Martin watched Laura, remembering her with Clug, an attractive intelligent woman having a good time. It had been an uncomplex job; she had been easy to track in her brilliant colours. They had, he and the others, watched for the clothes rather than her face. They had learned not to be foxed by the muted colours she wore to work. Her face, which had lit with merriment when she explained Lydia to him, was again blotted with anxiety and fatigue with dark smudges under her eyes. She was very different to the woman he had addressed briefly, breaking the rule of anonymity, as he boarded the train to follow Clug and she, catching his joke, had blown him a kiss. She looked half-dead now, sitting there beside Claud, who had this weird obsession for an imaginary girl. On the other hand, was he too not verging on obsession over Laura? Might the Laura he guessed at not be as imaginary as Lydia?

He tried to gauge her attitude. She had been angry when she called Claud a fool, loverly almost. Would she, if the occasion required it, have given Claud mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? The thought of such an intimacy appalled him. He imagined her covering Claud’s mouth with her own, inhaling and exhaling his sour, stale, whisky breath, and was utterly disgusted, closing his eyes to blot out the inner vision, rearing away from his thoughts. When he looked again, he was surprised to see that the moment of passion when she had called Claud a fool was superseded by what looked remarkably like boredom.

Still Laura showed no inclination to talk. Martin looked around seeking inspiration. He must get her to talk.

He noticed a list pinned above the desk, got up to read it. ‘Here’s a list of methods of suicide. Do you think it was long planned?’ He brought the list to Laura.

‘He threatened once or twice, as people do.’ She took the list. ‘It’s all negative,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t keen.’

‘Perhaps he meant it, though.’

‘I took it to be histrionics when he threatened.’

‘As his mother did.’

‘She is not an easy mother; I don’t think he is an easy son. She is probably right to go home. If she or Ann had been really worried, they would have sent for help.’

‘They sent for you.’

‘But not official help. I should think Mavis worked everybody up. They were not to know that he had got pills and whisky; they obviously under the drama thought he was making a scene, then sulking.’

‘Which, in effect, he was.’

‘Yes.’