“Yes, I often think that,” Joel said, absolutely deadpan, and saw the flick of Fowler’s eyes to his left arm.

A little silence. Then Fowler said, “What would you do in my place?”

“As a proud member of the Metropolitan Police? Beat someone up for a confession, I expect.”

“Does your mouth ever get you into trouble?” Fowler enquired, and it was the most unguarded he’d sounded yet. It made his own mouth look really rather good. “It’s not a marvellous idea to talk like that.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it is not. This is a free country, and you can talk as you wish. I just hope you aren’t quite so provoking in your daily life.”

“My daily life doesn’t include coppers,” Joel said. “As for what I’d do in your place... I hope I would realise that the graphologist whose time I’m taking up couldn’t possibly have intimate knowledge of my cousin’s post-coital correspondence or my brother-in-law’s horticultural pursuits. That I’m fretting about a couple of freak coincidences, and everything else can be explained by the fact that said graphologist is as talented as he is good-looking.”

Fowler began a response but managed to stop it on the first plosive, though it was very plosive. Joel probably shouldn’t be winding him up to this extent. He was too rigid, and that sort of self-control was liable to explode.

Which reminded him.

“Anyway, I’ve held up my end of the deal,” he said. “I’ve told you how I do it, and what I said. Now you tell me, who wrote the second paper?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

What he’d have liked to say was That hand was hot as hell and I want its owner’s name and address. Any ideas? It was the kind of stupid risk he might have taken a few years ago, reckless and angry, a wild punt with a magnificent fuck on one side of the scale and God knows what dangers on the other.

He was probably too old to be that stupid. But not that much too old, so... “I was intrigued,” he said. “Well, it’s an intriguing hand. Corseted, I think I said, and someone ought to cut the laces. Does that sound right to you?”

Not a twitch, not a flicker. Fowler’s face was unnaturally still.

“And you promised to tell me,” Joel added. “Are you going to break your word, Detective Sergeant?”

“It’s...a friend’s. A friend of mine.”

Ooh, the rotten liar. In both senses, because a child could spot the fib there. “That’s interesting. A lady friend?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was wondering if she’s single?”

That had come out of his mouth too fast for his brain to stop it, and he thought, Oh shit, as the dark red bloomed on Fowler’s cheeks.

And then the bastard said, “Are you interested?”