"Casualty, can I help you?"

Jacko spoke quietly, watching the sister's face. "There is a man with shotgun wounds in the back of a blue Volvo car in your car park."

The portly nurse paled. "You mean here?"

Jacko was angry. "Yes, you dozy old cow, in your own hospital. Now get off your bum and go and get him!" He was tempted to slam the phone down, but he stopped himself and pressed the cradle instead: if he could see the sister, then she could see him. He held the dead phone to his ear while she put hers down, got to her feet, summoned a nurse, and went out into the car park.

Jacko went farther into the hospital and left by another exit. He looked across from the main gate and saw a stretcher being carried across the car park. He had done all he could for Willie.

Now he needed another car.

Felix Laski liked the office of Nathaniel Fett. It was a comfortable room with unobtrusive decor, a good place in which to do business. It had none of the gimmicks Laski used in his own office to give him advantage, like a desk by the window so that his own face was in shadow, or the low, unsteady visitors' chairs, or the priceless bone china coffee cups, which people were terrified of dropping. Fett's office had the atmosphere of a club for company chairmen: no doubt it was deliberate. Laski noticed two things as he shook Fett's long, narrow hand: first, that there was a large, apparently little-used desk; and second, that Fett wore a club tie. The tie was a curious choice for a Jew, he reflected; then, on second thought, he decided it was not curious at all. Fett wore it for the same reason Laski wore a beautifully tailored Savile Row pinstriped suit: as a badge which said I, too, am an Englishman. So, Laski thought, even after six generations of banking Fetts, Nathaniel is still a little insecure. It was a piece of information which could be used.

Fett said: "Sit down, Laski. Would you like coffee?"

"I drink coffee all day. It's bad for the heart. No, thank you."

"A drink?"

Laski shook his head. Refusing hospitality was one of his ways of putting a host at a disadvantage. He said: "I knew your father quite well, until he retired. His death was a loss. This is said of so many people, but in his case it is true."

"Thank you." Fett sat back in a club chair opposite Laski and crossed his legs. His eyes were inscrutable behind the thick glasses. "It was ten years ago," he added.

"So long? He was much older than I, of course, but he knew that, like his ancestors, I came from Warsaw."

Fett nodded. "The first Nathaniel Fett crossed Europe with a bag of gold and a donkey."

"I did the same journey on a stolen Nazi motorcycle and a suitcase full of worthless reichsmarks."

"Yet your rise was so much more meteoric."

It was a put-down, Laski realized: Fett was saying We may be jumped-up Polish Jews, but we're not half as jumped-up as you. The stockbroker was Laski's match at this game; and with those spectacles to hide his expression he did not need the light behind him. Laski smiled. "You're like your father. One never knew what he was thinking."

"You haven't yet given me anything to think about."

"Ah." So the small talk is over, Laski thought. "I'm sorry my phone call was a little mysterious. It was good of you to see me at short notice."

"You said you had a seven-figure proposal to put to one of my clients: how could I not see you? Would you like a cigar?" Fett got up and proffered a box from a side table.

Laski said: "Thank you." He lingered a little too long over his choice; then, as his hand descended to take a cigar, he said: "I want to buy Hamilton Holdings from Derek Hamilton."

The timing was perfect, but Fett showed no flicker of surprise. Laski had hoped he might drop the box. But, of course, Fett had known Laski would choose that moment to drop the bombshell, had created the moment for just that purpose.

He closed the box and gave Laski a light without speaking. He sat down again and crossed his legs. "Hamilton Holdings, for seven figures."

"Exactly one million pounds. When a man sells his life's work, he is entitled to a nice round figure."

"Oh, I see the psychology of your approach," Fett said lightly. "This is not entirely unexpected."

"What?"

"I don't mean we expected you. We expected somebody. The time is ripe."

"The bid is substantially more than the value of the shares at current prices."

"The margin is about right," Fett said.

Laski spread his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of appeal. "Let's not fence," he said. "It's a high offer."

"But less than what the shares will be worth if Derek's syndicate gets the oil well."

"Which brings me to my only condition. The offer depends upon the deal being done this morning."

Fett looked at his watch. "It's almost eleven. Do you really think this could be done-even assuming Derek's interested-in one hour?"

Laski tapped his briefcase. "I have all the necessary documents drawn up."

"We could hardly read them-"

"I also have a letter of intent containing heads of agreement. That will satisfy me."

"I should have guessed you would be prepared." Fett considered for a moment. "Of course, if Derek doesn't get the oil well, the shares will probably go down a bit."

"I am a gambler." Laski smiled.

Fett continued: "In which case, you will sell off the company's assets and close down the unprofitable branches."

"Not at all," Laski lied. "I think it could be profitable in its present form with new top management."

"You're probably right. Well, it's a sensible offer, one that I'm obliged to put to the client."

"Don't play hard to get. Think of the commission on a million pounds."

"Yes," Fett said coldly. "I'll ring Derek." He picked up a phone from a coffee table and said: "Derek Hamilton, please."

Laski puffed at his cigar and concealed his anxiety.

"Derek, it's Nathaniel. I've got Felix Laski with me. He's made an offer." There was a pause. "Yes, we did, didn't we? One million in round figures. You would… all right. We'll be here. What? Ah… I see." He gave a faintly embarrassed laugh. "Ten minutes." He put the phone down. "Well, Laski, he's coming over. Let's read those documents of yours while we're waiting."

Laski could not resist saying: "He's interested, then."

"He could be."

"He said something else, didn't he?"

Fett gave the embarrassed little laugh again. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. He said that if he gives you the company by midday, he wants the money in his hand by noon."

Kevin Hart found the address the news desk had given him and parked on a yellow line. His car was a two-year-old Rover with a V8 engine, for he was a bachelor, and the Evening Post paid Fleet Street salaries, so he was a good deal wealthier than most men aged twenty-two. He knew this, and he took pleasure in it; and he was not old enough to discreetly conceal that pleasure, which was why men like Arthur Cole disliked him.

Arthur had been very ratty when he came out of the editor's conference. He had sat behind the news desk, given out a batch of assignments in the usual way, then called Kevin and told him to come around to his side of the desk and sit down: a sure sign that he was about to be given what the reporters called a bollocking.

Arthur had surprised him by talking, not about the way he had barged into the conference, but about the story. He had asked: "What was the voice like?"

Kevin said: "Middle-aged man, Home Counties accent. He was choosing his words. Maybe too carefully-he might have been drunk, or distressed."