'She wrote it there!'

'Yes, she wrote it on the sideboard. I remember that. She had a silver Parker-'

'Did she seem worried?'

'I don't think so, no. A bit flushed, perhaps-but we'd all had a few drinks and-'

'What were you all talking about? Try to remember, please!'

Catharine shook her pretty head. 'I can't. I'm sorry, Inspector, but-'

'Think!' pleaded Morse.

And so she tried to think: think what people normally spoke about-the weather, work, inflation, gossip, children… And slowly she began to form a hazy recollection about an interlude. It was about children, surely… Yes, they were talking at one stage about children: something to do with the Oxfam appeal for the Cambodian refugees, was it? Or Korean? Somewhere in that part of the world, anyway.

Morse groaned inwardly as she tried to give some sort of coherence to thoughts so inchoate and so confused, but she'd told him about the note, and that was something.

Unfortunately, the item of far greater importance she'd just imparted was completely lost on Morse. At least for the moment.

Over breakfast on Tuesday morning, Morse read his one item of mail with mild; half-engaged interest. It was the Oxford Book Association's monthly newsletter, giving a full account of Dame Helen's memorable speech, discussing the possibility of a Christmas Book Fair, reporting the latest deliberations of the committee, and then-Morse stopped and stared very hard. It was with deep regret that we heard of the death of Anne Scott. Anne had served on the committee only since the beginning of this year, but her good humour, constructive suggestions, and invariable willingness to help even in the most routine and humdrum chores-all these will be sadly missed. The chairman represented the Association at Anne's funeral. Well, that was news to Morse. Perhaps-no, almost certainly-he would have seen Anne at that last meeting if things had turned out differently. And if only he'd been a regular member, he would have seen her often. If only! He sighed and knew that life was full of 'if only' for everyone. Then he turned the page and the capital letters of the corrigendum jumped out at him. 'The next meeting NOTE THE CHANGE PLEASE will be on Friday, 19^th October, when the speaker (this as previously advertised) will be MR. CHARLES RICHARDS. His subject Triumphs and Tribulations of the Small Publisher will be of particular interest to many of our members and we look forward to a large attendance. Mr. Richards apologises for the late notification of the change which is necessitated because of business commitments.' Morse made a brief note in his diary: there was nothing else doing that evening. He might go. On the whole, he thought not, though.

When the phone rang at 10.30 a.m. the same morning, Charles Richards was in his office. Normally the call would have filtered from the outer office through his secretary, but she was now sitting opposite him taking down shorthand (interspersed, Richards noticed, with rather too many pieces of longhand to give him much real confidence in her stenographic skills). He picked up the phone himself.

'Richards here. Can I help you?'

A rather faint, working-class voice replied that he (it was a 'he', surely?) was sure as 'ow Mister Charles Richards could 'elp: and at the first mention of his wife, Richards clamped his hand over the mouthpiece, told his secretary to leave him for a few minutes, waited for the door to close, and then spoke slowly and firmly into the phone.

'I don't know who you are and I don't want to know, you blackmailing rat! But I believe what you said in your letter and I've made arrangements to get the money-exactly one quarter of what you asked for, do you understand me?'

There was no reply.

'There's no chance of my agreeing to the arrangements you made-absolutely none. So listen carefully. Tomorrow night-got that?-tomorrow night I shall be driving slowly down the Woodstock Road-from the roundabout at the top-at half past eight. Exactly half past eight. I shall be driving a light blue Rolls Royce, and I shall stop just inside a road called Field House Drive-two words: "Field House". It's just above Squitchey Lane. I shall get out there and I shall be carrying a brown carrier bag. Then I shall walk up to the telephone kiosk about fifty yards north of Field House Drive, go into the kiosk, and then come out again and put the carrier bag behind the kiosk, just inside the ivy there. Behind the kiosk-got that?-not inside it. It will be absolutely safe, you can take my word on that. I shall then walk straight back to the car and drive back up the Woodstock Road. Do you understand all that?' Still no reply.

'There'll be no funny business on my part, and there'd better be none on yours! You can pick up your money-it's yours. But there'll not be a penny more-you can take that as final. Absolutely final. And if you do try anything else like this again, I'll kill you, do you hear that? I'll kill you with my own hands, you snivelling swine!'

Throughout this monologue, Richards had been continuously aware of the harsh, wheezy breathing of the man on the other end of the line, and now he waited for whatever reply might be forthcoming. But there was none. 'Have you got it all straight?'

Finally, he heard the tight voice again. 'You'll be glad you done this, Mister Richards. So will Missis Richards.' With that, the line was dead.

Charles Richards put away the sheet of paper from which he had been reading, and immediately called in his secretary once more.

'Sorry about that. Where were we…?' He sounded completely at ease, but his heart was banging hard against his rib-cage as he dictated the next letter.

Mr. Parkes was old, and would soon die. For the last few years he had been drinking heavily, but he had no regrets about that. Looking back over his life, however, he felt it had been largely wasted. Even his twenty years as headmaster of a primary school in Essex seemed to him now a period of little real achievement. A great addict from his early boyhood of all types of puzzles-mathematical problems, crosswords, chess, bridge-he had never found his proper niche. And as he sat drinking another bottle of Diet lager he regretted for the millionth time that no academic body had ever offered him a grant to set his mind to Etruscan or Linear C. He could have cracked those stubborn codes, by now! Oh yes!

He had stopped thinking about Anne Scott several days ago.

Mrs. Raven was discussing with her husband the final stages of their long-drawn-out (but now at last successful) campaign to adopt a baby. Both of them had been much surprised at the countless provisos and caveats surrounding such an innocent and benevolent-sounding process: the forms in duplicate and triplicate; the statements of incomes, job prospects, religious persuasions, and family history; oaths and solemn undertakings that the prospective parents would 'make no attempt whatsoever to discover the names, dwellings, situations, or any other relevant details of the former parent(s), neither to seek to ascertain'-etc., etc., etc. Oh dear! Mrs. Raven had felt almost guilty about everything, especially since it was she herself, according to the gynaecologist, who was thwarting her husband's frequent and frenetic attempts to propagate the Raven species. Still, things were nearly ready now, and she was so looking forward to getting the baby. She'd have to stay at home much more, of course. No more badminton evenings for a while; no more bridge parties. She had stopped thinking about Anne Scott several days ago.