“What about Peter Rossington?”

“We’ve never met him,” Mr. Bryant replied. “I think they were just travelling companions.”

“Paul must have some friends.”

Mr. Bryant shrugged. “Not really. The boy’s always been a bit of a lone wolf.” He seemed to wince, as if suddenly struck by the predatory connotations of the description. “That’s why we were so pleased when he and Rowena…” He tailed off into silence, realizing every word only took him in deeper.

“Somebody ought to check with that Peter Rossington,” his wife resumed. “He might know when Paul was in… what do you call it?… Chamonicks.”

“He was never in Chamonicks,” snapped Cheryl. She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her forehead before quietly correcting herself. “Chamonix.”

“The police will check with him, love,” Mr. Bryant consoled his wife.

“I’d be happy to speak to him myself,” I said, coming rapidly to terms with the likelihood that my visit was going to leave me with no other avenue to explore. “Do you know where he can be contacted?”

“Paul said he worked for some big advertising agency in London,” Mrs. Bryant replied. “But I can’t quite…”

“Schneider Mackintosh,” said Cheryl, smiling coolly at me. “You know? The people we can thank for the result of the last election.”

“Ah yes. Of course.”

“Are you going to see him?” asked Mrs. Bryant.

“If he’ll see me, certainly.”

“Good.” She risked a sidelong glance at her husband. “I’m glad somebody’s doing something.”

“You’re wasting your time,” said Cheryl. “He’ll only confirm what Paul’s already told us.”

“Perhaps. But-”

“And do you know why? Because it’s the truth.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he’s my brother, Mr. Timariot. I’ve known him all his life. I’ve watched him grow up. But I’ve never really understood him. Until now. He’s always been hiding something before. Keeping something back. But not any more. It’s all out in the open now. I wish it wasn’t. But it is. And the sooner we face up to it, the better.”

“Cheryl’s right,” said Mr. Bryant as he walked me to my car. “We have to accept what Paul did as best we can. There’s no sense in… blocking our ears to it.”

“I just want to be sure, Mr. Bryant. Only your wife doesn’t seem to be.”

“She’s his mother. What else would you expect? She can’t bring herself to believe he could commit murder.”

“But you can?”

We reached the car and stopped. He didn’t look directly at me or answer my question specifically. But a shuffle of his feet and a droop of his chin gave me some kind of response. “It was good of you to call, Mr. Timariot. I appreciate it. But I have to think of Dot, you see. I have to help her come to terms with what’s happened. And what’s going to happen. Raising her hopes will only make her feel worse when they’re dashed.” Now he did look at me. “As you and I both know they will be.”

“I’m trying to keep an open mind on the subject. I think you should do the same.”

“Paul’s walked out on his job, you know. It was a good job too. The basis of a fine career.”

“You think that proves something?”

“I think it proves he’s preparing for the worst. That’s why we have to do the same.” He frowned. “I’d be grateful, Mr. Timariot… for Dot’s sake… if you didn’t come to see us again… in the circumstances.” Then he sighed and added: “Sorry.”

“What if I learn something useful from Peter Rossington?”

A car drove past us and Mr. Bryant waved over my shoulder to the driver, a smile coming instantly to his lips-and leaving as quickly. His eyes followed the vehicle for a moment, as if he were wondering how many neighbourly waves he’d have to do without, once Paul’s guilt became widely known. Then he looked back at me. “You won’t,” he said, without the least hint of animosity.

“I might.”

An expression of politely restrained scepticism crossed his face, such as I could imagine him having worn when a heavily overdrawn customer of the bank sought an extension of credit on the flimsiest of grounds. “Goodbye, Mr. Timariot,” he said, shaking my hand and turning dolefully back towards the house.

I phoned Schneider Mackintosh from my office first thing Monday morning. Peter Rossington proved elusive, being out of the room or on another line each time I tried and showing no inclination to return my call. Eventually, around four o’clock, I struck lucky and was rewarded with a brief conversation. He sounded young, cocksure and faintly patronizing. He also sounded distinctly suspicious when I said I wanted to talk to him about Paul Bryant. Well, I couldn’t blame him for that. But jumping to the conclusion that I was some kind of headhunter keen to check Paul’s suitability for prestigious employment was quite another matter. Since it was an idea I’d done nothing to plant in his mind, it seemed only fair to make the most of it. Especially since lunch at my expense in a restaurant of his choice was the fancy price I had to pay for whatever information he was prepared to dispense. I suggested the following day, but he pleaded pressure of other commitments and we finally settled on Thursday.

By then, Bella had been in touch, eager for news of my progress. But a description of my visit to the Bryants didn’t seem to qualify under that heading. “You didn’t get anything out of them at all?” she complained, contriving to imply the reason lay in some deficiency on my part rather than the dismal truth that there was nothing to be got. “Well, you’d better be more persistent when you meet Peter Rossington, hadn’t you?”

But I doubted if persistence-or any other kind of interrogative ingenuity-was going to reveal a flaw in Paul’s account of his activities in the summer of 1990. Cheryl Bryant had told me I was wasting my time and, as far as I could see, she was absolutely right. But Bella wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d wasted a good deal more of it.

Another difficulty weighing on my mind when I travelled up to London on Thursday morning was how to question Peter Rossington about Paul without revealing the real reason. Posing as a headhunter was only going to carry me so far. And it was a pose I knew an astute young advertising executive would see through in pretty short order.

It transpired I needn’t have worried. Not about that, anyway. Rossington was waiting for me when I reached The Square, a light, airy and punctiliously staffed establishment in the heart of St. James’s. He was a pencil-thin pasty-faced fellow with haircut and suit so abreast with the fashions that he looked even younger than I reckoned he was. More like nineteen than twenty-five. His smile was broad but cool, his eyes frankly appraising. A keen brain was apparent behind the braying voice and sneering air. I disliked him at once. And I had the distinct impression that the feeling was mutual. But neither of us was there to indulge our feelings. Though the senses were evidently a different matter, as his call for a second glass of champagne immediately revealed.

“Cards on the table, Mr. Timariot,” he said straightaway. “There was something ever so slightly fishy about your invitation. So I decided to check with Paul. One of the reasons I put off meeting you until today. I wanted time to take the temperature.” He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “Turned out to be a lot hotter than I’d ever have imagined.”

“Right,” I said, my mind racing to accommodate the consequences of what he’d said. My cover was blown, of course. But worse still, Paul now knew I was digging around in his past. It was something I might have avoided if I’d been honest with Rossington from the outset. But it was too late to repair the damage. “So… You know what this is about, do you?”

“’Fraid so. Wish I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Sounds hideously messy. But that’s Paul’s problem, isn’t it? And yours, apparently.”