Funny thing, history. Since the sixties, all sorts of people, moral reformers, right-wingers, left-wingers, politicians, feminists, male chauvinists, law-and-order campaigners, and censorship freaks of every kind, have invented a straightlaced, well-behaved public life from which the country somehow strayed with the invention of permissiveness.
– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,
from Notting Hill in the Sixties
Although never very substantial, Angel lost weight rapidly after she moved into the Colville Terrace bedsit. This was in part from lack of funds, as her wage did not stretch as far as she'd expected, and in part because the single gas ring in her room didn't encourage more than heating soup or stew from a tin. She took up smoking, finding that tobacco both dulled hunger and eased boredom, not to mention the fact that her boss gave her a discount on cigarettes.
She grew her hair long and straight, with a fringe that brushed her eyebrows and, unable to afford the new fashions, hemmed her skirts above her knees with clumsy stitches that would have made Mrs. Thomas cringe. Her lashes were heavy with mascara, her skin pale with the latest pancake foundation.
There were boys, of course, to impress with her newfound sense of style. As soon as word got round that she was on her own, they came into the shop in pimply droves, wanting to take her to the cinema, or out for a coffee.
At first she was flattered, but she learned soon enough what those invitations meant. After the first few disappointing encounters, she decided she preferred to stay in her room in the evenings, watching the telly and listening to 45s that scratched and hissed on her father's old phonograph. Posters of the Beatles now covered the damp stains on her walls- their smiling faces watched over her like medieval saints.
These small comforts kept her going until a bitterly cold night in March, when she came to the end of her wages, her food, and paraffin for the heater. It was two days until payday and, shivering beneath a swath of blankets as her stomach cramped from emptiness, she wondered how she was going to manage. Her employer, Mr. Pheilholz, was kind enough, but she knew he had nothing extra to give her. She could go to the Thomases, but the thought of Ronnie's pity and contempt made her decide she'd rather die than give in to that temptation.
Prompted by the thought of the Thomases, however, a memory came to her unbidden. She had been ill once, as a child, and her mother had soothed her with tinned chicken soup and fizzy lemonade. The recollection brought tears to her eyes. She shook it off, as she did most reminders of her former life, but the thought of her mother had triggered another vivid flash.
She got out of bed and scrabbled in the bureau. She didn't remember throwing away the last of her mother's tablets- were they still there? When her mother had been too fretful to sleep, the tiny morphine tablets had given her ease. Could they help her daughter now?
Her fingers closed on a smooth round shape, right in the back of the drawer. She drew it out- yes, it was the same brown glass bottle she remembered. Unscrewing the cap, she shook a few of the tablets into her hand, then, with sudden resolution, took a kitchen knife and cut one in half. Gingerly, she swallowed the tiny crescent moon.
She regretted it instantly. Her heart thumped with fear as she waited, wondering how she would feel dying, poisoned, unable to call for help.
After a few minutes, something began to happen. First came a cold numbness in her mouth, then warmth spread through her body and she felt a strange sort of separation from the cold and hunger. She was still aware of the sensations, she knew that they were a part of her, and yet she was somehow outside them.
Forgetting her terror, she relaxed, snuggling deeper into the blankets. It was all right… It was going to be all right. A rosy contentment possessed her. The light from her single lamp seemed to coalesce into a luminous halo, and she hummed to herself as disconnected bits of songs floated through her brain. At last, she drifted into a deep and blissful sleep, the first in days.
After that, she hoarded the little white tablets, saving them for the times when things seemed more than she could bear.
Summer came at last, and with it her seventeenth birthday. The day passed unremarked except for a card sent by Betty and her mother. It was hot, even for August, and as the afternoon wore on, the shop became more and more stifling. Angel was minding the place on her own, as Mr. Pheilholz had declared it unbearable and departed for the day. She stood at the cash register, aware of every breath of air that came through the open door, watching the hands on the big wall clock move like treacle.
The young man came in for cigarettes. She barely noticed him at first, as there was a faint buzzing in her ears and her vision seemed to be doing strange things.
"Are you all right?" he asked as he took his change. "You're pale as a ghost."
"I… I do feel a bit odd." Her voice seemed to come from a long way away.
"It's the heat. You need to sit down, get some air," he told her decisively. "Here." Dumping the apples from one produce crate into another, he turned over the empty one and placed it in the doorway. He then led her to it, holding her by the arm. "Sit. Put your head down." He pulled a newspaper from the display and fanned her with it.
After a few minutes, he asked, "Feeling better?"
"Yes, thanks." Lifting her head, she took in the blond hair brushing his collar, the clear, gray eyes, the smart, uncreased jacket he wore even in the heat, and the giddiness that washed over her had nothing to do with the heat. She thought that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
"Come on, then," he ordered. "I'll take you out for something cold to drink."
"Can't. Not until closing. I'm minding the shop."
"Then shut it. It's too hot for anyone to buy groceries, much less cook them."
"I can't!" she protested, horrified. "I'd lose my job."
"And that matters?"
"Of course it matters!" she told him, but she was partly convincing herself.
He studied her, and she gazed back, as mesmerized as a rabbit facing a snake.
"How long till you can close, then?" he asked.
She glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that half an hour had passed. "An hour. It's my birthday," she added, inexplicably, feeling a fool.
"Is it? Then I suppose I'll just have to wait." Leaning against the produce case, he crossed his arms, looking about the shop with evident disdain. "What are you doing working in this lousy place, anyway?"
"It's all I could get." She was ashamed, seeing it through his eyes. "And it pays my rent."
"You haven't told me your name."
For a moment she hesitated, then she lifted her chin. "Angel."
"Just Angel?"
Excitement surged through her. He knew nothing of her, her parents, her background; she could reinvent herself as she chose. "That's right. Just Angel."
Two weeks later, she lay beneath him in her narrow bed, the rumpled sheets pushed back, the window open as wide as it would go. "Tell me what you want, Angel," he urged, his breath catching in his throat. "I can give it to you. I can give you anything- fame, fortune, glory." He had pursued her as if nothing else mattered in the world, waiting at her flat every day after work, taking her out for meals and to the cinema, buying her trinkets… and staying every night in her room. The wonder of it took her breath away. What could he possibly see in her, when he could have anyone?
His skin, glistening with perspiration, slid effortlessly against hers as he moved inside her. A sultry breeze lifted the curtains; the light from the street lamp silvered his corn-yellow hair.
She was lost, and she knew that he knew it, but she didn't care. "I want you to love me." Digging her fingertips into his shoulders, she whispered against his cheek, tasting the salt like blood. "I want you to love me, just me. More than anyone, or anything, ever."
Kit McClellan loaded the last of his boxes into his dad's- make that his stepdad's- Volvo. He had learned, since his mum had died the previous April, that the man he had always known as his father was actually not his dad at all, and that his real dad had not known of his existence until his mum's death. It was all quite confusing, but he had gradually got used to it, and now everything was going to change again.
His stepfather, Ian, was taking a teaching post in Canada, and Kit was going to live with his real father, Duncan, Duncan's girlfriend, Gemma, and her son, Toby, in a house in a part of London Kit had never even seen. It was what he had wanted, to be a real family, and Gemma was going to have a baby in the spring, a new brother or sister for him.
It was also terrifying, and it meant leaving the pink cottage in the little village of Grantchester where he had spent his whole life, and where he had last seen his mum.
That morning he'd said good-bye to his friend Nathan Winter, who had been his mother's friend as well, and who had fostered Kit's love of biology. Much to Kit's embarrassment, Nathan had given him a crushing hug, and it had been all Kit could do to keep from blubbing like a baby. "You know you can come visit any time the pavement gets too much for you," Nathan had teased, and Kit thought with a pang of the long, slow days spent by the river that flowed past his back garden.
"Are you ready, Kit?" called Ian.
Swallowing hard, Kit took one last look at the cottage, its "For Sale" sign already posted in the front garden. "All set."
He opened the car door and summoned Tess with a whistle. "Ready for a ride, girl?" he asked the little terrier who had been his constant companion since he'd found her hiding in a box behind a supermarket, just days after his mum's death.
Tess bounded into the car, licking his face excitedly as he climbed in beside her.
They made the drive in silence, Kit watching out the window with avid interest as they reached London and drove west along Hyde Park. He could bring Tess to the park, Duncan had said, whenever he liked, so they must be getting close to the house.
He had a fleeting impression of ugly, square buildings round the Notting Hill Gate tube stop. They swung to the right, entering streets lined with sedate rows of terraced houses. Next, a church, its brick dark with age; then they were running down a hill and drawing to a stop before a solid-looking brown brick house with a red door and white trim.
"You'll come to Canada on your summer break," Ian reminded him. "I'll make all the arrangements."
Kit nodded absently, for Duncan had come out the front door, and Toby stood at the garden gate, calling excitedly to him. His new life had begun.
Hazel had helped her pack with such cheerful competence that Gemma decided she must have imagined that her friend was distressed over her leaving. But Gemma herself found it hard to say good-bye to the tiny flat: It was the first home she had been able to call entirely her own. And then there was Hazel's piano- when would she ever be able to play again? Making an excuse for a last trip into the big house, she dashed into the sitting room and stood for a moment gazing at the instrument, then touched the keys briefly in farewell.
"Don't worry if you've forgotten something," Hazel assured her as Gemma squeezed into the car with the collected bundles. "Holly and I will come over tomorrow and help you get settled."
"I'll need it, I'm sure," Gemma called out as she waved and drove off. Duncan had taken Toby with him in the van he'd fixed to transport the things from his flat- and Sid the cat. They would meet her at the new house.
After a week's relentless drizzle, Saturday had dawned clear and unseasonably warm, a perfect day for moving, and as Gemma neared Notting Hill she found herself singing along with the old Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young tune "Our House" on the radio. She laughed aloud with sudden, unanticipated joy.
They were all waiting for her- Duncan, Toby, and Kit, with Tess bounding round and barking madly.
"I take it she likes the house." Gemma gave Kit a welcoming hug.
Toby tugged at her, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "Mummy, Mummy, have you seen the garden? Have you seen my room? Sid's shut in the loo." The poor cat must be utterly traumatized, thought Gemma, but before she could check on him, Toby grabbed her hand and yanked her towards the stairs. "Come see my room, Mummy. Kit's going to share with me!"
"Okay, okay," she said, laughing. "We need a plan. First we tour the house, then we start on the boxes. I'll take the kitchen, you boys can start on your bedrooms, and Duncan can take the sitting room."
"Yes, ma'am. I take it we save our bedroom for last?" Kincaid grinned and winked at her over the boys' heads.
By mid-afternoon Gemma had made a list of essentials they would need to buy, including new linens for the boys' beds and a set of dishes for the kitchen. Her few mismatched bits and Duncan's bachelor plates were not going to do for a real kitchen, and she had seen exactly the thing in a catalogue: a blue-and-yellow French farmhouse design, perfect for the blue-and-yellow kitchen.
She was humming happily as she confronted the oil-fired cooker, thinking she would make them all a pot of tea, when her cell phone rang.
It was Melody Talbot, calling from Notting Hill Police Station. "Sorry to interrupt your moving day, boss, but we've had a call that might add up to something. A Miss Granger, who lives near the Arrowoods, was out jogging the night Dawn was killed. She's been out of town on business and just now saw the media appeal."
"Go on," Gemma encouraged as she filled her chipped teakettle. Not expecting much, she only half listened, mentally adding "new kettle" to her shopping list.
"Well, it seems Miss Granger passed another jogger that night, going the opposite way on Ladbroke Grove. That would mean he was going north, away from St. John's Gardens. His hood was up, which she thought was a bit odd because it had stopped drizzling, and when she looked back she saw that he was leaving a trail of dark footprints. She shrugged it off at the time, thinking he must have run through a puddle or something, but now…"
"Jesus…" Gemma set the kettle down on the very edge of the stove, then grabbed it as it tipped. "Blood? You're thinking it was blood?"
"His shoes would have been soaked, wouldn't they, if he stood behind Dawn?"
"And his hood was up to conceal his face. Could this Miss Granger describe his clothes?"
"Ordinary jogger's things; a dark nylon tracksuit."
"Did you get a full statement?"
"I'm going to her flat myself, right now. Boss, does this rule out Karl?"
They'd assumed that if Karl had murdered his wife, he had parked in his own drive, killed Dawn, then rung the police. But what if he had parked his car elsewhere, changed into jogging clothes, run to the house where he waited for his wife and killed her, then run back to his car, disposing of his bloody outer garments and weapon before driving to the house and calling for help- and all in the few minutes' leeway the traffic between Tower Bridge and Notting Hill might have allowed him? Implausible, improbable, and bloody unlikely.
"I'd say so," Gemma responded grimly, "unless he's Superman."
By evening Gemma was happy enough to have a soak in the roll-top tub- the highlight of their new bathroom- and ready enough to leave the boxes behind for a civilized dinner. They'd ordered pizza for the boys, a treat, apparently, of royal proportions, and assured Kit that he could reach them on their mobile phones.
"Have you met Cullen's girlfriend?" Gemma asked Kincaid as they drove towards Victoria. "And what is she doing with a flat in Belgravia?"
"Her father owns the building, I think Doug said."
"Oh, charming."
Kincaid snorted. "Your prejudices are showing. I'm sure she's perfectly nice. Doug says she works for a home furnishings shop."
"Worse yet," Gemma muttered.
But when they reached Ebury Street, she found she was actually a little nervous about meeting Doug Cullen. "What's he like, really?" she asked, tucking her arm through Kincaid's as they climbed the stairs to the first-floor flat.
"A nice chap. Don't worry, you'll like him."
And indeed she did, at first sight. Cullen exuded a sort of perpetual naÏveté, his fresh-faced, public-school looks made only slightly more severe by the wire-rimmed spectacles he kept pushing up his nose.
In contrast to Cullen's comforting ordinariness, Stella Fairchild-Priestly wore a cropped pink angora top and black capri trousers that bared her rhinestone-studded navel- or at least Gemma assumed the sparkling gems were rhinestones. The girl's pale hair was expensively and trendily cut, her makeup salon perfect, her nails a frosted pink that matched her sweater. "Hi, I'm Stella," she said with a brilliant smile, and Gemma felt instantly frumpy, fat, and ancient.
Nothing could have been better designed to make Gemma feel even more uncomfortable than being forced to ask for mineral water while the others drank martinis. Stella had a drinks tray ready, and as the others discussed the merits of olives and shaken versus stirred, Gemma looked round the sitting room she instantly dubbed Fifties Chic.
The room had two sets of French doors giving on to a balcony that overlooked Ebury Street. Around evergreen topiaries Stella had wound strings of tiny Christmas lights, and these were reflected in mirrors on the flat's interior walls, adding sparkle to the long, low shapes of the furniture.
The table Stella had arranged at the room's far end gleamed with silver and starched white linen, and as Gemma moved closer she saw that there were even tiny silver place card holders. "Bloody hell," she whispered, wondering if she had wandered into a magazine set.
"Dougie promised me you weren't vegetarian," Stella said a few minutes later as she served Gemma's plate with perfectly prepared veal scaloppini, fresh asparagus, and a saffron rice timbale- at least that's what Gemma thought it was, having seen something similar on a cooking program once.
"Dougie" blushed to the roots of his hair. "Stella, you know how much I hate it when you call me that."
"Sorry." Stella smiled at him over the candles, unrepentant. "But we are among friends, after all. Gemma, tell me about your new home."
As Gemma launched into a description of the house's attributes and furnishings, Stella interrupted with, "You'll need linens, won't you? You'll have to come to our shop. Two-hundred-thirty-thread count, from Portugal. They're yummy. You'll have to iron them, of course, but we have lavender linen water, just the thing for it."
"Um, where is the shop exactly?" Gemma murmured. Even if she could afford Stella's sheets, where on earth did the silly woman think she would find time to iron them? Stella began on the virtues of Portuguese lace, but Gemma listened with only half her attention, as Kincaid had begun filling Cullen in on the day's developments.
"So if this jogger was indeed the killer," Cullen was saying earnestly, "he'd have had to dispose of the bloody clothes a good distance away- we've searched the immediate neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb- and that would have meant changing socks as well as shoes, and not leaving a smidgen of trace evidence in his car."
Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw Stella pale.
"If this development makes Arrowood a less than likely prospect," Cullen continued, "where does that leave us?" He seemed oblivious to his girlfriend's growing discomfort.
"Alex Dunn has a fairly watertight alibi, and so does Otto Popov, unless everyone in his café is conspiring to cover up for him, including Alex." Gemma pushed the rice around on her plate as she thought. "But what about the Arrowood boys? You've been working on that angle, haven't you, Doug?"
Cullen gave an exaggerated sigh that Gemma suspected was for Stella's benefit. "I've interviewed every guest at the party they attended that night. The only way Sean or Richard Arrowood could have murdered Dawn would have been by hiring a professional killer. And as for that, I can't see Richard having the nerve, or Sean the motivation."
"No evidence of drugs or debt on Sean's part?" Kincaid asked.
"Just a long history of cleaning up his brother's messes. But I can't see his loyalty to Richard extending to murdering his stepmother to get Richard out of a scrape."
Into the discouraged silence that followed this pronouncement, Kincaid said, "There must be something we've missed- someone else whose path crossed Dawn's-"
"There is the vet," interrupted Gemma. "Gavin Farley. Remember my telling you that Farley's assistant, Bryony, said he had a row with Dawn the day she died?"
"And Bryony had no idea what the row was about?"
"None, other than the fact that Farley liked to flirt with Dawn, although Dawn didn't encourage it. When I interviewed the man, he denied arguing with her at all."
"So either Bryony or Farley is lying?"
Gemma nodded. "I'd put my money on Farley. It's at least worth seeing where he was on the night of Dawn's murder."
"You're leaving out Hoffman, again." Doug pushed his spectacles firmly up. "What connection could a veterinarian possibly have had with the Hoffman woman? She didn't even have a pet."
Kincaid expertly balanced the last bite of his veal on his fork. "We know nothing about the man at this point. I say we start by seeing what we can dig up on him. Doug, you can make that your project-"
Depositing her silverware on her plate with a clatter, Stella pushed away her half-eaten dinner with a brittle smile. "I must say, this evening has exceeded my every expectation- educational and pleasant. Anyone for dessert?"
Fern cursed as she tripped over something bulky and hard on her sitting room floor. She edged forward, fumbling for the light switch.
Illumination revealed a box containing old children's toys, a tricycle, and- was that really a weathervane?- set down willy-nilly in the center of the room. That meant her father had been and gone again, no doubt to squander the proceeds of his day's trading at the pub. For a moment she considered leaving the box where it was, but decided she couldn't risk his falling over it when he came in. Instead, she shoved it to one side, then retreated to her room and slammed the door.
Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed, looking round at the neat shelves and storage boxes with her usual sense of relief. This was her island in the storm of her father's chaos; here her silver was arranged and catalogued, and nothing was ever, ever out of place.
She could have moved out years ago, of course, as her mum had done, and left him to his own devices. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to live on her own; she made a reasonable living with her trading, enough for a little studio or maisonette, maybe not in Notting Hill itself, but at least on the fringe.
But then who would get her dad his tea, or look after him when he'd had a night on the tiles? Or make certain the rent and the rates got paid? As much as she liked Marc Mitchell, she'd no desire to see her dad frequenting Marc's soup kitchen, and she had no doubt that was where he'd end up.
Of course, if she ever got into a serious relationship, she'd have to come up with another solution, and it had occurred to her that her refusal to give up on Alex gave her an easy out. Unrequited affection required no action, nor any tough decisions. Had she loved him as much when she thought he loved her?
Shying away from the question, she got out her laptop and began entering the day's transactions. She liked keeping track of her merchandise, and of what sold and what didn't. "Prissy accountancy," her dad called it. She argued that it was merely practical, but the truth was that it made her feel secure.
Tonight, however, nothing kept her mind off Alex. She was worried about his safety and frustrated by the fact that she could do nothing to remedy the situation- nor could she talk to him about it, as she had discovered that morning in the arcade.
They'd always been comfortable together; even after Dawn came on the scene, they had still managed to get through Saturday trading with a certain amount of shoptalk and banter. But today had been awful, a long, awkward day of aborted conversations and unaccustomed silences, after which Alex had locked up on the stroke of five and hurried out as if he couldn't bear another moment of her company.
Then, an hour later, he had rung her at home, hesitantly asking if she'd come round to his flat.
Baffled by his behavior, but determined not to jump at his beck and call, she'd made a date for nine o'clock. But as the time passed she grew increasingly uneasy, and as she walked up the hill to his mews, she had to make herself slow her pace. When she arrived to find him looking just as usual, she felt a ridiculous surge of relief.
"Coffee?" he asked cheerfully. "No alcohol for me, I'm afraid, but if you'd rather I can give you a glass of wine."
"No, coffee's fine." She wasn't sure she wanted to know why he wasn't drinking, and he didn't volunteer any explanation. She stood silently as he made the coffee in his drip pot, then watched in shock as he put one of his treasured Clarice Cliff coffeepots and two matching cups on a tray. This was not stuff you used, for heaven's sake- breaking just one of the cups would cost you a month's wages.
"Alex, what are you thinking of? You can't seriously mean to drink out of those?"
"And why not? I distinctly remember you serving punch out of a Georgian bowl at your friend Alicia's wedding."
"Yeah, but that's different. You can't really hurt silver. But this stuff…"
"So what do you suggest I save it for? Isn't this special occasion enough?"
"Oh, please. I seem to recall us having coffee out of polystyrene cups this morning. Since when is having a cup of coffee with me an occasion?"
"Now."
Staring at him, she said, "Okay, cut the bullshit, Alex. What's this really about?"
"It's not bullshit. I mean, you don't know, do you? When something might- Anyway, there is something I wanted to say, and it's… awkward. I never thanked you for what you did last Saturday. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't… You've been a good friend, Fern, and I've behaved abominably. To Jane and to you."
Considering this, she said slowly, "Yeah, I suppose you have. But under the circumstances…"
"I wanted you to know, in case… Well, I've learned it's better not to leave things unsaid."
"What do you mean, 'in case'? In case what?" Her heart was hammering.
"It's just an expression. I could walk in front of a bus, that's all."
"Alex, are you okay now? I mean really okay?"
"Honestly?" This time his eyes met hers. "I don't know. I've never done this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel."
"Maybe you should talk to someone. You know… a professional."
"A shrink?" He laughed sourly. "What would that fix? Look, there's something else I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything about Karl Arrowood selling drugs?"
"What?" Her voice rose to a furious squeak. "Don't tell me you're giving me the she's-got-green-hair-she-must-know-about-drugs bit?"
"Of course not! God, Fern, I didn't mean to offend you. But you've lived in the area your whole life. You know things, hear things, in a way I never will."
"I suppose that's true." Her anger abated a little. "Well, you know how Otto talks about Karl, but he's never said anything specifically about drugs. But… I have heard a few vague whispers over the years. You know, that maybe some of Karl's money was ill-gotten. But it's not like he's gone around selling heroin to the kiddies at Colville School."
"You knew this, or suspected it, and you didn't tell me?"
"Like you'd have believed me! 'Oh, by the way, Alex, your new girlfriend's hubbie's a major drug kingpin.' Besides, I don't even know if it's true."
They glared at one another over the forgotten coffee, a standoff.
It was Alex who broke it. "All right. Maybe I wouldn't have believed you. But what if… What if Dawn found out, and threatened to leave him? Or threatened to expose him?"
"And he killed her? First of all, I don't buy her being married to the guy for years and not realizing what he was up to- if he was up to anything. She'd have to have been living in never-never land. And second, I don't buy that for motive. I think you're just trying to find some way around the fact that he killed her because he found out you were-"
She had clamped her mouth shut on the words, but it was too late.
She'd left after that, cursing herself all the way home. What the hell sort of damage had she done because she couldn't control her stupid temper?
Setting her laptop aside in disgust, she pulled over the box of items she'd brought home from the stall display case and began to sort through them. She needed to rotate some of her stock before next Saturday; the regulars got tired of seeing the same things week after week.
Spoons, thimbles, magnifying glasses; cigarette, card, and needle cases; snuffboxes, sugar nips, tea scoops, and paper knives-
Wait. She knew she had put in a lovely, engraved Victorian paper knife, with a razor-sharp edge. She went through the box again, taking each item out and setting it on the table. No paper knife. Was she losing her mind? No, she distinctly remembered transferring the knife, because she always had to be careful with the blade.
With growing horror, she remembered that just before closing, she had asked Alex to watch her stall while she went to the loo. Surely he wouldn't…
Methodically, refusing to entertain the unthinkable, she placed every item back in the box. But the image of Alex's face as she returned to the stall remained with her. At the time she'd put it down to the discomfort between them, that and her overactive imagination, but he had looked- there was no other word for it- furtive.