'It's an attractive piece,' said Marcus in an off-putting voice.

'I was watching the Antiques Road Show Antiques Road Show once,' added Albert. 'Fireplace just like that one got a hundred thousand pounds!' His voice rolled lovingly round the words and he looked impressively at Marcus. 'Think that one's worth the same?' once,' added Albert. 'Fireplace just like that one got a hundred thousand pounds!' His voice rolled lovingly round the words and he looked impressively at Marcus. 'Think that one's worth the same?'

'I doubt it,' said Marcus crushingly. He tried to think of some impressive jargon which would shut this man up. 'The medallions at the corners are all wrong, for a start.' He mustn't mention Adam. 'And the scagliola work looks completely inauthentic to me,' he added for good measure.

'Is that so?' said Albert. 'Fancy.' He looked beadily at Marcus, who felt a sudden urge to hit him.

'Anyway, let's move on,' he said briskly, moving towards the door.

'After you, sir,' said Albert, moving aside with an air of deference. Marcus eyed him suspiciously. In his state of unease, he was almost prepared to believe that this Albert character was a plant; that he would report straight back to the authorities; that the way was being paved for a sudden arrest; a fraud charge; dismissal and disgrace. Perhaps he had been sent as a spy from the district surveyor. Oh Christ. Marcus gazed at Albert and felt a cold shiver run down his spine, even though Leo had a.s.sured him that there was nothing to worry about on that front.

'The district surveyor's an old school chum,' he'd told Marcus smoothly. 'He'll rubber-stamp anything I put in front of him.' And Marcus had felt a stupidly naive shock, followed by a feeling of astonishment that this sort of thing really did happen. 'What else?' he'd wanted to ask Leo. 'What else goes on in this town that I don't know about?' Now he rather felt as though he didn't want to know any of it. Albert was striding confidently down the corridor ahead of him. Marcus suddenly imagined him turning round and looking at Marcus with an appraising, knowing gleam in his eye. Oh s.h.i.t. How much of this scam was obvious? How much had he given away already?

'Something wrong, sir?' Albert turned around, and Marcus jumped. He hastily adjusted his facial expression, and took a deep breath. He had to carry this off. He had to appear convincing.

'So,' he said, following Albert down the corridor, his voice bouncing off the acres of polished wooden floor. 'Lady Ursula lived here for many years, I believe.'

'Lived here all her life, more or less,' replied Albert knowledgeably. 'Grew up here, moved away, inherited the house and moved back. Eighty years or so, she lived here.'

'And she never thought of selling?' Marcus kept his voice light and casual, but listened carefully for Albert's reply. It would be awkward if she had had a recent valuation made-although one could always blame everything on the market.

'Never,' said Albert, in shocked tones. 'Saw it as a family house, she did. Would have liked one of those daughters to come back and live in it, too. But they weren't interested.' He paused. 'I suppose they'll do very nicely out of the sale, though.' His eyes, gleaming with speculation, swivelled to meet Marcus's.

'Well, it's hard to say,' said Marcus discouragingly. 'The property market's taken a tumble, you know. Particularly among large estates. They're actually worth much less than you might imagine. Much less,' he repeated with emphasis. The last thing he needed was for Albert and his cronies to start bandying stupid prices about the village.

'Oh,' said Albert, with an air of slight disappointment. 'But still, they'll do nicely.'

'Oh yes,' said Marcus, rea.s.suringly. 'They'll do nicely.' He looked at his watch. 'I don't want to keep you,' he said. 'If you need to get off-'

'Oh no,' said Albert cheerfully. 'I'll show you around properly, sir. Don't you worry.'

In the end, Albert had trailed round with Marcus for the whole day, accompanying him to the village shop to buy a sandwich for lunch, and taking him to see the manor farm in his Range Rover.

'So, you'll be coming back tomorrow?' he said, as Marcus wearily got into his Mercedes at the end of the day.

'I'm not sure,' said Marcus. 'Maybe.'

'I'll be at home if you need me,' Albert said. 'Mason's Cottage. Ask at the shop.'

'I will,' said Marcus, summoning up his last reserves of good humour in order to smile at Albert. 'And thank you so much for all your help. It really was tremendously useful.' Albert shrugged.

'Any time,' he said, and got into his Range Rover. There was a pause, as each waited for the other to leave, then, impatiently, Marcus put his foot down, and roared off in a trail of spitting gravel.

As he drove home, he thought gloomily about how much there was still to do if he was to carry out a full valuation. He had covered only a fraction of the property. Would it be possible, he wondered, to find some impressionable junior who would do some of the legwork for him without asking questions? But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew the answer was no. The latest bunch of juniors in the office were pushy, ambitious creatures, who were uniformly desperate to attract attention and further their careers. They worked late, volunteered for extra tasks, and had the temerity to look askance at Marcus when he sloped off early to pick up Anthea and the boys. Any old-fashioned deference to senior status seemed to have vanished from this lot; any opportunity for personal gain was grabbed with glee; loyalty was an alien concept. He would be safer doing the whole thing on his own. And certainly, as far as the cut he would receive from Leo went, it would be well worth it.

He was working out in his mind how long the whole affair was likely to take as he pulled up to a set of traffic lights in outer Silchester-and when he heard a sudden knocking on the car window, a spasm of foolish terror went through him. He looked up in guilty alarm, almost expecting to see the face of a policeman. But it was the smiling face of Ginny Prentice.

'Marcus!' she cried. 'Can I cadge a lift into town?' Without waiting for an answer, she opened the pa.s.senger door and clambered in. 'Oh, sorry, I'm on top of your papers. Shall I move them?' Marcus made a grab for the Panning Hall papers.

'I'll do it,' he muttered, shoving them on the back seat. Christ. This was all he needed.

'What luck to see you!' Ginny was exclaiming, as she settled into her seat and put on her seat belt. 'I've been showing a load of journalists round that new development in North Silchester.'

'Oh really?' Marcus forced himself to pay attention. 'New developments aren't really my line.'

'No, well ... This one's really nice. As they go. And I think the journalists liked it. We gave them all champagne in the show house,' she added inconsequently. 'That's why I couldn't take my car. I've had rather a lot of champagne. I was going to take a taxi.' She giggled, and looked at her watch. 'Are you going back to the office? I promised to go in and see Miles. But it's a bit late now, isn't it?'

'I suppose it is,' said Marcus. He was trying desperately to think of an alternative topic to that of work. Anything. As long as she didn't ask him where he'd been ...

'So, where have you been?' said Ginny conversationally. 'Skiving off ?' Marcus could feel his neck growing warm.

'Oh, nowhere in particular,' he said, trying to keep his voice light. 'Just a meeting. Very boring.'

'That's the trouble with you lot!' exclaimed Ginny. 'How am I supposed to provide interesting stories for the press if you describe everything as boring? I bet you've just been to see some lovely house ... it didn't have a ghost, did it? One of the nationals is doing a story on haunted houses, and we don't seem to have any!'

'No,' said Marcus. 'No ghosts.'

'Are these the details here?' said Ginny, reaching behind Marcus for the Panning Hall papers.

'No! No, they're not,' cried Marcus. 'That's something else.' This was unbearable. He put his foot down on the accelerator and increased his speed. He had to get into town and Ginny out of the car.

'Oh, OK,' said Ginny. She dropped the papers and gave him a curious look.

'How's your house, anyway?' said Marcus abruptly. Ginny paused.

'Oh, it's fine,' she said. 'Lovely. Actually, we met the daughter the other day. Alice Chambers. The daughter of the woman letting the house out.' She eyed Marcus carefully.

'Oh right,' said Marcus abstractly. Thank G.o.d. They were onto another subject. 'Nice, is she?' he added, for good measure.

'She's a lovely girl,' said Ginny, and gave Marcus another side-long look.

They pa.s.sed the rest of the journey in silence. Ginny looked out the window, and remembered the faces of Marcus and Liz on the day when she'd first visited the house in Russell Street. She'd thought it odd at the time, for them to have waited so long together, and to have been drinking champagne. And now, Marcus had obviously spent the afternoon doing something he didn't want her to know about. Something must be going on between those two. It must be.

Marcus sat still, and willed Ginny not to ask any more questions about that afternoon. Of course, there was nothing wrong in telling her he'd been carrying out a valuation. Perfectly legitimate work. And with anybody else, he might have done. But not Ginny Prentice. Ginny wasn't in public relations for nothing. He'd never met anyone with such a fertile imagination; such an eye for a story. If she caught even a whiff of what he'd been doing, she'd put together all the other pieces in no time.

As they approached the first major junction before Russell Street, Ginny gathered up her bag and pile of folders.

'Drop me here,' she said. 'That's completely brilliant.' She flashed him a smile. 'Thanks, Marcus! One less taxi fare to charge to Witherstone's!'

'Don't mention it,' said Marcus, forcing a smile to his lips. And as he drove off, he reflected that he really meant what he said. At home, a row was in progress. When Marcus stepped in through the front door, he found Anthea, Daniel and Andrew still standing in the hall. Daniel's face was bright red; he looked bunched up and uncomfortable in his blazer and school rucksack, and he was speaking in a raised, distressed voice.

'Everyone's been laughing at me all day,' he was saying, as Marcus entered.

'Nonsense,' said Anthea briskly.

'It's true,' said Andrew dispa.s.sionately. He had taken off his blazer and was sitting under the huge, heavy oak hall table, running a car idly up and down the legs. 'They were laughing at him.'

'What's all this about?' said Marcus in a hearty voice. 'h.e.l.lo, darling.' He kissed Anthea, took off his coat and hung it up in the hall cupboard. 'Daniel, why don't you take off your blazer? You'll feel better then.'

'No I won't,' muttered Daniel, but he allowed his father to take his rucksack off his back, and began to unb.u.t.ton his blazer, with rough, jerky movements.

'Now, come on, Dan,' said Marcus, when Daniel was unb.u.t.toned and looked a bit calmer. 'What's gone wrong?'

'Everyone's been laughing at me at school because Mummy told all the other mothers that I always translate all my homework into French for fun.' His voice trembled. 'For fun!' he repeated, on a rising note. 'Edward White's mother told him and he told the whole cla.s.s and they kept laughing and pretending I can't understand things if they're not in French, and calling me Danielle.'

'Well then, they're very immature and stupid,' said Anthea. 'Just ignore them.'

'You always say that! It's not fair! And it's all your fault! Why did you have to tell them that?'

Yes, why did you? Marcus wanted to repeat. He eyed Anthea suspiciously, then changed his expression to a supportive smile as she turned to face him.

'It's all nonsense,' she said, in a defensive voice. 'I was just having a conversation about homework with some of the other mothers, and I must have mentioned that time when we had Jacques Reynaud's children over. Do you remember? They were gabbling away in French all evening. And they did translate Daniel's homework into French.'

'Yes, but that was a game!' shouted Daniel, his chest heaving in frustration. 'And it was only once! You told them I did it all the time because I found it fun.'

'I didn't tell them anything,' said Anthea sharply. 'I expect Edward White's mother wasn't listening properly.'

'Could you have given them the wrong impression?' said Marcus carefully.

'Of course not!' Anthea was sounding rattled. 'This is ridiculous. If those other boys want to make fun of you, it's because they're jealous, that's all. Now, go into the kitchen. Hannah's got your tea.'

When the boys had left, Daniel resentfully slouching, Andrew trailing his car happily along the wall, Marcus looked sternly at Anthea. He knew exactly what she was like in the company of the other mothers at the school gate: unable to stop herself from boasting about the boys' prowess; unable to let another parent's story go without capping it, even if that meant embellishing the truth. She couldn't help it; it was bigger than her.

'What did you say to those mums?'

'Nothing! I said nothing.' Her eyes fluttered round. 'It's not my fault if a lot of silly boys decide to pick on Daniel.'

'They seem to pick on him rather a lot. And it's often because of something you've said.'

'What do you mean?' A fiery spot of colour appeared in each of Anthea's cheeks. 'What are you accusing me of?'

'I just think you should be more careful of what you say. Daniel's under enough pressure as it is at the moment, without being made the laughing-stock of the cla.s.s.'

'I see. So you think I'm deliberately trying to make him a laughing-stock, do you?' Anthea's eyes flashed at Marcus.

'Of course not-'

'Do you know how much I do for him? How many hours I spend helping him with his homework, listening to him practise, ferrying him around?'

'I know you do!' said Marcus, suddenly pushed to the limits of frustration. His day had been stressful enough, without all this. 'Well, maybe you should do a bit less!' Anthea paused, for a shocked second, then turned slowly away, bowing her head slightly. Oh f.u.c.k it, thought Marcus. He'd played right into her hands.

'Look, I'm sorry,' he said. He went over, and put a hand on her bony, cashmere-covered shoulder. He felt the muscles relax; felt Anthea begin to give a little. Then suddenly into his head popped a twin vision of Liz's well-covered generous shoulder, warm and naked apart from a blob of lotion. He flushed slightly, and shook his head to dispel it. Christ. Who was he to lecture Anthea? 'I'm sorry,' he repeated. 'I've had a hard day. Let's just forget it, shall we?'

She turned to face him, and he saw the unmistakable light of guilt in her eyes. She had been boasting to the other mothers. And she knew she had. But something in her would refuse to allow her to admit it. It was a familiar pattern. When she was in this mood, she would deny any charge until she was in a state of hysteria. Marcus shuddered at the memory of previous arguments; scenes of increasingly wild accusation on his part and shrieking denial on hers. He always gave in first; always would give in first. It simply wasn't worth doing anything else. And so they all had to carry on, allowing her the pretence that she was innocent; suggesting other explanations; letting the ripples of arguments die down without identifying a satisfactory cause. The boys would learn soon enough that the easiest route was always to go along with her; to fudge the truth for a quiet life.

But it wasn't fair. Like a small boy, Marcus found himself repeating the words to himself, even as he began to ma.s.sage Anthea's shoulder; even as he cupped her face affectionately in his hand. It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.

Later on that evening, he went to say good night to Daniel, who was propped up in bed, avidly reading a Biggles book. Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed.

'I hope this whole French thing will have blown over by tomorrow,' he said honestly. Daniel shrugged mutely and turned pink. 'I hate to say it,' added Marcus, 'but Mummy does have a point when she tells you to ignore it. You must know what it's like if you're teasing someone. If they ignore you completely, it gets boring.' There was silence. Daniel gave no impression of having heard. Marcus waited.

'She did say it,' said Daniel suddenly, in a low, aggrieved voice. 'I know she did.'

'Well, maybe she said something without meaning to,' said Marcus placatingly. 'The trouble is,' he continued, 'that Mummy is so proud of you, she finds it difficult not to tell everybody when you do well.'

'I know,' said Daniel despairingly. He glanced up at his father. 'We don't tell her things, sometimes, because all she'd do is tell everybody straightaway.' He paused, and looked at his father for a reaction. Marcus felt unable to speak. 'Andrew got a star in his comprehension last week,' continued Daniel, 'and he didn't tell Mummy. And he made me promise not to either. We told Hannah, instead.' Marcus looked at Daniel's earnest face, and felt a creeping sadness in his chest. Had it really come to this? That in order to get along as a family, they all had to have secrets from each other? That the only person they could confide in was the housekeeper?

'Well, I can see why you might want to keep things like that quiet,' he said eventually. He fingered Daniel's blue-and-white-striped duvet, and a smell of fresh-laundered linen rose up in the air. 'And I think-' He broke off and looked at Daniel. 'I think you might be wise.'

He got up abruptly and paced to the other side of the room, picked up a model car on the mantelpiece, and turned it over idly in his fingers. 'But, you know,' he said, suddenly, not quite looking at Daniel, 'Hannah isn't the only person you can tell things to.' He put the car down, and came back to the bed. 'I won't go running to Mummy,' he said softly. 'If you do well at something, either of you, you must tell me.' Daniel looked at him solemnly.

'OK,' he said.

'And Andrew too,' said Marcus.

'All right,' said Daniel.

'And I won't say a word to Edward White's mother,' said Marcus, in serious tones. He caught Daniel's eye, and they both started giggling. 'I don't even know Edward White's mother,' added Marcus. Daniel's giggles got louder; his face turned scarlet and he disappeared under the duvet.

Anthea appeared in the doorway.

'What's funny?' she said. Marcus noticed that she had an automatic note of disapproval in her voice. Was that new? Or had he never picked it up before?

'Nothing important,' he said. 'Right, it's time to go. G'night, Dan.'

'G'night,' said Daniel, emerging from the duvet, still with a gurgle in his voice.

As Marcus pa.s.sed Anthea in the doorway, she gave him an anxious, mildly suspicious glance. He ignored it, and strode away down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear Anthea's voice, asking Daniel rather petulantly if he'd brushed his teeth.

Leave the boy alone, he thought grimly. Leave him alone. But try saying that to Anthea, and he'd regret it. Try saying anything to Anthea, these days, and he'd probably regret it.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Piers gave an enormous, self-conscious yawn, looked out of the window, and tried to stop a huge smile from spreading across his face. He was sitting, alone briefly, in the office of Alan Tinker, the producer of Summer Street Summer Street. The phone had rung a couple of minutes ago, and Alan had grimaced to Piers as he picked up the receiver.

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' he said as he put it down again. 'That b.a.s.t.a.r.d McKenna. Look, Piers, you won't mind if I pop out for a few moments?' He gestured around the office. 'Make yourself some more coffee if you want to; do what you like. Watch some telly!' He'd flashed a conspirator's grin at Piers, and disappeared out of the room, leaving Piers alone to sit as calmly as he could, and try to ignore his growing sense of elation.

The meeting was going well. By any standards, it was going well. Alan Tinker had met Piers in reception himself, had taken him casually into the main canteen for a cup of coffee, had introduced him to a number of people. A number of really quite important people. And although he hadn't actually said, 'This is Piers who's taking over from Ian'-the way he was talking, it seemed as though ...