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myself.’
    ‘Are you calling me on business, Mr…’
    ‘Salvatore. Well, yes and no, as you say. I am not in the business of ringing up strangers simply to reduce the Post Office’s deficit, anyway. So, I tell you why I am ringing. I am ringing to say that I am sorry about the cat.’
    ‘The…’
    ‘Yes, Mr McKechnie, it was, how shall I say, you understand French, Mr McKechnie, it showed un peu trop d’enthousiasme. In simple language, the lads got carried away.’
    ‘You…fucker.’ McKechnie didn’t really know what to say; he didn’t in fact care much about the cat; it had always been, as she herself put it, Rosie’s baby.
    ‘Well, I accept your rebuke. Now, the second thing I have to say is, I hope very much that your lady wife is recovering from her unpleasant ordeal. And I suggest that you do not hang up.’ The tone had hardened. McKechnie did not reply. The voice went on. ‘Well, I take the liberty of inferring from your silence that she is, as you put it, on the mend.’
    Again, McKechnie did not reply.
    ‘And the third thing I have to say to you is this. Don’t you think it is extraordinary that the police have no idea what might have happened, or why, or who would have done such a thing? By the way, I assume you did not tell them about your pretty secretary who seems not to be working for you any more?’
    McKechnie still did not reply. He was trying to write down on his telephone pad as much as possible of the conversation.
    ‘No, you did not. I think I can tell that. So, if I may sum up, Mr McKechnie, what I am saying to you is this. Isn’t it extraordinary, and isn’t it a little frightening, that two such unpleasant things could happen in your very own home, and that the police, after full investigation, have found no clues that are of any use to them? Is it not ironic that the one clue which might have been of use was denied to them by you? It is not a pretty situation, is it, Mr McKechnie, at least not for you? I mean, the point is, isn’t it, that something similar, or even, though I do hesitate to say so, something quite a lot worse, could happen, and you would be fairly certain that once again the police would not be able to be of any assistance? What do you say to that, Mr McKechnie?’
    ‘I say, you never can tell.’
    ‘And I say to you, Mr McKechnie, that some of us can, some of us can tell. I mean, take the present case. Say you go back to your police. Say you tell them you’re sorry, you lied, you didn’t tell them about Barbara. Do you think that would make them redouble their energies, if you went and told them you had been lying to them? They are only human, after all, Mr McKechnie, they would merely think you had been telling more lies, they would probably say to each other, as you put it, “Stuff him”. And then, if they did take you seriously, where has this new piece of information taken them? How much nearer are they to their quarry? There are other crimes every day, even in your neck of the woods.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Ah, I am happy that you asked me that, Mr McKechnie. It shows at least that you are not a stupid man. What I want you to do is to think. What I want you to think about is what people call the angles. That is all that I want you to do, for the moment. And now I will get off this line and let you go about your lawful business.’
    The phone was put down.
    McKechnie dutifully started to think about the angles. Was he being preshed? Not yet, anyway. Was he being softened up for being preshed? If so, they were going about it in a pretty extreme manner. Was his wife safe at home? Was he safe? Should he go back to the Guildford police? Should he go along to the station here, West Central, up in Broadwick Street? Should he perhaps try and get the investigation transferred to West Central, and hope that the bit about Barbara would get dropped on the way? But what did he really have to tell them here? One thing he could do was go and have a chat to