Jesus, weren’t there just.

It was five o’clock when he walked into the bar. As he’d hoped, the shift had changed. The barman was new. What’s more, Arthur had moved on. Good: they’d have thought it more than a little off, the Lancastrian returning to ask questions about Cooke and some woman.

The beer he’d drunk in his room had given him a taste, so he ordered a double Armagnac with a half of lager to chase it down. Fuel for the long drive ahead. The bar was medium-busy with workers on their way home from the estate. He sat on the same stool as earlier, and made a show of checking his watch and keeping an eye on the door.

‘Waiting on someone?’ the new barman dutifully asked.

‘Bernard Cooke. I thought we arranged to meet at five.’

The barman tried the name. ‘Don’t think I know him.’

‘He’s a lunchtime regular.’

‘I never do lunchtime.’

He nodded miserably and finished the Armagnac. It burned him all the way down. One last time then: ‘He usually has a woman with him, a bit of posh.’

The barman shrugged and went back to wiping glasses.

‘Thanks anyway.’ He finished the lager and had another idea. It was a bit late, but worth a try. As he pushed open the door to the outside world, he met resistance. It was Arthur, coming in. Arthur looked surprised. Beattie switched to a north-west accent.

‘Hello, Arthur.’

‘Thought you were off to the wide blue yonder.’

‘Just heading back now. I’ve been hearing Cooke has a fancy piece.’ He winked. ‘That’s an expensive hobby, no wonder he’s gone broke.’

Arthur just stared, as though listening to a ghost. There was almost… it wasn’t shock, it was more like fear in his eyes.

Beattie persisted. ‘Nice looker, by the sound of her.’

‘Eh?’

‘They used to come in here.’

‘Did they?’

Was the man pissed? Maybe those crosswords had addled his brain. Beattie felt good and mellow.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘See you around.’

Arthur seemed to perk up. ‘Oh, right you are. Take care now.’

‘I will, Arthur, I will.’

The secretary, having faithfully placed a dustcover over the computer, was putting on her coat when he arrived. She looked daggers at him, and he raised his hands in surrender.

‘I’ll only take a minute,’ he said. He hadn’t really expected her to still be here. How much paperwork could an empty factory produce? The reporters had vanished from outside, along with most of the cars on the estate.

‘You’re persistent,’ she said. ‘He’s not here.’

‘It was you I wanted to speak to.’

‘Oh?’

He stepped forward and produced the photo from his pocket, the one of Cooke and Mrs Webster kissing.

‘Is your boss married?’ he asked.

She smiled sourly. ‘I knew you weren’t a rep.’

‘Did I say I was? So what’s the answer? A simple yes or no.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

He gave a fumey sigh. ‘I can find out. It’s not difficult.’

‘Off you go then and find out.’

‘Did you know he was having an affair?’

‘It’s only an affair if the person’s married.’

‘Oh? So Cooke’s a bachelor then?’

‘That’s not what I said.’

‘Mrs Webster’s married though.’ He was seeking a reaction, any reaction. ‘Her daughter’s single.’

‘Get out.’ Her voice was colder than the lager he’d just consumed.

‘Let me guess,’ he persisted. ‘You had the hots for him yourself, maybe he was stringing you along…’

She picked up the receiver.

‘All right, I’m going.’ He put the photo back in his pocket. ‘But remember, you don’t owe him anything. It’s him that owes you. Just give me a yes or no: is he married?’

She started punching telephone buttons, so he left. She was breathing hard, but didn’t let it show. She stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. Then she was connected. ‘Police?’ she said. ‘I want to speak to Chief Superintendent Lancaster…’

Outside, he sat in his car, thinking about the man called Arthur, the secretary, and Stefan Duniec. Then he got out again and started looking for another car. Any car would do, so long as it had a car phone.

Lancaster put down the receiver and looked towards the two people sitting across the desk from him.

‘That was your secretary, Mr Cooke.’ Bernard Cooke nodded: he’d gathered as much already. ‘Our man has just turned up again, asking if you’re married and implying you’ve been having an affair with Mrs Webster.’ He looked at the young woman next to Cooke. ‘Or even with you, Gillian.’

Gillian Webster snorted. Lancaster was smiling.

‘Looks like it’s worked,’ he said. I hate puzzles. Those three words had set the whole game in motion. And the game was about to end: right result, right team. ‘He had a photo with him,’ he went on, turning back to Bernard Cooke. ‘You and Gillian’s mother on the veranda at her home.’

‘That Sunday drinks party,’ Cooke decided.

‘The Minute Man was watching.’

‘He thinks Cora and I are lovers?’

‘He’s putting two and two together and making five, luckily for us. If that photo had just shown the two of you talking, he might not have suspected anything.’

‘Whereas as it is…’

‘He thinks he knows why Gillian’s set you up. It couldn’t have worked out better.’

Gillian Webster turned to Cooke. ‘Kissing my mother on the veranda?’

Cooke tried a nervous smile. Lancaster shifted in his chair. He was nervous for all sorts of reasons. The Minute Man had to solve puzzles, even if that meant conjuring an answer out of the thinnest stuff. Lancaster had invented the conundrum, hoping his adversary would be irritated by it… and drawn towards it. Someone even suggested the Minute Man might pose as a reporter – a suitable disguise for showing interest in the case…

There was a knock at the door, and a young man came in. Lancaster introduced him.

‘I don’t think either of you has met Detective Constable Duniec.’ Duniec nodded a greeting, but Gillian’s mind was on the idea of Cooke and her mother. ‘Well, Stefan?’ Lancaster asked.

The look on Duniec’s face was bad news.

‘He paid his bill and left over an hour ago.’

Lancaster nodded. ‘He’s been back to the Forester’s, a regular called Arthur just phoned to tell me. And he paid another visit to the factory.’

‘We know his car, sir, red Fiesta, there’s a call out for it.’

‘All exit roads are covered, aren’t they?’

Duniec nodded.

‘Then all we can do is wait.’

Lancaster tried to look relaxed. Bernard Cooke had been doubtful of the plan at first, but as a friend of Gillian’s he’d gone along with it. After all, partly it had been her idea. She was looking pale again. She’d been ordered to rest by the doctors, but had insisted on sticking around. The phone rang again. Lancaster snatched the call.

‘Red Fiesta,’ he said afterwards. ‘Sighted heading for Lower Traherne.’ He fixed his eyes on Gillian. ‘Looks like he’s heading out to your home.’ Then he turned to Duniec. ‘Get on to it, Stefan.’ Duniec nodded and left the room.

This eventuality, too, had been covered. The Websters were in a local hotel, under plainclothes protection. A driver and unmarked car were waiting outside to take Gillian back there. The Minute Man was driving into a trap.

The phone rang yet again, and Lancaster picked it up, glad of something to do. He listened for a moment, a muscle going rigid in his jaw. When he spoke, it was in a dry voice. ‘Put him through, will you? And try to get a trace.’ He then pushed a button on the telephone and replaced the receiver. A small integral speaker crackled into life. A female voice said, ‘You’re through, caller.’ Lancaster swallowed and spoke.

‘Hello?’

‘Superintendent Lancaster?’

‘Speaking.’

Lancaster watched Gillian. She was staring at the telephone. What little colour she had vanished from her face.