"Not at all. I appreciated the note, Jim, it was kind of you."

Jim turned back to the coffee machine, now spluttering the treacle liquid into cups. He opened a cupboard and took out a set of saucers and a side plate. "There was a policeman outside your door for days," he said, lifting a packet of amaretto biscuits out of a food cupboard. "The journalists arrived in the close the day after it happened. They were here all last week, asking everyone about you. I didn't think they could print anything about a court case that was coming up."

"There might not be a court case," said Maureen. "They haven't got anyone for it yet."

"Oh, that's great," he said, looking relieved. "I knew it wasn't you." He put the plate of amaretto biscuits on the table. They were individually wrapped in blue, red and green tissue paper, twisted at the ends like big sweets.

She was trying hard to like him, if only he weren't so affected. She asked him to describe the journalists and recognized the two men who had taken pictures of Liz. "They came to see me at work," she said. "We had to shut the office because of them."

"Yeah, those two were the worst," said Jim, handing them each a cup of coffee and standing on the other side of the table as he sipped his. "They knocked on old Mrs. Sood's door for ten minutes one night. She was terrified. I think the police should have told them to stop it, I mean, there was an officer outside your door the whole time, it wouldn't have taken much effort." He leaned forward and took a biscuit, unwrapped it delicately and bit through the middle. It wasn't big enough to warrant more than one bite. Maureen wanted to stand up and ram the rest of it into his mouth. "It's a good job you didn't come up yourself," he said, "or the journalists would have caught you."

"What do you mean?" said Liam.

"Well, the night they were banging on Mrs. Sood's door" – he gestured to Maureen – "that was the same night your pal came up and went into the house."

Maureen spoke slowly. "Which pal was this, Jim?"

"Didn't you send your pal up to the house?"

"No. Why do you think it was a pal of mine?"

Jim looked thoughtfully at Maureen as he ate the second half of his biscuit. He sat down at the table. "Listen," he said, watching his hands as he spread them on the table in front of him, "I know I sound like a nosy neighbor or something but it didn't seem right. I left the note under your door because I wanted to tell you about it." He smiled slyly. "It was a bit of a ruse. It wasn't really that I'd made too much lasagna although I've got some if you want it-"

"Just tell me what happened," said Maureen, curtly.

"Well," said Jim, "I heard a noise in the close, they were banging on her door and I was watching out of the spy hole and I saw your pal, the guy that comes up sometimes."

"What does he look like?" she said.

"Dark hair cut short, tall, about six foot. Broad on the shoulders. He had a leather jacket on."

"What did the jacket look like?"

"It was brown with a zip up the front," said Jim. "Wee collar and pockets at the side."

"That's Benny!" exclaimed Liam.

"Whisht a minute, Liam," said Maureen, and turned back to Jim. "Wasn't there a policeman at the door?"

"Yes, a uniformed officer, but as I was watching he left and your pal came up the stairs."

"Did they talk to each other?"

"No, no," said Jim. "I'll tell you what happened. I was listening to them banging, and watching through the spy hole, when I heard a couple of loud bangs in the back court and the policeman heard them too. He kept bending down to look out the landing window and I saw him talking into his walkie-talkie and go downstairs. The journalists were still banging on her door. I was waiting to see if the policeman would tell them to stop it when I heard someone walking up the stairs dead fast, like they were in a big hurry. So I looked out, expecting to see the policeman again but I saw that guy in the leather jacket and he was holding something in the jacket and looking at your door with his back to me but he was acting suspicious.

He went like this -" Jim cocked his head to the side like someone listening for something, but he was enjoying being the center of attention and smiled serenely, rolling his eyes heavenward like an ugly cherub with a stupid hairdo. "See?" continued Jim. "He was listening to my door to see if there was someone in here, so I knew he wasn't a policeman. So, anyway, he let himself in and came out again in a minute or so-"

"He let himself in? You mean he had a key?"

"Uh-huh, he had a key. I didn't know who it was but when he came back out he turned round and I saw his face."

"Okay," said Maureen patiently. "Did he have the thing in his jacket when he came back out?"

Jim thought about it. "No, he had two free hands when he came out." He waggled his hands in illustration. "Did he steal something? Is that why he was there?"

Maureen said she didn't know, she hadn't looked. "When was this, Jim?"

"Last Monday night," said Jim. "About eight."

Liam looked at her inquisitively. "What was going on then?"

"It was the night we watched Hard Boiled," said Maureen.

"He came in with the jacket on that night," said Liam. " 'Member?"

"It just didn't seem right to me," said Jim, trying to get their attention again.

"Are you sure he had a key?" asked Maureen.

"Aye."

"You said he had something under the jacket. What sort of thing?"

"Well, he was being careful with it, he was holding it at the bottom, like this." Jim held his hand across his body and made a fist, as if he were holding a pole upright.

"How long was it? Could you see through the jacket?"

"I could see an outline. It looked about ten, twelve, inches long. It was like he was holding a stick or something."

"Jim," said Maureen, avoiding direct eye contact in case her dislike became too evident, "you've been such a help, really…"

"I did think there was something wrong about it all," said Jim. He looked about to launch into another monologue.

"We have to go," said Maureen. "Thanks again."

When they left the house Jim asked her to remember to bring his Celtic top back.

"Oh, Jim, of course," she said, "and the jogging trousers."

"You take care of yourself," he said, avuncular and pitying. "I'll see you when you come home."

He gave her a peck on the cheek. His lips were damp.

The white Volkswagen got stuck in the filter lane for the M8 motorway and the policemen had to split up. One ran after Maureen and Liam on foot while the other waited out the jam.

Maureen and Liam walked back toward the West End in silence, oblivious to the minor drama unfolding behind them. It was drizzling again; Maureen's hair was stuck to her head and she didn't have her scarf with her. Swirling damp rain was getting in at the neck, softening the scratch scabs, ripening them for the rough collar of her overcoat. Liam looked normal now, as if his head was bent against the rain. Maureen started crying noiselessly, knowing that the soft rain would cover for her.

When Liam finally spoke his voice was a hoarse whisper, but he was so close that she could hear him perfectly over the noise of the fast cars slashing past. "What does this mean?" he said.

She took a deep shaky breath to stop herself crying. "Well," she said, checking that her voice sounded okay, "it doesn't mean we're cozy safe and among friends, does it?"

Liam hooked his arm through hers. "Are you crying, Mauri?"

"A bit," she said.

"What's making you cry?" His voice was gentle and she was afraid she might start bawling in the street.

"That was the worst-told story I've ever had to sit through," she said.

Liam squeezed her arm with his elbow. Maureen squeezed back. "You don't seem surprised about Benny," said Liam.