'No. Alone this time. To Paddington.'

'Go to see her, then. Talk to her. She might welcome the chance to have some time alone with you.'

Cotter moved past him and began setting out his shaving equipment with unnecessary care. St James watched warily, his intuition telling him the worst was on its way.

'A solid, good talk. Just what I'm thinking. But it's not for me to talk to the girl. A dad's too close. You know what I mean.'

He did indeed. 'You can't possibly be suggesting-' 'Deb's fond of you. That's always been the case.' Cotter's face spoke the challenge beneath the words. He was not a man to avoid emotional blackmail if it took him in the direction which he believed that he – and St James – ought to be travelling. 'If you'd caution the girl. That's ail I'd ask.'

Caution her? How would it run? Don't have anything to do with Tommy, Deborah. If you do, God knows you may end up his wife. It was beyond consideration.

'Just a word,' Cotter said. 'She trusts you. As do I.'

St James fought back a sigh of resignation. Damn Cotter's unquestioning loyalty throughout the years of his illness. Blast the fact that he owed him so very much. There is always a day of accounting.

'Very well,' St James said. 'Perhaps I can manage some time today if you have her address.'

'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.