by Francis: TO THE HILT

'Well, well,' I said.

'Bernie says he complained that beating up people was one thing, but murder was another, and Grantchester threatened that Bernie would do as he was told, because of his fingerprints.'

'Bernie is simple,' I said.

Vernon nodded. 'Just as well, from our point of view. Anyway, the pay was good, so when Grantchester told them to turn up again at his house the day before yesterday, they did.'

'Yes.'

'Grantchester told them that you would be coming, and that they were to tie you to the same tree, like Quorn before, only this time there was no talk of burning.' He paused. The one with the boxing gloves is known as Jazzo. He thought you got knocked out too soon in Scotland. He told Grantchester you wouldn't like another dose. He said he wouldn't knock you out and he would guarantee you would answer any question you were asked.'

I listened without comment.

'Of course, it didn't turn out that way,' Vernon said. 'So Grantchester brought out his barbecue again, because it had worked the first time, and that's when Bernie's bottle deserted him, he says.'

'It didn't stop him sitting on my legs,' I remarked with satire.

'He didn't mention sitting on your legs.'

'You don't say.'

'He said Mrs Benchmark was there, and she was screaming and screaming to Grantchester to stop, and he wouldn't. I asked Bernie if you were screaming too.'

'That's an unfair bloody question.'

Vernon gave me a sideways glance. 'He said the only noise you made was a sort of moan.'

Charming, I thought.

'And that's when the bus crashed into the garden.' Vernon paused and looked at me straight. 'Is Bernie's account of things accurate?'

'As far as I'm concerned, yes.'

Vernon stood up and walked around the room twice, as if disturbed.

'Mrs Benchmark,' he said, 'called you her brother, but you're not, are you?'

'Her father was married to my mother. He died a week ago.'

Vernon nodded. 'Mrs Benchmark is devastated by what happened in the garden. She doesn't understand it. The poor lady is very upset.'

I again made no comment.

'She said your girlfriend was there. We released all the football supporters yesterday, but half of them agreed that the bus was driven from the pub to the garden by a young woman. Was she your girlfriend?'

I said, 'She is a friend. She was walking a few steps behind me when the thugs hustled me into the garden. They didn't notice her. She told me yesterday that when she saw what was happening she ran down to the pub and called the police. Then, it seems, the busload of happy revellers arrived, so she drove the bus to the rescue, for which I'll always be grateful.'

'In other words,' Vernon said, 'you are not going to get her into trouble.'

'Quite right.'

He gave me a long slow look. 'And you're not going to give us her name and address.'

'She lives with a man,' I said, 'who wouldn't like to see her in court. You don't really need her, do you?'

'Probably not.'

'If there was any damage to the bus,' I said, 'I'll pay for it.'

Vernon went over to the door, opened it, and shouted to someone outside to bring tea. When he came back he said, 'We obtained a warrant yesterday to search Grantchester's house.'

He waited for me to ask if he'd found anything useful, so I did.

He didn't answer straightforwardly. He said, 'The policeman in Scotland sent us faxes today of the drawings you did of the thugs the day they attacked you at your home. Bernie almost collapsed when we showed them to him. Your policeman also sent the list of things that were stolen from you. In Grantchester's house we found four paintings of golf courses.'

'You didn't!'

Vernon nodded. 'Your policeman, Sergeant Berrick, said that the pictures had stickers on the backs, and if other stickers had been stuck over them, your name would still be visible under X-ray. So this afternoon we X-rayed the stickers.' He almost smiled. 'Your Scottish policeman said that you promised to paint a portrait of his wife if he helped to find your pictures.'

'I did,' I said. 'And I will.'

Vernon suggested, 'Mine, too?'

'A pleasure,' I said.

On Tuesday morning I went to the bank meeting in Reading and was shown into a small private conference room where the area bank manager, Margaret Morden and Tobias were already sitting round a table with coffee cups in front of them.

When I went in, they stood up.

'Don't,' I said awkwardly. 'Am I late?'

'No,' Tobe said.

They all sat. I took the one empty chair.

'Did you bring the list?' the bank man said.

I was wearing an open-necked white shirt with no tie, and carrying a jacket. I dug into a jacket pocket and handed Norman Quorn's envelope to Tobias.

They were staring at me, rather.

'Sorry about the bruises,' I said, making a gesture towards my face. 'I got a bit clobbered again. Very careless.'

Tobias said, 'I've talked to Chris. He told me about… Grantchester's barbecue.'

'Oh.'

Tobias had also, clearly, relayed to the bank man and to Margaret what Chris had said. All of them were embarrassed. I too. Very British.

'Well,' I said, 'can we find the money?'

They had no doubt of it. With a relieved air of eagerness and satisfaction they passed to each other the piece of paper, the riddle that Quorn had left; it soon became apparent that, although the numbers and names belonged to bank accounts, the brewery's Finance Director had been coy about setting down on paper which account referred to which bank. The list had been an aide memoire to himself. He had never meant anyone else to have to decipher it.

Thoughtfully they each copied out for themselves the whole list, numbers and names. (He wouldn't trust it to the office copier, the bank man said; the information was so hot it would not be allowed to leave that room.)

Each of them had brought a personal computer that was not connected to anything else and could not be hacked into from outside. Each of them fed into thek separate computer a disc recording what each of them, separately, knew. The bank had supplied a fax machine dedicated to this one job.

The room grew silent except for the tapping of keys and the drumming of thoughtful fingers when the solutions didn't quickly appear.

I waited without fret. They knew their business, and I didn't.

Tobias and the bank man wore the suits of their trade, dark confidence-builders with gravitas. Margaret had come in flowery printed wool, soft and rose-red and disarming, hiding the steel-hard brain. How ridiculous, I thought, that the male mind could often accept a female as equal only if she pretended to be in need of help. Margaret amused me. She caught me looking at her, read my thought, and winked. Men were right to be afraid of women, I concluded: the witch lived near the surface in all of them.

They burned witches… God help them.

I moved stiffly on my chair, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table, taking shallow breaths. Body management, learned fast.

At the police station the previous afternoon Inspector Vernon had told me that Ivan's car (the wheels I'd driven to the party) had been identified by Mrs Benchmark and towed by the police and was, in fact, at that moment right outside in the station's car park.

'Can I take it?' I asked, surprised.

'If you think you're fit to drive.'

I had the car keys, among other things, in my restored trousers pocket.

Fit or not, I drove the car to Lambourn, found Emily's spare house key on its old familiar nail in the tack room, made inroads into her whisky and spent a disturbed night lying on my side in my clothes on the sofa in her drawing-room, lacking energy for anything else, feeling shivery and sick.

In the morning I'd made it upstairs to the bathroom, found a throw-away razor, combed my hair and rinsed my mouth. Well, I told myself, my physical state was my own stubborn fault: just put up with it. Swallow the tablets and be grateful for mercies.