Macalvie sat for another minute staring at the black glass of the window. Then he rose, saying, “OK. Tell them they can go to bed; tell them not to leave the premises. Get in touch with Whitten and tell him we’ll need the helicopter.”

Macalvie was through the door when Cody called, “We leaving?”

Over his shoulder Macalvie called back, “Let the DC who brought us over know we want to leave in twenty minutes.”

Gilly (Gillian, real name, but she hated it) Thwaite was on her knees, back turned to the door so that she didn’t see Macalvie come in. She held a small brush in her plastic-gloved hand and was dusting the squat leg of a heavy bureau.

The door was open; Macalvie rapped on the doorjamb. “What’ve you got? I hope more than Platt. He’s got sod all.”

Without even turning, she said, “Are you on his back again? He’s good; Cody’s very good.”

“He may be good, but he’s still got sod all.”

Gilly stood up and peeled off the gloves. “Which is about what I’ve got so far, too. Trouble is, I don’t think there’s much to ‘get,’ at least not here in her room.”

“Okay, come on, pack up. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Time for bed.”

“Thanks to whatever powers may be.”

“Who’re the others?”

As he turned, she said, “God, what conceit.”

Macalvie didn’t respond. She was always saying that.

Whatever he had said about going to bed, Macalvie had not gone. Instead, he thought again about interviewing the two girls. He was no good with children anymore. Fortunately, he rarely had to deal with a child as a witness. He had grown increasingly poor at handling them since that summer in Scotland. And if time is the great healer, why was it becoming more painful, rather than less, to deal with them? It was owing to no talent of his that Zoe had told her story at such length. He had not even found out why the girls were living with an aunt instead of parents.

Well, it wasn’t his case; it was Whitten’s. But he had agreed to help and he didn’t want simply to drop it back in DCI Whitten’s lap.

Maybe he would hand the next round of questioning the girls over to DS Cody Platt.

Or better yet, to Richard Jury. Whom he was supposed to have met an hour ago in the Old Success.

3

Richard Jury thought for a moment as he looked out over the formless water of the cove, then said to the man with whom he’d been sharing a table, “Brownell. That name sounds familiar.”

As his silence suggested Jury was really trying to chase the name down, Tom Brownell said, “Only if you were police.”

“I am police. Wait a minute. You’re not the Thomas Brownell, are you? Of the Metropolitan Police? London?”