The snakes scared the ladies off, did it?'

'Anne's not very well but Miss Jones is game to continue. As am I.'

'Ah, Miss Jones. She's a game old bird if I ever met one. Where would we be without the likes of the Miss Jones's of the world?' He drains his glass and pours himself another. He holds the decanter towards William; who declines the offer of a top-up.

'And you, Wells, what do you want to do?'

'I'm thinking of moving.'

'Leave Penalton?'

'Kick the dust of this rotten village from my heels and never come back. Yes. Start a new life for myself. Go where people don't know me or my history. Lots of people my age up-sticks and move. Seek the sun in Spain, or France. That's what I'll do. Give the house to the grasping kids; spend what I've got in the bank. Does that sound like a good idea to you?' a highly verbose Wells asks.

'Yes; if it's what you want. Bit sudden isn't it?'

'Want? You say want, Berkshire. I wanted a wife and family and a good job. I got an excellent wife who died too young. I screwed up my career at an early stage and got buried alive here. And I've never been able to recover from the one silly mistake that I made in the haste of my wild youth. Then both my kids turn out to be rotten apples. I'm glad Mary isn't alive to see just how low they've fallen. Drink up, Man, you need another? Well I do.' He stands up and pours himself another refill.

William is embarrassed but can't bring himself to leave Wells alone.

PETER has once again taken over the driving; so Laura is free to look at the caller display when her mobile starts to ring; she smiles as she answers it.

'Jane,' she says.

'Hi, Laura, I've got you at last.'

'Jane, how are you? It's so good to hear you,' Laura replies, relieved she'd let Peter take over the driving so she is free to talk.

'Where are you?'

'On the M5, just about to join the M4.'

'You're not alone then?' Jane asks concern deepening her voice.

'No. Peter's with me.'

'That's good. I hated thinking of you all alone down there. So where did you say you were?'

'We're still three to four hours from home; depending on traffic.'

'You're coming home then? Silly question. Of course you are.'

'Jane, how are you?'

'Laura, don't think me heartless; but I've some wonderful news. I don't want to tell you over the phone. Oh yes I do. No I don't. It's unfair. Sod it; my son has come back into my life?'

'Son? What son?'

'It's a long story. I was a silly girl. Got pregnant had a baby, a boy as it turned out, and in keeping with the times I was persuaded to have him adopted. We'll he's found me. After all this time he's come looking for me. Isn't that wonderful? And I know Sally is dead; and I do grieve for her. Her dying like that and her so young was a tragedy. But I'm alive and so is my precious son. And believe me, Laura, I'm not prepared to screw-up my relationship with him again. Please say you're happy for me?'

'I am,' Laura adds, not allowing her shock to show in her vocal tone. Her feelings she can hide form her voice, but not from her eyes.

'How soon can you visit when you get back?' Jane asks. 'I'll give you all the details then.'

'How about if I come over in the morning?'

'Don't come to the office, come to the studio. What time?' Jane asks.

'Ten?'

'That's fine by me. Oh, and tell Peter I hope his little difficulties at work are sorted out soon. Must go. Take care. Love to Peter.'

'Little difficulties?' Laura turns to face Peter, 'How the hell did she know about the embezzlement? I assume that's what she means by her "his little difficulties at work", remark?'

'It was the studio, and therefore Sally, that the funds were embezzled form. She must have told her. But what was all that about a son?

'Apparently she had a child when she was young. Apparently no one, including me, knew anything about. Apparently she had him adopted at birth. Apparently he's now turned up. Apparently she's deliriously happy. Apparently we've all to be happy for her; well for both of them. Apparently the murder of her lover is no big deal. The bitch! Her lover of ten years is dead and she's happy! She just went on and on about this boy and she didn't say a thing at all about poor Sally. The bitch. The out and out bitch!'

DAY walks over to the Bay View. Wells turns as he approaches and raises his hat. They stand in silence looking at the cottage, the bay tree and the access hatch that has been left open; exposing the cellar to the full light of the sun.

'Pity for this old house; will it ever know a peaceful existence?'

'Wells, who smashed the eggs?' Day asks.

'I did.' He turns to face him. 'What do you know and what do you want to know?'

'I spoke to Brendon earlier today. He said you knew who the murderer was, how they did it and why.'

'Knowing's not proving, Day.'

'At this stage the how would help. Care to share your theories with me?' Day rests his elbows on the top of the wall and looks out to sea. 'This time last week we were a happy sleepy little village that was full of boring people; and now look at us. I have a smuggling ring, a murdered woman, six deadly snakes, a foreign lunatic, and as yet, as my Superior keeps reminding me, a murderer that I'm no closer to identifying. And all I wanted was to be a police officer in a sleepy little village.' Day stands close to Wells, but not close enough for either of them to make physical contact. Avidly they both refuse to look at one another.

'As I understand the statistics; most casual murders are never found.'

'So the statisticians would have us believe,' Day agrees.

'And couldn't this be another case of when the crime isn't worthy of all this activity?'

'Are you asking me to let a known murderer go free?'

'Is the murderer known?' Wells asks.

'Not yet; but they will be. It'll take a little more work. But as I've still got my seconded officers here and I'm getting a mobile incident unit next week. Mark my words we'll get him or her.' The last word he emphasises intentionally; but he would have denied it if Wells had accused him of doing so.

'I'm wondering what the real benefit of arresting her murderer and having all our dirty washing aired in public will be? There are so many good citizens here who all have so much to lose,' Wells asks, of no one in particular.

'Sally may have been free with her body –.' Day starts to say, but he's interrupted.

'That's a nice way of putting it. She'd have sex with anybody.'

'She never seduced me,' Day notes; not fully pleased with the fact.

'Or me for that matter.'

Day laughs before he adds, 'so she did have some standards then?'

Wells laughs too. 'Are you trying to side track me?'

'All I'm saying is that no matter what she was, or who she was, she deserves to have her killer brought to justice.'

'But, Day, we are not talking about criminal intent here. We're talking about an accidental poisoning of a young woman by a snake.'

'If the findings show that, then that's the way the verdict will be recorded. If it isn't ...'

Wells takes a deep breath and turns to face him. 'Are you saying there are circumstances that indicate that she was deliberately murdered?'

'It's a possibility I'm looking into,' Day says, while avoiding looking at Wells.

'I find that hard to believe. It was the snake that killed her. Do we know where it is?'

'Don't know. The head snake keeper at the zoo is sending one of his team round to check on the smashed eggs.'

'He's taking his time,' Wells snaps.

'What's the hurry for a batch of dead snakes?' Day asks quizzically, while looking at the other man and waiting.

'If the post mortem says death by snake bite, then can we not leave it at that?'

'And the question of how six eggs of an endangered and highly poisonous snake got here? You want me to forget that?'

'Chance and luck?' Wells offers.

'Chance and bad luck more like.'

Wells looks back over the sea. 'It's strange what people smuggle?'

'That snake was smuggled here by several of our villages.'

Wells turns to face at him and for the first time they look at each other. 'Yes, Day, it was smuggled here. And as you say. But it could also be that it was possibly smuggled, unwitting, by local residents.'

'And your point is?'

'Day, it always amazes me how easy it all was. First we find this cellar that no one knows about in a derelict house. Then all the ships turn up on nights when there's, apparently, no police cover in the village. They come and pick the cargo up and transport it along our narrow roads and no one sees a thing. Booze, cigarettes dirty magazines by the crate load, we've handled the lot and there was not one single enquiry from anyone "official". The gods themselves must have been smiling on us.'

'What you saying?' Day asks, not liking the accusatory tone that Wells is using.

'Caps and fitting, Officer. Caps and fittings,' Wells infuriately replies not making sense and yet making perfect sense.

'I know all about your past and why you were sent to rot in this hellhole,' Day snaps. 'When you first came to Penalton I remembered the fire in your eyes. You were determined to get over the shame. Prove yourself and work your way back to the top of the ladder. But it isn't that easy, is it, Benjamin?' Day uses Wells first name as he feels the net tightening around them both. Then he adds, sadly, 'no it damn well isn't; and I should know.'

'That was rotten luck for you.'

Ignoring him Day continues, 'So you go on trying for a few years. Being good and doing everything that's asked of you. And what do you get for it? You get your spirits ground deeper and deeper into the dust until you eventually give up. They win. You even stop trying and gratefully accept the life they've shaped for you. You start to look forward to retirement and the closing of the coffin lid. I know how it feels! I'm there as well. I fought back and lost. Like you I'm still here.'

Wells turns away as he adds, 'and to get back at society one joins a smuggling ring. I'm embarrassed to say this; but it made me feel alive, hurting those who'd hurt me. And it felt good. And I know you'll understand every word I've just said, won't you, Inspector Day, because you're as involved as I am. Aren't you?' They stare at each other; the intensity of the feelings of the one mirrored in the other. 'You kicked back at society as well, didn't you? Because it's not the gods who protect us, is it? No, so just be careful where you dig. Because you'll never know what someone else will uncover in your hole.' Wells turns around and starts to walk back toward the surgery.

'Wells,' Day calls, arresting his departure. He walks up to him, and without actually making contact whispers, 'but the snakes? I need to know how or where they came from.'

'Not ordered by you, then?'

'No. Placed there by person or persons, as yet, unknown.'

'For what purpose?' Wells asks.

'You tell me?'

ANNE takes her visitor into the living room. Her family turn to face her. She switches the TV off and says, 'I have company. You lot find somewhere else to go. Sit down, please, Miss Jones. Can I get you a cup of something? I was just about to put the kettle on myself.'

'That would be nice,' Miss Jones agrees.

'Tea or coffee,' Anne asks as the others leave the room muttering to each other.

'Not fussed, whatever you're having is fine with me.'

Anne leaves her in total isolation. Miss Jones notices the massive bunch of flowers in the chipped brown jug. They are beautiful but obviously Anne doesn't own a vase. She glances around her; the exquisite flowers are so out of place in this tiny room with a large three-seater settee and two massive chairs with their dull and lifeless covers. The massive TV dominates the whole living space and the clutter of family life is left strewn around the floor where so many hands have just dropped it.

Anne pours hot water into two thick, chipped, white china mugs. She takes the strong sugared tea back into the living room and places a mug in front of Miss Jones who looks at it suspiciously.

'Tea. I know you like plenty of sugar, so I put two heaped spoonful's in. There's more. If you need it, just ask.'

Miss Jones picks up the mug, turns it around in her hands looking for a place where she can safely place her lips and replies, 'this'll be fine, I'm sure.'

'You've not come to drink my tea. What can I do for you?'

'Anne, how are you feeling? I brought you these.' Miss Jones holds the chocolates out to her.

'How kind. I know we'll open them now. Have one with our tea.' She tears them open before handing the open box to Miss Jones.

'Do you mind if I don't?' she asks, phased by the slight white bloom that has appeared over each chocolate.

'But you must,' Anne rattles the box. 'I must share them with you. Go on, be a devil and take a couple.'

'Well, perhaps just the one,' Miss Jones selects the smallest chocolate she can find.

'Don't be like that; take a handful I won't mind.'

'That's too kind of you.' Miss Jones takes a couple more and places them on the arm of her chair; carefully avoiding the cat hairs and the unidentifiable stain.

'Now why are you here?' Anne asks, before nibbling the chocolate off a nut and then crunches the large Brazil between her white teeth.

'I was talking to Billy Berkshire earlier. Anne, do you want to give up smuggling?' she asks. And as she asks she "accidentally" knocks a chocolate down the arm of the chair. "One gone, two to go", she thinks as she realises that Anne hasn't noticed her actions.

'What do the rest of you think?'

'Billy and I, we've not spoken to Doctor yet, we thought we'd sound you out first,' Miss Jones knows that it's wrong to lie, usually. But in a good cause it can be forgiven. 'Billy and I don't want to stop. We know it'll be difficult and that we'll have to find a new store. But I found out that those eggs weren't part of our cargo. I checked the dates and the drop numbers. Someone left them; but not for us.'

'That's a relief.'

'And me and Billy, well, we miss it,' Miss Jones admits.

'You miss it?'

'Yes, don't you?'

'I thought I'd killed my employer. Let lose a plague of deadly snakes on the village and put myself out of a job. And you say you miss it. It's too much for me to take any longer.'

'Anne, dear, you weren't responsible for any of that.'

'And you weren't the one who found her.'

Suddenly Miss Jones loses all interest in the smuggling. 'No, I wasn't. How have you been since? Was it an unpleasant sight?' she asks.

'No.' Anne looks at Miss Jones, 'That disappointed you didn't it?'

'Sally Henry was not, what I would call, a nice girl; but she didn't deserve to die so young. I will miss her; she did provide local colour. I think that's what it's called these days. When I was girl it was called whoring.'

'Whores get paid,' Anne points out.

'That's as may be. Besides, Anne, they were not down here that often. I hope, for her sake, that it was painless and quick. I know that's how I'd like to go when my time comes. Quick and painless. Do you know if it was quick and painless?'

'You mean was her body all distorted and her pretty face pulled into horrible screams. No. She looked as if she were still asleep. In fact I did think she was still sleeping. That was until I dropped the vacuum cleaner. No one could sleep through that. It brought Laura up from the summerhouse. That's how loud it was.'

'What will happen to the cottage now?'

'Funny you should ask. I had a call from Mrs Elliot today. The flowers are from her. She said she'd be selling the cottage in light of all that's happened.'

'So you'll lose some of your income? Will you be able to get another job? Perhaps with whoever buys the cottage?'

'With someone being murdered there, you think it'll sell?'

'So what will you do?' Miss Jones asks, her ulterior motive almost hidden.

'Money's always been tight -.'

'So losing the smuggling money will be a blow too far?' Miss Jones asks in her softest bed-side voice that's both caressing and soothing on the ears.

DAY and Stewart look at the squashed body on the sands. 'Is it?' Day asks.

'Yes. That's a hatchling Black Mamba,' Stewart says, disgust obvious in his voice.

'Is it dead?'

'You kidding me? It's squashed, with its guts all over the sand, and that brick on its head. I'll say it's dead. How you find out about it?'

'Some kids found it –.'

Lesley interrupts, 'Are they safe?'

'They said it was dead when they found it. At first they thought it was a joke snake.'

'And when they realised it wasn't?'

'I don't think most of them ever did. Then one lad mentioned it to his dad, who retold the story in the pub. It's very long for a hatchling, you sure it's one of your Black Mamba's, Lesley?'

'Positive. Once seen never not recognised.'

'Just one point,' Day asks, as Stewart turns to go. 'Is it possible that this hatchling could kill?' he says prodding it with his toe.

'They can kill from the moment they leave the egg.'

'But a fully-grown woman. Could it kill a fully grown woman?'

'You mean Sally. It's been known. They're deadly and should be shown no mercy.'

Wednesday morning

LAURA stands outside The Gallery and wants to cry. In the centre of the main door is a hand crafted notice telling the world that due to the sudden, and unexpected, demise of Sally Henry The Gallery will be closed until further notice. The word "demise" brings a lump to her throat. Only Jane would bother to think of another word for death. The word death is not gentile enough for her. Yet, Sally had been murdered, and if it had been left up to Laura, then that fact would have been plastered all over the door. But no, Jane had chosen, for the fate of her lover, to opt for the more refined, demise.

Laura notices that there appears to be a line on the bottom and it looks as if it has been added as an afterthought. She has to bend to read in, the print is somewhat smaller than the rest of the notice. It announces that there is to be a "Gallery Grand Reopening". And interested people must "Watch press for details". With rising bitterness Laura realises that only Jane would turn the death of her lover into a promotional activity! Until, that is, she reflects on yesterday's drive back from Cornwall with Peter. Jane and, judging by his comments, her husband.

She tries the door and realises that it's actually unlocked. She pushes it open and notices that the door alarm had been disconnected. Not wanting to arrive without announcing her presence and shock anyone, she walks into the studio, calling.

'Hello, is there anyone here?'

'Laura, I'm in here', Jane replies and Laura follows the sound of her voice until she finds herself in the large airy reception hall.

Jane, who up to this point has been looking through the drawers in the reception desk, stands up and walks towards her. Laura tosses her handbag aside. They embrace, at length but surprisingly without much genuine warmth.

'Laura, would you believe she's gone and left the whole lot to me? Wouldn't you just credit her with being so kind?' Jane announces.

Laura bites her tongue and resists the urge to issue the sharp retort, "loving. She was loving," in reply to her use of the word "kind". But she realises that she won't be able to keep the bitterness from her tone, so asks the other question. The second question that Jane's comments had raised in her mind.

'You've already seen her will?' Laura is shocked at the speed with which, it seems that, Jane wants to settle Sally's financial affairs.

'She left a copy with our solicitor, I was with her yesterday. She said it all came to me, everything. So here I am trying to sort it out. I know that's what Sally would have wanted,' Jane uses a tone that can only be described as aggressively defensive.

Laura feels sick realising just how quickly Jane has taken off the old and slipped on the new. She frets, could any of them possibly have known what Sally would really have liked to happen with her ... She hesitates trying to find the right word. The Gallery, even for Sally had been very much a business. But it had also been so much more. It was her whole life, her identity, her baby. Eventually when she realises that Jane is waiting for an answer, Laura replies, without conviction, and without looking at her.

'I'm sure you're right. You knew her best,' she adds. Laura isn't the slightest bit embarrassed when her second sentence ends as if she had actually put the words "I suppose" at the start.

'Oh, I am, Laura. I knew her best.' The words are softly spoken; however the undeniable edge is totally unattractive. 'But I really don't know where to start,' Jane adds in, gentler, more appealing tones.

Jane, Laura remembers, likes to get her own way at all times. 'You should check her diary for events and promotions,' Laura suggests, before adding, 'perhaps you've already done that?'

'No. Where's it kept?'

'It used to live in her desk, when Sal -.' Laura stops talking and watches as Jane stands up and walks into the private office that Sally had kept entirely for her own use. 'You could try starting with that and then seeing what commitments there are over the next few weeks,' Laura says into the empty air. She feels a compulsion to continue talking despite the fact that she's alone as Jane has already left the room.

Jane returns brandishing a large page-to-day desk diary. 'This it?'

'What if I put the kettle on? And then we can talk?' Laura offers.

'Not yet. David's coming over later. So we can do all the talking we want over lunch. Just the three of us. You'll love him, and you'll get a shock.'

Laura looks at the woman who's friendship she has, until so recently, valued above that of all her other friends. While Jane has every right to be excited about her son coming back into her life, Laura can't help but feel angry that Jane doesn't appear to be the slightest bit bothered that her lover is dead. She has shared the last ten years of her life with Sally. And Sally has been murdered. Watching Jane Laura is almost able to doubt the fact of Sally's death. She could easily doubt it, if she hadn't seen the body with her own eyes.

'Oh, really? Still, Jane, I'd like some coffee.'

Alone in the kitchen Laura muses. The gossip was that Jane was tired of Sally and her wayward ways. Everyone knew Sally was a difficult woman to love. Had Jane tired and perhaps...? Laura sloshes boiling water onto the coffee grounds, instant will be good enough for now. She has to nip in the bud the notion that infidelity is so often a reason to murder. She looks at the expensive and well-appointed kitchen. Greed is also a very powerful motive for murder. By dying Sally has made Jane an even richer woman than she was before.

As she walks back to the studio Laura wonders if it is possible to have too much money. One look at Jane, in her designer outfit of jeans and tight fitting black polo necked jumper, who's very understated look screams that it was very, very expensive, reassures her that it's not.

Jane, who is sitting on the floor with the diary open on her lap, doesn't look up as Laura enters the room.

'I think,' Laura starts to say, as she places the coffee on the floor and then sits cross-legged next to Jane. 'I'd like to know if you want my help?'

'Yes, Laura, any help will be gratefully received.'

'Well, do we start by contacting everyone who's got an exhibition booked in the next –?' Laura interrupts herself. 'How long are you planning on keeping the studio closed?'

'I don't know.'

'Are you planning on running it as a going concern?'

'What else would I do with it?'

'Sell it,' Laura suggests.

'No! I couldn't do that to Sally. This was her baby so I need to find a nanny?' Jane announces not bothering to look up from the diary that is open on her lap.

'A what?' Laura stammers.

'A nanny for the baby –! Oh, forget it Laura. Look, I need someone to manage it for me. And then once the manager is appointed we'll have the best grand reopening imaginable. You know what I mean, the sort of event that Sally excelled in organising. And this one will be her crowning glory. She can look down on us from heaven and say "they're doing okay".'

'And how long do you think that will take?'

'Today is Wednesday, I'd suggest not this, but the following Saturday?'

'Jane, that's just over a week! It'll take longer than a week for your HR department to draft the job advert. Then it could take another couple of week before the paper could run the ad. To reach the greatest number of people you'll probably want to keep it in the paper for two weeks with a closing date of the following month; that's six to eight weeks minimum. And that's only if you find the right candidate at the first attempt. And what if they have to give notice? It could be three months before you actually recruit someone! And you want to open, when?'

'I was thinking I'd already found the perfect manager?

'Oh, well, that's different.'

'Actually, Laura, if I'm honest I didn't find her Sally did.'

'Sally was going to put a manager in? I'm surprised she'd do that. This place meant so much to her,' Laura notes; before she delivers the sting in the tail. 'She obviously wanted to spend more time with you, Jane.'

Jane blushes. 'Not quite. Wrong end of a very long stick. Sally, ever the careful and professional woman, in her Will she names her chosen successor in the event of her early death.'

Laura feels the flesh on the back of her neck crawl. The only redeeming feature is that Jane had used the word death and not demise. Had Sally known someone was trying to kill her? Did she know Jane would be so indifferent?

Trying hard to keep these awful notions at bay Laura notes, 'Sally always crossed the t's and dotted the i's.' Before she asks, 'so when can this person start?'

'I thought I was supposed to ask you that question?'

'What?' Laura asks not catching on.

'Sally, in her Will, said that she'd like you to have first refusal for the job of manager here. Laura, I am asking you, will you run the studio for me, as Sally wished, please? I can't think of anyone I'd prefer and Sally said you'd be perfect. Unless you can think of anyone more suitable? I'd be amazed if you can, because I can't, Sally couldn't. But can you?'

'Sally said that about me?' Laura stands, turns and then runs towards her abandoned handbag. She rummages through it until she finds her tissues. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose loudly. 'I miss her,' she sobs.

'I miss her too. This was too awful. It shouldn't have happened; not to someone who was as full of life as Sally was.' Jane takes Laura in her arms and offers her genuine comfort.

'Jane,' Laura says between tears, 'I'm so pleased you said that. I was beginning to worry -.' She cuts herself off; the comfort of Jane's arms has made her say too much already.

'You think I'm not showing enough grief. Is that it?'

'Sorry. Is it obvious, Jane?'

'You think I'm too excited about my son?'

'Sorry again.'

'Laura,' Jane pulls away and walks towards the window where she stands, outlined in the morning sun and looks back at her. 'I loved Sally, with all my heart and I wanted our love to last forever. But I needed her to love me with the same intensity of feeling and exclusivity. And she couldn't, that just wasn't her style. And while she enjoyed herself I felt left out, lonely and I grew bitter. I hate to admit this but her life-style killed all the love I ever had for her. I will not go on pretending that it was any other way. I did try and talk to her about our shared lifestyle choices, but you, of all people, know Sally. She got on that fast lane and drove straight to the finishing line.'

'So it was very convenient for you that she got herself killed?'

'Put like that yes it was. I was hoping to end our relationship this weekend. In the end ...' Jane lowers her head and stops talking.

'Perhaps you did?' Laura asks.

'Did what?'

'End the relationship and in a very final way.'

'I didn't kill her. I wouldn't kill her. I loved her.'

'Loved,' Laura notes. 'As in past tense? You said yourself you'd stopped loving her. You wanted out of the relationship. It seems to me that you've not only got out of the relationship but you've also managed to take all her property with you.'

'And that's why I want you to run this place for me. No. Not for me, Laura, but for Sally. If it had been left to me, without strings, you're right I'd have close it down. I would. I'd turn it into a trendy night-club. That's more my image that this arty world that you and she inhabit. Look at how big this place is? It would make an excellent night-club; and that's so much more me. But it's not my decision. Sally left it to me but with some very strong strings attached. Some very long and very strong strings that I've no intention of even trying to break. What I'm asking you to do is to run this place and not involve me at all. I don't want any income. I do need it to pay its way and I'm happy to sit, as a volunteer, on any management board you care to set up. But I don't want any responsibility. Is that clear?' Laura nods. 'Good. Now, I ask, are you prepared to do that for Sally, Laura?'

'But that's a full time occupation. I'm not ready for that degree of commitment; not yet anyway.'

'And I don't think Sally was ready to die,' Jane snaps back.

'That's unfair,' Laura defends herself.

'Sometimes life just catches us when we're not ready.'

'I'll need to talk to Peter.'

'I'd not expect you to do anything else. But, just so we're clear; for when you do talk to him. I am asking you to run this place as a charity set up to the memory of Sally Henry. And as you knew her so well, and she loved you, you're best suited to knowing what that memorial should look like. Will you do that for me - for Sally? Take this studio and make it a beacon for young artists? A shining torch where they can light their own creative spark before setting the world alight.' Inside Jane is screaming with joy. She knows that she has managed to pick the right words. They are perfect. Looking at Laura's excited face she knows that the words are right and will make Laura do what it is that she needs her to.

'Put like that – I cannot refuse.'

'Imagine it, Laura, the dream of Sally Henry brought to life by you.'

'What about the staff who're already employed here? Shouldn't you ask them if they'd like an opportunity to apply for the job?'

'No. You're perfect and you know you are. If there's any who doubts it you'll naturally show them why you're the right person. And I know you are. Besides, it's all in her Will. Would you like to see it?'

'I'll take your word for it,' Laura adds, resigned to doing what Jane is asking of her.

'So what's the problem? By all means talk it over with Peter but let me know ASAP.'

'How soon is that?'

'After lunch would be great; but failing that, as soon as you can. But honestly, Laura, there is no pressure. I'd rather you took longer and made the right decision than to give me an unconsidered gut reaction. But the longer we procrastinate the harder it will be for us to get the venture up off the ground.'

'How about if I give it a go on a temporary basis? Just to keep the place ticking over and to make sure our launch isn't too far in the distance?'

'But you'd not be able to shape and drive the venture yourself. Not without giving it your long-term commitment.'

'I agree, Jane. Only I want to take this gently. I'll be happy with a temp post, just to see if I like it or not.'

'Okay, as you're offering me nothing else, Temporary Gallery Manager, it is. If that's really all you want.'

'Can I turn what was once Sally's office into my studio? I could paint there when we're open, run workshops and master-classes and ...' Laura dries up as she feels the buds of her own dreams awaken and start to bloom.

'Laura,' Jane says softly, putting her arms around her, 'Sally would have loved it.'

'You think so?' the brightness of her eyes matches the light in Jane's.

'Yes. But for the type of ideas that you have you must be the one to make them happen. And you'll not be able to do that by being at the beck and call of someone else. Someone who perhaps won't like your ideas.'

'But they may like them,' Laura counters.

'They may like them. But no matter how much they like your plans, they'll not execute them in the way that you would. You just take your time to think about the opportunity that we have here.

'Is it lunchtime?' A strong male voice calls.

'In here, David,' Jane replies brushing imaginary dust off her designer jeans.

'How's it going?' David asks entering the room.

The young man who walks in takes Laura's breath away. He is handsome, his bearing powerful and he has a natural grace. It is his eyes that Laura notices first. They are the brightest blue, smiling and very warm. She has only ever seen one other pair of eyes like them in her life before. And they belonged to Jane's mother. A woman she met once, briefly, when she and Jane had first got to know each other.

'David, meet my new manager - .'

'Your new temporary manager, Jane. If I take the permanent role or not, is yet to be confirmed. I've to talk to Peter and the girls. Hello David,' Laura extends her hand and they shake. 'Look, do you mind if I skip lunch?' Laura looks at them and realises that Jane will be very pleased if mother and son are alone. She is unsure if the look of regret on his face is genuine. 'I've a lot of thinking to do. I may call Peter and ask him round.'

'Okay, I'll just get my coat.' As Jane leaves the room her heels can be heard tapping along the highly polished wooden floors.

'David,' Laura says, 'you've made her very happy. But, try to make sure she doesn't lose sight of the tragedy that's just happened in her life.'

'I won't. You see this is important for me as well. I know what everyone's thinking. She's a rich woman and I'm a good looking opportunist out for a fast buck.' David stops talking and looks at her. 'It's not true,' apparently realising the possible ambiguity of what he's just said he clarifies, 'I am her son. What I'm not is eager for us to have a relationship at any price.'

'And what price are you prepared to pay, for being the son of Jane Elliot, of Elliot Creation?'

'The problem I have, Laura, and strange as this may seem, the problem I have is that I've got to like her. But to be honest she's got an uphill struggle to overcome my anger over the way she rejected me at birth.' David shocks Laura by his confession and then by having the good grace to blush. 'Sorry, I don't know what made me open up to you like that. I shouldn't have been so forward. Sorry. But I do want you, of all people, to know that I am genuine.'

Laura looks at him. If he's acting then he's very, very good. If he's genuine, as he claims to be, then he appears to be in some discomfort if not in actual pain.

'You've spoken to her about this?' Laura asks.

'Yes, but she won't listen when I say we have to talk about it again and again and again.'

'Patience was never one of her virtues.'

'But I have to talk this through. And I cannot get her to understand.'

'She has never been good at seeing any other view point other than her own.'

'I just wish she'd just let me slow things down.'

'Jane, slow down? You heard of life in the fast lane?' Laura adds, laughing. 'Well that's our Jane. Welcome to life on the supersonic highway.'

'I need us to slow down, to go at my pace. We've both so much to learn.' David stops talking as they hear Jane walking back up the corridor.

'Jane,' Laura says as Jane renters the room. 'Take it easy with him; he's not as used to your dominating and pushy ways as the rest of us are.'

'Are you saying I pushed you into accepting the job here?'

'Jane, the temporary job here, perhaps not. But you can sometimes verge on the wrong side of bullying. Now take young David out to lunch and let him make the decisions. Like where you eat.' Laura realises that she is actually having great difficulty in seeing David as a long-lost son. The notion of Jane with a child, especially a fully-grown and very handsome adult son, is going to take a very long time for her to get used to.

'I am used to having things my own way,' Jane admits, looking at both of them in turn.

'You've been allowed to get away with dominating the lives of other people for too long. David,' he turns to look at Laura, 'take her somewhere down market for lunch. Make her live your life. Bring her into the slow lane of the life of the average person.'

'Good idea, Laura. Come, Mother, come and eat where your staff have lunch.' David instructs, but the expression on Jane's face indicates that that isn't what she'd planed.

Turning to face Jane, Laura adds, 'And Jane, do as he says, without arguing. Let David pick the conversation. And go at his pace. Now get out of here.' Laura sees them out with a speed that surprises her. She has an overwhelming desire to be alone.

Not that she knows the timing but just as Laura realises that she needs to be alone Peter walks into his boss's office.

After locking the main door behind Jane and David, Laura turns away. She walks straight to the office and sits at the big desk that Sally kept for herself. She searches it, looking for something, anything. The problem is that she is unsure what it is that she needs to find.

BRENDON looks suspiciously at the telephone, 'Are you sure that it's for me?'

'They asked for you by name. Here, take it.' The nurse pushes the receiver into his hand and walks away.

'Hello, who is this?' he asks.

'Brendon, it's me, Laura. How are you?'

'I'm getting better. How are you?'

'We're both fine. Got back safety. And I've some really good news.'

'You sound really happy. What is it, Laura?'

'Remember I told you about my exhibition?'

'Yes, the woman who was killed was putting it on for you. Are you saying it's going ahead?' Brendon asks, with little enthusiasm in his voice.

'Yes, it is. Isn't that wonderful? In fact, Brendon, I've been asked to run The Gallery as a lasting memorial to Sally.'

'I gather that this is what you want. You sound happy.'

'Oh, I am. Brendon, I've so many plans that you just wouldn't believe. But enough about me, I didn't call just to talk about me. How are you? Are they treating you well?'

'I am very well and I'm still in my own small room.'

'Did you think they'd move you?' Laura asks unsure why he'd expect to be moved.

'Once the police had finished questioning me, yes.'

'Would you prefer to be on the ward?'

'No. I like it here, I can think.'

'Any plans for the future; for when you get out?' Laura tests the waters with an open question.

'I don't think about these things. I think about what has happened.'

'Brendon ...' Laura trails off and the silence lasts for a few moments.

'It was good to hear from you, Laura. Thank you for ringing. Good luck with the show. I wish you well,' he adds, a note of finality in his voice.

'But I'm not going anywhere? Are you?'

'You are back in London.'

'Yes but I left my car there. Peter and I drove back together. I was planning on coming down for it as soon as the police release it. In fact it may be as soon as this weekend. Would you like a visitor?'

'That would be wonderful. Yes,' he says instantly cheering up.

'And would you like to meet my girls? I could bring them?

'I would like that,' he confesses. But his tone doesn't confirm it.

'We'll see. Whatever, I'll come, even if I don't bring them. Brendon,' she hesitates. 'This is embarrassing; but I'd like you to give what I am about to say some very careful thought. My plans for The Gallery include artists doing workshops and giving demonstrations. I'd like you to do some for me. I'm not asking for an answer now. Please, just think about it? About if that would be something you'd be interested in doing with and for me?'

'I'll think about it. We can talk about it if you visit.'

'Not if when I visit, Brendon. When.'

'When, Laura. I must go now. The doctor needs to see me.'

Brendon hangs up after the fond farewells. He pulls the covers over his head before curling up into a tight ball. He feels as if life is closing in on him again. He doesn't want to hurt Laura but he doesn't want to be trapped by anyone. Especially not by someone he likes as much as he likes her.

PETER enters his office to find an elegant long pale manila coloured envelope on his desk. His name is written across the front in his boss's careful and very distinctive handwriting. From the very centre of his large oak desk the manila envelope appears to be standing to attention accusing him vehemently. He knows it's his summons to the hearing that will decide his fate. His only hope is that he's not already missed it.

He sits down and looks at the envelope for a long moment. Eventually he picks it up and turns it over and over in his hands. He picks up the paper knife and pushes the point into the tip of his finger. He watches as the indentation grows, the knife being too blunt to bring blood, he releases it and puts it back down.

He turns the seal towards him, picks the knife up again and before he can change his mind he slit the envelope open. He removes a single sheet of expensive embossed paper and carefully unfolds it. His hands shake slightly as he skims the contents, sighs, and then reads it properly. He finishes reading, checks his watch, and then folds the letter with great care before returning it to the envelope. He then tears the envelope into tiny pieces and drops them into his waste paper basket.

He has two hours before he's required to attend the hearing. He calls his secretary and tells her to hold all his calls as he will be out of the office for an hour or more. He leaves the building quickly before he can change his mind. He walks to the park.

For over forty minutes Peter sits on a bench in the park, his mobile telephone switched off and idle in his pocket as he watches the world go by. He thinks about Laura and about how much he loves her. How he wants to make her happy and how this investigation has put a wedge between them. He thinks about his girls and how he needs to be around them. About work, the future; about not having any work if this hearing doesn't go the way he needs it to. He reflects, at length, on the last few days that he's had, almost, alone with Laura, and about life in general. But for the most part he thinks about Sally Henry and her double theft. First there was the theft of her money by someone in his firm, and now, the theft of her life. Her happy vibrant and joyful life has been cut short. His anger over the futility of death, especially an early death, makes him return to the office unafraid to face whatever the future holds for him. He knows he made a mistake. A mistake he confessed to as soon as he was aware of it. But he also knows that he was not the perpetrator of the fraud; they will have to look to someone else in order to be able to identify that individual.

Now standing in his boss's office, waiting to be told if he can sit down or not, his earlier confidence has drained away. He feels like a naughty schoolboy and his spirits are too low for him to take his usual command of the situation.

'Selous, you've been a fool,' Sir Graham the Chairman, announces loudly. 'Took your eye off the ball. What you got to say for yourself?'

Peter moves forward and sits down in the vacant chair that is positioned directly opposite the chairman's. He notices the raised eyebrow, and doesn't care.

'I didn't check the report as thoroughly as I should have. I was totally out of line. Then when Miss Henry called me, asking why she didn't have the funds to cover her next European Exhibition, I checked her accounts myself and I was horrified to spot the seepage.' Peter explains.

'And what did you do?'

'I called in all the papers and made a thorough examination. Perhaps I was late. But this time I checked them myself and found that several large sums of money, which should have been in the account, were not.'

'Then what?'

'I followed procedures. Called in our investigators and asked them to look into it as a matter of urgency. I had severally face-to-face meeting with Miss Henry and at the initial meeting confirmed that all the money would be credited back to her. And that naturally there would be no fees for this period. I made sure it all happened; just as I'd promised it would.'

'So you think she's happy with our service?' Sir Graham demands.

Peter looks away. The unexpected question throws him.

'Well what is it, Selous? If you've lost her account then I'll take that very seriously.'

'Miss Henry told me, at our last meeting, that she was more than happy with our service. She actually thanked me for all the effort I'd put in on her account. She was very pleased. That is, until last week.'

'Don't lie to me, Selous; I know the account's been closed. Who's she taken her account to?'

'Miss Henry was murdered last week. It's the administrators of her estate who closed the account,' Peter informs him.

'This gets worse. We steal from her and now this! When did this happen?' Sir Graham demands. His tone is hard as he looks from one panel member to the other seeking their compliance.

'Saturday night, at her cottage in Cornwall. Her cleaner and my wife found her body.'

'Your wife! How come your wife found the body?'

'My wife works – worked for Miss Henry and she's a personal friend of her partner, Jane Elliot. And yes we manage her account as well. My wife needed to complete some paintings. They offered her their cottage. Miss Henry was going to exhibit my wife's painting; so she went down to see if Laura was ...' Peter hesitates. 'Working hard,' he adds lamely.

'Close friend of Miss Henry, your wife?' Sir Graham asks with one eyebrow raised.

'She works for her. Her friendship is with her partner. Laura didn't actually know that Miss Henry had arrived at the cottage until they discovered her body.'

'Must have been a shock?'

'It was. That was why I wasn't in yesterday –.'

'Yes, yes I know all about that. Driving your distraught wife back from Cornwall. Now has the death of Miss Henry anything at all to do with us?' Sir Graham asks an air of resignation in his voice.

'I honestly don't know, Sir Graham. The police are still investigating and, as yet, they don't know who murdered her.'

'It wasn't you then, to cover this mess up?' Sir Graham jokes.

Or Peter hopes he jokes. 'No. Besides I wouldn't gain anything by murdering her. You already know everything there is to know about my part in this fiasco.'

'Glad to hear it. You were a fool, but an honest one. What's the outcome of our own internal investigation?'

'I was hoping you'd be able to tell me that, Sir Graham?'

'The police have issued an arrest warrant for a lad who used to work for us in the accounts department. He's only been with us for a few weeks, I believe. It's not good for the firm. But you get bad apples even from the best schools. And bad apples get everywhere. Your work on this, with the internal team, shows we rigorously weed out them out when they worm their way into our happy band. And we don't let them stay around long enough to spoil the whole barrel.'

'Do we know who this lad is?' Peter asks.

'I don't know,' Sir Graham looks at his papers. 'Kid by the name of Wells,' he laughs. 'Wouldn't you know it; he's a drop out from medical school. Why do we take these people on?'

'Sometimes, Sir, we all need second chances in life.'

'And you've just got yours, Selous. See you in the Board meeting in the morning. Hope you've some bright ideas for the new account, Swindles and Mamba. Strange name, but they've got pots of money. And, after this fiasco, you do need to impress the Board. Show them why I've so much faith in you.' Sir Graham stands up and walks to the front of his desk. He shakes Peter by the hand and escorts him from his office. 'Nasty business. But we've come out of it well thanks to your prompt intervention. Good work.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

Peter leaves the office and, with as much speed as his status will allow, he walks smartly towards his own office whistling under his breath. As he approaches the open plan section he notices that everyone is holding their heads down as if trying not to look at him.

He walks over to the desk that accommodates both his secretary and his deputy and gives them the thumbs up sign. They smile at him and then at each other before nodding and mouthing "well done". He smiles back before slipping into his office, closing the door and calling Laura.

Laura answers on the first ring. 'Well?' she asks, without preamble.

'Rightly, I've had my wrists slapped; but I'm in the clear. In fact he said I'd done a good job. He's a bastard,' Peter announces.

'Are you allowed to say that on your work mobile?'

'He is. You should have seen him; turning the screws and watching me squirm. And loving every minute of it. Bastard.'

'That's why he's Chairman and you're a senior manager. Still, Peter, you do sound as if a weight's been taken off you?'

'It has, Laura, it has. I know, why don't I come home early today and the four of us go out and celebrate?'

'Five, mother's still with us.'

'Okay, five of us. What you think?'

'That may be nice.' Laura agrees if slightly hesitantly.

'But.'

'I am pleased for you, Peter. Pleased for all of us. Very pleased.'

'So why do I sense a but, Laura?'

'Not a but, only I have some news for you. Only mine might be slightly controversial.'

'Only slightly?'

'Well, perhaps very,' Laura adds, very softly. Part of her is hoping that he'll not push any further. Yet part of her wants to scream the good news to him down the phone. Just like Jane had screamed, down the phone, to Laura the good news about the return of her adopted son. The injustice stings and Laura fights to push the memory out of her thoughts completely.

'Is Jane going to sell us the cottage? That's wonderful. Is it the price that's controversial? Go on tell me how much?'

'Gosh. No! I forgot to ask about that.'

'What?'

'It's a long story. Have you got time?'

Peter looks through the glass wall at the office; everyone is talking and avoiding looking in his direction. He knows he'll be left alone until he opens his door. He sits down at his desk and makes himself comfortable. 'I have time now, go on.'

'Are you able to come out and have lunch with me?'

'Not without rearranging a few things. I can if you'd like. Only I'll have to go now to rearrange a meeting. Do you want me to do that?'

'No, let's talk now, if that's okay with you?' Laura decides.

'Fire away, I'm sat down and ready to listen.'

'As expected, Sally has left Jane The Gallery in her Will. And Jane has asked me to manage it for her.'

'That would be wonderful, but wouldn't than mean you'd be working full-time?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure you want that? Have you thought what it would mean for your own career as an artist?' Peter gently prompts.

'I've thought about nothing else. In fact if I did it properly it would be more than full-time. I've agreed to do it for the next two months. To give me an idea of what's involve. If I don't like it we'll have time to recruit.'

'We'll have time to recruit? You're already hooked. So tell me, Laura, why are you hesitant?'

'Because...' she hesitates. 'It's Sally. Jane said that Sally had specifically asked for me to manage The Gallery in her Will.'

'And that makes you feel how?' Peter asks very gently.

'Obligated to a dead woman and I don't like it.'

'Is it true?'

'You mean did Jane just make it up to hook me? Naturally I've thought about the possibility of that. I'm realistic about her scheming nature. But, to give her her due, Jane did offer to show me the Will.'

'Call her bluff.'

'Peter, that's a horrible thing to say.'

'You can be as nice about it as you like. But for something as important to you as this is you need to have all the answers. Just tell her you'd like to see it in print, just as a way of feeling close to Sally. Or tell her you'd like to be able to picture her dictating it to her solicitor. You know the type of thing. It's that woman to woman stuff that you're so good at. But seriously, Laura, call her bluff. It's important to be clear from the start.'

'I guess you're right.'

'You know I am; working for friends is never easy. And, Laura, manipulative people like Jane are even harder to work for.'

'You're right; I'll ask and then if I'm not happy I can leave in my own time.'

'How?'

'If I really want out, I'll recruit my replacement.'

'It sounds simple, but do you really think you'll be able to get away, once you've started?' Peter asks.

'Yes. If I really want to and you're right, if the Sally guilt thing isn't hanging over me. Then it would be a lot easier.'

'But will you want to?'

'Peter, that's the problem. Providing Jane does as she says and keeps away I'll be in seventh heaven. I've so many ideas; things that could only be done with an artist in charge. I was thinking about turning the office, that massive room that Sally kept all to herself. What do you think of my idea to turn it into a studio and paint in there while I'm here? It will mean we can turn our studio at home into a music room for the girls. The girls can decorate it to their tastes, and perhaps having a sexy place to work in will make Charlotte want to practice her clarinet more.'

'So you want me to believe that you're doing this for the girls?'

'No, this is for me. I have a burning dream to see living art created in The Gallery.' Laura's passion is evident in her voice as well as her words.

'And she's agreed to all this?'

'She's a businesswoman. Sally liked the glamour not the messy paint whereas Jane is very pleased with my ideas. Like me running workshops and inviting local artistes to do demonstrations. In fact, it was her idea. You should have heard her, she was so eloquent. Peter, I'm so excited.'

'She can talk a good job.'

'Peter, that's unfair.'

'I don't mean it quite the way it came out. But she's an excellent public speaker. She always knows what her audience wants to hear. So she says it for them, loud and clear. And then she goes off and does whatever it was that she'd been planning to do in the first place. Laura, you know I'm right. That doesn't mean that you shouldn't work for her. It just means be careful and go in with both eyes open.'

'Yes,' Laura sighs. 'Just like Sally I'll cross the t's and dot the i's,' she muses referring back to her earlier conversation.

'Sorry?' he asks not understanding her reference.

'Nothing. Something Jane and I -. No, don't worry, it doesn't matter. I know I have to keep my eyes open. But she did say that she didn't want any involvement. What was it she said..?' The line goes quiet as Laura tries to recollect. 'Yes, it was something along the lines of she wants me to make The Gallery "a beacon for young artists. A shining torch where they can light their own creative spark before setting the world alight". Don't you think that's wonderful, Peter?'

'She can deliver the lines,' he says sceptically. 'Only you can deliver the vision,' Peter resists adding the rejoinder "if she'll let you". He doesn't want to spoil her obvious joy.

'So you see there was just so much for us to talk about that I didn't get time to ask her about the cottage.' Laura concludes.

'But would you want to ask her if you're working for her? I can see that may be tricky.'

'When the time's right. I will ask. But the timing just wasn't right.'

'How was it?'

'Being here? Each moment I expect Sally to walk in and tell me off. But she's not going to. I didn't join them for lunch. I wanted to be here alone. It's the next best thing to actually being with Sally.'

'Them, who else was there?'

'Her new son.'

'Oh, I'd forgotten about him. What's he like? Most opportunist gold-diggers are charming, Adonis like and very appealing.'

'He is, but there's something almost fragile about him.'

'Sounds like a typical class act. How do they get away with it?'

'Peter, you can be an old cynic at times. But you know he does have something about him; the way he looks.' Laura says as she pictures him in her mind's eye.

'That can be practised.'

'No, he doesn't look like Jane. He looks like her mother. It was quite spooky. If he's genuine or not only time will tell. They will make an interesting combination. He's not going to let her have things all her own way.'

'She won't like that; she doesn't like giving into other people. And from how you've described him I think it's more likely to be an explosive combination.'

'Whatever; it will be strange watching as their relationship unfold. If he's genuine then it could be the making of her as a normal human being.'

'Allowing her to accept human frailty for once?' Peter notes.

'Something like that.'

'And did she talk about Sally?'

'No, I was hoping we'd get the chance. But honestly, Peter, she was too preoccupied with her new child.'

'This new look for The Gallery, Jane said it's what Sally wanted?

'I think so. Sally was well known for promoting and encouraging local talent. Look at me; I was her receptionist until she trained me and encouraged me to develop my natural talents. She did a lot for me, did Sally. I'll miss her. In fact there are lots of people who'll miss her.'

'But not Jane?'

'In her own way she will. She did confess that she had been going to end their relationship this weekend.'

'Someone saved her job –! God! Laura, you're not in any danger are you?' Peter asks, standing up and preparing to runs to her side to protect her.

'Actually,' she laughs, 'we did have that conversation. And she said that she didn't kill her. I'm convinced. But I wasn't really meaning that when I said about people missing her. I mean the local talent. Her patronage will be missed by them.'

'And non-local talent?'

'Brendon?' Laura asks. 'Is that who you mean?'

'The same.'

'He'll get his exhibition, and perhaps the opportunity to do a workshop or two.'

'And what if he doesn't want to avail himself of your offer, Laura?'

'Oh, I guess that's when I have to listen to my own advice.'

'And have you listened?'

'So, Peter, where are we going for dinner tonight, darling?'

'Is that listening?'

'After a fashion?

'After a fashion,' Peter repeats. 'And what does that tell you?'

'Naturally I'd be hurt if he turned my offer down. But I've been hurt before and got over it.'

'I see that you're still the Laura I love.'

DAY looks at the two arrest warrants on his desk.

'Is this how it ends?' Penny asks, placing his bacon sandwich and a mug of tea in front of him.

'I think it does,' he replies.

Wednesday evening

BOTH bars are quiet; the lounge bar has one small group in it while the public bar has a couple of individuals drinking steadily while stoically avoiding all conversation.

Phil, the landlord, walks between both bars ready for any requests either for drinks, to clear up a spillage, off any of the pristine surfaces, or just to talk. With the gloom that has descended over the village since the death of Sally Henry Phil is especially eager for conversation. In desperation he pushes a rubbish bin under his left arm, picks up the ash-cleaning paint brush with his right hand and a none-too clean cloth in his left. Walking between the tables he picks up each ashtray, using the paint brush he sweeps the imaginary contents into the bin before wiping them over with the cloth and then replaces them on the surfaces. This futile activity, while he repeats it at each table, remains uncommented upon. The isolated drinkers remain fixed and silent with their pints. There will be no conversation in this bar.

The smugglers sit together in a secluded corner of the lounge bar. They have never been seen together in public before. They are nervous about talking aloud in case they are overheard.

Wells looks around; apparently determined to convince himself that no one else is going to come into the bar before he breaks the silence.

'The next consignment is due to be with us a week on Thursday. If we want to go ahead with our previous activities, that is?' Wells adds, in a hurry as he misinterprets the shocked looks on the faces of the other three.

'I say we keep business as usual. What has anyone else got to say about that?' William asks as he put his pint on the table and glances expectantly at each of his three colleagues.

'If we want to resume, Billy, then yes you're right. We must be ready. The question is; do we want to resume our nefarious activities? Miss Jones, what's your view?' Wells has decided to start questioning the group by asking Miss Jones first. He has selected her because he knows she will give a positive answer. 'Are you happy to continue with our, up to now, very lucrative partnership?'

'I think we should continue. I admit that that last lot scared me. I don't mind saying so 'cause I want to be sure that it will never happen again. And, as I've said before, I was checking the schedule the other night and noticed we weren't due for a drop. I'm unsure how that package got there or where it came from. I think we should find out; and before we take another drop at Bay View. To my way of thinking; if there's another group that's working from there, like we are, then we need to know. And I want an agreement that we don't do livestock, hatched or un-hatched.'

A general murmur of agreement is curtailed as Wells adds, 'I think I can safety say that it wasn't anything to do with our activities.'

'And how do you know that, Doctor?' William asks.

'Never mind his knowledge,' Anne interrupts, speaking for the first time. 'How did it get there if it's nothing to do with us?' she asks, before taking a tentative sip of her port and lemon.

Wells buys himself some time by sipping his scotch and water slowly. He knows that sooner or later he'll have to come up with a convincing story; one that they will all accept. Over the last few nights he's been rehearsing what he'll say to them, when they ask him, as they are bound to ask this particular question. But he still doesn't know what the right answer.

He starts by saying, 'don't question me. Suffice it to say that I have some information that I cannot divulge because of its confidential nature; and the way I learned about it. I am going to ask you to trust me on this one. After all, I am a doctor -.'

'And a smuggler,' William points out with a tone of derision to his voice that the others' haven't heard him use before. He continues, 'so, as the doctor and the smuggler are the one person, we have to ask ourselves; if the doctor is above suspicion, then is the smuggler likewise?'

'Let ye who is ... and all that,' Miss Jones replies before turning to face Wells. With determination she asks him, 'Wells, what's your knowledge to do with us?'

'I can honestly say that it doesn't have anything at all to do with our activities.'

'If it has anything to do with us; then I for one want to know what it is. I think we should be told,' Anne, demands.

'Does your information have any bearing on what we are doing, as Anne, suspects, Wells?' William formally asks.

'No, otherwise I'd tell you. As I said before, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to trust me on this one. You could say it's honour among smugglers.'

Wells looks from one to the other; as no one is prepared to meets his eyes he assumes they are all colluding with him. After taking another sip of his drink he starts to talk again.

'Now, going back to the other point, the reason we're here. I'm prepared to continue with our little enterprise. So that should indicate that the information I have isn't dangerous for us as a group or as individuals. Does that settle any fears that I may have stirred up?'

There is a general murmur around the group.

It's William who starts the conversation again, 'We can safely say that the eggs were nothing to do with us, then?'

'Yes,' Wells is adamant.

'So that means that some person, or persons unknown, left them in our secret hiding place. Do we know if we were meant to find them?'

'No. We were not,' Wells confirms in a very firm voice.

'Does their use of our hiding place mean that they know who we are and what we do there?' William continues his interrogation of Wells.

'I have no evidence to refute or to support your statement. I ...' he holds his hands in an open gesture. '...just don't know. I'm sorry, I wish I did. I've not admitted to our activities to anyone who doesn't already know all about them. So, unless any of you have?' Wells stops talking as he looks around the group and notices they are all shaking their heads. He continues, 'So I would surmise that they don't know about us and the use that we make of the cellar at Bay View cottage.'

'What if they put them there deliberately to frighten us off?' William asks. From the reaction of Anne and Miss Jones they had also been thinking the same thought; they just hadn't got round to voicing it.

'Billy, I don't think that's the case. If it were wouldn't they have made sure we got the message? Has anyone been contacted?'

They look at each other; no one appears to have had any unusual communications at all.

'If a note had been pinned to the box could we have missed it?

'That's possible, but unlikely, Miss Jones. But, Wells, you think it's still safe to continue, don't you? William seeks clarity.

'But,' Miss Jones jumps in, 'if they have, as we believe they have; smuggled the eggs of a dangerous snake into the country. Hid them in our storeroom and nothing happens. Then wouldn't they assume we were just too scared to do anything about it? It may even encourage them to escalate their activities.'

'You think smashing the eggs is nothing happening, do you?' Anne makes her intervention quickly, before looking away.

'Anne has a fair point. What if this other gang plan on using the cottage? We can hardly share it with them, can we?' William agrees.

'I think, now the police have checked the cellar, the new people will realise that it's no longer safe for any of us to continue using it. Besides, we may have been sharing it with them for some time and just not realised it.'

After the mummer of agreement over the last point that Wells makes dies down the smugglers all sample their beverages.

Anne puts her glass down first and speaks. Her voice is far away and very soft as she speaks, 'If it's not safe for them then it's not safe for us?'

'I agree, Anne. I think we should think about using another location.'

William waves his arms around and attracts their attention, 'Before we move on. Am I hearing you rightly? What you are all implying is that someone else knows about our activities and plans on using us to cover up their own criminal activities. Assuming that we'd not be able to tell the police because we'd be arrested as well?' William asks slowly considering each word before vocalises it.

'Yes, Billy, that about sums up my understanding,' Wells concurs.

'Are we in danger?' Anne asks.

'Smuggling has been illegal for centuries and you ask me if we're in danger? Come on you're not stupid or senile. We are breaking the law, and if we're caught we'd normally get custodial sentences. However, our ages may mitigate against that. I really don't think we four have to worry about being caught.'

'What if someone deliberately brought the snakes in in order to kill Sally; have we considered that?'

'Yes, Anne, I have. And I for one dismissed it. No one knew she was coming here. In fact Laura told us that she was alone in the cottage.'

'Laura could have brought them, or they could have been intended to kill Laura.' The path of speculation that Anne's walking down excites her and she would have gone on to be more fanciful if Wells hadn't stopped her.

'I really don't see how six eggs could be an effective killing tool. In that temperature no one could say for sure when they would hatch. So how could they make sure that snake and victim would be in the same place at the same time? No, there's just too much coincidence about it. Besides, as dangerous species, they are, or rather they were, worth a lot of money.'

'Besides, if they did kill Sally, then surely the police will catch the real murderer sooner or later?'

'That's my point, Miss Jones. If they don't get arrested, they, and their activities are a danger to us. If they do get arrested, they could get us all arrested, if they know who we are.' Anne tries again to enlighten them. But due to her complicated explanation she fails.

'What do you mean?' Miss Jones asks scratching her head and looking confused.

'We are back with the point we were discussing earlier. Someone else knows our hiding place so we cannot use it again. It's as simple as that,' Wells admits.

'But surely once the police have arrest them, then we could go back to our activities without any additional fear,' Miss Jones asks.

'Not necessarily. That depends on what they say at their trial.'

'Oh no,' Miss Jones adds, 'you mean if the other people get caught and to the police, or in court, they blab then we've had it as well?'

'That's exactly what I mean; they could inadvertently or even deliberately implicate us and our activities. That would make life very difficult for us,' Anne notes.

'I think it would raise a few eyebrows and make any activity on our part tricky for a long while to come.'

'Not only that, William, they may already know who we are.'

'Are you saying that it's in our interest that a murderer gets away?'

'No. If Sally suffered a bite from a deadly snake then it's the snake that killed her. So the police should arrest the snake.' Wells tries to defend the indefensible; and as he does so he angers William.

'Damn it, Wells, you can't mean that! What about the people who brought it here in the first place? Are you really saying that the snake is the only guilty party? That's the brick and the broken window argument. Semantics; I'll not have it. The culprit's the human perpetrator, every time.'

'You may be having fun with your semantics, Billy. But intellectual word play has very little to do with us. Can we get back to the subject?' Miss Jones demands.

'I agree with you, Miss Jones,' Anne says taking the conversation back to their activities. 'What are we going to do next? If our hiding place is no longer operational, then shouldn't we be looking for somewhere else?'

'I've an idea about that. I'm sure that Mrs Elliot would be happy for the cottage to be sold quickly. We could buy it and make sure no one ever discovers the cellar again,' Wells suggests.

'How?'

'Holiday lets, keep the place full and busy. Make the access to the cellar via that house only; and the cave naturally. And then we'd see if anyone was taking more than a passing interest.'

'Buy it? Wells, you mean we four buy the cottage?'

'Yes, together, as a collective enterprise.'

'I don't have that kind of money,' Anne announces.

'No, maybe you don't, Anne. But I'm sure that between us we could scrape the cash together and issue shares in the property. The shares could be issued to each individual depending on how much they'd invested; we'd share costs and profit in the same way. It would mean we'd get an income from letting the cottage, our property would be safe, and Anne you'd still have a job. A legitimate partnership for smugglers! Now, that's a novel idea.' Wells announces his proposal with a flourish as he expects everyone to appreciate the benefit of his plan.

'Count me out. I have my pension and nothing spare for buying other peoples' houses,' Miss Jones adds.

'William, you've not said much?'

'I've some spare cash. I'm just not so sure it's a good investment. At this stage in my life I need security for my cash.'

'I'll make enquiries; see how much she wants. Now, back to the main item on our agenda. Miss Jones, your vote is for us to resume our activities?'

'Yes. But I'd like to say that, after all that's gone on here this time, I'm concerned about continuing to use Bay View. It's been a long time since we used ...' Miss Jones leaves the sentence to ferment in the memories of her colleague smugglers.

'Are you suggesting we go back to using the old cave? The one under the pub car park?' Wells enquires.

'When we first set-up we used it very successfully. The drivers didn't have as far to travel. The ships had, if anything, easier access. We only moved to Bay View 'cause someone found our cargo and we had to move it quickly. Why don't we go back there?' William prompts; but only once it's become obvious that Miss Jones isn't going to enlighten the group any more than she has already.

'And if we did, Billy, would you want to continue?'

'Can we hear you views first, Wells?'

'If you like. Don't ask me how I know this, because I cannot say.'

'More confidential information, Doctor? Your consulting rooms must have been busy this week?' Anne says without bothering to hide the contempt in her voice.

'I know that the police are about to make an arrest; so this matter will be cleared up within the next day or so. Then I think it will be safe for us to resume, providing we all want to, that is.'

'Then count me in,' Anne says. The look of resolve that has spread over her face indicates the genuine concern that recent events have caused her.

'And me,' William adds. 'One for all and all for one?'

'What's this; the Three Musketeers Re-enactment Society?' Phil, the publican, asks as he brushes the contents of the ashtray into the bin. He then replaces it, removes the empty glasses off the table top, places them in the bin and for good-measure he gives the surface a wipe over.

'Got to do something to bring a little life to the village,' William tells him. 'So, we thought we'd get together and see what ideas we can come up with for the summer visitors.' William is very pleased with his own quick thinking. He hopes he's impressed the others as well.

'I'm all for events that will boost my trade. We'll be needing a new celebrity now that young Jason'll be leaving us.'

'Will he?' Anne asks, demonstrating how far away from village life she has been for the last few days.

'Yes, my star pupil. He's passed his entrance exam and been accepted for the London School of Music.'

'Yes. It's good news for the lad. Well for the whole family,' Phil notes, as he turns to leave. 'I had his parents in here with him the other night celebrating. I'm pleased for the lad.'

DAY knocks on the door. 'Can I come in,' he asks opening it. 'Both of you! Good, that's saved me a trip.'

'We have been expecting you. Have you come to arrest us?'

'I have two warrants, one for each of you,' Day tells them.

'Dare you do that?'

'Dare? That's a strange word to use,' he says sitting down and removing the warrants from his pocket. 'I wonder what you mean.'

'Aren't you afraid we'll implicate you?'

Day picks up a warrant and looks at it, as if for the first time, before placing it back on the table. He runs his finger over the second warrant. Slowly he raises his head and brings his eyes level with theirs.

Day looks at them as he speaks, 'this is what is going to happen.'

Wednesday night almost Thursday daybreak

'SO, what do you expect me to do for you both now?' Wells demands.

'Blood is –.' Benjamin Wells is interrupted.

'Don't try that one on me. Either of you. Damn it!' Wells snaps, turning his back on his two children before refilling his glass.

'Can we –?' Again Ben is interrupted.

'No. Buy your own. Buy your own? That's a joke. That'll be some day, the day you two stop sponging off me, won't it? You're adults, grownups and should be able to look after yourselves. But no you keep coming back here when you've got yourselves into trouble. Well this time I'm not bailing either of you out. You're on your own. Sally Henry was a wonderful woman and she didn't deserve to die because of you two.'

'We didn't –.'

Wells interrupts his son to say. 'Don't do this to me. You're only making it worse.'

'Benjamin,' Prunella speaks for the first time. Her voice is low and soft as she tries, and fails to break the tension. 'Arguing among ourselves isn't going to get us anywhere.'

'And where exactly did you expect your nocturnal visit to your old dad to get you?' Wells asks. 'That's the problem with you two. You make a mess and then come running back to me to fix it for you. Well not this time. This time -.' He turns to face them and looks directly at each of his children for the first time since they arrived. 'This time you've gone too far. Even for a tolerant man like myself. You've both brought shame on your mother's memory not to mention ruined my last days on this earth.'

'You dare –.' Ben is once again interrupted, only this time it is by his elder sister.

'Ben,' Prunella's voice is soft, gently yet commanding. It successfully cuts across her brother's strident anger. 'We did wrong, Dad. Very wrong. I admit that we were out to make a quick buck. But no one could have foreseen that this would happen. I know I speak for both of us on this.' Prunella pauses slightly to throw her brother a look that warns him not to contradict her. She continues; her laps undetectable to any listener who is not watching her closely. 'And truly, if we'd known the consequences of our actions then neither of us would have allowed either ourselves, or the other one, to get dragged into this mess.'

'Why, Prunella, why you? I can see Benjamin getting messed up with something as stupid as this. But you, you'd everything to lose.'

'Oh, Dad. Everything that you'd wanted for my life. This isn't what I wanted for myself. I was living your fantasy; only it's turning sour.'

'So you smuggled endangered, dangerous snakes into the country because I got you through medical school? Is that it? So it's all my fault now, is it?' Wells looks away and then turns quickly to look at his son, contempt filling his eyes. 'And I suppose you're going to tell me that I ruined your life as well?'

'Since Mum died –.'

'Don't you dare throw your mother back at me? Don't either of you dare! You'd break her heart, the pair of you. And you'd both put her in an early grave if she wasn't in one already.'

'And we all know who put her in her real one.'

'Ben!' Wells and Prunella chorus simultaneously, before they both fall silent and turn away from each other, their backs to Benjamin.

Wells refills his glass, his head bowed and his arms aching to hold his children; just like he used to hold them all those years ago. Just like he held them when they stood by the open grave while his wife's body was surrendered into the care of her Creator God. He gently moves his head from side to side as once again he fights the tears that threaten to break his composure. Composure he is determined to maintain, no matter what. Since he walked away from that bleak and windswept graveside all those years ago he has only had his composure to protect his vulnerability and keep him safe. His wife is not alive, they are; and they are his only link to the woman he loves and aches to join.

He takes a deep breath, aware that Benjamin is eying the decanter, and that Prunella is mentally trying to reach out to him for love, comfort, and in his role of dual parent and figure of authority, for his forgiveness. He's always been able to forgive them before; but this time? This time it is different. Sally Henry didn't deserve to die because of their greedy natures and foolish acts.

'I guess smuggling runs in the family, eh Dad?'

'You fool,' Prunella snaps, before walking over to her father's side. 'Ben didn't mean that. He's just trying to –.'

'Prove what a bloody fool he is. Sure I smuggle booze.' He holds the decanter up, 'And it's good stuff. And Cigarettes and perfumes. But livestock? Endangered species? Living creatures? Never. Dangerous snakes? For heaven's sake? What next was it going to be for you two? Illegal immigrants packed into containers at five grand a go? Well was it?'

Wells looks at his two children. Prunella refuses to meet his eyes; she keeps her head turned towards the window and fixes her gaze on a distant ship that is passing the point. Benjamin holds his father's eyes with defiance and no contrition evident at all.

'At least you don't insult me by saying that you'd have stopped after this consignment,' Wells says his voice flat and hard.

'Pru. and I were told they'd be dormant in the English climate.'

'Yes, Dad, and all the experts we spoke to said that for one to hatch and leave the nest, in these temperatures; well, it's never been heard of –.'

'So you chose to prove the experts fallible,' Wells interrupts his daughter with his dry observation.

'Dad?' Prunella asks softly. I know -,' she interrupts herself. She walks slowly to Wells stopping feet from him. As she passes her brother she kicks him and gestures for him to copy her actions. He folds his arms and refuses. She glares at him, mouths an obscenity, and then turning to her father very softly she adds, '... we both know that it's a lot to ask. But please this one last time, we both promise, can you use your influence to help us out of the mess we've caused? Please?'

LAURA lies in the arms of Peter as they gently sleep off the excesses of the meal. The gentle breeze from the open window plays along the naked legs and arms of Peter as he holds on tightly to his sleeping wife. The moonlight, manages to filter in and fall over their sleeping faces as the wind blows the curtains slightly apart. The photo copy of the last Will and Testimony of Sally Henry, the one that Jane faxed over to Peter's office, is stuffed under the pillow where Laura's left hand is still holding onto it.

MISS Jones sits by her fire with Baker on her lap as they watch the dying embers. She had planned to go to bed ages ago but watching the images in the flames has captivated her attention and kept her from her slumbers. She holds Barker for companionship; she needed to feel the love that can only be shared between living creatures. Through her closed, but un-curtained windows the moonlight can be seen casting pools on the surface of the sea. The water is still after the storm of the previous night. She wonders if she should go to bed; but the fire is warm and Barker looks so comfortable that she decides to sit in her chair and watch the ghosts in her fire. If she goes to sleep or not will not make much difference in the scheme of things. For once she realises that she would like there to be a little less excitement in her life than there has been just recently.

RETURNING from the restaurant Amanda and Charlotte had decided to share the same bedroom for the night and had spent it in excited girly talk. In the early hours they had both fallen into a deep and exhausted sleep. Sleep that will repair the emotional damage that has been caused by the activities of the last few days. Their faces are illuminated by the streetlight as it steals in through a crack in the curtains.

ANNE Lesley is asleep, her dream still and heavy. Her husband sleeping by her side rolls onto her arm. She briefly wakes in order to push him back onto his own side of the bed. She then resumes her dreaming of better days to come.

JANE Elliot lies awake watching the whirling of the ceiling fan and thinking of her son, David, who is back in his own bed-sit at a shared house on the other side of town. She had been sad, when he'd refused to come back to her place, yet a strange glow now envelopes her heart. He is his own man and he isn't going to allow her rush things. She would have to get used to his ways. Naturally he'd eventually come and live near her; and in a style that is more suited to her son than his current one is. But for now she is content that he hasn't taken advantage of her wealth.

Earlier David had taken her back to his bed-sit for coffee. She had sat on his unmade bed-settee and drank coffee out of the only mug he owns. While the mug was chipped; Jane felt it was preferable to the jam jar that David had been forced to use. And she had accepted it, not criticised, and definitely not judged him. She had actually enjoyed allowing someone else to set the pace and shape the race. It is a new feeling for her and she has an idea that she is going to get to like it, eventually.

Pulling the duvet to her shoulders she snuggles into her normal sleeping position, closes her eyes and starts to plan how she will change to accommodate all that is happening in her life.

BRENDON sits up in bed watching the shadows on the walls. He can hear the breathing of the other patients, and in his mind's eye he pictures their chests rising, being held momentarily, and then falling back to the resting position.

He has thought about nothing but Laura's offer. It is the opportunity that he's dreamed about. And with time and training he could be the natural successor to her when she retires. With cash in his pocket he could send money back to his village. His family would look down on him from heaven and be proud that their sacrifice has helped him make something of his life. He'd paint to their memory to highlight the horrors of war and what it does to innocent children. In a position like the one Laura is offering him he'd be able to draw attention to so many wrongs. He would paint, draw and learn from others, especially Laura who he admits, to himself, to being a little in love with. He'd be near her, working with her. She'd help him; as she'd helped him before.

He snuggles into his warm bed and he wonders, with fear and excitement in equal measure, what her daughters will be like. He falls into a deep and restful sleep with a contented smile that stretches across his face. Even the entry of the Night Nurse into his room to check on him doesn't disturb his slumbers. She notices the facial expression, closes the door softly and burst into a big grin herself. Brendon is going to get better.

WILLIAM has gone to bed at his normal time; but as he's failed to fall asleep he gets up and decides to take a walk. He notices that Day is standing by the sea wall looking back his way. He waves and is actually surprised when the greeting isn't returned. He follows Day's gaze; which rests further up the hill, past where William is standing, and lingers on the surgery. William knows what's happening up there. He'd seen Prunella and Benjamin arrive just as it was getting dark. He knows they don't visit their father unless they want something; they are not that close. He has also noticed that Wells has not taken them into his apartment; instead he has kept them in the surgery. There is something wrong. William decides not to walk to the village but to go towards the surgery; just in case a friendly visitor would be helpful. Wells is an odd man, but good at heart; he deserves some neighbourly kindness in his hour of need. As William gets to the edge of the doctors land the surgery door opens and Prunella and Benjamin run out. It's Prunella's car that they get into. She manages to execute a perfect U turn before speeding off down the hill and screeching her tires as she rounds the bend at the bottom before accelerating up the other side of the hill. Wells appears at the door and William decides to go and see if he needs any help. The car speeds on, her speed so great that Prunella has actually driven out of the village before Williams and Wells have drawn level with each other.

As the sound of her engine fades William opens his mouth to greet Wells. He realises that Wells is actually unaware that he's there. William steps back into the protection of the hedge and let Wells walk past him. William unfolds himself from the hedge and watches as Day appears out of nowhere; together Day and Well's walk towards the see wall, their backs to William.

DAY walks to the sea wall and turns to face the top of the hill. The lights are blazing out across the water from the Doctor's surgery. He knows what's happening. Just what he's told them to do. He removes a small pair of field glasses from his pocket and trains them on the surgery. Her expensive roadrunner is parked in the drive. She'll not be needing that where she's going, Day thinks. He doesn't know how long it is before the kids leave; speeding through the village like the idiots they are as Wells himself starts walking slowly towards him.

'Tell your daughter to slow down. I don't mind her killing herself,' Day says, 'what I objects to is her killing the other people she's likely to take with her,' he adds as Wells draws level with him.

'Hasn't there been enough killing?'

'It's a figure of speech,' Day notes.

'That's not how they describe it. They claim you threatened them.'

'I advised them on an appropriate cause of action.'

'That's not how they see it,' Wells informs him.

Unafraid of their threats, Day asks, 'So, I'll lose some sleep about my public image. What have they decided to do?'

'You didn't give them much choice?'

'I have the warr-.'

'Yes, I know. You have the warrants for their arrest. On what charges?' Wells asks.

'Both of them for smuggling endangered species and an additional charge for Ben for criminal fraud.'

'He didn't say anything about that to me?'

'Well he wouldn't, would he?' Day enlightens the older man.

'How much is involved.'

'More than you've got. You can't bail him out on this one. It's also not the money so much as who he stole it from.'

'Who?' Wells asks totally unaware of the possibilities.

'Can't you guess?'

'I'm not into guessing games at the moment,' Wells snaps.

'And I'm not into divulging police information,' Day announces.

'Sorry, it's been a difficult day. Please, tell me, I think I need to know who he embezzled?'

'Sally Henry.'

'You're not suggesting that he murdered her deliberately, are you?'

'No. He doesn't have the brains,' Day confesses.

Wells opens his mouth to defend his son and then thinks better of it. 'I guess you're right. They said you'll allow a plea. Is that true?'

A sound of a sudden and violent crash breaks across their conversation as a pillar of smoke and flames leaps into the air from behind the valley ridge.

'God no!' Wells screams. 'Not them as well? I can't stand to lose them as well.'

Day places his left arm on Wells right shoulder and with his right hand removes his police radio. Automatically he starts to arrange for the emergency services to attend a fatal accident just outside the sleepy village of Penalton-on-sea.

