I don’t know how long I stared blindly and bitterly at that oddly meaningless set of words, but presently McKittrick opened the glass door and said anxiously, ‘Are you all right, Mr Kemp?’

I turned and stepped out of the booth. ‘A friend has just died.’

‘Mr Ogilvie? I’m sorry.’

‘What do you know about it, McKittrick?’ My voice was edgy.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘You’d better be right,’ I said coldly. ‘For your own sake.’

FIVE

I

By the time I got down to the market, the feeling of numbness was beginning to wear off, replaced by a growing anger. Owen Ogilvie had died because Salton had died, and people were trying to push me around, to manipulate me. Roker tried it, McKittrick tried it and, I suspected, Hanna would try it next time I saw him. It only needed Stern to attempt a bit of leverage and that would more-or-less complete the roster. And apparently they all had different motives.

The only people who hadn’t twisted my arm were Negrini and Mrs Salton – and she wasn’t around to try.

The market sold local produce. At one time it was probably a practicable proposition, but with the rise of the supermarket it had declined into a tourist trap. There were more stalls selling gimcrack souvenirs than there were selling tomatoes, and more tourists than grocery shoppers. Still, it made a bustling spectacle for any traveller’s camera.

I found the Rainbow Rooms, a series of cool caverns, dim after the hard sunlight. About half the tables were occupied; I selected an empty one with two chairs and sat down. A waiter bustled up. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Rum and coke – twice.’

He brought the drinks in tall, ice-tinkling glasses and I sipped the cold liquid, spinning it out over, perhaps, fifteen minutes and brooding over my next move. I still had to look into the affairs of Salton Estates Ltd, which would mean coming up against Stern again.

I had just about given up on my mysterious telephonous friend and was reaching over for the other glass when the waiter whisked it from the table. ‘This way, sir,’ he said, and I got up and followed him into the dark recesses. He stopped at a shadowed alcove and put the glass on a table.

A bass voice rumbled, ‘Another drink for Mr Kemp.’

The waiter went away and I sat down facing a giant of a man. ‘I guess you thought I wouldn’t make the scene,’ he said. ‘You were clear – no tail.’

I looked around at nearby tables and realised we were isolated from view, but I was somewhat reassured by his chubby face and merry, twinkling eyes, and he wore a red shirt patterned with white flamingoes. Then he leaned forward and suddenly his eyes were not so merry. ‘But you were rapping with Jake McKittrick. What about?’

‘Why the hell should I tell you?’ I asked equably.