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seven-thirty. There was still half an hour before she had to meet Oliver in the conference suite. If she could eat at least one of the two croissants that the waiter had brought, and drink the orange juice as well as the coffee, she might make a passable recovery.
    She was topping up her coffee when her eye fell again on the envelope that the waiter had handed her. She had barely registered what it was when she had taken it from him, distracted as she had been by Claudia McRae, her own hangover and the slight feeling of unease that she always experienced when being served by over-attentive hotel staff. She sighed. It was probably connected with the contretemps over the wine yesterday evening. She hoped that it would be nothing more controversial than, perhaps, a routine – and probably insincere – apology from the sommelier. The flap of the envelope had been sealed down, not just folded. She ripped it open, creating an untidy ragged gash in the expensive, cream-laid paper. Inside, there was a single sheet of the hotel’s notepaper. Like the envelope, it was of expensive, cream-laid vellum and had been neatly folded into three so that it fitted the envelope exactly. She opened it out and smoothed it down flat on the desk. The hotel’s address and crest, printed in the same discreet grey-blue in which they appeared on the envelope, but magnified to about twice the size, were centred at the top of the sheet of paper. Otherwise, it bore only two words: Be Careful . These had been inscribed in black ink right in the middle of the page, in a handwriting which attempted to copy Victorian copperplate. There was no date, and no signature: just this single curt message.
    Alex sighed again. The missive aroused in her more irritation than alarm. It had almost certainly come from one of the curmudgeonly old men who had made such a nuisance of themselves yesterday evening. If so, how cowardly of the author not to identify himself! It flitted swiftly across her mind that, alternatively, it might have been written by someone who had seen her leave the bar with Edmund. But she didn’t think that anyone besides Oliver had really been aware that they had been sitting together and he had headed for bed long before her own departure. She was all but certain that no-one had seen her enter the suite with Edmund: one of the clear memories that stood out from the blur of the events of the small hours was of Edmund glancing nervously up and down the corridor as they stood outside her room and she fumbled with the key-card. He would certainly have alerted her – and probably bolted – if anyone had been watching. In any case, she thought defensively, if they had been seen, what could anyone do about it? Tell Tom? Tell Christine? Neither featured at all in the lives of this group of archaeologists; and besides, exactly what was there to tell?
    She looked at her watch again. It was 7.45 a.m. now: time to tackle the croissant. Taking small bites, she masticated the papery mass as thoroughly as she could and managed to swallow about half of it, her gorge rising slightly each time a morsel was dispatched. She spent five heroic minutes at this task, then swigged the last of the orange juice, downed some more coffee and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and apply lipstick. She snatched up her handbag and the folder, inwardly declaring that she was as ready as she would ever be for what the day had in store. It was next to impossible to escape through the mock hallway that led out of her suite without consulting her reflection in its floor-to-ceiling mirror. She threw a sidelong appraising glance at her image and decided that it passed muster. With exaggerated bravado, she strode out of the room to keep her appointment with Oliver.

Chapter Three
    Despite the fact that it was an unspoiled morning and he was driving along some of his favourite country lanes in brilliant winter sunshine, Inspector Tim Yates was not happy. He thought that he had