“The police asked me that,” she said, “so I’ve been thinking about it. He didn’t seem very different. He was a bit quiet, but he’d been working all day and I thought that he was tired.”

“And can you remember what you were talking about?”

“Yes,” she said. “ I’d had a letter from Peter Littleton. It was a shame his marriage didn’t work out, but what a letter it was! It made me laugh out loud when I read it and I had Sandra in fits when I told her some of the things he’d written. I thought it might cheer Tom up a bit so I read it to him.”

“Did it cheer him up?”

“No. He didn’t seem to find it funny at all.”

They left Ella and Jack’s warm kitchen reluctantly. George was more eager to go than Molly, who was enjoying the conversation. She always felt at home and relaxed there. George felt restless, uncertain. All the information he had gained during the day led in circles. The frustration and helplessness were returning. It was his fault. He should have asked different questions of different people. The only person to claim to see the body was mentally defective; and they had allowed him to run away!

But now, at least, he had some information. He had something to work on. He knew that he would sleep badly. Even in sleep his mind would be working, sorting through the information. He could feel already the tension of insomnia.

It was to put off the moment when he would have to attempt to sleep that he went into the bar. It was very near to closing time. The bar had been unpleasantly modernized and there was a lot of noise. George regretted the restlessness which had made him leave Ella’s kitchen. A large young man, with long greasy hair tied back in a pony tail, still wearing the check trousers which identified him as a member of the kitchen staff, was sitting at the bar. He seemed to be telling a rude, unfunny joke to the barman. The barman, who had seen George enter and seemed inclined to serve him, motioned to the big man to stop.

“Now now, Den. Tell me later.”

George looked with renewed interest at the other customer. Dennis. The chef who had gone drinking with Tom. He ordered a drink for himself, then with an exaggerated politeness asked if he could buy Dennis a drink. The young man expressed surprise at his good fortune rather than thanks, but allowed himself to be taken to a corner where they would not be overheard.

“I’m interested in finding out how Tom French died,” George said. He was in no mood for subtlety. “ I understand that you were a friend of his.”

“Well, I don’t know about a friend. We used to have a few drinks together after work.” He had a West Country accent. He was very suspicious.

“I was talking to Terry this evening. He seemed to imply that you and Tom were friends.” George was at his most pompous.