No, there was nothing, he was certain of it. And last night he had gone through this same exercise at his office in Richmond Terrace, just as thoroughly, just as frenziedly, and finding only what he had known was there—the original letter from the Woolloomooloo letting agent agreeing to Alasdair’s terms and delivered to a box at the post office and addressed to a name that was not his own, receipts for each month’s rent of the Woolloomooloo apartment (paid in cash, in advance), and one or two, perhaps five or six, notes from Verity herself, receipts and bills for items he had purchased for her and that was all—and all now destroyed. He had gathered it all up and gone into the park under cover of the early winter darkness and found an incinerator and had tossed the few items into it and watched them ignite. The embers had glowed then floated up into the night air and vanished. He had thought he would feel relief but instead, somewhere inside him, a voice had cried out in anguish.

There was nothing of Verity Trent here at his home, he was sure of it, yet the fear that he had missed something had gnawed away at him all day.

Alasdair pulled up a chair and sat down. He thought about lighting a cigar but something about the act smacked too much of self-satisfaction and he did not feel self-satisfied. A drink then. He dug out an unopened bottle of malt whisky from the bottom of a cupboard and a tumbler and poured himself a quantity.

There were no documents left that might incriminate him, but what of those who had witnessed him, the people who had seen him and could connect him with Verity? The man, Orange, the letting agent, who knew him by sight, certainly, but not by name. The same could be said for the two neighbours, the elderly woman—who in any case was blind or close to it—and the rather helpful, rather too curious Miss Tiptree. He worried about Miss Tiptree. Had anyone seen him at the house during the months he had visited Verity there? He thought not, but how could one be sure? His visits had mostly been at night but not always, not that last time. That had been morning, broad daylight.

And the folly of this struck him. Well, there was no helping it now.

Then there was the elderly hospital clerk. Alasdair had sat across a desk from the man and conversed with him, told the man he was a minister of state (though not given his name, lied about his constituency) and provided a plausible reason, a justifiable reason even, for his interest in the girl. Surely he could only be implicated if all these various persons were brought together and connected to him, and why should they be?

He wondered if there might be anything at Verity’s apartment.