‘That's right,' said Pascoe. 'Does it stand out?'

'I saw you the other day, I think,' said the girl, evading the question. Pascoe nodded. It was likely. He had spent a great deal of time here on Friday afternoon.

'You work here?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'Do you have a moment?'

Without waiting for his answer she set off towards the fortune-teller's tent and lifted the flap.

Pascoe paused before the entrance, partly to establish his independent spirit, partly to read the sign. Madame Rashid, it said, Interpreter of the Stars, Admission 50p. The lettering was pseudo-Arabic and the words were surrounded by a constellation of varying hues and shapes.

'The price of the future's gone up,' he said.

'You should try having a full horoscope cast,' she said seriously. 'Besides, we're not allowed to tell the future.'

'I know,' he said.

'Oh, of course you would. Won't you come in?'

He passed by her under the flap.

It was a bit of a disappointment, reminding him more of a Boy Scout camp than the Eastern pavilion he had half expected. The smell was of damp canvas and trodden grass and the only furniture was a plain trestle table and two folding chairs.

A suitcase lay on the table and she pointed to this as if sensing his disappointment and said, 'It looks better when I get the props out.'

'I'm sure,' said Pascoe. 'What did you want to see me about Miss-er-Rashid?'

She laughed, very attractively.

'No,' she said. 'I'm Pauline Stanhope.'

She held out her hand. He took it. The name sounded familiar.

'And I'm Detective-Inspector Pascoe,' he said.

'I thought you must be. It's about yesterday, Inspector Pascoe. Won't you sit down?'