‘Look, I can do this much for you,’ I said. ‘I spoke to London this morning and recommended that Mrs Salton’s claim be met immediately. The cheque is being drawn now. If I gave that fact to the press, perhaps it would cool things a bit.’

‘Would you do that now?’ he said eagerly.

‘I don’t see why not. I’ll tell Jackson straight away.’

Jackson was acid on the phone. ‘No connection with Western and Continental, Mr Kemp. Isn’t that what you told me? You had me fooled there for quite a while – until I heard a couple of things last night. Seen the Chronicle this morning?’

‘I haven’t had time.’ I picked idly at the printed telephone instructions pasted up in the hotel lobby booth.

‘I’ll bet you haven’t,’ he said. ‘But it makes good reading. What do you want now?’

‘I called to tell you that I’ve recommended Mrs Salton’s claim be met in full. Western and Continental in London agree and are following through.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’ he asked quickly.

‘Mr Jackson, I wouldn’t tell you anything you couldn’t quote.’

‘Is that so?’ He sighed. ‘So Jill Salton’s the richer by a million and a quarter bucks. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, ain’t that so, Mr Kemp?’

‘Cracker barrel philosophy doesn’t suit you,’ I said.

I was about to put down the phone when Jackson said hurriedly, ‘Don’t hang up, Kemp. Stay on the line a second.’ There was a clatter and a babble of background voices for a couple of minutes, then Jackson said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give me your views on something, Mr Kemp?’

‘Depends on what it is,’ I said cautiously.

‘Perhaps you’d like to comment on the death of your assistant, Ogilvie?’

I felt as though someone had belted me in the stomach. For a few seconds I couldn’t speak. ‘When did it happen?’

‘About ten minutes ago. I had a man at the hospital and it’s just come through.’ He waited for me to speak and, when I said nothing, he quacked, ‘Well, Mr Kemp, anything for attribution?’

‘You can say I expressed my deep regrets,’ I said. ‘Apart from that, no comment.’

I put down the phone and stared at the printed instructions. Ogilvie had been married less than two years and I had introduced him to his wife Janet, the daughter of an old family friend I’d become reacquainted with after quitting the army. They had been totally and ridiculously happy, a salving balm to those like me who had not found happiness in marriage. Only six days earlier I’d had dinner with them – Janet taking special care because of my influence at Owen’s workplace – and she had talked about the future, the large and happy future that stretched ahead.