“There’s too much money around here. Large estates, private schools, second homes. Too many rich children, too many careless parents. Cassandra Morley’s damn mother was never there half the time. Her father swans around Europe with a new wife half his age.”

“Come on, Max. There’s plenty of victims from very different worlds. Visit a few housing projects sometime. Rich, poor—it doesn’t make any difference these days.”

“I know that. Of course I know that—” Max hesitated. He gestured out the window.

“You see that track there? That leads up to that barn. Some of the travelers are still up there, the police said. They’ll keep them there another twenty-four hours. Maybe less, because I gather they’re not being too communicative. I want to cover this story.”

“So do I.”

“I want to get someone up there. You could do it, of course.” Max gave him a speculative glance, except you’re an editor, not a reporter now. You have to get back to London tomorrow night, and we really need someone who could stay down here a couple of days. Someone who could talk to the travelers, talk to Cassandra Morley’s school friends, find out what they know. Someone young, someone whom they might open up to.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Max. I’d say no.”

“Why? She’s a good reporter. She’s on the spot. She’s here right now. You were keen enough to use her yesterday.”

“That was yesterday,” Rowland replied curtly. “This is now. Come on, Max, you’re not blind. You saw her last night. She’s operating on autopilot half the time.”

“She can snap out of it, presumably. Charlotte thinks she has broken up with Pascal.”

“Max, the reasons are irrelevant. She looks ill. She’s like a bloody sleepwalker. I don’t intend to use her on the Lazare story or any other, I’ll tell you that now.”

Max said nothing. He was used to Rowland’s instant prejudices, and to his sometimes precipitate judgments, and on this occasion, felt he might share them. He shrugged.

“Let’s get back to the house anyway. I need to talk to Charlotte. Then we can decide. Right here, then left…”

Rowland accelerated past the manor, where several police cars were parked, and turned into Max’s drive. It was only as they entered the house that he remembered Lindsay, and the argument the previous evening. Today he was due to apologize to her, or grovel, as she had put it. He could hear women’s voices coming from the kitchen: neither apology nor groveling seemed relevant now.

Entering the kitchen, it was at once obvious to him and to Max that something had happened in their absence. The atmosphere was tense. Charlotte was white-faced, Lindsay looked as if she might have been crying. Gini was standing at some distance from the others, her back to the room. When Max and Rowland entered, she did not look around.

Before Max could even begin speaking, Charlotte was in his arms. She began spilling out her story, how Susan Landis had arrived, and then her husband, how the police had finally stirred themselves and made inquiries.