‘There’s a warrant for his arrest.’

I looked over at the bed, at Mervyn’s sleeping form, the blankets slowly rising and falling. ‘What for?’

‘For Gerald’s murder,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’

‘Of course I didn’t … But Mervyn didn’t do it. For God’s sake, Stephen, what’s happening?’

‘If I were you, dear, I’d get out of there as fast as you can, and take Pretty Boy with you.’ The pips went, and I just heard Stephen saying ‘Good luck’ before the line went dead.

I climbed back into bed, freezing cold. Mervyn turned towards me, threw a heavy arm across me. ‘Wha’wazzat …’

And then the doorbell rang.

A letter arrived from Edward Templeton, advising me that he would need vacant possession of the flat as of the weekend, as he had new tenants lined up, hoping that we had enjoyed our stay, yours faithfully. No word about Mervyn’s arrest or forthcoming trial. Nothing but those few businesslike lines, signed pp by a secretary.

I packed everything, hired a car and took it all to my parents’ house, piling up the boxes and bags in the spare room and the attic. As usual, no questions were asked. They watched me going up and down the stairs with fear in their eyes. I stayed for lunch, packed a small suitcase with a few necessities and got the Tube back to town, with nowhere to stay, no address, no telephone, nothing. I called on Stephen but the concierge told me he had gone. I took a room at the YMCA.

There has been nothing in the papers about the murder. I scan them in the staffroom every day, but not a word. There are paragraphs and letters about WEST END VICE which the police seem to think they can tackle, but that is all. What little I know I have learned from the pubs and clubs, where I spend most evenings looking for Stephen, who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I am afraid for him. I realise that I know nothing about his life over the last year. I haven’t asked. I suppose I didn’t really care, until now, when I need him. I am sure he knows something about Gerald’s death. Why else would he have phoned when he did, before Mervyn’s arrest?

Several different versions of events are circulating, but all agree on the main points: Gerald was murdered at his flat in Oxford Street, beaten to death with a tripod, his head so badly smashed that he was unrecognisable. There were no signs of a break-in, but drawers and safes had been broken open, and there had been a fire, whether deliberate or accidental nobody knew. Of course, everyone knows that Mervyn has been arrested, and the general assumption is that he went to see Gerald in connection with the photographs that had been sent to the studio, they had got into a fight, Mervyn lost his temper, beat Gerald to death and then attempted to destroy the negatives.