The paradox was that while Gretchen’s sexuality made it more likely that she had never had relations with a man until Howard, her dishonesty made her a less credible witness.

“I see. You think she might have been hoodwinking us all along?”

The phone on his desk rang and he silenced it with a twitch of the receiver.

“I only know that I feel a bit less confident in Gretchen personally, and yet test after test has vindicated her.” She gave him an apologetic smile.

“Well, get out there and do some more digging. It’s not too late. And take a word of friendly advice from an old man. Keep the husband at a distance while this plays out. Newly abandoned men tend to look for consolation wherever they can find it.”

Jean felt herself reddening under his scrutiny.

“Don’t tell me he’s already . . .”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Jean insisted, her blush deepening.

He expressed his relief by blowing out a long plume of smoke.

“He’s the most decent, honorable type you can imagine—apart from you, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’d begun to wonder whether there wasn’t something more personal in your commitment to this story.”

A shadow darkened the room. Muriel from Accounts stood outside the glass-paneled door with a sheaf of invoices. Roy raised an open hand to indicate five minutes and she retreated.

“Well, there was. Is. But it was the whole happy family thing. I wanted a little of what they had. And they were so willing to share. Even Margaret.”

“The little girl.”

Jean nodded. “I thought I’d buried all those maternal feelings long ago, but . . .”

Roy Drake, father of four, placed his large freckled hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, old girl. I understand.”

24

Jean’s first visit to Luna Street had been in the summer. Children had been playing football and vandalizing cars on the street, and babies had been put out to air in their carriages on doorsteps. On a cold Tuesday morning in late October it was deserted. Frost still glittered on the pavement on the shaded side of the street.

The slanting autumn sunlight exposed the smeared windows of number 16. A glass panel was missing from the front door, a piece of plywood nailed over the gap in the sort of temporary repair that was likely to become permanent. It was not the only house in the street to boast this sort of improvisation.

As she had walked from Sloane Square, Jean had caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and was dismayed to see reflected there a stooping, middle-aged woman in a shabby raincoat, with unstyled mousy hair, neither straight nor curly and streaked with silver. This image of round-shouldered drabness was quite at odds with Jean’s sense of herself as a brisk and respectable workingwoman, and reminded her why she generally avoided mirrors.

Drawing herself up straight, she now rang the doorbell and after a long delay heard the slap of approaching feet. It was Martha who answered. She was wearing a belted dressing gown as though just out of bed, but her face was made up, her hair tied back in that cleaning woman’s bandana.