“Lindsay, don’t ask.” He rose. “Look, it’s past ten now. I ought to call Gini—I said I would. She was going to see Susan Landis this evening, and some of Cassandra and Mina’s friends. It’s getting late. Would you mind if I just called her briefly? I won’t be five minutes.”

He was fifteen. He returned, looking thoughtful and distracted.

“So, any progress?”

“No, unfortunately. Gini saw a group of girls from that Cheltenham school. One claimed Cassandra had mentioned Star a few times. But that’s all. None of them was much help. There have been no sightings of Mina—if there had been, Gini or Max or the newsroom would have called. We’re running the story of Cassandra’s death and Mina’s disappearance tomorrow. With photographs of both of them. That might bring something in. Meantime, Gini’s going off to Amsterdam in the morning, and you’re off to Paris.”

He stopped speaking abruptly. Then: “Let me get your coat—and I’ll just quickly find those books I promised Tom.”

Five minutes later Lindsay was in her car, a book on Bergman, another on Fellini, and a tome on the French nouvelle vague on the passenger seat beside her. It was a long, slow, cold drive home, with many misturnings and doubling-backs. She had been thanked with warmth and courtesy. She still felt dismissed and dispatched.

What had the evening achieved? She had cooked perfect scrambled eggs in an impossible saucepan. She had provided Rowland with information that might be fascinating but was of little practical use. He didn’t even trust her enough to explain the exact nature of the story he was working on. The story he and Gini were working on.

“I hate the world,” she told Tom, who was still up and watching a late movie.

A small bump on the sofa, which in the dim light Lindsay had mistaken for cushions, uncurled itself and sat up. It proved to be Tom’s quiet, sweet-faced, and somewhat formidable girlfriend. Her name was Katya. Tom put his arm around her.

“Never mind,” he said in a kind way, eyes still fixed on the screen. “The world doesn’t hate you. Nor do I.”

“Nor me,” said Katya. “Hi.”

Lindsay felt cheered. She went to bed, tossed the fat airport novel on the floor, kicked it under the wardrobe, and read Updike for two hours. At one in the morning she got out of bed, retrieved the fat novel, and turned to the end. The hero was a veritable Lazarus, it seemed. He came back to abundant life on page 502, seduced the heroine again on page 503, quarreled with her magnificently on page 510, and after an eight-page sexual marathon, led her altarward on the penultimate page.

Like Rowland, Lindsay was a traditionalist when it came to stories: she had a weakness for triumphal love. Comforted by this rousing ending, she returned to bed and slept well.

Rowland, meanwhile, lay in his bed on the top floor of his Huguenot house with its view of Hawksmoor’s spire. Across the street, as he had first observed shortly after Lindsay’s departure, a white Mercedes convertible was parked. He had no inclination to check whether it remained there, but lay on his back, wakeful, watching the time go past.