‘I know she shouldn’t have told you. She’s a lawyer, you say. Skirting the truth should come as second nature.’

‘Well, as a matter of fact I think that she has been a bit economical where that’s concerned. She told me that Scutter was dead.’

‘Yeah? And?’

‘I reckon she was lying.’

‘Why?’

‘Call it an instinct.’

‘OK, so she wanted you to know, but she also wanted you to consider the matter closed. So do that. Pack it up with the rest of your worries and concentrate on getting well.’

‘What do you mean getting well?’

‘I mean drying out, sorting your head. Dealing with your grief. Mate, have you considered therapy?’

‘Therapy for me would be to find Scutter, if he really is alive. Find him and then find this second man. That would help me, Cuckoo. That for me is coping.’

‘What about this?’ Cuckoo reached to tap the rucksack that lay between them and there was the unmistakable sound of knuckle hitting bottle. ‘Before you do anything you need to get off the booze.’

‘Look, in SF, we’d drink like witches between operations. But as soon as the call came you put the bottle down. You went dry. It’s the same in this situation.’

Cuckoo sighed. ‘Well, OK, then. If I can help you do that, then I’m all ears.’

Not for the first time, Abbott wondered why he had ever felt any animosity towards Cuckoo, who had long since proved beyond doubt that he was one of the good guys, to the extent that Abbott felt eternally grateful that Cuckoo had made his way into Fiona’s life. Small mercies and all that.

‘So, what you want me to do?’ asked Cuckoo.

‘I’m hoping you can look into it for me. Find out if I’m right and that this Scutter guy is still alive, where he is now, and who he associates with.’

‘Tess wants you to leave it.’

‘She should have known better than to tell me, then.’

‘Maybe I should tell you to leave it, too.’

‘But you won’t do that. Because you know that this is what I need.’

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Sitting in the lounge area of his palatial Swiss home, the playboy Ross Norton yawned. He wore a large robe and the relaxed air of a man who looked as though he was never happier than when slightly drunk or slightly hungover.

In the lounge, huge windows offered stunning views of blue skies and mountaintops, while a sunken area played host to white leather couches. Along one wall were bookcases. On another wall a large television.

‘Are we ready, Kennedy?’ said Ross Norton.

Kennedy, his assistant, wore a pair of neatly pressed jeans and a navy Lacoste polo shirt tucked in and fastened at the collar. His hair was short and neat, bald on top, monkish. ‘I shall need the television controller, sir,’ he said implacably.