She snatched up the phone but said nothing, just listened. Then she sighed and held the receiver out to Marlow.

“It’s your mother. George, it’s Doris.”

She handed the phone over, not even bothering to say hallo to Mrs. Marlow. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching the way he swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to calm himself, make himself sound relaxed.

He said brightly, “Hallo, my old love? Mum? Eh, eh, now what’s this? You crying, sweetheart?”

Moyra sighed and turned back to the TV set, arms folded, only half-listening to George’s conversation.

“Yes . . . Yes, Mum, I’m watching. We’ve got it on. Yes, I know . . . Look, I don’t want to talk about it, can I call you back? Because I want to see it! No, no . . . I was released, Mum, it was just . . . No, they don’t want to see me again, no, they released me. It was a big mistake . . .”

Moyra turned the volume up and turned to George. “Jesus Christ, they got a car identical to yours! Look, look at the TV! They’re giving out your number plate! George!”

Marlow dropped the phone back on the hook and stared in shock at the screen. Moyra shouted for him to get on to his lawyer, but he slumped in his chair, hands raised helplessly. “How can they do this to me? Why . . . ? Why are they doing this to me?”

“Oi, Otley, what the fuck’re you doin’ in here? You’ve missed the soup and the chicken frisky . . . mind, I don’t blame you, we’ll all be salmonellaed by tomorrow!”

Otley ignored the well-flushed Jones as he chuntered on. The barman had started the glass-washing machine, and the din from the main hall was drowning out the TV program.

“Come on, Burkin’s on first! He’s matched against the Raging Bull of Reading!”

Otley pointed drunkenly at the screen. “Look at this bull dyke, Jesus, hate her guts . . . She’s comin’ on like bleedin’ Esther Rantzen! Look, d’you believe it? And I’m tellin’ you, she’s really done herself in.”

Jones stared at the small screen. “Shit, it’s Marlow’s car, isn’t it? I mean, the make?”

“Yeah, an’ if that’s not an infringement of personal privacy, she’s given out his fuckin’ registration number!”

Otley chortled, choked and drained his glass. Tennison, on screen, was discussing the Rover with Brian Hayes, then the camera zoomed in on her face for a close-up.

“Did Karen have a handbag with her on the night she died? Her portfolio was found in her car, but no bag. There was also her Filofax; it could be that she carried it in a handbag, and it has not been found. The witness who saw her stop at a cardphone and directed her to a payphone on Ladbroke Grove couldn’t tell us if she had a bag or not . . .”