“You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Really? You and Mrs. Tozer had a tiff, have you? Don’t worry. You’ll soon patch it up. You’ll have to. Otherwise, when we move on Starburst-and, believe me, it is when, not if-Tozer’s stake in your lawn-trimming outfit will look very bad for you. Trust me on that.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Certainly not.” Unsworth looked theatrically outraged. “I’m actually trying to help you. And Mrs. Tozer. Now’s the time for a clean break from her late husband’s shenanigans. Repaying every last cent would be a painful experience for her. I’d be willing to recommend latitude in that department if information was volunteered to us in the wake of Tozer’s sad demise. You see what I’m saying? This is your chance to get out from under-and her with you. You’d be well advised to take it. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open. I need documentary evidence. You should be able to lay your hands on some, under the guise of helping out your lady love in her new role as Starburst International’s supremo.”

“If what you say is true, if Starburst really is involved in-”

“It’s involved, Mr. Harding. You’re going to have to face up to that. Its principal role is as middleman between the EU grants machinery and false claimants. Agricultural subsidies are the biggest turnover item. You know the sort of thing. Hill farms with a grid reference that if any of those Europrats bothered to check they’d realize was in the middle of the Bay of bloody Biscay. Vineyards various golfing chums of Tozer’s built high-rise apartment blocks on years ago. It doesn’t stop at agriculture, of course. Recently, they’ve moved into VAT carouselling. Basically, it’s anything and everything, with Starburst taking a fat slice every time. I think Tozer got started in the game when Cornwall was awarded Objective One status back in 2000 and EU money started falling like rain on the land of the piskies. Then he brought in Whybrow-an expert in the field-and things really took off.”

“All right. Say all that’s true. Say Whybrow really is pulling the strings. He’s clever. You admitted that yourself. He’s never going to let me get a sniff of anything proving what he’s up to.”

“He can’t stop you. It’s Mrs. Tozer’s company now. He’ll have to let her in on it. And what she finds out you find out. If you play your cards right. But remember: I need the kind of material that’ll stand up in court. So, we’ll see what you can dig up… and let you know whether it’s good enough… or if you need to dig deeper.” Unsworth grinned. “I’m confident you can get what we want.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Let’s not be defeatist.” Unsworth plucked a card from his pocket and slid it across the table. “My number’s on there. I’ll expect to hear from you within, oh… a month. That should give you ample time to get the measure of the situation.” The grin broadened. “I have a good feeling about this, Mr. Harding. You’ll enjoy it once you get into your stride. Just think of the public service you’ll be performing. You wouldn’t let parasites take over a garden, would you? Well, this is no different. It really isn’t.”

A phone call summoned Unsworth elsewhere before he could make a move on the patisserie. He left Harding to finish his coffee and stare at the card that was still lying on the table. He had known better than to try to convince Unsworth the state of his relations with Carol meant he stood no chance of being able to burrow into the financial secrets of Starburst International. He did not doubt those secrets were deep and dark. Unsworth’s assessment of them had sounded horribly convincing. It seemed entirely possible to him that Carol already knew about them. Not that it made much difference either way. She had made it clear their affair was over. But Unsworth would never believe that. He would simply assume Harding was trying to wriggle off the hook. Which was precisely what he would have to do, somehow, before the month he had been granted was up. Although a month, ironically, seemed to him at that moment an almost unimaginable interval. Where he would be at the end of it-how he would be-was a mystery to him.

The ringing of his own phone interrupted his reverie.

“Hello?”

“Tim. Tony here. Is Carol with you?”

“No. We, er, parted at Nymphenburg.”

“I see. Were you able to… clear up with her… that matter we discussed last night?”

“Oh yes.”

“Good.”

“She’s meeting the investigating officer this afternoon.”

“So I believe.”

“Any er… news of Hayley?”

“None. Which is an increasing concern to me. It would be unfortunate if she remained at liberty for any length of time.”

“Unfortunate?”

“Worrying, perhaps I should say. For Carol. And for you. Unless, of course, you can be absolutely certain she no longer poses a threat.”

“How could I be?” Harding responded, seeking to play Whybrow at his own game.

“True. Absolute certainty in the world of risk assessment is naturally unattainable. Especially if you can’t be sure where the risk lies.”

Harding caught himself glancing nervously round the café. For a fraction of a second, he had thought Whybrow might actually be there, smiling at him from a corner table. But no. There were only stolid Münchners digesting their lunches.

“When are you planning to go home, Tim?”

“Tomorrow, I… suppose.”

“I’ll make sure the hotel knows Starburst will pay your bill.”

Starburst will pay. The phrase would never sound the same again. “Thanks,” said Harding.

“No problem,” said Whybrow “It’s the least we can do… after all you’ve done for us.”

The light was failing when Harding returned to the Cortiina. He had turned off his phone after Whybrow’s call and had filled several empty hours sitting on benches in the innumerable galleries of the Alte Pinakothek, gazing vacantly at gloomy yardages of Renaissance canvas. There were no messages waiting for him at the hotel. The police had not been in touch. There was nothing to prevent him doing what he had told Whybrow he meant to do: go home. But home was a slippery concept. He was not sure where to find it anymore.

He was in the middle of explaining to the receptionist that he would be checking out in the morning when he heard his name spoken softly from close behind.

“Harding.”

Turning, he was surprised to see Gary Lawton standing at his shoulder, wearing the haunted look of a seriously worried man.

“Gary. Where did you spring from?”

“Bar over the road. I’ve been waiting for you to get back. We need to talk.” Lawton grasped Harding’s elbow. “We really need to talk.”

They did not go to the bar where Lawton had lain in wait. He preferred a beer-hall, piloting Harding round the corner to the Hofbräuhaus, a vast and clearly tourist-oriented establishment where a lederhosen-clad oompah band accompanied the eager guzzling from foaming mugs by its cosmopolitan clientele.

“Nobody local comes here,” said Lawton as they settled at the empty end of one of the farther-flung tables. “There’s not much chance of anyone I know spotting us.”

“Is this where you met Hayley?”

“No. But I wasn’t being so careful then.”

“Why are you being careful now?”

“Do you need to ask? For Christ’s sake, man, this is a murder case. You were there when it happened, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harding confirmed, bewildered by the degree to which the memory of the event was assuming a dream-like quality in his mind.

“The police had me in for questioning today.”

“I suppose they would.”

“Helga’s doing her nut. She answered the phone to Ulbricht this morning. He quoted a gagging clause in my contract with the clinic that he claims I may have broken.”

“Just covering his back, I imagine.”