Pie opened the door but didn't let Chant in. "We'll wander over to the car when we've finished," he told the driver. "We won't be long." Then he closed the door again and returned to the table. "Something more to drink?" he asked.

Estabrook declined, but accepted a cigarette as they talked on, Pie requesting details of Judith's whereabouts and movements, Estabrook supplying the answers in a monotone. Finally, the issue of payment. Ten thousand pounds, to be paid in two halves, the first upon agreement of the contract, the second after its completion.

"Chant has the money," Estabrook said.

"Shall we walk, then?" Pie said.

Before they left the trailer, Estabrook looked into the cot. "You have beautiful children," he said when they were out in the cold.

"They're not mine," Pie replied. "Their father died a year ago this Christmas."

"Tragic," Estabrook said.

"It was quick," Pie said, glancing across at Estabrook and confirming in his glance the suspicion that he was the orphan maker. "Are you quite certain you want this woman dead?" Pie said. "Doubt's bad in a business like this. If there's any part of you that hesitates—"

"There's none," Estabrook said. "I came here to find a man to kill my wife. You're that man."

"You still love her, don't you?" Pie said, once they were out and walking.

"Of course I love her," Estabrook said. "That's why I want her dead."

"There's no Resurrection, Mr. Estabrook. Not for you, at least."

"It's not me who's dying," he said.

"I think it is," came the reply. They were at the fire, now untended. "A man kills the thing he loves, and he must die a little himself. That's plain, yes?"