Nick had. Just above the rolled-sleeve line of Flick’s arm he had glimpsed the end, or the start, of a tattoo—big work by the look of it. Nick, who knew all about the bleeding, and the addiction to the pain involved, filed it under ‘Trick’. So the knifeman liked his boys inked, did he?

He grabbed Fleur the next time she floated by, and asked for a cognac, which took them back into the house, leaving Miranda putting sand down with the Rose and his escort.

Captain Toby and Zeno arrived together and were let in with a beatific smile from Fleur. “What a dangerous combo,” she said. They were ogled by a short man holding a brandy balloon. “That’s Nicky,” said Fleur, gripping an arm of each arrival and propelling them towards the garden. The sun was almost down, and still a guest to arrive; this wasn’t going according to plan at all.

She deposited her charges in the garden, anticipating that the sun would set in another fifteen minutes, and went back to the drawing room to round up Nicholas, who had made himself cosy on the settee. His glass was empty.

“This is a good drop of cognac, Fleur—have to hand it to you.” Realising she could not shoo him out like the others, she sat down on the corner of the sofa and twisted her body towards him.

“Glad someone appreciates it— it’s prephylloxera.”

“Whatever it is, it goes straight to my balls.”

“Wherever your treasure is . . .”

“Are there any girls—any other girls—coming tonight?”

“Is that how it’s taking you at the moment?”

“Mmm. Had a piece of strange this afternoon—didn’t do everything to her that I wanted to.”

“Got you at it, did it? Just like Christie when he came upon his strangler’s rope unexpectedly after a lay-off.” Nicholas lowered his eyelids a fraction and observed Fleur. “Have you ever been taken with a rope around your neck, Fleur?”

Fleur, momentarily unnerved, replied with a smile, “Someday you’ll be served your heart on a plate, Nick.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “I did invite Zeno’s wife, but he showed up without her—some crap about a sitter letting them down. Daughter’s almost grown up. Feels out of her depth, I suppose.”

“Silly goose.” He reached out and lifted the decanter, placed it within reach, and poured himself another. “Met her actually. Gorgeous, but dumb—limits things a little. Not like you, flower.”

“Taken tonight.”

“Have been, or about to be?”

“Inshallah, as we say in the desert.”

“Scarborough’s not the desert, flower.” Fleur giggled. “The Captain?”

“Dishy, isn’t he?”

“Is he?” I suppose he is, thought Nick, What’s he a captain of, I wonder? Fleur stood up and arranged her toile blouse; it was white and, in the sidelight, transparent. Showing her new bosom, thought Nick, no wonder she’s asking everyone the number of pearls.