"Better make time." Her voice changed, roughened. "I've been thinking

that I should drop that detective in the U.S. a note. You remember

him, don't you, dearie? Kesseiring was his name. Imagine me

remembering his name all these years." She smiled to herself Everyone

thought she was stupid. They wouldn't think it for long.

He hesitated too long, and cursed himself. "There's nothing you can

tell him."

"No? Well, we'll have to see, won't we? I thought I might write him a

letter. They might reopen the case if they had a couple of names to go

by. Your name, for instance, and-"

"You stir this up, it's going to come back on you." His voice was still

calm, but he was sweating. "You were every bit as involved as I."

"Oh no. I wasn't there, was I? I never laid a finger on that boy."

What the h.e.l.l had the boy been named? Donald or Dennis, she thought. It

hardly mattered. "No, I didn't lay a hand on him. But you did. It's

murder. Even after all these years, it's murder."

"They've never proven anything. They never will."

"With a little help they might. Want to chance it, dear?"

No, he didn't. She would know that he couldn't chance it. He was

exactly where he wanted to be, and intended to stay there. Whatever it

took. "How much?"

She smiled. "I think a million pounds would do it."

"You're out of your mind."

"It was my plan," she screeched into the phone. "It was my idea and I

never got a frigging penny. It's time to settle accounts, dearie.

You're rich man. You can spare it."

"There was never any ransom to collect," he reminded her.

"Because you screwed up. I haven't got a penny out of Brian in two

years. Now that Emma's grown up, he's cut me out cold. We can just

think of your payment to me as a retirement account. That much

money will keep me for a long time, and I won't have to bother you

again. You bring it here tomorrow night, and I won't have to mail my

little note."

Hours later she couldn't remember if she made the call or dreamed it.

And the letter. Where had she hidden the letter? She went back to the

pipe, hoping it would help her think. It seemed the best thing to do

was write the letter again. And if he didn't come soon, if he didn't

come very soon, she would make another call.

Jane sat down to write, and soon fell asleep.

It was the doorbell that woke her. Ringing and ringing and ringing. She

wondered why that d.a.m.n, stupid girl didn't answer it. It seemed to Jane

that nothing got done if she didn't do it herself Huffing and puffing,

she groped her way down the stairs.

She remembered when she saw him. He was standing at the door, his eyes

grim, a briefcase in his hand. And she remembered. Yes indeed, you had

to do things yourself "Come on in, ducks. It's been a while."

"I didn't come to visit." He could only think she looked like a pig,

fat, dirty, all of her chins quivering as she laughed.

"Come on, old friends like us. We'll have a drink. The liquor's up in

my room. I conduct all my business in my boudoir."