Peter Lovesey - The Circle

Some might have been wary of venturing into the streets so late. Not Jessie. She'd once had her handbag snatched in broad daylight outside Woolworths, but never a problem at night. After midnight you could walk up South Street to the Cross and past the cathedral along West Street without seeing a soul. This was her shortest circuit. If she felt more energetic she would try other routes. The one walk she'd given up was Tower Street, and that was because it depressed her to go past the blackened ruin that had been Miss Snow's.

Tonight she passed the limping man with the little white Jack Russell and as usual he raised his hat and said, 'Good evening.' That was another thing about the streets at night. People were more civil.

She took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. Her troubles always seemed less when she studied the night sky. That offensive young policeman who'd got under her skin was just one more example of the brashness that passed for confidence these days. When he'd called the circle 'whacky' — implying that she was whacky too — it was a stupid insult. She was glad she hadn't let it pass. He had no right to make a slur like that. And he hadn't the right to call her 'dear' either. What was he — all of twenty-five years old? He should be forced to attend the circle and learn the power of words. She doubted if he realised how offensive he'd sounded. That poor beginning had set the tone of the interview. If he'd been more civil at the start she might not have taken it as provocation when he questioned her about her address, her late-night walks and her car.

Out here in the vastness of the night, the whole episode could be dismissed more easily. DC Humphreys was just a silly young pup. A more respectful approach would have got him better results. As it was, she'd gone a bit overboard and no doubt confirmed his opinion that she was a batty old woman. It had been a mistake on her part to talk about her visions. Young people of his sort watch any number of films about scary goings-on, yet wouldn't recognise the supernatural if it tapped them on the shoulder and passed the time of day. To be open to such experiences you needed to have lived a bit, not filled your imagination with werewolves and vampires.

Opposite the Tower Street turn she hesitated, conscious that she was depriving herself by no longer including it in her walks. Perhaps tonight she ought to reclaim the route. Or tomorrow. On balance she thought tomorrow was a better idea. Or the next night. The whole point of the evening stroll was to shut out unpleasant thoughts.

The moonlight gave her the opportunity to stand below the fourteenth-century bell tower and watch the clouds passing above the crenellated top, giving the illusion that the tower itself was on the move. Some nights, when the wind was strong, she could almost believe that the whole structure was tipping over and about to crush her. She found that quite exciting.

She moved on, passing the comforting statue of St Richard giving his blessing, and the west door of the cathedral with the dear, carved faces of the Queen and the Duke set into the arched stonework. She was sorry that Giles, her late husband, the archdeacon, had departed this world before seeing the results of the stone-cleaning. It had transformed the cathedral.

Back through the cloisters she went, stepping a little faster. The lighting wasn't so good here and this was the only part of the walk that she didn't enjoy. Footsteps echoed on the stone flags and you could imagine someone was behind you. It was built around a former burial ground. She had to come this way to get to the passage leading to Vicars Close, so she was sensible about it. She didn't let her imagination dwell on the gravestones she was walking over and the memorials set into the wall. Instead she thought about the letters she had to write and the shopping she had to do in the morning.

As she approached her house she saw the light go out in the house next door but one. The canon had decided to turn off the television and go to bed.

She let herself in and closed her door and bolted it. She wouldn't be turning her lights out. It put burglars off if you left them on. Another Tip for the Twenty-First Century.

Zach was in bed in his railway carriage home, but not asleep. He had promised to stay awake until midnight, so he was correcting the latest chapter of his epic novel, Madrigor. This was the only writing project that mattered. He couldn't raise any enthusiasm for Naomi's e-book. Was it wishful thinking that she would give up on him if he contributed nothing else? Almost certainly. Each day she left messages with red priority tags on his e-mail. At some stage he would be forced to confront her and say he wanted to pull out.

He looked at the digital clock by his bed. Two minutes to go. Put the script in its folder and shoved it under the bed. Took a sip of water. Reached for his mobile and switched on. Texting was a new experience and he wasn't too familiar with the language. He had a suspicion Sharon enjoyed sending cryptic messages he struggled with. She insisted on this midnight ritual.

Here it was: the first message.

PMFI

No use. He couldn't work it out, so he tapped in one of the few abbreviations he did know: PXT (please explain that).

Back came: PARDON ME FOR INTERRUPTING

NO PROBLEM, he wrote. IM IN BED

THINKING OF ME?

OF COURSE

NICE THOUGHTS?

NAUGHTY

GMTA

Oh Christ, he thought. There she goes again. What's that?

But he didn't need to ask. She texted it in full:

GREAT MINDS THINK ALIKE

THANKS SWEET DREAMS

WITH U IN THEM

PLEASE

ILU

He could work that out. Now it was a matter of signing off.

ILU2

HAGN

PXT

HAVE A GOOD NIGHT OO

OO was OVER AND OUT. Zach switched off and turned out the light.

In his flat above the building society, Tudor was at work on the latest chapter of his autobiography. It was after midnight, but when the mood took him and the ideas were flowing, he lost all track of time. He tended to write like this, in bursts of inspiration. He'd seen inspiration described by the American writer Stanley Ellin as 'a sort of spontaneous combustion — the oily rags of the head and heart'. A great way of putting it. He would have written to Mr Ellin and told him so, but unfortunately Mr Ellin was dead. Famous people enjoyed being reminded of quotable things they'd once said, and Tudor made a point of collecting their wise and witty sayings to trot out when the chance came, either in a letter or face to face. It was a pity so many memorable things had been said by people who were dead.

His own wise and witty words were flowing tonight. He was writing up his latest experience, the interview with the police. The chapter already had a title: In the Frame for Murder. He was now putting into vivid prose — with a little dramatic licence — the account of his grilling at the hands of DI Stella Gregson. He portrayed her as a formidable adversary, picked for her forensic skill, beady-eyed, probing, springing a series of surprise questions that he countered brilliantly. 'But even as I parried her cut and thrust,' he wrote, 'I was aware that her patience could snap at any time and I might presently find myself in a cell being kicked to kingdom come by a bunch of booted bobbies, so I took some of the edge off my responses with shafts of wit. And you may be sure I reminded her that I was on a social footing with the Chief Constable and the Lord Lieutenant of the county.'

Splendid alliteration there, a bunch of booted bobbies. Almost worthy of his old chum Dylan.

Going over the interrogation in his mind, he couldn't help thinking he was still the prime suspect, and while it was good to be the centre of attention, it was worrying as well.

Damn! He'd hit the wrong key because his hand was shaking.