There was a ceremonial quality to how she did it, in part because she removed his clothes without haste. She set his shoes carefully to one side, and she folded trousers, jacket, and shirt. When he was nude, she led him into the bathroom, where the bathtub’s water was fragrant and the candles she’d lit cast a soothing glow that was doubled by the mirrors and arced against the walls.

He stepped into the water, sank down, and stretched out until he was covered to his shoulders. She fixed a towelling pillow for his head, and she said, “Close your eyes. Just relax. Don’t do a thing. Try not to think. The scent should help you. Concentrate on that.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Helen’s special potion.”

He heard her moving round the bath: the door swinging shut, the sound of garments dropping to the floor. Then she was next to the tub and her hand was dipping into the water. He opened his eyes. She’d changed into a soft towelling dressing gown, its olive colour warm against her skin. She held a natural sponge and she was applying a bathing gel to it.

She began to wash him. He murmured, “I’ve not asked about your day.”

“Shhh,” she replied.

“No. Tell me. It’ll give me something to think about that’s not Hillier or the case.”

“All right,” she said, but her voice was low and she ran the sponge the length of his arm with a gentle pressure that made him close his eyes once again. “I had a day of hope.”

“I’m glad someone did.”

“After much research, Deborah and I have targeted eight shops for the christening clothes. We’ve a date tomorrow, devoted entirely to the excursion.”

“Excellent,” he said. “An end to conflict.”

“That’s what we think. May we use the Bentley, by the way? There may be more packages than can fit in my car.”

“We’re talking about a baby’s clothes, Helen. An infant’s clothes. How much room can they take up?”

“Yes. Of course. But there may be other things, Tommy…”

He chuckled. She took his other arm. “You can resist anything but temptation,” he told her.

“In a good cause.”

“What else would it be?” But he told her to take the Bentley and to enjoy the excursion. He himself settled in to enjoy her ministration to his body.

She did his neck and kneaded the muscles of his shoulders. She told him to lean forward so that she could see to his back. She washed his chest and she used her fingers to press at points on his face in a way that seemed to drain all tension from him. Then she did the same on his feet till he felt like warm putty. She saved his legs for last.

The sponge glided up them, up them, up them. And then it was not the sponge at all but her hand, and she made him groan.

“Yes?” she murmured.

“Oh yes. Yes.”

“More? Harder? How?”

“Just do what you’re doing.” He caught his breath. “God, Helen. You’re a very naughty girl.”

“I can stop if you like.”

“Not on your life.” He opened his eyes and met hers to see she was smiling gently and watching him. “Take off the robe,” he said.

“Visual stimulation? You hardly need it.”

“Not that sort,” he replied. “Just take off the robe.” And when she did so, he shifted so that she could join him in the water. She put a foot on either side of him and he reached for her hands to help her down. “Tell Jasper Felix to move over,” he said.

“I think,” she replied, “that he’ll be happy to.”

BARBARA HAVERS TURNED ON THE TELEVISION TO ACCOMPANY her morning ritual of Pop-Tarts, a fag, and coffee. It was cold as the dickens in her bungalow, and she went to the window to see if snow had fallen during the night. It hadn’t, but a sheen of ice on the concrete path from the front of the house gleamed with black menace in the security light that hung from the roof. She returned to her crumpled bed and considered dropping back into it while the electric fire did something to ward off the chill, but she knew she couldn’t spare the time, so she ripped the top blanket off and wrapped it round herself before she shivered her way to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Behind her, The Big Breakfast was regaling its viewers with the latest celebrity gossip. This mostly involved who was currently who else’s partner-always a burning question for the British public, it seemed-and who had thrown over whom for whom else.

Barbara scowled and poured boiling water into the coffee press. She bent over the sink and tapped her finger against the fag that dangled from her lips, dislodging ash in the vicinity of the drain. God, they were obsessed, she thought. Partner this, partner that. Did anyone stay alone for five minutes…other than she herself, of course? It seemed that the national pastime was moving from one relationship to the next with as little downtime in between as possible. A single woman was an accepted failure as a human being, and everywhere you looked, the message blasted you between the eyes.

She carried her Pop-Tart to the table and went back for the coffee. She directed the remote at the television screen and she punched it off. She felt raw, far too close to the point of having to think of her partnerless life. She could hear the remark Azhar had made about whether she would ever find herself in the fortunate position of having children, and she did not want to venture within fifty yards of thinking of that. So she took a large bite of Pop-Tart and went in search of something to distract her from the consideration of her neighbour, his comment about her marital and maternal state, and the memory of that front door which had not opened when she had last knocked upon it. She found this distraction in her man from Lubbock. She put the CD on and cranked up the volume.

Buddy Holly was still raving on at the end of her second Pop-Tart, and her third cup of coffee. Indeed, he was celebrating his short life with such passion-and at such a volume-that as she headed for the bathroom and her morning shower, she nearly missed hearing the telephone’s ring.

She quieted Buddy and answered, to find a familiar voice saying her name. “Barbara, dear, is that you?” It was Mrs. Flo-Florence Magentry, to the general public-at whose Greenford home Barbara’s mother had been living for the past fifteen months with several other elderly ladies in similar need of care.

“Me and none other,” Barbara said. “Hi, Mrs. Flo. You’re up and about early. Everything okay with Mum?”

“Oh it is, it is,” Mrs. Flo said. “We’re all dandy out here. Mum’s asked for porridge this morning, and she’s tucked right into it. Lovely appetite, she’s got today. She’s been mentioning you since yesterday lunchtime.”

It was not Mrs. Flo’s way to induce guilt in the relatives of her ladies, but Barbara felt it anyway. She hadn’t been out to see her mum in several weeks-she looked at the calendar and realised it had actually been five-and it didn’t take much to make her feel like a selfish cow who’d abandoned her calf. So she felt the need to excuse herself to Mrs. Flo and she said, “I’ve been working on these murders…the young boys? You might have read about it. It’s been a rough case, and time’s dead crucial. Has Mum-”

“Barbie, dear, you’re not to go on like that,” Mrs. Flo said. “I just wanted you to know Mum’s had a few good days. She’s been here, and she still is. So I thought that as she’s a bit more in the present and out of the Blitz, it might be good to take time for an examination of her personals. We might be able to do it without sedating her, which I always think is preferable, don’t you?”

“Bloody hell, yes,” Barbara said. “If you’ll make the appointment, I’ll take her.”

“Of course, dear, there’s no guarantee that she’ll be herself when you have to take her. As I said, there have been a few good days recently, but you know how it is.”