'Mrs Samson. I am married and I have two children.'

'No fooling? That can't be true! Two children: they must be very young. My real name is Harry Kennedy. Good to know you, Mrs Samson. Yeah, the girl will maybe come out okay. I've seen cases like this before. No call to worry her folks. It's not drugs. At least I hope to God it's not drugs. She doesn't get along very well at school. She is not the academic sort of kid. She likes parties and music and dancing: she's always been like that from the time when she was tiny. She doesn't like reading. Me, I couldn't live without books.'

'Me too.'

'You weren't seeing anyone off, were you?' he said suddenly without looking away from the road.

'No.'

'Why were you at the station then?'

'Does it matter?'

'I am being very nosy. But it was my good fortune that Patsy spoke with you. I couldn't help wondering about you.'

'I wanted to think.'

'Sad thoughts?'

'Everything is relative. I have a good life: no complaints.'

'You need a drink.'

She laughed. 'Perhaps I do,' she said.

He drove right through Marylebone. The traffic was light. She should have said something, made him take her directly home, but she said nothing. She watched the traffic and the rain, the grim-faced drivers and the endless crowds of drenched people. He pulled into the parking lot behind a well-kept block of flats in Maida Vale. 'Come up and have a drink,' he said.

'I don't think so,' she said and didn't move.

'There is no need to be afraid. Like I told you, my name is Harry Kennedy. I have an allergic reaction to work permits but other than that I am quite harmless. I work in the psychiatric department of the St Basil Clinic in Fulham. Eventually they will get me a work permit and I will live happily ever after.'

'Or perhaps move on to pastures new?'

'Could be.'

'And you really are a psychiatrist?'

'It's not something I'd invent, is it?'

'Why not?'

'It's the ultimate deterrent to all social relationships. Look at the effect it's already having on you.'

'One drink.'

'And then home to husband and children,' he promised.

'Yes,' she said, although the children were being looked after by a competent nanny and Bernard was in Berlin for a job that would take three days.

Kennedy's flat was on the second floor. She followed him up the stairs. This block had been built in the nineteen thirties and, apart from a few chunks of granite chiselled from the facade by bomb fragments, it had survived the war intact.

'I'm renting this place from a rich E.N.T. man at the clinic. He's in New York at Bellevue until next April. If they renew his contract he'll want to sell it.' The apartment was big; in the Thirties architects knew the difference between a bedroom and a cupboard. He took her damp raincoat and hung it on a bentwood rack in the hall. Then he removed his own coat and tossed his hat on to a pile of unopened mail that had been placed alongside a bowl of artificial flowers on the hallstand. 'I keep meaning to forward all that mail to him but it's mostly opportunities to purchase vacations and encyclopedias from the credit card companies.'

His three-piece suit – a chalk stripe, dark grey worsted – was cut in a boxy American style that made him look slimmer than he really was. On his waistcoat there was a gold watch-chain with some tiny gold ornament suspended from it.

He ushered her into the drawing room. It was spacious enough to take a baby grand piano, a couple of sofas and a coffee table without seeming cramped. 'Come right in. Welcome to Disneyland. Take a seat. Gin, whisky, vodka, vermouth… a Martini? Name it.' She looked around at the furnishings. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to keep everything in sympathy with the art deco that had been in style when the block was built.

'A Martini. Do you play the piano?'

He went into the kitchen and she heard him open the refrigerator. He returned with two frosted Martini glasses, chilled gin and chilled vermouth. Under his arm there was a box of snacks. He poured two drinks carefully. 'I'm fresh out of olives,' he said as he carried the drinks across to her. 'The help eats them as fast as I buy them. She's Spanish. Yeah, I play a little.'

'A quick drink and then I must go.'

'Have no fear. I will drive you home.'

'It's an attractive room.' She took the glass by its stem and held it against her face, enjoying the feel of its icy coldness.

'You like this art deco junk?' He drank some of his Martini and then put the glass down, carefully placing it on a coaster. 'The E.N.T. man inherited it. His parents were refugees from Vienna. Doctors. They got out early and brought their furniture with them. I had to take an oath about not leaving Coca-Cola glasses on the polished tables, and not smoking. He's going to ship it to New York if he stavs there.'

'It's lovely.'

'He's a sentimental land of guy. It's okay I guess but I prefer something I can relate to. Have one of these.' He indicated the snacks; tiny cheesy mouthfuls in a freshly opened red box bearing a picture of an antique steamship on the Rhine.

'I'm not hungry.'

'Would it help to talk about it?'

'No, I don't think so.'

'You're a beautiful woman, Mrs Samson. Your husband is a lucky man.' He said it artlessly and was not selfconscious: no Englishman she'd met could deliver such compliments without bluster and embarrassment.

'I am lucky too,' she said quietly. She wished he wouldn't look at her: her hair was a mess and her eyes were red.

I'm sure you are. Is your drink all right? Too much gin?'

'No, it's just the way I like it.' She drank some to show him that it was true. She was uneasy. After a few minutes of small-talk – Kennedy had been discovering the pleasures of the opera – she said, 'Perhaps you could ring for a taxi? They sometimes take ages to come at this time.'

'I'll drive you.'

'You must wait for the phone call from the police.'

'You are right. But must you go so soon?'

'Yes, I must.'

'Could I see you again?'

'That would be less wise.'

'I'm delivering a Cessna to Nice next week – Friday, maybe Saturday – and collecting a Learjet. It's a sweet job: not many like that come along. There's a really good restaurant twenty minutes along the highway from Nice airport. I'll have you back in central London by six p.m. Now don't say no, right away. Maybe you'd like to bring your husband or your children. It's a four-seater.'

'I don't think so.'

'Think it over. It could make just the sort of break that would do you good.'

'Is that a medical opinion?'

'It sure is.'

'It's better not.'

'Let me give you my phone number,' said Kennedy. Without waiting to hear what she decided he gave her a printed card. 'This lousy weather keeps up and maybe you'll feel like a spot of Riviera sunshine.' She looked at the card: Dr H. R. Kennedy and the Maida Vale address and phone number. 'I had them done last month at one of these fast print shops. I was going to see patients here but I decided not to.'

'I see.'

'It was against the terms of the lease and I could see there would be arguments if my patients started using the car park spaces.' He went to the phone and asked for a taxi. 'They are usually very prompt,' he said. 'I have an account with them.' Then he added thoughtfully, 'And seeing patients here might have set the immigration guys on my tail.'

'I hope your niece returns soon.'

'She will be okay.'

'Do you know the man she's with?'

Kennedy paused. 'He is a patient. At the clinic. He met her when she was waiting for me one afternoon.'

'Oh.'

'He can be violent. That's why the police were so good about it.'

'I see.'

'You helped me, Mrs Samson. And I appreciate your keeping me company, I really do.' The phone rang to say the cab was waiting outside. He helped her on with her coat, carefully making sure that her long hair was not trapped under the collar. 'I would like to help you,' he said. In bidding her a decorous goodbye his hand held hers.