'I'm meeting some people from school. In McDonald's. Just for a milkshake.' She paused. 'Like I used to with Genevieve,' she added, in a pathetic voice. She saw her mother give what was supposed to be a secret look to her father, then turn round and beam at Alice.

'That sounds lovely,' she said. 'Do I know them?'

'No,' said Alice vaguely. She fingered the door frame. 'So I'll see you later,' she said.

'Yes. Be back by eleven, won't you?'

'Do you need some money?' added her father, feeling for his wallet.

'Do you want a lift?' Her mother sat up suddenly. 'I'll run you into town, if you like.'

'No. No!' Alice's voice came roaring out. 'Thanks,' she added. She could feel her face turning pink. Why were they being so nice nice all of a sudden? all of a sudden?

When she got to Russell Street, number twelve was lit up from the inside. The curtains were drawn and, as she crept cautiously over the gra.s.s towards the garage, she could hear music playing in the sitting-room. She edged down the side of the house, quietly pushed open the garage door and walked confidently into the blackness. She knew the garage so well, by now, she could have walked straight to her pile of cushions and sat down without opening her eyes.

Which was why the howl she gave when, a couple of seconds later, she tripped awkwardly over an anonymous bicycle lurking in the darkness, was as much from affront as it was from pain. For a few moments, the sheer outrage of being taken by surprise like that prevented her from moving. She sat helplessly, tangled beneath the unforgiving metal shape, until it fell further down on top of her, bashing her shin and causing her to yelp. Suddenly she was filled with a panicked claustrophobia. She began to struggle furiously with the bicycle, trying to work out which way it went; grunting with annoyance as she reached for what she thought must be the handlebars only to find her hand falling on a softly spinning wheel. If only she had a torch; if only she'd waited until it was light; if only- 'h.e.l.lo there.' A deep voice interrupted her thoughts. Alice jumped in genuine terror, and then gasped as one of the bicycle's brakes went sharply into her ribs. For a moment she considered freezing; if she played dead perhaps whoever it was would go away. Like grizzly bears. 'I wouldn't bother if I were you,' the voice continued, in ironical tones. 'It's not worth very much.'

'What?' Alice turned round in a fury of indignation. 'Do you think I'm trying to steal it?'

The door of the garage was open, and a silhouette was standing just outside. Alice couldn't see his face, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be able to see hers.

'I'm not a thief,' she added for emphasis.

'Oh really?' Alice felt herself blushing red; her bravado was about to slip away. She had to admit to herself, she must look a bit weird.

'I'm just getting something,' she said, looking away. 'I used to live here.'

'Aha.'

'I did!' she exclaimed. 'I'm Alice Chambers. I used to live here. Ask anyone.'

Suddenly a torch flashed on, and wavered over her face. She screwed up her eyes and gave another push at the bike.

'Oh dear.' The voice was amused. 'You are in a bit of a state, aren't you? Here.' The silhouette loomed towards her, and she felt a strong hand under her arm, hauling her free of the bike. It fell with a clatter to the ground, and suddenly she was standing up, next to the voice.

'Are you OK?' he said. The torch flashed over her face again. 'No, you don't really look like a bike thief. So, what were you after? I didn't think there was anything in here.'

'My lighter,' muttered Alice.

'What, cigarette lighter?' His voice held surprised amus.e.m.e.nt. 'How old are you?' Alice was silent. 'All right then, what does it look like?'

'Silver. I think it's over there.' She pointed, and his torch beam followed, picking out the saggy brocade of her pile of cushions, the old magazines, the Mars Bar wrappers littered around her corner.

'Looks like you were quite at home in this place,' he said conversationally. Alice said nothing, but followed the path of the beam anxiously. She couldn't have lost it, couldn't ...

'There!' Her voice rang out, with an excitement she would rather have hidden. 'On that ledge. Beside the torch.' And suddenly, as though she'd known all the time, she remembered putting it there while she fiddled with the nozzle of the torch, trying to get it to point downwards.

The figure beside her stepped forward, reaching effortlessly across the piles of stuff that were now blocking the path to Alice's corner, and retrieved the lighter.

'Thanks,' she said, as her hand clasped its friendly shape. 'G.o.d, if I'd lost it ...'

'Your mother would have killed you?' he suggested. Alice giggled, and looked up. She could just about distinguish dark hair, dark eyes, not much else ...

'Well, thanks again,' she said, and began to make a move towards the door.

'Not so fast.' A hand clamped on her shoulder and a sudden burst of panic ran through Alice's body. This was what rapists did. She'd seen it on the telly. They pretended to be friendly and then suddenly they changed. 'You don't get away that easily,' he continued. 'I want you to come inside and say h.e.l.lo. Since you used to live here.'

'I've got to get home, really,' muttered Alice, thoughts of escape fluttering around in her mind.

'Everyone would love to meet you,' he insisted. 'They sent me outside to see what the noise was and if I come back empty-handed they'll be most unimpressed.'

'Well, I dunno.' Actually, he sounded as if he might be normal. But perhaps that was the trick.

'And I'm sure you'd like a cup of coffee. Or a gla.s.s of whisky?'

Alice paused, and glanced at the shadowy face. There were other people in the house. She'd heard them. And if he tried to rape her she'd flash her lighter in his face and scream really loudly.

'All right,' she said slowly.

'Good!' They began to walk towards the house, and Alice's fears started to recede as they approached the familiar back door.

'I'm Piers, by the way,' the man was saying. 'And you're Anna, did you say?'

'Alice.'

They went swiftly through the kitchen, through the hall, and into the sitting-room. There they stopped, and Alice blinked, and looked bemusedly around. It was the same room as before, with the same walls and the same fireplace and even the same sofa. But now it was full of strangers, and it smelt different, and somehow it looked foreign. There was a strange rug on the floor, and there were loads of candles everywhere, and there was a high-tech-looking sound system in the corner.

'This is Alice,' Piers was saying, in an amused voice, 'who used to live in this very house and, to my great regret, wasn't trying to steal your bike, Duncan.' A man sitting on the floor gave a sort of high-pitched squeal, and Alice jumped.

'That's Duncan,' Piers began to say. 'Don't take any notice of him. And this is my wife Ginny, and ...'

But Alice wasn't listening. She was staring at the man sitting on the sofa. His face was so familiar, she gave a sort of sigh of relief, and all thoughts of rape went out of her head. She knew him from somewhere. But where? School? He wasn't a teacher and he was too young to be a father. Did he live in Russell Street? Was he one of those neighbours they'd never really got to know? Suddenly his name came into her head.

'I know you,' she began. 'You're Rupert ...'

She stopped, gasped, and reddened. As she said his name, she suddenly knew where she recognized him from. In spite of herself, she began to tremble, and a sense of unreal awe percolated through her body. It was him. Rupert from Summer Street Summer Street. Sitting there in front of her, smirking complacently at her. Oh G.o.d, he must think she was so stupid.

'I'm sorry ...' she mumbled.

'My dear girl!' He sounded a bit different from the way he spoke on television, she thought confusedly. But it was definitely him. 'Don't apologize. And do call me Ian.'

'You will stay for a drink,' said the girl sitting in front of the fire. She smiled warmly at Alice, and Alice gazed in silent admiration at her shiny blond hair and tight white T-shirt and big leather belt holding up torn Levis. 'It's lovely to meet you. I've met your mother, of course.'

'What do you want?' interrupted Piers. 'We're all on the whisky, I'm afraid. But I could make some coffee.'

'Have a whisky,' piped up the stocky man sitting on the floor. 'It's good for you.'

'And sit down here beside me,' said Ian-Rupert. He smiled winsomely at her, and Alice crossed the floor in a trance. She couldn't believe this was happening to her. Any of it.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The first time Liz and Marcus made love, Liz insisted that the lights stay off all the way through. The second time, she allowed one heavily shaded bedside light to remain on. The third time, Marcus sprang on her unawares in the bath, and there was no time for her to lunge at the light switch. He hauled her, sopping and protesting, out of the geranium-scented bubbles, onto the thickly carpeted hotel bathroom floor, and shut her cries up with a firm pair of lips on her mouth and a firm hand between her legs.

Afterwards, Liz sat happily at the dressing-table, smearing body lotion from a small, complimentary bottle all over herself, and ignoring the thought that although it was free, it was also disappointingly thin, and smelt rather nasty. When Marcus came and put a proprietary hand on her shoulder, she looked at his reflection in the dim, glowing dressing-table mirror, and smiled. She enjoyed his proprietary air, just as she enjoyed his easy, confident driving, his a.s.sured voice, his expensive overcoat, and even, perversely, his utter ignorance of and lack of enthusiasm for modern languages.

They had first visited the hotel the week before, ostensibly for dinner. When Liz discovered, during the course of the evening, that Marcus had also thoughtfully booked a room with a four-poster bed, she had been amazed and exhilarated.

'What if,' she'd demanded, later on, as they drove back to Silchester, 'what if I'd just eaten my dinner and said thank you very much, let's go home now?'

'Then,' Marcus replied calmly, 'I would have paid the bill and taken you home.' He paused, and put out one hand to caress the nape of her neck. 'But I was pretty sure that wouldn't happen.' Liz tingled briefly at the touch of his fingers, then sank back blissfully into the cushy seats of Marcus's Mercedes. She felt warm, cherished, and protected.

Now she put down the bottle of body lotion, and looked at the picture the two of them made in the mirror. Marcus was broader built than Jonathan, with thick dark hair on his legs and chest, and st.u.r.dy arms and wrists. He stood upright, with a relaxed, unconcerned posture, and Liz found herself making a brief disloyal comparison with Jonathan, who would always hunch un-healthily over his books until he suddenly remembered to sit up straight and jerked his shoulders back with an abrupt movement.

'We'll have a drink before we go,' said Marcus, stroking her shoulder. 'I've got to get back by midnight.' They met eyes briefly, then looked away from each other. A trail of white lotion was still running down Liz's arm, and she began to rub it briskly into her skin. She had carefully avoided thinking about Marcus's wife; his family; the cliched, shadowy characters that threatened at any moment to spoil her treat.

For that was how she thought of Marcus. He was her treat. She deserved him, she reckoned, after all her hard work, after being faithful and cheerful and making such an effort with the tutorial college. She deserved something nice for all of that. And Marcus-as well as being tall and strong and enthusiastic, albeit not particularly imaginative, in bed-had the delicious air of a luxury item. Just sitting in his car, listening to the coc.o.o.ned sound of the stereo; just watching as he casually signed the bill for dinner; just leaning against his expensively cotton-shirted chest and breathing in the delicious smell of his aftershave, was enough to make a broad smile of contentment spread slowly across her face. Words like infidelity and betrayal didn't come into it. This was just her special treat, nothing to do with Jonathan. And sometimes she even persuaded herself that if he knew about it, he would be glad. For her sake.

Not that he would ever find out. When Marcus had asked her out to dinner, Liz had hit upon the idea of telling Jonathan she was thinking of resuming her Italian conversation cla.s.ses in Frenham Dale, a good twenty miles from Silchester. He had no idea that Grazia, who used to run them, had moved back to Italy; nor did he ever ask where they were supposed to be taking place. And he couldn't have been more supportive of the idea. Liz remembered, with a slight twinge of guilt, his exclamations of delight; his encouraging smile. He really thought she was doing it all in aid of the tutorial college. Stupid fool.

She had not asked Marcus what he had told his wife. She didn't want to think about it; didn't want to remind him. But sometimes she wondered if he was thinking of her. Now she surrept.i.tiously eyed Marcus as he b.u.t.toned up his shirt. He looked serious. Grim, even. The horrible thought came to her that he might be thinking of his wife, and regretting what had happened. He might even now be considering how to extricate himself from all this. She imagined his face, telling her this was the last time, screwed up in an attempt to be kind but unequivocal. And then they'd never see each other again, and there would be no more dinners and no more hotels and no more rides in that lovely car. She'd be back to her unutterably dull life with Jonathan. She couldn't bear it.

She peered at Marcus's face again, trying to read his expression. But she couldn't tell what he was thinking about. Was it her? Or was it his wife?

Marcus was not thinking about his wife. Nor was he thinking about Liz. In fact, he had almost forgotten that she was in the room. His frown of concentration was due to the fact that the next day he was intending to begin, for Leo, the valuation of Panning Hall.

It should be a simple job. It was a good-sized estate, a fair way out of Silchester, with nearly twelve hundred acres, a manor house, several more houses dotted around the place, and good riding facilities. He'd attended a charity event at the house once, years ago, and as far as he could remember there were no unusual features; no zoos or recording studios; no surprises.

He'd met Lady Ursula, then, too. Painfully thin, and elegant, despite her age. One of the few owners of country estates he'd met who actually seemed at home in a huge country house. So often these places were inhabited by largely absent businessmen and their ill-at-ease wives. Drawing-rooms lay empty while the wife watched television in her bedroom. Dining-rooms grew chilly and unwelcoming, while the children ate fish-fingers every night in the kitchen. But Lady Ursula had known how to live in such a large house. She'd grown up in it. She'd had the right style. Marcus had felt an admiration for her then which lingered even now. Even now that she was dead.

It had been a bit of a shock when Leo casually mentioned, towards the end of their meeting, that the estate he was talking about was Panning Hall. Marcus hadn't heard of Lady Ursula's death, and his immediate feeling was one of shock.

'That's awful!' he'd blurted out.

'What is? What, did you know her? Is there some sort of problem?' Leo's eyes scanned Marcus's face. 'She wasn't a friend of yours, or anything, was she?'

'Well, no,' said Marcus. 'It's just that I met her a few years ago. And I didn't realize she'd died.'

'Alas, yes,' said Leo gravely, adopting a solemn face. Then his expression changed. 'But, frankly, the rest of her family is a shambles. They don't want to have the estate; they're only interested in the money. And that's all going straight up their noses.'

'Really?' Marcus felt nonplussed. Leo fixed him with a shrewd eye.

'I wouldn't like you to think, Marcus, that what I'm suggesting is my normal practice with all my clients.'

'Oh, er, no,' said Marcus. 'Of course not.'

'I specifically asked you, Marcus, to help me out on this one, because I trusted your judgement.' Leo leaned forward slightly and gazed into Marcus's face. 'I credited you, Marcus, with a certain vision. I hope you won't disappoint me.'

And Marcus had felt confused, flattered and exhilarated all at once. Leo had chosen him. He'd spotted his potential; seen that the constraints of provincial estate agency were stifling him; realized that Marcus was a man who could face a challenge head-on.

That was now a few weeks ago. And since then, everything had gone, Marcus thought, swimmingly. He'd set up the usual procedures impeccably. In his filing cabinet at work he had a bland letter from Leo, informing him of the owner's recent death and requesting a valuation for probate with a view to selling as soon as was convenient. The letter was addressed to Marcus at his work address, but Leo had actually sent it to him at home, to avoid the danger of anyone else at Witherstone's seeing it and deciding to do the valuation themselves. It had been easy for Marcus to bring it into the office, slip it into a file and sit quickly down at his desk again before Suzy, his secretary, came in.

He'd debated for a while whether to tell Suzy where he was going that day; whether a mysterious absence would draw more comment than the words Panning Hall Panning Hall scribbled across the diary page. People were so nosy: his cousin Miles would be sure to want to know all about the valuation if he found out about it; might even suggest coming along to see the place. scribbled across the diary page. People were so nosy: his cousin Miles would be sure to want to know all about the valuation if he found out about it; might even suggest coming along to see the place.

So in the end, he'd written in the diary, himself, the carefully ambiguous phrase: Valuation Panning Valuation Panning. Panning was itself a large village with a number of good-sized properties. And, as everyone was all too aware, there was a great trend at the moment for people to request valuations without having any intention of selling. If anyone asked where he'd been, he could make up some appropriate story about a client who had confessed at the end of their meeting that she didn't really want to sell. No one would bother to pursue it. And meanwhile, having a reference to Panning in the diary might be useful in the future. Just in case anyone ever suggested he hadn't put this case through the usual channels or that he'd tried to keep it quiet. Heaven forbid.

Marcus was trying, as far as he could, to lull himself into a normal frame of mind for this valuation. He would be professional about it, he would follow his usual procedures; he would carefully note the features of the main house and the state of the outlying buildings; investigate the river frontage and areas of woodland. He would undertake the job conscientiously, without skipping bits or cutting corners or taking anything for granted.

Marcus's hands tightened as he tied up his shoes; his breath quickened slightly. And then, at the end of the valuation, when he'd taken all factors into consideration, he would come up with an overall figure which would be, give or take the odd thousand, one million pounds short of what it should be.

Easy. A piece of cake. What was it his son Andrew always said? No sweat.

By five o'clock the next afternoon, Marcus was feeling very sweaty indeed. He had arrived at the manor house at ten, to find an elderly man in a navy blue anorak and wellingtons waiting outside in a Range Rover.

'Thought you'd be along soon,' he said, in a comfortable local voice. 'I'm Albert, used to do work on the estate for Lady Ursula. Thought you might like someone to show you about.'

'It's quite all right,' said Marcus in a cheerfully polite voice. 'I wouldn't like to trouble you.'

'No trouble,' replied Albert, grinning at Marcus. 'I suggested it to Mr Francis last week, and he said you'd probably be glad of someone who knows the place.'

'Did he indeed?' said Marcus, feeling annoyed. b.l.o.o.d.y Leo. Why did he have to say that?

'Well then,' he said, carefully modulating his voice to avoid suspicion. 'I'd be glad of your help.'

As they walked around the main house, Albert kept up a continual flow of chatter.

'Suppose they'll be selling then?' he said. 'Those daughters?'

'I believe so,' said Marcus.

'Drug addicts, both of 'em,' added Albert, surprisingly. 'Used to smoke those cigarettes in one of the stables. "Oh Albert," they says. "Don't tell Mother." Don't tell Lady Ursula, indeed! I was straight up to see her that very afternoon. And they went to see her and started weeping and crying, and said they wouldn't do it no more.' He clicked his tongue. 'Just found somewhere else to do it, that's all.' He sniffed, and looked around. 'No wonder they ended up in America.'

Marcus wasn't listening. He was staring at the fireplace in front of him. If it was, as he suspected, an Adam piece, then it would add, what, maybe fifty thousand to the value of the house. If not, then he could already discount the value by that amount. His hands trembling slightly, he scribbled in his notebook 'attractive fireplace.' He looked at the words for a moment, then briskly added a full stop and looked up. Albert nodded approvingly.

'That's a fine fireplace,' he said disconcertingly. 'Must be worth something on its own, that.'