He snorted. 'I'm Paul Mockby' – as if he expected me to recognise it.

I just nodded; it didn't seem like an occasion for shaking hands. He swung back to the bench and grabbed handfuls of papers. 'Come upstairs and tell me about it.'

The elderly party at the far end of the box said vaguely, 'I'll leave it to you, then, Paul. You'll let me know?'

'I'll let everybody know.' Mockby jerked his head at me and steamed off across the floor at a Rifle Brigade pace.

I followed him back into a lift, up to the fourth floor, and down a corridor that seemed very quiet after the big room. We turned in through a glass-panelled door labelled just M. J. fen-wick and there wasn't any nonsense about letting visitors go first or closing the door after them.

It was a surprisingly small, sparse room. Just one small desk, three simple hard-backed chairs, a glass-fronted bookcase, and a couple of Canaletto prints on the walls. And another door, leading off to the side.

Behind the desk was a small mousy-blonde girl who didn't look as if she'd been doing anything but stare into space. Mockby evicted her by throwing down a five-pound note and snapping, 'Hop out and get me five Bolivars. You know the size.'

She hopped and he dumped himself behind the desk, lita. cigar the size of a copper's truncheon, and said, 'Well?'

'Funny. It doesn't seem the sort of place to handle hundreds of thousands of premiums.'

'Lloyd's doesn't need a front. Can undercut the big companies simply because we keep our overheads down. Under five per cent. Now – what happened?'

I sat down; I could have fossilised before he invited me to. 'He got shot from cover.'

'That's what you were there to stop!'

'Oh, no. I was told we'd meet some people who might turn nastylater.'

He swatted the idea away with a big hand. 'What's the difference?'

'If he'd told me it could be an assassination job, I'd've wanted at least two more men and, even then, I wouldn't have let him near that place at that sort of time.'

While he was absorbing this, the inner door opened and a pretty, not very thin girl in her middle twenties came in carrying a bunch of papers. She had straight, dark-brown hair pulled back in a mock-severe schoolmarm style, and she'd been crying behind her big round horn-rims.

Mockby didn't get up. 'Here, Maggie – this is the bastard who got Martin killed.'

She looked at me quickly, didn't like me, swallowed and blinked back more tears, then hurried out again.

I said, 'And you count the day lost that you don't bring a little sunshine into somebody's life.'

He grunted. 'I still think you ballsed it up.'

I shrugged. 'Who was Mr Fenwick, anyway?'

'He didn't even tell you that? He was the underwriter to our syndicate. Christ!' He slammed his hand down on the papers he'd brought up. 'And his deputy's got the flu and the accountant doesn't come in on Mondays and we could have insured the whole Royal bloody Navy in the last month and I wouldn't know!'

'Maybe there won't be a war this week.'

He glared up at me. 'There was a packet Martin was going to hand over: what happened to it?'

'What was it?'

'Never mind what it bloody was! What happened to it?'

'Mr Mockby – I'd like to stay on this job; find out who killed Mr Fenwick. Can you…'

'You're trying to get into me for more money, are you?'

'No. I'm prepared to spend what I got paid on working on this. After that, well…'

'I don't imagine you could find your arse if you were sitting on it. You aren't a detective; you aren't even a decent bodyguard. Just mind your own business, andwhere's that packet?'

'Maybe the police got it.'

'Hell.' He thought about this. 'You're sure nobody else did?'

'Not the people who shot him, anyway.'

'And you were too busy saving your own neck to bother with it.'

I stood up. 'You could have saved his life.'

He glared suspiciously. 'What d'you mean?'

'You know what it's all about.' He didn't say anything. 'And he worked for you.'

'Not me – the syndicate.'

'You're the rich man; he was the busy one. You could havegone in his place.'

He looked at me with a sort of glowering calm. Then he said quietly, 'Bugger off.'

And there wasn't much else to do.

But I didn't go all the way out.

It was past three o'clock now, and I had a feeling Mockby wouldn't last much longer. The way he'd been throwing those papers around suggested he was either looking for something or trying to get a quick, over-all impression. A real paper-worker – an auditor or intelligence operator – keeps his material neat and tidy.

In fact, he lasted about twenty more minutes, spending the last five down at the box – as I'd guessed he would. All I had to do was to stick to the gallery but not too long in one spot. And when he packed some papers into a briefcase and headed for the front door, I repossessed my own coat and walked back up the stairs.

The little mousy blonde was back and she gave a little mousy squeak when she saw who it was. I soothed her quickly. 'It's all right – I forgot something. Wanted another quick word with Maggie.'

And I was knocking on Maggie's door before she could sort out the half-truths in that.

Maggie called, 'Who is it?' so I showed her.

It was the same size of room – small – but busier-looking. There was a serious desk and typewriter with a balance-sheet-sized carriage; a couple of old breakfront bookcases with some legal-looking books; a grey metal filing cabinet, a row of cactus pots on the window-sill, and a duplicating machine in the corner.

And Maggie. 'You? What on earth doyou want?'

She had a comfortable figure, like a slim cottage loaf, wrapped in a simple short black dress that belonged to later in the day. No – she was in mourning, of course; that was the only black thing she owned. A sharp little nose, slightly overlarge mouth; and still red-eyed from crying. But looked somehow more relaxed now.

I said, 'Just wanted a quick word about Mr Fenwick.'

'Haven't you done enough for him already?' she asked wearily. Since I'd half expected to get her fangs in my jugular, this was hopeful.

'I'd like to try and do a bit more.'

'Ha. I don't see how you could.'

'I'd like to know something about him.'

She shrugged. 'Like what?'

'Well, just give me a feel.'

'Ibeg your pardon?' She went rigid and her eyes opened wide.

'Fenwick – what sort of man he was.'

'Oh.' She relaxed and stared dreamily at nothing. 'He was a wonderful man.'

'I liked him myself,' I said encouragingly.

'You didn't know him.' She dreamed a bit more, blinked at some tears, and fiddled with something in one of the desk drawers. 'He was a marvellous man to work for.'

'Did you know his family?'

'He's got a boy at Harrow. Nice boy.'

'What about his wife – did you meet her? '

She gave a slight snort and a little twisted smile. 'Just twice. She – doesn't come into London much.'

'Where does she live?'

'Why?' – and she fiddled in the drawer again.

'Well -1 reckon the least I can do is go and see her.'

She shrugged. 'I don't suppose she'd care.' Then the phone rang.

Maggie picked it up and spoke listlessly, saying that Mr Mockby and Mr Gale had been in… yes, there'd be a letter sent out in a day or two, just as soon as things had straightened out… I just stood and stared around the office.

Her desk had a clutter that didn't belong; not just papers, but bottles of nail varnish, a couple of paperbacks, a pair of evening shoes. She was still on the phone and looking bored with it. She glanced down and reached for that desk drawer again. It's a gesture that bothers me – somebody's hand reaching for something hidden. Professional training, I suppose. I took a couple of quick strides and leaned over to look.