'I do,' Cotter said. 'And you'll see. Deb'll be glad of what you say.'

Right, St James thought sardonically.

The building that housed Deborah's flat was called Shrewsbury Court Apartments. St James found it easily enough in Sussex Gardens, sandwiched in between two seedy boarding-houses. Recently restored, it was a tall building faced with unblemished Portland stone, iron-fenced in the front, its door gained by passing across a narrow concrete walkway that bridged the cavernous entrance to additional flats below the level of the street.

St James pressed the button next to the name Cotter. An answering buzz admitted him into the small lobby with a floor covered by black and white tiles. Like the outside of the building, it was scrupulously clean, and a faint odour of disinfectant announced the fact that it intended to stay that way. There was no furniture, just a hallway leading to the ground-floor flats, a door discreetly hung with a hand-lettered sign reading concierge — as if a foreign word might attest to the building's respectability — and a lift.

Deborah's flat was on the top floor. Riding up to it, St James reflected upon the absurdity of the position in which Cotter had placed him. Deborah was an adult now. She would hardly welcome anyone's intrusion into her life. Least of all would she welcome his.

She opened the door at once to his knock, as if she'd spent the afternoon doing nothing save awaiting his arrival. Her expression shifted quickly from welcome to surprise, however, and it was only after a fractional hesitation that she stepped back from the door to admit him.

'Simon! I'd no idea…' She offered her hand in greeting, seemed to think better of the gesture, and dropped it to her side. 'You've quite surprised me. I was expecting… this is really… you've only… Oh, why am I babbling? Please. Come in.'

The word flat turned out to be a euphemism, for her new home was little more than a cramped bed-sitting-room.