Mitchell gave them a look, trying to get the measure of them. McGuire was tall and strongly built; he needed a shave. He had the coldest green eyes Mitchell had ever seen, and he looked like trouble. The American woman, Gini Hunter, on the other hand, was a bit thin, but pretty. She had an astonishingly sexy mouth, and sweet, trusting gray eyes. Definitely the more sympathetic of the two, a pushover, Mitchell thought; he decided to ignore the man, address her. “Come on, give me a break,” he said. “I feel like hell. I’ve told you all I know.”

The hand on the whiskey glass did not move. Gini sighed.

“Oh, damn. And I was so sure you’d be able to help us. Ah, well. Rowland, let him have that whiskey. He’s doing his best.”

“You think so? Well, I don’t buy his story at all. It’s lies from start to finish. Just a variation on the crap he fed the police earlier. Definitely not worth another whiskey. And this is a double too.”

“Oh, come on, Rowland.” She gave Mitchell a complicit look, as if apologizing for her partner’s approach. “You’re not lying to us, are you?” she said. “I don’t blame you for being cautious. I would be too, in your situation. But after all, even if you were buying, I’m sure it wasn’t anything too heinous. Was it grass? Speed, maybe?”

“For Christ’s sake, Gini,” the man said in a rough tone. “When will you learn? He’s a goddamn pusher. That’s what the police think. They told me just now.”

Mitchell stared at him in alarm. This was news to him, unwelcome news. He felt himself starting to sweat. He gazed around the bar, trying to wipe the chemical haze from his brain.

“Listen,” he said, turning back to Gini. “Let’s get one thing clear. Maybe I was buying—I might admit that. But not selling—no way. And I know nothing about that dead girl. I never fucking well laid eyes on her. That’s God’s own truth, okay?”

The obscenity was a mistake. The second it slipped out, McGuire’s face hardened. He turned to the woman beside him. “The hell with this. I’ve got better things to do.”

He rose, and, taking the whiskey with him, began to move away.

“Wait, Rowland.” Gini gave Mitchell a sympathetic look. “Don’t take any notice of him,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie, not about something as serious as this. That poor girl’s dead, after all.”

Mitchell, whom nobody had believed all day, felt an overwhelming flood of gratitude. He felt a sudden lurching need to confide in this woman.

“Listen,” he began, leaning forward, “I’ll tell you this—the dead girl, he’ll be behind it, and she’s not the first he’s harmed. There was a French girl last winter—he slit her face open with a razor. There was another girl after that, a Dutch girl, rich parents, good school. Anneke, her name was. She went with him for a bit. He… passed her around, if you get my meaning. She was supposed to be his girlfriend, but that’s what he did. Well, I asked him about her, I asked him yesterday, and she’s dead. I’m telling you, he’s a fucking maniac. Look—look here…”