It was like something out of a Samuel Beckett play, thought McLoughlin. Two old men sitting in semi-darkness, chatting-one nude and dead, the other sodden, and in more ways than one. He didn't doubt for a minute that Wally had spent the night with K.C., rambling happily about this and that. Wally loved to talk. Was it a horrible shock, he wondered, to find in the sober morning light that he'd been chatting with a corpse? Probably not. Wally, he was sure, had seen many worse things. "So did you shut the door again when you left?"

The old man pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Sort of." He seemed to be weighing the problem in his mind. "That's to say, I did the first time. The first time I shut it. Seemed to me 'e wanted to be left in peace or 'e wouldn't 'ave wedged a brick against it. Then that geezer in the shed gave me the whisky, an' I 'ad a few mouffuls, an' I got to finking about proper burials an' such. Seemed wrong some'ow to leave 'im wivout a chance of a few good words bein' said for 'im, wouldn't want it personally, so I nips back and opens the door. Reckoned 'e'd 'ave more chance of bein' found wiv ve door open."

It would be cruel, McLoughlin thought, to tell him that by opening the door he had let in the heat, the dogs, the rats and putrefaction. He hoped Walsh wouldn't do it.

"And that," Wally finished firmly, "is all I knows. Can I go now?"

"Not likely," said Nick Robinson, "the Inspector wants a word with you." He took a firm grip on Wally's arm and looked enquiringly at McLoughlin. "How about filling me in?"

.McLoughlin grinned evilly. "Let's just say, you got your wires crossed, old son."

He folded himself wearily into his car and sat for some time staring blankly through the windscreen. Some words of Francis Bacon kept repeating themselves in his mind like a memory-jerk mnemonic. "Revenge is a kind of wild justice. The more man's nature runs to it, the more ought law to weed it out." He rubbed his gaunt face. He had told Anne he sympathised with personal vengeance but he knew now that wasn't true. The end result of an "eye for an eye" was a world gone blind. With a sigh, he fired the motor and drew out into the traffic.

He lived in a modern box on a large estate to the northwest of Silverborne where every house was depressingly similar and where individuality expressed itself only in what colour you chose to paint your front door. It had satisfied him once. Before he had seen Streech Grange.

"Hello, Andy," said Kelly. She was standing irresolutely by the kitchen sink, mop in hand, washing the dirty dishes he had left untouched for ten days. He had forgotten how stunning she was and how easily that fabulous body had once been able to turn him on.

"Hello."

"Pleased to see me?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Look, you don't need to do those. I was planning to tackle them over the weekend. I haven't been around much this week."

"I know. I've been trying to phone you."

He went to the fridge and took out a piece of cheese from among the opened tins of furred tomatoes and sliced cling peaches. He held it out to her. "Want some?" She shook her head, so he ate the whole lump before looking at his watch. "I've a phone call to make, then I'll grab a quick shower before I go out." He waved his arm to encompass the whole house. "Take your time and take what you like." He smiled without hostility. "Except my books and my two boat paintings. You won't quibble over those, will you? You always said they were only good for gathering dust." So much so that they had been relegated, along with him, to the spare room.

He was on his way to the stairs when his conscience smote and he turned round. "Look, really, don't do the washing-up. It's not necessary. I'd have done it myself if I'd had the time." He smiled again. "You'll ruin your nail varnish."

Her mouth trembled. "Jack and me, it didn't work." She flung herself after him and burrowed her sweet-smelling head into his chest. "Oh, Andy, I've missed you. I want to come home. I want to come home so much."

An awful lethargy stole over him then, like the lethargy a drowning man must feel in the moment before he gives up. His eyes looked into the middle distance above her head, seeking straws. There were none. He held her for a second or two, then gently disentangled himself. "Come home," he said. "It's yours as much as mine."

"You're not angry?"

"Not at all. I'm glad."

Her wonderful eyes shone like stars. "Your mother said you would be."

Straws, he thought, were useless to drowning men. It was the unquenchable longing for life that kept heads above water. "I'll have that shower, then I'll be off," he said. "I'll fetch the books and the paintings tomorrow, and maybe the records I bought before we were married." He glanced through the sitting-room door at the chromium coffee table, the oatmeal carpet, the net curtains, the white formica wall units and the dainty pastel three-piece suite, and he thought, no one has even lived here. He shook his head. "There's nothing else I want."

She caught him by the arm. "You are angry."

His dark face cracked into a grin. "No. I'm glad. I needed a push. I hate this place. I always have done. It's so"-he sought for a word-"sterile." He looked at her with compassion. "Like our marriage."

She dug her fingers into his arm. "I knew you'd bring that up, you bastard. But it's not my fault. You never wanted kids any more than I did."

He removed her hands. "That wasn't quite the sterility I was referring to."

She was bitter. "You've found someone else."

He moved to the telephone, took a piece of paper from his pocket and dialled the number written on it. "McLoughlin," he said into the mouthpiece. "We've identified the body. That's it, all over the newspapers tomorrow, so if he's any sense he'll lie low. Yes, it'll have to be tonight. Damn right, I want him. Let's just say I take what he did personally. So can you swing it?" He listened for a moment. "Just make the point that they've got away with murder again. I'll be with you by ten." He looked up and caught Kelly's eye.

Water had gathered in great droplets round the mascaraed lashes. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe Glasgow."

Tears turned to anger, and her anger lashed out at him as it always had done. "You've left that bloody job, haven't you? After all the begging I did for you to leave, you've left it because someone else asked you."

"No one's asked me, Kelly, and I haven't left it, not yet."

"But you will."

"Maybe."

"Who is she?"

He found he wanted to hurt her, so there must be some feeling left. Perhaps there always would be. Seven years, however sterile, had left their mark. "She's my rose," he said, "my red, red rose." And Kelly, who had heard enough of hated Rabbie Burns to last a lifetime, felt a knot of panic tighten round her heart.

Phoebe rocked Diana's shoulder and prodded her into wakefulness. "We've got visitors," she whispered. "I need help." Somewhere in the darkness behind her came the low growls of the dogs.

Diana squinted at her out of 'one eye. "Turn the light on," she said sleepily.

"No, I don't want them to know we're awake." She bundled Diana's dressing-gown on to her chest. "Come on, old girl, get a move on."

"Have you called the police?" Diana sat up and shrugged her arms into the dressing-gown.

"No point. It'll be over one way or another long before the police get here." Phoebe switched on a small torch and pointed it at the floor. "Come on," she urged, "we haven't much time."

Diana pulled on her slippers and padded after her. "Why are the dogs here? Why aren't they outside? And where's McLoughlin?"

"He didn't come tonight." She sighed. "The one night we needed him, he didn't turn up."