Anderson was holding centre stage again at the Glasshouse. ‘That’s right,’ he was saying, ‘and if a Chinese kid wants to learn the piano they get him going on a simple piece called “Knives and Forks”.’

He had the others laughing, but Carol knew he was in a mood. It was almost impossible to spot unless you knew him well. There’d be that faintly abstract look in his eyes, the slightest impression that he wasn’t giving his full attention to being the life and soul of the party, although his brain spun at such a speed that he was always able to deal with any number of conflicting thoughts at the same time.

‘You want to come back to my place for a bite, Carol?’ he said, when the others were talking generally.

‘You’re not working tonight?’

‘I should be, but all work and no play …’

Yet Carol knew he never played, not these days, and though he’d be jolly and chatty back at his flat, she’d know in the occasional silences that he was brooding about the Donna Jackson business, brooding with a new intensity now that Bobby Mahon had been cleared.

‘We’ll have one more before we go then.’ And he was off to the bar, though not bouncing with his usual restless energy.

Carol knew that Mahon being out of it had messed up that big feature he’d wanted to write, that he was positive would help him in his ambition to be an investigative journalist on a paper like The Sunday Times. There’d be another ending to the Donna killing and he’d dig it all out brilliantly, but they both knew it wasn’t going to have the same impact. Frank Crane was bugging him too, though she knew he also reluctantly admired him, the way he could ferret things out that Geoff was kicking himself that he’d not picked up on. He was so competitive, forever wanting to spot the bad lots before the police did. He’d be impossible to live with if Crane got ahead of him now, after all the work he’d put in, though Crane was probably off the case with the police reopening their files. She wished to God Geoff was. It had been nothing but Donna Jackson since they’d pulled the poor kid out of Tanglewood. She sighed. A flesh and blood rival she could cope with, but a dead beauty? Yet she couldn’t help loving the big dope. Things would be different when he made it to London. Then that provoked another dismal thought: would he take her with him?

At the bar, Anderson could brood in peace, not feeling he had to be the amiable charmer he’d spent his working life perfecting. He just couldn’t get Mahon’s innocence out of his head. It messed everything up, every bloody thing. Donna and that piece of rubbish had been the story. The way he’d decided to write the big feature was carefully to imply that it couldn’t have been anyone else but Mahon, let the reader draw his own conclusions. And then Mahon was suddenly out of the frame. What was the story going to be now? Would it have anything like the same force? He doubted it. He switched on a cheery smile for the bar girl who brought his drinks, who he knew fancied him. Well, at least it must mean that clever sod Crane was off the case, he could do without him turning up the leads that should have been his. That break Crane had had with Cliff Greenwood still stung.

He sat down with Carol, faithful Carol, whose body had stopped turning him on some time ago, though her clever, well-read mind was still a big draw, and the tasty meals she cooked for him. It would be all over when he went to London. Alone, definitely alone. London would solve everything.

Patsy could hardly believe it, but Frank was in her little flat a third time! It couldn’t be the new hairstyle, could it, and the care she was taking with her clothes and make-up? She went off to get the drinks, leaving Crane with a renewed sense of guilt. He had an idea the kid was getting a little struck on him, when the only reason he was back here again was the original one – her knowledge of the Willows and the people Donna had mixed with. He’d need her help and also the help of that brash, talented prat, Anderson.

When she came back with the drinks, she said, ‘Where will you go from here, Frank?’

‘Talk it over with Geoff first. He said he’d always be willing to help. It’s in his own interests, of course, wanting to break a story he’s spent so much time on.’

‘He’s a nice bloke. He was very kind with Mam and Dad.’

‘I’ll try and pin him down this evening, though I daresay he’ll be on some job or other. People like me and him don’t do time off.’

‘You … could ask him to come here, if you like. I might be able to help.’

‘You know, Patsy, that’s a very good idea,’ Crane said, and meant it. ‘You had the inside track on Donna, if anyone.’

‘I don’t think anyone had the real inside track on that little madam.’ But she looked very pleased he’d taken the suggestion seriously. Crane began to key Anderson’s number.

‘Geoff Anderson.’

‘Frank Crane, Geoff. Look, Connie and Malc want me to stay on the case. It shouldn’t affect the new police investigation, it’ll probably take them a week to get people off other things and back on to this. I’m at Patsy’s place. I wondered if you could find a little time to spend with us and talk the thing through?’

‘Give me half an hour, Frank.’

Anderson snapped shut his mobile. ‘Look, Carol, something’s come up. Sorry about the evening. Another time, eh?’

‘Donna Jackson,’ she said dejectedly. She was more than used to seeing him rushing off when there’d been a drugs bust or a knifing, but the DJ story was so old. Why couldn’t Crane see Geoff in the morning, when he usually did have some spare time?

‘Crane’s like a pig with a truffle, Carol. He’s wasted time and the Jacksons’ money by this Mahon nonsense.’ He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Next free night, I promise …’

And then he was bounding, more his old eager self than he’d been ever since he’d learnt about Mahon. She wished she didn’t love him quite so much. She was almost certain, if he got to London, she’d not see him again.

‘What sort of day have you had?’ Crane asked her, as they waited for Anderson over the drinks.

‘The sort of day I always have. I’m a checkout, remember?’

‘But you must be in line for some kind of promotion after all this time.’

She coloured in that way she had. ‘Oh, I don’t want a promotion. I’m happy with the girls. If I took a step up I’d be over them and it wouldn’t be the same.’

Crane thought, poor kid, she had so little confidence, seemed so defenceless against peer pressure, not just among the sort of women who lived on the Willows, but among her mates on the tills.

‘Funny you should mention it though, because my supervisor said did I want to think about moving up a peg.’

That would have been when she’d ditched the tousled hair and the layers of make-up, Crane guessed. ‘Why not go for it, Patsy?’

‘The other girls, they’d think … they can be a bit catty.’

‘You’d learn to live with it. And you’d get on, make more money. You always felt Donna had all the attention and you lost out. Well, now’s the time to make up for it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Frank.’

‘Just go for it. If they’re wanting to promote you they must think you’re the right type.’

Patsy had never known her confidence to be given such a boost. But then, she’d never known anyone like Frank. He never seemed to be flannelling, he just seemed to say exactly what he thought. And he must think there was something about her …

Crane felt it was the least he could do, help her find herself after the years of living in her sister’s shadow, of unsuitable men, mundane work. A quid pro quo for the help she’d already given him and that she would hopefully continue to give him. It would help to ease the slight persistent guilt a little.

Anderson came rushing in, holding a collapsible stand that already had a flipchart screwed to it.