In fact there wasn’t all that much to pass on, and from what Beanie relayed to her, Maggie wasn’t any clearer why the possible resurfacing of an amnesiac cop should have got Gwyn Jones salivating. From Dave the Third’s reaction, she was pretty convinced the name Wolfe didn’t mean a lot to him either. She didn’t anticipate getting much more from Beanie Sample, but she was presently her only link to what was going on in Yorkshire. So when they got to Marina Tower, and the Bitch got out of the car still talking, Maggie followed her up to her apartment.

Inside, Beanie poured herself a large vodka and invited Maggie to help herself. She matched the size of Beanie’s drink but hers was mostly soda.

The Bitch went wandering off. Maggie followed her into a palatial bedroom.

She was noticing a change in the tone of Beanie’s complaint. The initial fury had died away and though the descriptive language used about Jones was just as colourful, the target area of complaint seemed to be shifting from his demeaning attempt at deception to the fact that he hadn’t shared a possible scoop with her.

‘Shit, I was breaking front-page stories before his balls had dropped,’ she declared. ‘I could have run things down here for him while he was pissing about up in Yorkshire. Cover your back, hon, that’s rule number one. No fucker’s a fucking island.’

She’d pressed a button that set the doors of a wall-length closet sliding silently open.

‘Look at that,’ she said, indicating the few hangers from which men’s garments hung. ‘Some women cut up their guy’s clothes when he pisses them off. This fucker, I’d be doing him a favour. Only decent things he’s got are a jacket and shirt I bought him, and the cunt’s wearing those.’

She reached up and took a gleaming silver laptop off a shelf.

‘Let’s see if he’s got anything in here to show what he thinks he’s up to,’ she said.

‘That’s Gwyn’s laptop?’ asked Maggie as the woman opened it and turned it on.

‘Right,’ said Beanie as the screen lit up and invited her to enter a password.

Without hesitation she hit the keyboard.

‘He gave you his password?’ said Maggie incredulously.

‘Not so’s he noticed,’ said Beanie, smiling. ‘But when I invite a man into my house, I expect him to give me everything. Now let’s see. No, not you, hon. He may be a creep, but he’s my creep and even a creep’s got right to some privacy.’

She turned the computer so Maggie couldn’t see the screen. This wasn’t a good sign, possibly signalling a further softening of her attitude to her lover that could make her regret sharing her initial anger with an interested stranger.

Well, unless she tries to silence me by chucking me out of the window, it’s too late to do anything about it now! thought Maggie as she admired the view. To see the sky out of her own bedroom window, you had to open it and lean out backwards. She didn’t envy Beanie much, but this she certainly envied.

Behind her she heard a hiss of rage.

She turned to see that the relatively mellow mood into which the woman had been drifting had vanished like March sunshine.

‘Oh, the lousy bastard. It’s not his fucking clothes I’ll take the scissors to. The bastard!’

Maggie moved forward quickly and looked at the screen.

It contained an email. And this, she instantly realized, might be her second stroke of fortune.

Hi lover, sorry to hear about gran. Yes I’ll be ready with the TLC when you get back tho not sure what it means. Try Licking my Cunny maybe?!!! C u soon Gem xxxxx

She picked up the laptop and moved out of Beanie’s reach. The Bitch looked ready to hurl it through the window if she got her hands on it.

‘Can you believe it? I give him a key to my apartment and he’s doing this to me! Who the fuck is this Gem, you got any idea?’

She glared at Maggie so accusingly that she found herself answering, ‘There’s a junior on the Messenger staff called Gemma Huntley…’

‘A junior? You mean he’s humping some kid then coming here to stick his cock into me? Jesus, I need another drink!’

She stormed out of the bedroom. Maggie didn’t waste time. While she doubted there’d be an early restoration of sympathy for Gwyn Jones, it seemed wise not to take the risk. Within a matter of seconds she’d located a folder marked Gidman, typed in her email address, attached the folder, and sent it.

It was still being downloaded when Beanie returned.

‘What you doing there, hon?’ she asked.

‘There was some stuff here about the Gidmans that I’m sending to my computer. That OK with you?’ said Maggie, thinking that if she kept the woman talking just a few minutes longer it wouldn’t matter if it were all right with her or not.

She needn’t have worried.

‘You get all you want. Anything you can do to stiff Jones is all right by me. And when you’re done, I’m going to send little Miss Gem a reply that will put her off playing with the big girls forever!’

16.30-18.05

Fleur Delay woke out of a dream in which she saw a man get shot in the face by her brother.

But when she stooped to look at the body, the ruined features belonged to Vince.

And when she turned to look at the gunman, it was her own pale face she saw.

She rolled off the bed and staggered into the bathroom to pee. Then she removed her clothes and got into the shower, letting it run cold then hot then cold again. Dried off, she got dressed in fresh clothes, disguised her pallor as best she could with make-up, adjusted her wig carefully, then tried the door that communicated with her brother’s room. When she realized it was locked, she tapped on it gently, then hard.

There was no reply.

She took out her mobile and thumbed in Vince’s number.

‘Hi, sis,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’

‘Downstairs having a sandwich.’

She didn’t reply, but switched off and hurried down the stairs.

Vince saw her before she spotted him. He was in the spacious lobby, settled deep in the kind of armchair whose soft leather upholstery embraced you like a good woman. Seeing the look on his sister’s face confirmed his feeling that he’d rather be rolling around on a thin mattress with a bad woman as long as the action was taking place two hundred miles south of here.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Like a club sandwich? They know their meat here, got to give them that.’

‘How long have you been down here?’

‘Half an hour, maybe,’ he said vaguely.

‘Where’s the woman?’

‘Her car’s still in the car park,’ he assured her. ‘No way she can come down the stairs or out of the lift without I see her. I reckon she’s got Tubby in her room, trying to give him a heart attack.’

She sat down next to him. He was right, he did have a good line of vision on the staircase and lift.

‘So what’s The Man say?’ he asked.

‘He’s thinking about it,’ she prevaricated.

Vince frowned.

‘What’s to think?’

‘He needs to be certain it was Wolfe.’

Vince said, ‘Makes no difference. You always say, you down a guy, you should put space between you and the body soon as you can. So why’re we hanging around?’

‘Because I say so,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve told you before, Vince. Just do as you’re told and we’ll be all right. And no one told you to off that guy.’

‘I only shot him ’cos he was hurting you,’ he protested.

‘Yeah? Don’t think I’m not grateful, ’cos I’m not,’ she retorted.

They sat in separate silences for a while, hers irritated, his hurt.

Fleur thought, Box clever, girl. This is getting us nowhere. If I want him to be able to look after himself, I’ve got to stop putting him down.

She forced a smile and said, ‘Fancy a ciggie?’

‘What about the woman?’ he said, still sulky.

‘We’ll just be outside.’

They went out of the French window on to the terrace, then down the steps into the garden. There were several other addicts there already, their progress along the gravelled walks marked by clouds of tobacco smoke. They lit up and joined the parade. After a while they sat down on an elegant rustic bench and talked as they smoked. As usual, Fleur chose the topic, and as usual it was their Spanish villa.