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Dedication

For

Natascia and Vanessa

Benjamin and Isabel

* family *

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One
1

Malone felt distinctly uncomfortable at this big table in this big house, but no one would have known it; he had the relaxed air of a veteran police officer on the take. Of the eighteen people at dinner ten were family; the Huxwood family in itself was enough to intimidate any outsider. Added to them were the State Premier and his wife; a business tycoon and his wife; and the guests of honour, the British cabinet minister and his wife. Plus Malone himself and, the light at the far end of the table, his wife Lisa.

The cabinet minister’s wife, a large, good-looking woman who had once played goalkeeper or front row for Roedean, whatever that was and she hadn’t bothered to explain, was seated next to Malone. ‘My husband has never forgiven you for what you did to him all those years ago.’ She had a large voice which turned heads all the way down the table in her direction; it was said that she was the only woman in Britain who had been able to stop Baroness Thatcher when the latter was in full flow. ‘Isn’t that so, Ivor?’

Before Ivor could reply, Lady Huxwood looked at Malone; up till now she had virtually ignored him. ‘You arrested Mr Supple?’

‘No,’ said Supple hastily, before another scandal could be added to the long list of British cabinet indiscretions. ‘My wife exaggerates, Scobie. I only felt like that till I retired from cricket.’

‘Twelve years,’ said his wife. ‘A long time to be unforgiving.’

‘Not in this country,’ said the Premier, who had the scars in his back to prove it.

At the far end of the table, seated next to Lisa, Derek Huxwood was grinning evilly. ‘Twenty-two years ago,’ he explained to the other guests, ‘Ivor was one of the stars of the English Test team when they came out here on tour. In the match against New South Wales Scobie clean-bowled him for a duck first ball in each innings. The one and only time in his life that Ivor ever got a pair.’

Phillipa Huxwood favoured Malone with another look. ‘Now I understand why Derek invited you, Mr Malone. I had no idea who you were.’

Derek’s mother was in her seventies and from infancy had been treading on other people’s feelings. Bone-thin, her once-patrician looks had deteriorated into gauntness, but there were hints, like the odd leaves on a dying tree, of the beauty she had once been. Short-sighted but too vain to wear glasses and unable to tolerate contact lenses, she leaned close to everyone she spoke to, so that her unwitting insults had an extra impact. She was now examining Malone closely and he returned her gaze. He had been examined and insulted by the best of lawyers and criminals.

‘Are you still cricketing? You look much too old for that.’

‘I retired years ago. I’m a police officer, a detective-inspector in Homicide.’

Nigel Huxwood, seated halfway down the table, put his head forward, said in his English voice, ‘Homicide, really? In the UK I played detectives in several films, half a dozen times on television. Producers thought I had that unflappable look. I’m just as flappable in real life as the rest of us. Except Derek, of course,’ he said and looked sideways across the table at his brother, a theatrical look that convinced Malone that Nigel must have been a bad actor. Or a bad detective.

At the head of the table Sir Harry, all famous distinction and charm, smiled at Lisa. ‘What’s it like being married to a policeman, Mrs Malone?’

Lisa had been asked that question so many times, but she paused now as if hearing it for the first time. ‘Boring. And worrying. But it’s what my husband wants to do ...’ She smiled down the table at Malone, telling him, Let’s go home before I commit homicide on this crowd. They could read each other’s eyes where others saw only blank stares. ‘Does Lady Huxwood enjoy your being a newspaper publisher?’

‘I’ve never asked her,’ he said, still smiling; he was a constantly good-humoured man, or gave the impression of being one. He raised his voice, repeating the question to his distant wife.

‘Of course!’ She sounded indignant at being asked. ‘All wives should enjoy what their husbands do. I’m no damned feminist!’ She glared around the table, daring any feminist to speak up; but there were no takers. ‘What about you, Enid? Do you enjoy being the Premier’s wife?’

Mrs Bigelow jumped, surprised that her opinion might count; she was a tiny blonde with a lovely smile that she seemed afraid to display. She smiled now, weakly: ‘I’m just background. It’s where I like to be.’ Then her smile brightened as she turned it on her husband, but he just scowled.

‘What about you, Beatrice? You enjoy politics, don’t you?’

Beatrice Supple, whether she enjoyed politics or not, knew how to handle dragons like Lady Huxwood; Britain, or anyway England, had its share of them. ‘Ivor and I agree to disagree. He belongs to the MCC, I campaign against it because it treats women as third-class citizens. He’s RC, I’m Anglican –’

‘Is there any difference these days?’ said Derek.

The talk went on through the remaining courses. Malone, no stranger to a good meal under Lisa’s care, was still impressed by what was put in front of him by the butler and the single waiter. There had been six courses and four wines before Lady Huxwood rose and announced, ‘We ladies will have coffee in the drawing-room.’

Malone’s look of astonishment must have been conspicuous, or perhaps Lisa was the only one who saw it. She smiled at him from faraway and disappeared with the ladies.

Then he was aware of Derek Huxwood standing above him. ‘Don’t mind my dear old mum, Scobie. She hasn’t turned a page on a calendar since 1900. She’s hoping the death of Queen Victoria is just a rumour.’

Malone, a man not given to team reunions, had caught only glimpses of Huxwood over the last twenty years. Huxwood was six years older than Malone, had been the State captain and Malone’s mentor; he had been handsome and lissom and elegant to watch at bat. Now he had put on weight and the once-sharp and jovial eyes had dulled. The black mane of hair was now iron-grey and was cut short in what used to be called a crew-cut but was now, at least by the homophobes in the police service, called a queer-cut. The years had given Derek Huxwood no credit, he looked already on the far cusp of middle age. Only the mouth had not changed: there was still the whimsical smile that was only just short of a sneer.

‘You want one of these?’ He offered a box of cigars. ‘I seem to remember you never smoked?’

‘Still don’t. Why did you invite me tonight, Derek?’

‘Mischief.’ He smiled, then shook his head. He lit his cigar, then went on, ‘No, that’s not true. I think I was looking for a memory of the good old days. Don’t you feel like that occasionally? Lost youth, all that?’

Before Malone could answer, they were joined by the Premier. Bevan Bigelow was a short square man with a blond cowlick always falling down over one eye; it gave him a boyish look, which fooled some voters into thinking he might have more than the usual politician’s quota of principles. Unfortunately his principles were as pliable as a licorice-stick in hot weather; he was all ears to all men and was known in the press gallery as Bev the Obvious. Three years before he had been chosen by the conservative Coalition government as its stop-gap leader and was still leader only because better men were still cutting each other’s throats in their efforts to replace him. There was an election in six days’ time and if the Coalition lost he was gone.

‘I hear you’ve got trouble, Derek. Anything I can do to help?’

Huxwood half-shut one eye, but Malone was sure it was not due to the smoke from his cigar. ‘No broadcasting, Bevan old chap. Okay?’

Bigelow appeared to recognize he had been perhaps too obvious. He looked at Malone as if the latter might be enemy: a newspaperman, for instance. But he knew that Malone was police: they could be just as bad. ‘What do you know, Inspector?’

‘Nothing,’ said Malone and looked at Huxwood for enlightenment, but got none.

Then Ivor Supple came down to Malone’s end of the table and drew him aside, pulling out a chair and sitting down so that they faced each other. ‘I couldn’t have been more pleased when I saw you here tonight, Scobie. I mean that.’

‘Lost youth, all that?’ Then he grinned. ‘Derek has just been telling me that’s why I was invited. It’s all behind us, Ivor. My thirteen-year-old son tries to get me to talk about it, but, I dunno, it’s like trying to catch smoke. What you’re doing now must be more interesting?’

Supple shrugged. ‘Maybe more interesting but not as pleasurable. Sometimes I doze off in the Commons and wonder why I ever got into politics. You’re right about the lost youth and all that. In retrospect all those seasons seem to have been one long golden summer. They like that for you?’

Malone nodded. ‘They weren’t, of course. Why are you out here now? Talking to them down in Canberra?’

‘Only informally. My wife is here on business and I’m just tagging along. The baggage man.’

‘I didn’t know she was a businesswoman. Sorry, I shouldn’t sound surprised –’

‘Don’t worry, old chap. Our generation didn’t know what a businesswoman was. I didn’t know what a woman politician was till I stood up against Boadicea Thatcher. She skittled me first ball, just like you did.’

Supple was tall and thin with an almost ingenuous smile. Malone was not sure what post he had in the new British cabinet, but he was certain that Supple would be popular with both voters and party members. He was equally certain that Supple would never be Prime Minister: nice guys who dozed off in the Commons dreaming of long-ago summers never made it to the top. Supple had been like that as a batsman: one minute thrashing the bowlers to all corners of the field, the next dreamily losing concentration and getting out to a ball that really hadn’t challenged him.

‘What does your wife do?’

Supple looked up as Derek Huxwood put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I see you for a moment, Ivor? Excuse us, Scobie.’

It was polite, yet Malone abruptly felt shut out. His temper rose and for a moment he was tempted to go looking for Lisa and walk out. Then Supple’s vacated chair was taken by a florid-faced man who had arrived at the dinner table just as the party sat down.

‘I’m Ned Custer, one of the sons-in-law. Sheila’s husband. You’re the outsider, right?’

Where did this family learn all its insults? ‘You could say that. I feel like a Jew at a Muslim picnic.’

Custer’s laugh was full-bodied, genuine. He was not quite as tall as Malone and much thicker; what had once been muscle had softened into fat. Malone recognized him now: a corporation lawyer who had once been a prominent rugby forward. Twenty years ago he had led death-or-glory charges that had earned him the nickname Rhino. He had thinning hair that, perhaps influenced by his cheeks and scalp, looked pink; small, very bright blue eyes; and a wide hard mouth that didn’t look as if it should emit such a jolly laugh. He appeared friendly, however, and Malone relaxed back in his chair, took a sip of the port that he had poured for himself.

‘The Huxwoods have always been like that. I was an outsider right up till the day I married Sheila.’ He seemed remarkably confidential for a lawyer, thought Malone; but maybe that was a policeman’s suspicion. ‘In a country as young as ours, they rank as Old Society. They didn’t get here with the First Fleet, but the way they tell it, they were standing on the quay when the ships sailed.’

‘You don’t like them, do you?’ Malone said it carelessly, as if it were a joke.

‘I’ve never understood them, that’s the truth. Not even after three years in the bosom ... I’m Sheila’s second husband ... Ah, here’s my friend Enrico. The other – what do you register as, Enrico? The de facto in-law? The partner-in-law?’

Only then did Malone recognize that Custer was more than half-drunk.

Enrico Quental was a short, handsome man who, Malone immediately decided, was another outsider. When introduced to him earlier, he had assumed that Quental was the husband of Linden, the younger of the Huxwood daughters; whatever he was, he was quiet, withdrawn yet dignified. Malone could not remember hearing him utter a word during dinner. He had applied himself to what was placed before him with all the concentration of a food critic and Malone wondered if that was what he was. Sydney, Lisa had told him, now had more food critics than restaurants.

‘Partner is the word, Ned. It covers a multitude of sins.’ He had a slight accent, but his English sounded excellent. He smiled at Malone. ‘Are you here in an official capacity, Inspector?’

‘I hope not. I’m in Homicide.’

‘Oh, there’s murder all the time around here,’ said Custer, downing his port in one gulp and reaching for the decanter. ‘Verbal homicide. Am I right, Enrico?’

Malone wondered why a police officer, from any squad, should be expected here at the Huxwoods’. But there were currents in this big house swirling beneath the surface; he was suddenly aware of them as if his feet were being swept from beneath him.

Then Derek Huxwood reappeared and Malone had an abrupt image: he’s riding herd on me. ‘Time we went in to join the ladies, chaps.’

‘A little soon, isn’t it?’ Custer held up his newly-filled glass. ‘I’m still to starboard of the port.’

‘Save it for next time, Ned. Tell the Old Man, Enrico, that we’re going in. He’s likely to sit there all night talking to Bev. He thinks politicians are interesting.’

‘Can I be trusted to deliver the message?’ But Quental smiled as he moved away towards Sir Harry.

Derek took Malone’s arm as they moved towards the door of the dining-room. ‘In-laws,’ he said. ‘They can be a problem.’

Malone’s tongue, always straining at its leash, loosened now by four glasses of wine and the glass of port, was blunt: ‘Am I a problem, Derek? I’ve got the feeling you made a mistake inviting us tonight.’

Derek squeezed the elbow. ‘Yes, I did. That’s not meant to be personal. I seem to have made a lot of mistakes lately.’

He glanced sideways at Malone and the latter wondered at the pain in the once-bright eyes.

2

‘We had a dinner party last week at Parliament House,’ said Enid Bigelow. ‘Only when we sat down did I realize all the ladies were members of Alliance Française. So we spoke French all evening. It was fun.’

‘Oh merde,’ said Lady Huxwood, who thought obscenities excusable if in a foreign language. ‘Not for the husbands, I’ll bet. Australian men must be the worst linguists in the world, after the Eskimos. Do police officers these days have to have a second language, Mrs Malone? All this multiculturism.’

‘Only foul language,’ said Lisa. ‘Especially when dealing with the young. I’ve tried to teach my husband Dutch, I’m Dutch-born, but he doesn’t have the ear for it.’

‘Do you speak any other languages?’ Linden seemed the friendliest of the women present; or at least the most relaxed.

‘French and German. And a little Indonesian.’ Lisa was surprised at herself; it was as if she was trying to establish her identity amongst these women. Yet she could not have cared less what they thought of her. ‘I worked on the diplomatic circuit for four years before I met my husband. And I had two years at finishing school in Switzerland.’ She was tempted to say something in French, but it would be a cheap score on the poor Premier’s wife. ‘But the languages I learned there are really not of much value to my children. They’re learning Japanese and Indonesian.’

All the women in the big drawing-room looked at the woman who had been to finishing school in Switzerland, then on the diplomatic circuit and had finished up marrying a policeman.

‘You appear to have had an interesting life,’ said the Premier’s wife, and looked as if she wished desperately to know what an interesting life was like.

‘We all have our own lives to live,’ said the Huxwood younger daughter, then had the grace to smile. ‘God, how smug that sounds!’

‘Indeed it does,’ said her mother.

The two Huxwood daughters were almost totally unlike, except that both had their mother’s large myopic eyes. Sheila, the elder, had her mother’s boniness without the beauty; she wore glasses with large fashion frames that actually made her look attractive. Linden, on the other hand, was comfortably fleshy and, Lisa guessed, wore contact lenses. Both were dark-haired, Sheila’s in a Double Bay modified beehive, Linden’s in a French bob with bangs. Both were expensively dressed in simple dinner dresses and both wore simple diamond pendants and rings that winked lasciviously at anyone who found value in jewellery. Lisa, feeling ashamed that she should even care, was glad she had worn the gold necklace she had inherited from her grandmother. She had always preferred gold to diamonds, though Scobie, bless his stingy heart, had never bought her either.

She had noticed that the other women guests had been as quiet as herself; Lady Huxwood did nothing to put anyone at her ease. The Premier’s wife sat next to Lisa; we’re the two wallflowers, thought Lisa.

Beatrice Supple sat beside Lady Huxwood, and the tycoon’s wife had not sat down at all, hovering on the fringes like a lady-in-waiting.

‘Sit down, Gloria, for heaven’s sake!’ said Lady Huxwood.

Gloria surprised Lisa by saying, ‘My bloody girdle’s killing me. Have I got time to take it off before the men come in?’

‘Go for your life,’ said Linden, giggling. ‘Get a wriggle on.’

Gloria stepped behind Lisa’s chair, grunted and gasped, heaved a sigh of relief and her girdle dropped to the floor. As if they had all been constrained by the same girdle, all the women suddenly seemed to relax. Then the men came into the room, bringing with them their air of self-importance. Or am I, Lisa wondered, becoming paranoid about this house?

Gloria Bentsen, who had now sat down, moved aside on her couch for Sir Harry to sit beside her. He did so, taking her hand, stroking it and smiling, not at her nor her husband but at his wife. Lady Huxwood smiled back, but Lisa couldn’t tell whether she was indulging his mild flirtation or not.

Malone came and stood behind Lisa, leaned down and said softly, ‘I hope you’ve got a bad headache.’

She reached up, took his hand and said just as softly, ‘Splitting. But we can’t leave just yet.’

Nigel Huxwood drew up a chair alongside Lisa. He was the handsomest of the family, with finely chiselled features; the only blemish was a weak mouth but that was disguised by the dark moustache above it and the beautifully capped teeth that were exposed when he smiled. He looked up at Malone. ‘Go and chat to my sister, Scobie, while I try to charm your lovely wife.’

Not wanting to throw up on the big Persian carpet, Malone crossed the room and squeezed into the French two-seater beside Sheila. ‘I’ve been sent to charm you,’ he said and, hearing himself, wanted to throw up even more.

‘Nigel is always doing that. It’s never let me charm you. Brothers can be bastards.’

Gallantry did not come easily to Malone; from what he had read, Irish knights had been a bit slow on the chivalry bit. But he tried: ‘Righto, let’s reverse it. I’m not really good at the charm show.’

‘Is that because you’re a policeman?’

‘That may be part of it.’

‘Is the other part because you’re out of your depth in this house?’

Malone had met snobbery before, but never arrogance like this. ‘Not out of my depth. Just a different sort of breeding.’

She leaned away from him, to get him into better focus it seemed. Then she smiled, a very toothy smile but suddenly surprisingly friendly. ‘Touché, Mr Malone. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, y’know. La Malmaison has sunk more people than you could guess at, over the years. I don’t know whether it’s the house or we Huxwoods.’

‘I think it might be the Huxwoods.’ He would never be asked again, so what the hell?

‘Is that a police opinion or a personal one?’ She didn’t sound offended.

‘Cops are not supposed to have opinions. We just gather evidence and leave the opinions to the jury.’

‘Have you gathered much evidence this evening?’

‘Conflicting.’ He retreated, because all at once she sounded as if she might be likeable: ‘Conflicting evidence never gets you anywhere in a court of law.’

‘I must remember that,’ she said, as if to herself; then she looked up as the tycoon came and stood beside them. ‘Charlie darling, pull up a chair. You’ve met Inspector Malone?’

Malone was not sure exactly what a tycoon was: how rich, how powerful one had to be. There had been a barrage of tycoons in the past decade, most of whom had been shot down like so many balloons. But the newspapers, including the Huxwoods’ own Chronicle and their Financial Weekly, called Charles Bentsen a tycoon. He had emigrated from Sweden at eighteen, one of the few Swedes heading Down Under; his name then had been Bengtssen. He had started as a labourer on a building site and within twenty years owned a corporation. He had built office buildings, shopping malls, roads and bridges: he also built a personal fortune that every year got him into the Financial Weekly’s Rich List. Like all the nation’s New Rich, he had been subjected to the suspicion that no one had made his money honestly in the Eighties, but nothing had ever been proved against him. He possessed only one home, his art collection had been bought out of his own funds and not those of his shareholders, and his charitable works were not legendary only because he did not broadcast them. His wife Gloria had been his secretary and no one had a bad word to say about her. Malone knew very little of this, since he read neither the gossip columns nor the Financial Weekly, but he was prepared to take Bentsen at face value.

He was a big man, still with a labourer’s shoulders; now forty years out of Gӧteborg, he still looked typically Scandinavian, except for the Australian sun cancers. He had a wide-boned face, thick blond hair in which the grey was camouflaged, bright blue eyes; but the mouth looked cruel, or anyway uncompromising. Malone was sure that Bentsen had not made his fortune by patting people on the back.

‘I’ve never met Mr Malone, but I’ve heard a great deal about him.’ Then he looked at Malone. ‘Assistant Commissioner Zanuch is a friend of mine.’

He would be, thought Malone: AC Zanuch spent his free time climbing amongst the social alps. ‘It’s nice of him to mention me.’

‘I gather you get mentioned a lot, Inspector. You seem to specialize in cases that get a lot of attention.’

Malone tried to keep the sharpness out of his voice. ‘I don’t specialize, Mr Bentsen. Murder happens, we in Homicide have to investigate it.’

‘Just like those bumper stickers, Shit Happens?’

‘Usually a little more tragic than that. And sometimes messier.’

‘Don’t fence with him, Charlie,’ said Sheila Custer. ‘He has already put me in my place.’ She put her hand on Malone’s. ‘Only joking, Mr Malone.’

Malone gave her a smile, but he continued to look at Bentsen. Crumbs, he thought, why is everyone in this house so bloody aggressive? What’s scratching at them?

Bentsen said, ‘I read murder mysteries, they’re my relaxation. The old-fashioned sort, not the ones written by muscle-flexing authors.’

‘I get enough of it during the course of a week. I can’t remember when I last read a murder mystery – reading our running sheets is about as close as I get. Do you read books about business leaders?’

‘Only those that fail,’ said Bentsen and looked around him as if one or two fallen heroes might be here in the room.

On the other side of the room Lisa was resisting, without effort, the charm of Nigel Huxwood. In another location she might have good-humouredly responded to him; but not in this house. While pretending to listen to him, she had been taking in her surroundings. There were treasures in this room with which she would have liked to have surrounded herself: the two Renoirs on opposite walls, the Rupert Bunny portrait of two women who might have been earlier Huxwoods. The chairs and couches and small tables were antiques, though the upholstery had been renewed; the drapes were French silk. The room reeked of wealth well spent and, against the grain of her nature, she suddenly felt envious. This house was working on her in a way that made her angry.

She looked up almost with relief, any distraction was welcome, as the two female in-laws, who had been missing since dinner, came back into the drawing-room. They bore down on Lisa and Nigel, drawing up chairs to sit side by side like twins who always did everything together. Yet in looks they could not have been more dissimilar.

Brenda Huxwood was an almost archetypal Irish beauty; the only thing that stopped her face from being perfect was that her upper lip was too Irish, just a little too long. She had been an actress, but her talent had never matched her looks and British producers had always shied away from promoting an actress on beauty alone. She was Nigel’s third wife and, if Lisa had asked her, would have said she was determined to be his last. She had started life with no money but always with an eye to attaining some; now she had grasped it she had no intention of losing it; her credit was that she loved Nigel, despite his faults. The brogue in her voice was only faint, like a touch of make-up to enhance the general appeal, though it could thicken into a soup of anger as others in the room knew.

Cordelia Huxwood, on the other hand, had had to borrow her looks: from hairdressers, beauty salons, aerobics classes. Her mouse-brown hair was tinted, her pale blue eyes somehow made to seem larger than they actually were, her figure, inclined to plumpness, slimmed down by only-God-and-gym-instructors-knew how many hours on exercise machines. The package was artificial, yet sincerity shone out of her so that one instantly liked her. She was inclined to blame herself for too much that might go wrong, to wear hairshirts, but since they were usually by Valentino or Hermès she got little sympathy, especially from her mother-in-law.

‘Where have you two been?’ said Nigel.

‘Talking business,’ said Brenda and made it sound as if she and Cordelia had been composing a poem. Everything with her, Lisa decided, was for effect.

‘We in-laws needed to get a few things straightened out,’ said Cordelia.

Lisa was never sure whether she had been born with a sharp eye, had acquired it as a diplomat’s secretary or had learned it from Scobie: whichever, she did not miss Nigel’s warning glance. ‘You must tell me about it. Later.’

‘Oh, we’ll do that,’ said his wife. ‘Voices will be heard.’

‘They may even be strident,’ said Cordelia. ‘But we mustn’t puzzle Mrs Malone with family problems. Do you have children?’

‘Three. Eighteen, fifteen and thirteen. Two girls and a boy. So far, thank God, giving us no problems.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Cordelia. ‘I hope it stays that way. How’s Mother Dragon?’ she said to Nigel.

‘Starting to yawn openly.’

‘She always does. She has a patent on the open yawn.’

Lisa couldn’t help herself: she giggled. Both Cordelia and Brenda looked at her and smiled widely, as if pleased that an outsider had seen a family joke. But neither said anything and Nigel, covering hastily, turned the conversation off at right angles.

Malone, abruptly left out of a sudden conversation between Sheila and Bentsen, excused himself and headed for the door. Sir Harry, after a final pat of Gloria Bentsen, this time on her attractive knee, rose and followed him. ‘Going, Mr Malone?’

‘Soon, Sir Harry. But first I’d like to use the bathroom.’

‘There’s a lavatory off the library.’ The old-fashioned word brought a grin to Malone’s lips. His mother was the only other person he knew who talked of the lavatory instead of the toilet or the loo. ‘This way.’

The library was a big room with the high ceiling that the rest of the ground floor of the house seemed to possess. It was the sort of room Malone saw in films and, secretly, yearned for; for some reason he had never confessed the yearning to anyone, even Lisa. In a room like this he would gather together all the books he had let slip by him, would wrap himself in the education that Lisa had and he had missed, would listen to the music that his heart would understand but that his ear had yet to interpret. He wondered if Sir Harry, with all his advantages, would understand his yearning.

A leather-covered door was let into a wall of books; Sir Harry gestured at it and Malone went in, under a complete set of Winston Churchill, for a piss. When he came out Sir Harry was standing at the tall bow-window that looked out on to the tiny bay and beyond that to the harbour. The only lighting in the dark brown room came from a brass lamp on the wide leather-topped desk. When Sir Harry turned back to face Malone, he looked suddenly much older in the yellow glow. The lines in his face had become gullies, the eyes had no gleam in them.