****

‘She was doing her work experience stint,’ January said. ‘She was 15 years old.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Lay off, I told you I’ll take the job.’ We were back in the office a week later. The bomb had been mostly noise with not much stopping power. It had stopped Alison Marshall, however, and it had put Peter January in the headlines.

‘That’s good, Cliff. Just tell me why you’re taking it and we can get down to business.’ January was in jeans and T-shirt helping with the clean-up. He’d moved back in as soon as the place was safe and made sure the photographers got some shots of him pitching in. But now he was working at it for real, with no photographers in sight. I didn’t understand him.

‘It’s specific now.’ I scooped a pile of ashes together and crushed them into a fine dark dust before they could float off again. ‘It’s murder, terrorism, and someone did it. Maybe I can help find out who.’

‘Hmm.’ January levered at the drawer of a warped filing cabinet. The papers had begun their coverage of the bombing with some shots of January supervising the care of the casualties-blood-drenched shirt and all. He looked brave and purposeful, which he was. ‘I still want you to sniff all around me. And I want you on hand. I have to go to America and…’

‘America!’

Trudi Bell, who was working at the other end of the office with a couple of other helpers, looked up at the sharp sound of my voice. She smiled at me and January waved at her.

‘That’s right. You’ve been there, haven’t you? You’re not banned or anything?’

‘I’ve been. I was hoping to take Helen the next time I went.’

‘Make it the time after next.’ He shoved some chairs around a desk and pushed back a couple of cardboard boxes filled with charred papers. ‘Let’s get a working space here. C’mon up, Trudi, you gorgeous thing, and we’ll have a talk.’