I knew how he felt. Air travel is tiring and my time sense was shot to pieces because of the transatlantic flight. ‘Just something for you to do tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Go to the Chronicle office in Cardew Street and ask to see the back issues for the last month. You’ll find a lot of interesting stuff about Salton.’

‘What’s the point if you’ve already done it?’

‘You’ll probably be contacted by a creep called Jackson. Don’t try to hide who you are, but if he asks about me you’re ignorant. Jackson is a bit hard to take, but disguise your finer feelings and get pally with him. He’ll like you better if he thinks you’re here to torpedo Mrs Salton’s claim.’

‘Well, aren’t we?’

‘Don’t be cynical,’ I said, and put down the telephone. If Jackson wanted to meet Ogilvie, who was I to stand in his way? Besides, there was always a chance his loose lips might give the company man something else we could work with.

I took out my notebook, checked the number Jackson had given me, and dialled. The call was answered immediately and a slurred Campanillan voice said, ‘The Salton residence.’

‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Salton,’ I said. ‘My name is Kemp.’

‘What would it be about?’

‘If she wants you to know she’ll tell you.’ I never have liked the nosy and over-protective underling.

There was a pause, some brief heavy breathing and then a rattle as the handset was laid down. Presently there was another rattle and a cool voice said, ‘Jill Salton speaking.’

‘My name is Kemp – William Kemp. Your uncle, Lord Hosmer, asked me to call and present his condolences.’ He hadn’t, but it made a good story.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come here?’

‘If that’s all right with you. I’m free tomorrow, if it’s convenient.’

‘Would the morning suit you? Say at eleven?’

‘That would be fine, Mrs Salton.’

‘Very well, I’ll expect you then. Good day, Mr Kemp.’ There was a click and the connection was cut.

I called down to reception and made arrangements for hiring a car, to be ready in front of the hotel at nine the following morning.

Then I got undressed and fell asleep as though I’d been sandbagged.

IV

At nine-fifteen next morning I was threading my way out of San Martin in a fire-engine-red Ford Mustang with an automatic shift that I didn’t like. I prefer to change gear in a car when I want to, and not when a set of cogs thinks I should. Maybe I’m old-fashioned.