She needed assistance, however; she needed some new lead. Unless Fricke proved helpful, she could see that this visit, even if far from a wasted journey for her, was one that would produce little hard information. She needed a signpost; someone had to show her which road to take next.

She had already seen the police inspector who had handled Anneke’s case; he also had spoken perfect English, and been eager to assist. But nine months of inquiries, it seemed, had thrown up virtually nothing.

“Your police have the advantage over us,” he said. “They have a description at least. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised Star actually exists. I’d decided Anneke van der Leyden invented the name. It wouldn’t have surprised me. With girls her age, nothing does.”

A dead end, Gini thought. The previous day, at Max’s, before Rowland left with Lindsay for London, she had tried to persuade him once more to let her talk to his DEA contact here. She had been expecting a refusal, and a flat refusal was precisely what she got.

“Then just give me a place name, Rowland,” she had said, walking out to the drive with him. “A café. A bar. Somewhere this Dutch chemist goes, where his American partner hangs out.”

“No. I will not. I’ve already explained. I get information on condition I do nothing to prejudice a DEA investigation that’s been in place for months.”

“I’m not going to prejudice it, for God’s sake. What do you think I’m going to do, Rowland? March up to these guys, order a crate of White Doves, flash my press card, and demand Star’s real name or else?”

“The answer’s no. It has to be no. I gave my word, my professional assurance.”

“Oh, very well. It seems to me that finding Mina is rather more urgent than some DEA shadow play that’s been going on for months. Still, you’re the boss.”

He was not amused by that. He gave her one long, cold, green look.

“Shall I just make something crystal clear? You step out of line on this, Gini, you embarrass my source, and I’ll take you off this story. You won’t work for me again—ever. Understood?”

“Understood,” Gini had replied with an irritable shrug. She had been about to turn away, go back into the house, but something in Rowland’s manner made her pause. He seemed to be waiting for some further response. Gini hesitated; she knew her manner had been graceless; she still did not find it easy to accept instructions from men—she had worked with too many men in the past whose editorial dictates she despised, and Rowland McGuire’s tone, that cold, flat statement of terms, had made her hackles rise at once.

He was still waiting: standing in the driveway, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, the wind lifting his dark hair away from his forehead, his green eyes—he had the clearest green eyes she had ever seen—still resting on her face. She could feel his disapproval—and he seemed to regret that, as if he had expected better of her. This was not just intransigency, male obstinacy, she realized, feeling guilty. Rowland was waiting for her to admit that his seniority to her was not the issue; he was waiting to see if she had the honesty to admit that he was right.