“Shit,” Lindsay yelled, almost submerging as she jumped with the shock. “And a very good morning to you too,” she groused as she straightened up. “No, as it happens, I couldn’t. I know it might seem daft to you, but what we found out last night really shocked me. I mean, more than Union Jack being dead, in a funny kind of way.”

“You’re all heart,” Sophie said. “Seriously, I know what you mean. So what now?”

“Tom Jack’s widow. If he shared what he knew with anyone, it might well have been her. And he might have stashed some more evidence back home. There’s obviously some proof of the other scams to correspond to the fiddled expenses dockets we found,” Lindsay said, removing her Walkman and shoving her damp hair back from her forehead. “Fancy joining me?”

“In the bath or visiting the grieving widow?” Sophie asked.

“Both or either,” Lindsay said.

“I’ll pass on the bath. And before I commit on the widow, where are we talking about? After yesterday, I don’t think I can handle any more British motorways. They’ve turned roadworks into performance art.”

“Don’t panic. It’s just down the road. Tom was a Yorkshireman, born and bred, as he never tired of telling anyone who’d sit still for long enough. And although he kept a flat in London for the week, his wife had no intention of leaving her patch. They live about twenty minutes’ drive from the center of Sheffield, on the edge of the moors. Can I count you in?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sophie lied. Before she could say more, the phone trilled like a dentist’s drill. She reached out and picked up the extension. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, then waved the receiver at Lindsay. “It’s for you. Dick McAndrew.”

Lindsay hauled herself out of the bath, grabbed a towel, and said, “I’ll get out of your way and take it in the room.” She picked up the phone by the bed and said, “Dick? Lindsay. How did you know where to find me?”

“I’m supposed to be an investigative journalist, for fuck’s sake. Jet set medics don’t stay in poxy bed and breakfasts,” he said. “Believe me, that cut the choice down dramatically.”

“So, to what do I owe the expenditure of all this effort?”

“Not to mention all the 10p pieces,” Dick responded. “Put it on the slate of favors owed. What I rang for is, unless you want to be mobbed by the world’s press, and probably South Yorkshire’s finest, you’d be well-advised to give this place the body swerve for today.”

Lindsay sighed. “Spit it out, Dick. What’s happened now?”