“Warrington Motorway Motel, Janice speaking. How may I help you?” the singsong voice announced.

“I’m meeting someone at the motel today. Can you give me directions?”

“Certainly, madam, where are you coming from?”

“Manchester.”

“Right. If you come down the M62 and take junction 9, you go left as you come off the motorway and right at the first roundabout. We’re the first turning on the left, just after the bridge.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.” If I had my way, Janice was going to be a lot more helpful before the day was out.

There was nothing to mark out the Warrington Motorway Motel from the dozens of others that sprang up round the motorway network in the late eighties. A two-story, sprawling redbrick building with a low-pitched roof, a car park and a burger joint next door, it could have been anywhere between the Channel Tunnel and that point on the edge of the Scottish highlands where the motorways run out. Rooms for round thirty quid a throw, TV but no phone, no restaurant, bar or lounge. Cheap and cheerless.

Late morning wasn’t a busy time behind the reception desk. Janice – or someone who’d stolen her name badge – looked pleased at the sight of another human being. The reception area was so small that with two of us present, it felt intimate. On the way over, I’d toyed with various approaches. I’d decided I was too strung out to try for subtlety. Besides, I still had a wad of cash in my bag that had no official home.

I dropped one of my cards on the desk halfway through Janice’s welcome speech. Her pert features registered surprise, followed by an air of suppressed excitement. “I’ve never met a private detective before,” she confided, giving me the wide-eyed once-over. I hoped I wasn’t too much of a disappointment.

I followed the card with a photograph of Grail I’d persuaded Alexis to lend me. “This woman’s a regular here,” I stated baldly. “She comes here once a week with the same bloke.”

Janice’s eyes widened. “I’m not supposed to release information about guests,” she said wistfully.

I leaned on the desk and smiled. “Forgive me being so personal, Janice, but how much do they pay you?”

Startled, she blurted out the answer without thinking. “A hundred and seventy pounds a week.”

I opened my bag and took out the five hundred I’d counted out on the way. I placed it on the desk and pushed it toward her. “Nearly three weeks’ money. Tax-free. No comebacks. I don’t even want a receipt.”

Her eyes widened. She stared at the cash, then at me, consternation clear in her face. “What for?”

“All I want to know is how often they come and how long they stay. I want to know when they’re due here next. Then I want to book the room next door. Oh, and five minutes in their room before they arrive. There’s no reason why anyone should know you’ve helped me.” I nudged the money nearer to her.

“It’s for a divorce, isn’t it?” she said.

I winked. “I’m not supposed to release information either. Let’s just say this pair shouldn’t be doing what they’ve been doing.”

Suddenly, her hand snaked out and the dosh disappeared faster than a paper-wrapped prawn off Richard’s plate. She tapped Gail’s photograph with a scarlet fingernail. “She’s been coming here with this bloke for about a year now. They always book as Mr. and Mrs. Chester. It’s usually a Wednesday. They arrive separately, usually about half past two. I don’t know when they leave, because I go off at half past four.”

I nodded, as if this was exactly what I’d expected to hear. “And when are they booked in next?”

“I think you’ve dropped lucky,” she said, consulting her screen. “Yeah, that’s right. They’ve got a room booked today.” She looked up at me, smirking. “I bet you knew that, didn’t you?”

Again, I winked. “Maybe you could let me into the room they’ll be in, then book me in next door?”

Eagerly, she nodded. Funny how excited people get when they feel like they’re part of the chase. “I’ll give you their key,” she said. “But bring it back quick as you can.”

I picked up the key and headed for the lift. Boom 103 was a couple of doors down the corridor from the lift. The whole floor-was eerily silent. I let myself in, and gave the room a quick scan. I could have drawn it from memory, it was so similar- to every motel room I’d ever camped out in. Because I hadn’t been able to get into the office to pick up proper surveillance equipment, I’d had to rely on what I could pick up from the local electronics store. A small tape recorder with a voice-activated radio mike hadn’t made much of a dent in my payoff from Turner. I took out my Swiss Army knife and unscrewed the insipid seascape from above the bed. I stuck the mike to the back of the picture with a piece of Blastoplast, than screwed it back onto the wall. There was a gap of about a quarter of an inch between the picture and the hessian wallpaper, but I didn’t think Grail and Desmond were there for the decor.

I quickly checked the mike was working, then I was out of there. I returned the key to Janice and went over to the burger joint for supplies. I settled down in my room with a giant cheeseburger, fries, a large coffee and a bag of doughnuts. I stuck the earpiece of the tape recorder in my ear and waited. I couldn’t believe myself. I felt like I was playing the starring role in the worst kind of cliched private-eye drama: staking out the seedy motel for the couple indulging in illicit sex. All I needed was a snap-brim trilby and a bottle of bourbon to feel like a complete idiot.

While I was waiting, I rang Michael Haroun. “Sorry about last night,” I said. “I was helping the police with their inquiries.”

“They arrested you?”

“Behave. They only wanted a friendly chat. They were just a little insistent about having it right that minute.”

“My God, you like to sail close to the wind, don’t you?”

“My yachting friends tell me that’s where you have to be if you want to travel fast,” I said. What was it about this man that brought out the portentous asshole in me?

“So is this a social or professional call?” he asked.

“Purely social. I wanted to offer you dinner tomorrow as a penance for canceling yesterday.”

“You cook, as well as everything else?”

“I do, but that’s not what I had in mind. How does the Market sound?”

“Fabulous. My favorite restaurant in town. What time?”

“I’ll see you there about half past seven,” I promised. To hell with Barclay.

The feeling of well-being that I got from talking to Michael didn’t last long. There’s nothing more boring than sitting round in a featureless motel room waiting for something to happen. Patience and I aren’t normally on speaking terms, so I always get really edgy on jobs like this. It’s not so bad doing a stakeout in the car; at least I can listen to the radio and watch the world go by. But here, there was nothing to do but stare at the walls.

The monotony broke around twenty past two. My earpiece told me that the door to the next room had closed. At once, I was on the alert, my free ear pressed to the wall. I heard the toilet flush; then, a few minutes later, the door closed again. There was a mumble of what sounded like greetings and endearments, irritatingly incomprehensible. At a guess, they were still in the passage by the bathroom, rather than in the room proper.

More mumblings, then gradually, I could make out what they were saying.

“… taking a risk,” a man’s voice said.

“You said what I told you to, didn’t you?” Gail’s voice. Unmistakably.

“Yeah, I told my mother I needed some time on my own, that I was going for a drive and would she look after the kids.”

“And did she act like she thought you were behaving oddly?”

“No,” the man admitted.

“Well, then,” Gail said. There was the instantly recognizable sound of kissing, the groans of desire. “I needed to see you,” Gail went on when she next surfaced. “I wanted you so bad, Dessy.”