He stomped through the dining room on his short, fat legs, aware that all the waitresses knew he was the boss and were staring at him, followed by the middle-aged couple, who walked like grotesque bridesmaids, a couple of paces behind him.

Greg’s girlfriend seemed unoffended by her dismissal. She sat for a moment scraping the last remnants of chocolate sauce from her pudding bowl and looking out the window. It was dark, and coloured spotlights lit up the trees by the lake and the statue on the patio outside. She gathered up her handbag, and waving cheerfully to the waitresses, she wandered out to the bar. Her hair was very long and tied up in an elaborate plait. George followed her. He expected her to go immediately to one of the public phones in reception to call a taxi, but she stopped instead at the bar and perched on one of the tall stools, her smooth legs crossed. The barman obviously knew and liked her, and there was a lot of good-humoured banter. Again George felt unable to approach her, and he sat waiting until she was on her own. Suddenly the bar was busier. A group of middle-aged men came in demanding drinks all at once. Conversation with the barman was impossible, and she slipped from the stool and wandered into a quiet corner. George went up to her.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “ I wanted to talk to you about Greg Franks.”

She looked up without suspicion, smiling. “You phoned me this evening.” she said. “I was getting ready to come out.”

He nodded.

“Sit down,” she said easily. Perhaps she thought he was too old to do her any harm. Perhaps she thought she could look after herself.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve some very bad news.”

“About Greg?”

He nodded again.

“Has he been arrested?”

“No,” George said. “ Would that be likely?”

She shrugged and, for the first time, regarded him with suspicion.

“Are you the police?”

“No,” he said, and she smiled at him. She had an artificial tan and a big friendly smile that was completely different from the receptionist’s. Her teeth were very white in the brown face.

“I was in Cornwall with Greg,” George said. “ We were on a boat, birdwatching. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“No,” she said, wanting to think it was a mistake, a joke in bad taste, but held by his age and authority. “ I don’t believe it. Why haven’t I heard?”

“It was on the radio,” George said gently. “ The police informed his parents. I suppose they didn’t know to come to you.”

“He was so well,” she cried. “Was it an accident?”

“He was drowned,” George said. “The police think it was murder.”

Then she began to cry. There was little shock in the tears. She was not surprised by disaster. She spent her life expecting it. Her happiness had always been precarious.