‘Round my waist, you fool. My hair is white but it looks fair in this light.’ Matilda pressed her face against him. ‘I look young in the dark.’

The police car crawled by, the constable talking on the car radio. ‘No, nothing Sarge. Willco. Roger. Out.’

‘They do dearly love their radio.’ He bent back a little.

‘You haven’t shaved.’

‘Haven’t since –’

‘Well, I think that’s silly. The first thing they expect is for you to grow a beard and have plastic surgery to your nose.’

‘D’you realize I killed my mother?’ he said gently.

‘Of course. Lots of people long to. You just did it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh hell!’ exclaimed Matilda. ‘I’ve missed the tide. Damn and blast!’

‘I am sorry.’ Sarcastic.

‘Well it’s too late. I can’t now. You have to be exact about these things,’ she said angrily.

‘If you’d jumped –’

‘Yes?’

‘I would have tried to save you.’

‘How ridiculous. Interfering.’

‘You saved me just now.’

‘That’s instinctive.’

‘What now? I’m in your hands. Hadn’t you better take me to the police?’

‘If that’s what you want you can go by yourself. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving.’

‘Come on then, I’ve got some Brie in the car – I was going to picnic first. Brie and a bottle of Beaujolais.’

‘Sounds tempting.’

‘Put your arm round me and your head against mine.’

‘I’m rather too tall.’

‘Don’t make difficulties, it isn’t far.’ They walked in a loverly way to the car park.

4

MATILDA UNLOCKED THE car. ‘Get in,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the food.’ She reached for the basket on the back seat. ‘Could you uncork this?’ She handed him the bottle and corkscrew.

‘I think so.’ In the dark he fumbled, holding the bottle between his knees. Matilda buttered a roll and spread the Brie. The cork popped.

‘Go ahead and drink. I haven’t a glass. I wasn’t bothering for myself –’

‘But –’

‘Go on, take a swig. I’m all right, I’ve been drinking whisky, waiting for the tide to turn, for it to get dark.’

He drank, tipping up the bottle. Matilda watched his profile. Not such a very large nose after all.

‘The way the papers write about your nose you might be Pinocchio.’

‘That was marvellous.’ He handed Matilda the bottle and took the roll. ‘Thank you.’

Matilda watched him eat. After cramming in half a roll he ate slowly.

‘There’s some salad and a peach. Cyrano de Bergerac too.’

‘Really?’ He sounded amused.

‘Yes, really.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Matilda Poliport.’

‘Married?’

‘Widow.’

‘Sorry – sad.’

‘One gets used to it. No, that’s not true, one never does.’

‘My name is Hugh Warner.’

‘I’m glad to know it. I must have heard or read it but for two weeks you’ve just been the Matricide on the radio and television. Have another roll? Your photo’s in all the papers.’