Adrienne Wilcox looked at her watch and frowned. If Paul wanted her to give up her evening to look after his hush-hush business for the riding, he could damn well keep up his end of things. She loathed making plausible excuses for him to agitated constituents and backroom boys, and the only reason he was so casual about appointments, she knew, was because he could trust her to be good at it. She sat back in the pale green velvet chesterfield, a languorous French doll in exquisite harmony with her surroundings. Every piece of furniture in this room had been selected and arranged with the same rigor as her simple silk dress and perfect make-up. From eleven in the morning until the last guest left the last rally or reception at night she was prepared to be flawless. And Paul appreciated that. She knew he did, as much as he appreciated her money and her connections. So where in hell was he now? Out with some cheap, messy whore. This was the first time he had not turned up at all when there were documents to be handed over—but it didn’t surprise her. He had been getting more and more careless lately. It was time to terrify him a little again. She hadn’t had to do that for years—not since just after Sarah was born. Poor shy, awkward Sarah, upstairs studying furiously for some test or other. How had she managed to produce an inept little swat with a lot of shy, bookish friends? Time for a drink. No—better save it until she had placated the people coming for that material. Probably something for a speech that had to be delivered at noon tomorrow; they would be absolutely furious. She stood up, wavering between the drinks cabinet and the telephone, when the discreet front-door chime dragged her out of the room. She muttered a brief string of surprisingly forceful crudities as she went. Her daughter was already halfway down the stairs. “I’ll get it, dear. These people are here to see Daddy on business, and you aren’t going to make much of an impression in that outfit.” Her smile failed to take the sting out of her words. Sarah turned abruptly and fled.

“Do come in, gentlemen, please,” she said gaily, propelling them in the direction of the small room she had just left. “Do let me get you a drink, please. I was just about to get one for myself. And let me explain. Poor Paul has been held up again. There was a reception tonight, as you probably know, but one of his staffers took terribly ill and he had to go with him to the hospital. He called me from there and said that he should be along soon—he just has to return to Queen’s Park and pick up that material for you. It’s ready.” Her smile and air of calmness masked the frenetic quality of her chatter. “Now—Scotch? Or there is wine, of course, and anything else you care to mention, I hope. We’re always pretty well stocked here.” Her smile became conspiratorial, inviting them into her little private world of political privilege.

Sanders nodded amiably at the suggestion of Scotch, shook his head at water, and accepted his drink. He settled into a comfortable chair and looked at his admirable hostess. There was no doubt that she took them for the mob, here to collect their copies of the tenders, and it obviously didn’t disturb her at all to be entertaining such men in her pretty sitting room.

“Your husband must have to be out late a great deal,” he essayed, to keep up the conversational flow.

“It’s not as bad as it might sound,” she said, smiling a sweet Pollyanna smile. “Most of the evening engagements are social as well as business, and I can usually find the time to go with him. It’s hard on the children, though. Some weeks they only see him on Sunday.” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling laugh, as she turned her head to catch sounds from the driveway.

“Not even at breakfast?” asked Sanders. “Isn’t that when kids see their fathers?”

“Sometimes,” she said, beginning to look distracted. “Half the time, though, he’s off for a run, and they just get a glimpse of him coming in, covered with sweat, on his way to the shower. I think that’s him now,” she said, walking quickly to the window. “Good heavens.” She drew back abruptly. “There’s a policeman out there, standing by your car. I hope that you—that they haven’t. . . .” Her voice trailed away in alarm.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Sanders. “He’s with us. We should have introduced ourselves when we first came in, but you really didn’t give us a chance.” He flashed his identification under her nose. “We would like to speak to your husband. He isn’t home?” She shook her head dully. “When exactly did he telephone you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “He didn’t,” she said in a flat voice. “I thought you were here for some stuff he promised one of his constituents. He’s just late, that’s all. It’s not unusual. He gets sidetracked. If it’s important I’ll have him call you.”

“Don’t bother,” said Sanders. “We may see you later, Mrs. Wilcox. Good evening.” He picked up his coat.

Sanders walked into the office with weary deliberation. The bored constable discreetly parked around the corner from Wilcox’s house could do as much as Sanders could out there. This day had already gone on for a very long time and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight. “Anything come in yet on Wilcox?” he asked Dubinsky while he picked up the new messages from his desk.

Dubinsky gave him that how-the-hell-should-I-know look but only muttered, “Just a minute. I’ll check,” as he picked up the phone. His “Nothing so far,” however, had minimal impact. Sanders was standing with a slip of paper in his hand and a curious expression on his face.

“Listen to this,” he said. “It’s a message from a Mr. Smith. ‘If you receive delivery of the consignment we were discussing earlier, you are welcome to it. We have withdrawn our claim since the goods no longer fulfil our requirements.’ Those bastards have their nerve, don’t they? And so much for Wilcox. I suppose he called them from somewhere and told them what happened, and they’re dumping him as fast as possible.”

“And that means he doesn’t know anything of any interest to anybody,” grunted Dubinsky. “Or they wouldn’t let him go so easily.”

“Probably. I suppose his contact was Fielding—he won’t know anyone else. Anyway, I can call the guard dogs off Eleanor now,” he said, and made the call. As he hung up, he decided that Eleanor had probably been too groggy to be reassured; but her mother, at least, had been relieved to hear that the siege was over. The thought of Eleanor sleeping peacefully distracted him powerfully; his foggy brain and aching body wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion beside her.

He was running down a long dark path that was arched with overgrown bushes. Each one that he passed turned into a running man, and then dissolved into a shadow behind another bush. As he grabbed out, an irritating voice penetrated his dream. “Excuse me, sir, but—” He shook himself awake again. “Sir? I think we may have something here.”

McNeil was standing over him, clutching a sheet of paper in his hand, waiting patiently for Sanders to wake up. “Yes? What is it? Don’t just stand there.”

“A woman called in about noon, apparently. Her baby’s been sick and she only just looked at the paper. She said she thought the picture looked a little like her neighbour. She’s not sure about the van, though. She said they had a blue Chevy but he sometimes drove a van. She thinks maybe he borrows the van sometimes.” Sanders looked up at him with weary lack of interest. “But when I checked out the reports on light brown vans there is one registered to a Glenn Morrison on the same street.”

“What did the report say?” asked Sanders irritably. “I thought all those local registrations had been checked out.”

“No one home,” said McNeil. “And nothing suspicious-looking about the van.” He put the report down in front of Sanders. “Morrison’s brother-in-law was home and let him in, showed him the van. Do you want me to check it out?”