He leaned forward into the light.

“Look what he did to my nose. Yesterday. He fucking bit me! Suddenly, for no reason at all. Now I’ll have to get a blood test. I’ve probably got AIDS. I’m probably dying… I don’t mind telling you, I can’t take much more of this. I’ve had no sleep. He gave me this stuff yesterday, forty quid it cost, said it was new, a White Dove he called it—well, Christ knows what it was. It really blew my mind. You see my hands? They’re still shaking. All the lights in here, they keep moving up and down.”

McGuire had returned to the table, and had sat down, but Mitchell, launched now, scarcely noticed. He kept looking at the woman, who was listening intently with an expression of shock and concern.

“Rowland, please let him have that drink,” she said in an indignant tone. “You can see he isn’t feeling well. I told you he’d help us.”

With a shrug, the man passed the whiskey across. Gini gave Mitchell some potato chips and a sandwich. Mitchell, who was ravenously hungry, wolfed them down. The two reporters then had a brief conversation in lowered voices. The woman appeared to be proposing something; the man seemed to resist her ideas. Eventually, with a shrug, she turned back to Mitchell.

“Listen,” she said. “Rowland thinks I shouldn’t tell you this. I think he’s wrong. The thing is—the man you’re describing, I think I know who he is. I think he could be the very man I’m trying to nail.”

“Leave it out, Gini,” said her companion, but she ignored him. Mitchell, listening closely now, began to preen.

“Seriously?” he said. “In that case, I certainly could help you. I mean, like, why not, yes? I don’t owe him any favors. You get him locked up, we’ll all cheer.”

Gini looked impressed, then suddenly doubtful. “You’re sure?” she said. “I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

“You think I’m afraid of this guy? No way.” Mitchell preened a bit more. “I mean, you protect your sources, right?”

“Of course. Total anonymity.” She had produced a tape recorder out of nowhere. Mitchell, now mesmerized by her eyes, barely noticed when she flicked its switch to record.

“Tell me,” she said, hanging on Mitchell’s every word, “this supplier of yours—he was your supplier, right?—do people call him Star?”

Mitchell nodded. Leaning forward, he started talking, in detail, and very fast.

An hour later, as it grew dark, Gini waited in Max’s borrowed Land Rover. Rowland was inside the police station, talking to the same detective from that morning. Gini watched shoppers laden with packages going home. She watched Mitchell leave the pub and weave his way along the road. Fifteen minutes passed, then Rowland returned.

“They still haven’t located the BMW,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition and revved the engine. “I passed on what Mitchell told us—for what it’s worth.” He hesitated, then glanced toward her. “You were good with Mitchell, very good indeed.”