This United state

'Fair enough. Why don't I drive on and check out your flat and the area round it? Someone very hostile knows where you live.'

'You're right, of course. And I'm grateful. Here's the keys to my flat so you can get inside.'

'If you don't mind I'll wait until you arrive.'

'Don't mind at all…'

She was silent during their drive. Furious with herself for the unjustified outburst, she couldn't think of anything to say. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, squeezed his hand before she got out at the entrance to Park Crescent. There was a light on in Tweed's office.

'Evening, Paula,' George greeted her. 'Mr Tweed's gone up to have a bath. Monica's still here.'

She went quietly up the stairs and opened the door. Monica wasn't there, she had probably gone upstairs to make herself a snack. She closed the door and stared. She almost trembled with trepidation. The bulging briefcase was propped up in the knee hole under Tweed's desk, the flap fallen open. Standing very still, she tried to make up her mind. She had never been one to snoop. But she felt she had to know the truth or the uncertainty would torture her mind.

Bending down, she carefully pulled out the case. She looked inside it and felt sick. It was stuffed with stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. Each package had an elastic band round it. Taking one out, she quickly counted. One hundred US banknotes. With the number of packages there the case must contain thousands of dollars.

She replaced the case exactly where – and as – she had found it. Dazed, she stood up. She had to get out of the building before Tweed reappeared. She couldn't face him tonight. She ran down the stairs, paused to speak to George.

'Don't bother to tell anyone I was here. Tweed thought I was going to have an early night.'

'Very good, miss…'

She sat in her car after starting the engine, waiting to calm down. Then she drove back to her flat, thankful that there was no traffic, that the streets were empty – as empty as she felt.

15

At about-the time when Paula and Nield were tackling their main courses at Santorini's, Marler was dining with Denise Chatel at the Lanesborough. The brunette, her long dark hair perfectly coiffeured, wore a silk trouser suit. He was immediately impressed by her stunning appearance and told her so when they'd sat down at their table.

'That's a nice compliment. I appreciate it,' she said with a warm smile. 'Thank you, Alec.'

Later he asked her to choose the wine and she selected a very good vintage in the medium-price range. They chatted easily and 'he found she was the sort of woman you quickly felt you had known for years in the nicest way. She gazed round the restaurant and her blue eyes stared into his.

'This is a wonderful place. No wonder it is full of people.'

'Used to be a big hospital before they converted it into this hotel. Have some more wine…'

They went into another room to have coffee and she crossed her shapely legs after sitting down on a couch. Alongside her, he thought about complimenting her on them, but decided it was a bit early in their acquaintance. It was a chance remark on his part which triggered off a development, the consequences of which he could not foresee.

'I remember you said you had a French father and an American mother. That's pretty cosmopolitan.'

'I was…' She hesitated. 'I was going to bring up that subject. I hope you won't regard this as trying to pump your business knowledge on the cheap.'

'Of course not.' He leaned forward. 'I'm interested in everything about you. Fire away.'

'When I was at Park Crescent I mentioned they had been killed together in a car crash. There was something mysterious about it and it still bothers me. They were killed just across the state line in Virginia at a small place I'd have to write down…'

'Here's a notebook,' he said, producing one from his pocket. 'I'd like all the details.'

'I called the sheriff in charge of the investigation. A man called Jim Briscoe. I'll write that down. He agreed for me to go and see him. He seemed nice enough but I sensed he was embarrassed. Which didn't make sense. He said these accidents unfortunately happened. I asked him if the accident had occurred at a black spot. He said it wasn't.'

'You didn't go out to view the location, I suppose?'

'Actually I did. Jim Briscoe took me there at my suggestion. There were no signs of skid marks near the bridge where it happened. I pointed that out. Again he seemed embarrassed, said a lot of traffic could have wiped them out. The only thing is it was a quiet road. I got the idea someone had rubbed out any skid marks.' She smiled ruefully. 'You'll think me paranoid.'

'No I won't. I believe you. What did you want me to do?'

'Well, Sharon said in passing that Tweed ran a special insurance outfit – that you insure prominent people against being kidnapped. Then, if they are, you negotiate their release unharmed. Which means you have investigators.'

'You could say that is our business.'

'Later, I tried to get in touch with Sheriff Briscoe again. A strange voice told me he'd retired early on full pension. I thought that peculiar – Jim Briscoe couldn't have been a day over forty. I said I wanted the FBI brought in – my parents had crossed a state line. The new sheriff was unpleasant – told me the investigation was closed for ever. He said I could be sued for wasting their time.'

'Odd, very odd. Can you describe the scene where this so-called accident took place?'

'Yes. A wide highway crosses a bridge over a deep gorge. Reluctantly, Jim Briscoe showed me a photo of the car my parents had died in. There was a huge dent in the side of the car – as though a heavy vehicle had driven into it. And at the exact point just before the bridge started, where they'd be sent straight down into the gorge.

'It's a wonder their car didn't burst into flames – or did it?'

'No, it didn't. My father had quick reflexes. He'd obviously turned off the engine as they went over. I asked Briscoe about that and he confirmed the engine had been switched off.'

'Have you got Briscoe's present phone number?'

'No, I haven't. But the new man said he'd retired to a house in the same town. The unpronounceable one I've written down. I've also written down the name of the new sheriff and his phone number. Probably you can't do anything.'

'Don't be so sure about that.' Marler had had a bright idea. 'Give me the notebook and I might just find out what really happened. Something about what you've told me stinks.'

'I'm putting you to a lot of trouble,' she said, handing him back his notebook. 'I've also written down the address of my apartment in Belgravia – next to Sharon's. And a private phone number I've had installed. Ex- directory. On the quiet; I think the Embassy listens in to my calls on the phone that was there when I arrived.' She smiled again. 'Really, you must think I'm nuts.'

'I think you may have every reason to be worried. I'll see what I can do.'

'Let's talk about something else. This can't be entertaining conversation for you.'

'Actually, I'm intrigued.' She had checked her watch. 'You don't have to go yet, do you?'

'I really should. The limo driver who brought me must have been waiting outside for half an hour already…'

When they had put their coats on he accompanied her outside to the waiting limo. Before she got into the car she turned, kissed him gently full on the mouth. She gave him a very warm smile.

'Thank you for a really wonderful evening. I'd love it if we could keep in touch.'

'We'll do that.' He handed her a sheet from his notepad, kept his voice to a whisper. 'That's the phone number of my flat. There's an answer-phone if I'm out. Just say Denise called and I'll call you back at the private number until I get you.'

'Take care of yourself, Alec. It's a dangerous world we're living in.'