"Do I get to look up your kilt?" she said from behind.

"Not if you're lucky."

I switched the lights on in the study; we tended to keep the curtains closed. There was a TV and video in the study. I switched it all on and put the cassette in the machine.

"Cool," Ashely said, standing hands on hips in the middle of the study, hands nearly over the centre of dad's Persian rug, bunned hair directly beneath the big brass and stained-glass light fixture, hanging extravagantly beneath an ornate plaster ceiling rose. She swivelled, surveying the book-case walls, the maps, the prints and paintings and various interesting bits and pieces scattered around shelves, tables, desks and the floor.

"Bit cluttered for my taste," I said, starting the tape and watching some end-credits. "Dad found it conducive enough."

"Fast forward," Ash said. The screen scrolled quickly, then the BBC Nine O'clock news started flashing before us. Ash turned away, so I let it roll.

Ashley crossed to an over-crowded book case; there was an empty crystal bowl perched on a pile of loose papers on top of the book case, and Ashley tapped the bowl very gently with one finger. She took her hand away, held it in the air near the ice-coloured ornament, and clicked her fingers. She bent her head towards the bowl, seemingly listening for something. I frowned, wondered what she was up to.

She turned and faced the bowl, went "Ah," in a high-pitched voice, then listened again, head tilted, smiling this time.

"Ashley, what exactly are you doing?"

She nodded at the bowl. "Crystal; you can make it ring by producing the right noise." She grinned like a little girl. "Good, eh?" She looked behind me. "That's you," she said, nodding at the screen.

I hit Play. We stood, watched.

"… talked to Rupert Paxton-Marr of the Inquirer, one of the journalists held by the Iraqis, and asked him how he'd felt," said the BBC man in Amman.

I couldn't resist a thin smile, one journalist asking another how he felt.

Rupert Paxton-Marr was a tall, blond, blue-eyed man with exactly the jaw-line I'd have chosen for myself, given the opportunity; sickeningly handsome, he had an accent to match. "Well, Michael," he said. ('Air, hair lair," I said to myself.) "I don't think we were really in much danger; clearly international attention has fixed on Iraq, and I think they knew we knew that, and accepted we were… weren't a threat to them. Umm… our driver had taken a wrong turning, and that was that. Of course, one does remember what happened to, ah, Farhzad Bazhoft, but I don't think you can let that stop you; in the end one has a job to do."

"Thank you, Rupert. And now, reporting fr —»

I hit Stop and turned to Ashley, standing beside me. She was still looking at the blank screen where the little green zero symbol sat in one corner, wobbling almost imperceptibly. She had sucked her cheeks in and her lips were pursed. There was a whoop of laughter from somewhere downstairs. Ash nodded slowly, looked at me. "That's ma boy," she said.

"You're sure about that?" I said.

"I'm sure." She looked serious. She looked pretty good, too, now I looked properly; I couldn't remember ever seeing Ashley wearing make-up, and you'd have thought that not having had the practice she'd be crap at it, but she looked great; maybe a little over-enthusiastic with the dark stuff round the eyes, but why quibble? She nodded. "Don't look at me like that; I'm really sure."

"Sorry. I believe you," I said. I spun the tape back, to play it again. Ashley put one hand on my arm and rested her chin against the shoulder of my Prince Charlie jacket.

"Turn the sound down," she said. "That guy's voice is like chewing on silver paper."

I turned the sound down. The noise of people laughing and talking in the marquee came through the double glazing and the heavy burgundy of the velvet curtains. I heard an amplified voice outside say, "Testing." It was probably Dean Watt; he and his band had been hired by Lewis and Verity to play during the afternoon (for the evening they'd booked a more traditional wheech-your-partner fiddle and accordion band).

I ran the clip again. "Definitely, officer," Ashley said, tapping the top corner of the TV. "Recognise him anywhere, even with his clothes on."

I switched the TV off and ejected the cassette. I stood for a moment, rubbing my chin.

"Whoops," Ashley said, and delicately rubbed a little of that transferred make-up from the black shoulder of my jacket.

I waited till she'd finished, then went to dad's desk, unlocked a lower drawer and took out a slide tray; one of those plastic things that holds a few hundred transparencies. "So, when you saw this guy, Paxton-Marr," I said, opening the tray and putting the lid on the desk, "in Berlin, in this hotel, in the Jacuzzi… " I looked up at Ashley, standing sceptically by the TV, one elbow resting on it as she watched me. "What was the hotel called again?"

"I told you," she said. "I can't remember. I called June, and neither could she. It's probably the only place she ever stayed and forgot to nick a towel or yet another emergency sewing kit or whatever." Ash shrugged. "Frankly, Prentice, I was stoned out of my brains most of the time I was there. All I can remember is it had a big pool in the basement with a Jacuzzi at one end, and they did really good breakfasts." She sighed. "Excellent hopple-popple." Her eyebrows flicked once.

"Hopple-popple?'I grimaced.

"Scrambled eggs," Ash smiled. "Take me to Berlin and I'll find it for you. It was somewhere near the zoo."

I put the tray down on the desk, went over to Ashley, holding out a little piece of cardboard; it was the front cover off a book of matches, torn off the piece that held the matches.

"Wasn't the Schweizerhof, was it?" I asked her.

She looked steadily into my eyes for a little while, then took the piece of card, looked at it and turned it over.

"Twenty-seven eleven eighty-nine," she muttered. She nodded and handed me the cover back. "Yeah," she said, frowning. "Yeah; it was. That was the place."

I put the little torn bit of cardboard back in the slide tray. It was the second last one, out of about forty of them.

"What's the significance of the date?" Ashley asked, coming over to the desk. Outside, I could hear the sound ot an electric guitar chord and a few drum beats.

"I think that was when dad received it." I picked the latest torn cover out of the tray. "This one arrived just after he died." We both sat on the edge of the desk; Ashley looked at the little piece of glossy cardboard.

"Woo," she whistled. "Amman Hilton. Spooky, or what?"

"Yeah. Spooky " I said, as fuck,tapping the cover with one fingernail. "And I'm sure I recognise that guy Paxton-Marr, too. From Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or here. I've met him. In the flesh, I think."

Ash put her elbow on my shoulder. "And damn firm, tanned flesh it was too, let me tell you," she said.

I looked into those grey eyes, smiling. "But not as firm and tanned as your programmer from Texas."

Ash laughed, skipped off the desk. "Systems Analyst. And you're right; they breed them bigger and better in Texas."

Music started up in the marquee. Kiss The Bride. Ash stood on the Persian rug again, putting one hand to her ear. "Hark; it's young brother and his pals." She frowned. "Doesn't sound like a Mark E Smith or Morrissey track to me." She shook her head. Tsk. How are the mighty fallen." She put her head down so that, if she'd been wearing glasses, she'd have been looking over them at me. "Want my advice?"

"Mm-hmm," I nodded.

"Come on and dance. We can sort — or you can sort — this out later, when you've had time to think." She struck a dramatic, arguably dance-inspired pose and held out one hand. "Hey baby, let's boogie!"

I laughed, shut the match-book covers away and locked the desk drawer.