Elvira contemplated her friend and then quite unexpectedly she laughed. ‘Well that’ll be a surprise for Mr Anthony Bonham that in some ways he richly deserves.’ And she smiled at Pauline. ‘I was always so glad when I was with Terence that I wasn’t an actress but I do feel –’ and she laughed her big throaty laugh again ‘– that if you’re going to be an actress, do it in style! Of course I’ll help you Pauly, sit down. Standing there in your red lipstick you look like a baddie in Dallas or something!’

‘I know,’ said Pauline, ‘it happened by mistake and then I decided I rather liked it,’ and at last she grinned rather shakily at Elvira and sat back down at the long table.

‘Right,’ said Elvira. ‘Let’s see what we can plot and plan before you go to see Terence. I wonder, you know –’ and she drummed her fingers on the table for a moment ‘– if Nicky Abbott isn’t the clue to everything?’ And she leant across the table to her old friend and her eyes sparkled with a kind of cheeky malice.

‘The appalling Iona Spring will look such a fool if Terence gets off after all her sordid little press exclusives about being married to a Sex-Fiend Rapist that she’ll never work again. That will give me enormous pleasure! I’ll be delighted to assist in this matter.’ Then she slowly tipped backwards in the chair, thinking. ‘Now where were we? Nicola Abbott. She’s the clue, I’m sure she’s the clue.’

Her smile across the table to Pauline was dazzling.

‘I’m good at this you know. I do it for a living!’

*

Pauline drove back to London early next morning.

At St Catherine’s House in Kingsway she stood among the registers and the people, pulling out marriage registers for 1961, laboriously checking, quarter by quarter, for what she wanted: Nicola Abbott and Terence Blue. She stood at the desks beside other people, turning page after page; she found she was shielding the information with her hand, as if someone might watch or pry or guess. She found nothing.

Suddenly she remembered something, suddenly from over thirty years ago another name dropped into her consciousness.

‘Shand,’ she murmured aloud: ‘Mary Shand.’

And finally found an entry: the wedding of Mary Shand and Terence Cecil Blue in November 1961. When the copy of the marriage certificate arrived in the post a few days later, Pauline’s eyes widened in amazement as she read the name of one of the witnesses.

*

‘Harry darling, it’s Pauline, haven’t seen you since the day of Michael’s funeral. Could I take you to dinner?’