‘ Since when did you join the Grenadier fucking Guards?’
Dennis Hathaway was in his shirt sleeves on the boat. He peered at his son’s red Victorian uniform, then at the medals on his son’s breast.
‘And it looks like you’ve had a busy war.’
‘I got it in Carnaby Street,’ Hathaway said.
‘The medals? Fighting tourists?’
‘The whole thing.’
Hathaway and Charlie had gone up to Carnaby Street in the summer sunshine. They smoked dope on the train. They wandered London in a daze – dazed by the cannabis, dazed by the life there. Carnaby Street was buzzing, ‘Sergeant Pepper’ pumping out of every shop, incense and marijuana in the air, the pavements crowded with dolly birds and hipsters.
‘This is it,’ Charlie said. ‘The centre of the fucking universe.’
‘I thought that was Worthing,’ Hathaway said.
‘You look a twat,’ Dennis Hathaway said now. ‘You know that?’
Dennis Hathaway was peering at his son, screwing up his eyes against the sun. There was a splash of white on his forehead. Suntan lotion he hadn’t rubbed in properly. The sun flickered on the water behind him.
‘It’s the fashion, Dad,’ Hathaway said, still a little stoned from his breakfast joint.
‘To look a twat? And what are those things on your feet?’
‘Plimsolls.’
‘Very useful on route marches.’
‘Handy for boats, though.’ He swung himself out on the ladder. ‘Coming aboard, Cap’n Birdseye.’
Dennis Hathaway came up close to him once he was on deck.
‘I’m worried about you, son. I hope you’re not using our own bloody product.’
‘You know I’m not.’
Hathaway sniffed.
‘Well, you’re smelling of something illegal.’
‘That’s patchouli, Dad.’
‘Patchouli? What the fuck is patchouli.’
‘Elaine got it for me.’
Dennis Hathaway tilted his head as if listening for something.
‘Elaine? New one on me. She’s your latest quim, is she?’
‘She’s special, Dad.’
‘Is she, Sergeant Pratt? Is she? I’ve got some news for you. Come below.’
Reilly was sitting behind the small table in the cabin of the boat. He blinked when he saw Hathaway.
‘John hasn’t got long for this meeting, Sean,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘He’s off to fight the Zulus.’
Dennis and his son both sat down at the small table.
‘We got a problem in Milldean,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Gerald Cuthbert is trying it on. The twins pushing him, of course. Not only that, he’s trying to muscle in on some of our other business further west. He knows Worthing is ours but he’s had his lads down there.’
‘I haven’t noticed anything,’ Hathaway said, frowning. ‘I would have seen.’
‘That’s what I would have hoped,’ his father said quietly. ‘But when were you last in Worthing?’
‘Of my own volition?’
‘You don’t need to say any more. Charlie looks after it, doesn’t he?’
‘He does.’
Hathaway saw his father and Reilly exchange a glance.
‘Right, we’ll have a word with him,’ Dennis said.
‘I can do that-’
‘He’s your friend.’
‘I can do that.’
After a moment his father nodded.
‘What about Cuthbert?’ Hathaway said.
Reilly coughed.
‘We’ll take care of him.’
‘Are we done, then?’ Hathaway said.
‘Not yet. The chief constable has summoned us to a meeting.’
‘What kind of meeting?’
‘The it-never-happened kind. On the Palace Pier. Next week. He wants peace and harmony in the town.’
‘Is that what we want?’ Hathaway said.
His father rubbed his cheek.
‘Once we run it, sure.’
Hathaway had met Elaine at a poetry reading in The Ship. It was part of the first Brighton Arts Festival. Yehudi Menuhin was playing his violin. Flora Robson was in A Man For All Seasons at the Theatre Royal. Pink Floyd were performing in the West Pier ballroom. And there was poetry. Concrete Poetry, whatever that was. And The Scaffold with Paul McCartney’s brother. Billy was keen to see them. Charlie opted out but the rest of The Avalons went along because of The Beatles connection.
It took place in an oak-panelled old room at the rear of The Ship. There were no chairs. Everybody sat on the floor. Even with cushions scattered around it was uncomfortable. Hathaway became aware of a girl sitting just behind him and not just because of the exotic perfume that wafted over him.
‘Am I in your way?’ he said, half-turning, trying not to look up her skirt. She had good legs and an impish smile.
‘What is my way?’
He blushed.
‘I mean, can you see?’
‘You? Perfectly. What about you? Have you seen enough?’
She had seen his eyes flick down between her legs.
‘Not nearly enough,’ he said.
She stayed with him that night but at dawn insisted on walking barefoot on the beach. On sand, Hathaway could understand. But Brighton was all pebbles and stones. He grimaced at every step.
She was doing American Studies at Sussex. She sprang unfamiliar names on him. Bellow and Updike, and people she called ‘the hipsters’: Kerouac, Burroughs, Tom Robbins, Thomas Pynchon. A man called Noam Chomsky featured at the heavy end of discussions. Hathaway was out of his depth but she didn’t patronize and he was interested in the things she said.
They saw each other every night for a week. She had a fierce appetite. He didn’t know what she saw in him, although he knew he was OK at sex, thanks to Barbara long ago. He thought it was perhaps also a class thing. She was middle class. She liked roughing it. She called him Mellors once, then laughed. He didn’t get it at the time.
On the first night he’d asked her what her heady perfume was.
‘Patchouli.’
‘What’s patchouli?’
‘A musk-based perfume. Perfumes are either musk or flower-based. Musk smells of shit, essentially.’
‘Lovely.’
‘James Joyce was a bicycle-seat sniffer, you know.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ Hathaway said, not knowing who James Joyce was.
‘Musk and ambergris are low-down dirty smells, hence the link with excrement. Then, during the eighteenth century, when aristocratic women had to pretend to be modest, perfume makers developed sweeter floral scents. Then it changed again during the French Revolution. Am I boring you?’
‘No, why?’ Hathaway said, his voice muffled.
‘You seem more interested in my left nipple.’
‘A man can do two things at once.’
Elaine laughed.
‘Not in my experience.’
Hathaway lifted his head.
‘Go on.’
‘Under the Terror, what perfume you wore indicated your allegiance. You could get the guillotine if your handkerchief smelt of royal perfumes – lily or eau de la reine, water of the queen. The Directory, Consulate and Empire marked the return of strong perfumes with an animal base. Josephine liked musk, ambergris and civet.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘I’m at Sussex. That’s the kind of history they teach.’
When Hathaway next saw his father, he was holding court in the back room of the Bath Arms.
‘And I’m telling you, Mr Reilly, that I want these scumbags found. I want them teaching a lesson.’
A schoolboy had been found sexually assaulted then strangled up Roedean way.
‘And the police?’ Reilly said.
‘I don’t think there’ll be anything left for the police.’
‘Since when did we start doing a copper’s work for him?’ Reilly said.
‘Since we started getting protection money from people. They pay for protection, we provide it.’
Reilly smiled thinly.
‘Didn’t realize we actually fulfilled those obligations.’
‘I thought that was protection from us,’ Charlie said with a laugh.
Dennis Hathaway looked from one to the other.
‘Well, you’re both wrong. You think we’re all take and no give? These people rely on us. Some nonces kill a young lad, a schoolkid with his future all ahead of him. On my patch. On my patch. Somebody is taking the Michael. And I won’t stand for that. Not for an instant. So I want these men found and I want them bringing to the pier, and then we’ll see what’s what.’
‘What’s in it for us?’ Reilly insisted.
‘Reputation. I told you – nobody is going to take the Michael on our turf. If we’re not in control, then it’s anarchy and we don’t want to go back to that. That’s what we fought a war for.’
Reilly raised an eyebrow.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Mr Reilly you’re starting to annoy me. We fought a war so that true-born Englishmen could remain free, and we even gave freedom to the frogs and a few worthy orientals along the way. No need to thank us, lads.’
‘As you say, Mister Hathaway,’ Reilly said, leaning over to pat Dennis Hathaway’s arm.
‘So just bloody well get on with it, will you?’
‘As you say.’ Reilly got to his feet.
‘Anything I can do?’ Hathaway asked.
‘I don’t know? Is there?’ His father looked at him. ‘Put the word out on your rock ’n’ roll circuit that we want information. We’ll pay.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘OK, Dad.’
‘You understand, do you, son, that it’s all about a code of honour?’
‘Dad?’
‘We look after the people who pay for all we have. Violence we save for others in the same business as us. And scum like the men who’ve done this to someone on our patch. We don’t target civilians if we can help it.’
‘I know that, Dad.’
Over the next few days, a dozen or so nonces were hauled down to the pier and given beatings of various degrees of severity in the storeroom beyond the office. None admitted to the crime, all named names. There were buckets of water constantly at hand to sluice the blood down into the sea. A half a dozen other men gave themselves in to the police and owned up to other offences.
Hathaway went off on a smuggling trip to Dieppe and Honfleur. He arrived back on a sunny day, the wind fresh. He climbed up the ladder from the bobbing boat and stopped by the firing range for a chat with Tommy and Mickey.
‘Dad in the office?’ he finally said.
Mickey nodded.
‘He’s got a lot on, mind, so be cautious.’
‘The prodigal son returns,’ Dennis Hathaway said when he looked up from his desk and saw his son. ‘How were the Dieppe lasses? Supposed to be the prettiest in France.’
‘I’ve got a girlfriend, Dad.’
‘You’re too young to be a monk.’
‘I’m hardly that.’
‘Aye, well.’
‘Anything I should know?’
‘We soldier on, John, we soldier on.’
‘Any word on the men who killed that lad?’
‘Let’s say the moving finger writes and having writ moves on.’
‘You’ve been at the Rubaiyat again, Dad – Mum warned you about that.’
His father laughed.
‘Cheeky sod. I bet you don’t know how it goes on?’
Hathaway sat down in the chair on the other side of his father’s desk.
‘Actually, I do. I learned it for just such an occasion.’
‘Let’s hear it, then.’
‘… nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to a cancel half a line-’
‘Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. Or to put it a Brighton way – no good crying over spilt milk.’
‘Whose milk has been spilt exactly?’
‘All you need to worry about is your piety, young Mr Monk – don’t waste the best years of your life on getting too serious about just one girl.’
‘There’s more to life than having sex with lots of girls,’ Hathaway said as Reilly walked in.
‘Listen, Mr Reilly. Life’s young philosopher.’
‘The lad’s in love. Let him enjoy it.’
Hathaway flushed.
‘I wouldn’t go that far…’
His father looked at him intently.
‘When are we going to meet this girl, then?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I know your mum does – see if she approves. Not that mothers ever approve, mind.’
The chief constable’s meeting on the Palace Pier was an odd experience for Hathaway. He knew his father had something on Philip Simpson because of the Brighton Trunk Murder files. Simpson knew it too, so whilst he was being all high and mighty, he had to skirt around Dennis Hathaway. Reilly and Charlie were there, Reilly in a safari jacket, Charlie looking like Big Breadwinner Hogg with his kipper tie, wide lapels and flared jacket.
Hathaway was surprised to see Gerald Cuthbert there. He and his three heavies still favoured the Krays’ look – box jackets with narrow lapels over big chests.
He didn’t think anyone was carrying a gun, although Sergeant Finch’s double-breasted civvy suit bulged oddly. He knew Charlie had his flick knife and assumed Cuthbert and his men had knives or knuckledusters or both. There were a couple of CID men in sports jackets and jeans.
Two men arrived late. Slender, Italian-looking, in sharp suits. Luigi and Francis, cousins of the murdered Boroni brothers. When all the men were seated, giving each other hard looks, Philip Simpson began.
‘We’ve got to get some harmony in town,’ he said. ‘There is stuff I can turn a blind eye to and stuff I will not tolerate. Above all, I don’t want killings, like last year’s incident with Tony and Raymond Boroni.’
‘For which nobody was brought to justice,’ Luigi Boroni said, shooting Dennis Hathaway a cold look.
‘Investigations are continuing,’ Simpson said. ‘The case is being actively pursued.’
‘Why don’t you ask some of the people round this table?’ Luigi said.
‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself?’ Dennis Hathaway said.
It took a moment, then the Boronis, Reilly and Dennis Hathaway were all on their feet.
‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’
Simpson was standing too, and his CID men had moved in to subdue anything that might kick off.
Dennis Hathaway kept his eyes fixed on Luigi but pointed at Cuthbert, who was sitting jiggling his foot.
‘First off, Philip, I want to know what the fuck that scum is doing here. He’s a loan shark ripping off hard-working people, a scavenger who feeds off of our leftovers. He doesn’t respect the demarcation lines we’ve set up in the past. He needs to be firmly squashed. And if you don’t do it, I will.’
One of the CID men stepped in front of Cuthbert as he stood.
‘And as for the Boronis,’ Dennis Hathaway went on, ‘I don’t know who killed their cousins. All I heard was that two clowns killed two clowns. They were messing with the twins. Seems to me anyone could have killed them – their friends as easily as their enemies.’ He pointed now at Luigi. ‘All I want from these guys is an assurance they’re going to keep Brighton for Brighton and not bring in out-of-towners.’
‘Now there I agree.’ Simpson raised his voice. ‘There’s enough business going on for all of us. We don’t need out-of-towners here. We don’t want them. I won’t have them.’
‘With respect, Chief Constable,’ Cuthbert shouted as he tried to push past the CID officer to get at Dennis Hathaway. ‘What you want and don’t want don’t stack up to much against those London boys. They’ve taken on the Met and won. If they want to take over down here, I don’t see how you’re going to stop them.’
Simpson gave him a hard look.
‘Leave that to me.’
It was always difficult for Hathaway to switch gear from his day job to the group. He was feeling more and more distanced from The Avalons. But he was also trying not to think about the more brutal things he was involved in. He couldn’t forget looking back as he and Charlie walked off the Palace Pier in their sweaty, scratchy clown costumes to see the Boroni Brothers emerge from the ghost train shed, slumped forward in their seats, soaked in blood. Then the screams.
He thought the meeting on the Palace Pier today was going to end up that way but, in fact, the kettle didn’t really boil at all.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Charlie said as the four West Pier men headed back along the Palace Pier.
‘On the contrary,’ Dennis Hathaway said, ‘that was bloody great. Look at who’s against us – third raters.’
‘What about the twins?’ Hathaway said.
His father had just grinned.
Tonight they were on the West Pier supporting Pink Floyd. Elaine would be somewhere in the audience with some of her student mates.
Tony and Charlie turned up together. Billy and Dan turned up at seven prompt, in military jackets and jeans.
The Avalons had proper dressing rooms for a change, but they all went out on the pier and leaned over the balustrade. They shared a joint.
‘How are you doing, gents?’ Hathaway said.
‘Not great actually, John,’ Dan said.
Hathaway tilted his head.
‘Oh?’
‘We’re a bit worried about what’s going on with the group,’ Billy said.
‘Things are going great, aren’t they?’ Hathaway said, passing the joint along.
‘Onstage, yes, but offstage, no…’ Dan tailed off.
‘Offstage?’ Hathaway said. ‘What about offstage?’
‘Look, what you and Charlie want to get up to is up to you,’ Billy said. ‘But we just want to be in a successful rock ’n’ roll band.’
‘And we think,’ Dan said, ‘that the stuff you’re doing is putting that success at risk.’
Hathaway looked puzzled.
‘What stuff are we doing exactly?’
Dan shook his head.
‘C’mon, John. Don’t treat us like fools. The two of you are selling drugs with our roadie friend, Alan. And you’re both busy managing other acts. We hardly even have time to rehearse and there’s a lot of new music we should be covering.’
‘We want you to stop dealing at our gigs,’ Billy said.
Hathaway looked from one to the other.
‘Well, that’s going to be a bit complicated,’ he said.
They waited for him to go on.
‘I mean there are other people involved. They wouldn’t be too happy if we chucked it in.’
‘Couldn’t they find other people to do what you’re doing?’
‘Again, it’s not that simple.’
Hathaway seemed to ponder. Pointed at the joint in Dan’s hand.
‘Look, I know you guys smoke dope. You don’t see anything wrong with it. We all think it should be legal, but until it is Charlie and me are providing a service.’
‘But it’s illegal. You could end up in prison. And we could easily be accused of being accomplices.’
‘Not a chance of either of those things.’ Hathaway said.
‘Oh – really.’
‘Really. The police are in on it.’
‘Bugger off. The entire force?’
‘People that count. Look, I’m trusting you with this. The fix is all the way in.’
Dan and Billy looked at each other. Billy spoke.
‘OK, but there’s something else. The direction the group is going. Bill and me, we want to go an acoustic folkie route.’
‘Folkie?’ Charlie said, disgust in his voice.
Hathaway put his hand on Charlie’s arm. He knew that Bill and Dan rehearsed a lot together. Bill had been teaching Dan guitar.
‘OK, here’s a deal. Why don’t you set up as a duo and run a folk club?’
The other three looked at him with varying degrees of surprise.
‘You want to break the band up?’ Charlie said.
‘You’re sacking us?’ Billy said.
‘How are we going to set up a folk club?’ Dan said.
Hathaway latched on to Dan’s remark.
‘As you know, my dad’s company has branched out into pop promotion. Managing bands, running tours – and running clubs. We’ve been thinking about a folk club.’
‘Nobody told me,’ Charlie said.
‘Didn’t think you’d be interested in a folk club, Charlie, and your hands are full managing acts,’ Hathaway said. ‘Anyway, Dan, we wouldn’t expect you to run it but maybe you and Bill could host it.’
Bill and Dan looked at each other. Nodded.
‘We could do that.’
‘So that’s the end of The Avalons?’ Charlie said.
‘Not necessarily,’ Hathaway said. ‘There’s no reason why you couldn’t do both, is there?’
Billy shook his head.
‘Of course not.’
Hathaway looked at Charlie.
‘You OK with that?’
Charlie didn’t say anything for a moment. Then:
‘As long as I can manage these two.’
Bill and Dan laughed. Uncertainly.
Hathaway took Elaine down to Cuckmere Haven. After a walk along the shingle beach beneath Beachy Head, the chalk cliff glaring white in the sunshine, they got fish and chips in newspaper from the cafe and sat on a bench looking out to sea.
Although Elaine was doing American studies she wanted to be an actress. She also wanted to go to India.
‘What do you want to do with your life, John?’ she said. ‘You can’t want to spend it all in Brighton.’
‘Course not.’ He gestured to his left. ‘I’m fond of Eastbourne too.’
She punched his arm.
‘There’s this film called Blow Up; looks like it might be your cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Bloke called David Hemmings – I met him in Brighton last year when he made a film about a pop band here. Do you fancy seeing it?’
She smiled and sucked on the straw in her bottle of pop.
‘Here endeth the discussion about John’s future.’
‘Well, what about you?’ he said, a little heat in his voice.
‘You know about me. India for six months, then acting.’ She leaned into him. ‘Come to India with me. We’d have a groovy time.’
Hathaway kissed her forehead.
‘Except that I’m not a footloose student, I’m a working man. I can’t just chuck in my job and head east.’
‘Sure you can; you just have to want to.’
She reached into her voluminous handbag and pulled out an A4 book. She laid it beside her and continued to root.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘My diary, volume three.’
‘Must be a serious diary.’
‘Oh it is. Have you heard of Anais Nin?’
‘Is it an Indian takeaway?’
‘Ha ha. She’s my inspiration. Ah, here we are.’ She brought out a parcel wrapped in brown paper with a red ribbon around it.
‘A little gift for you.’
Hathaway was touched. He’d never, ever had a gift from a girl.
‘John Donne,’ he read on the cover of the first book.
‘Most beautiful love poetry in the world – but don’t get any soppy ideas. Just wanted to bring a bit of beauty to your cynical soul.’
‘Soppiness discouraged. Got it.’
He looked at the other book.
‘What is it?’ Hathaway asked.
The cover was red plastic and the book a bit bigger than the prayer books they used to have at school.
‘It’s the words of Mao Tse-tung,’ Elaine said. ‘Give you something to think about.’
She looked at him earnestly, which made him want to shag her even more than usual. A girl with a passionate mouth trying to look serious always did that to him.
Hathaway looked at the book.
‘That chink who keeps sending death squads to kill James Bond and finance nutters like Blofeld?’ Hathaway said. ‘He’s a Commie, isn’t he?’
‘Communism is more complex than that. At Sussex there are Trotskyists and Leninist-Stalinists. Mao is the world’s most rigorous Leninist-Stalinist, so now a lot of people are calling themselves Maoists.’
Hathaway flicked through the pages. Elaine grinned at him.
‘Where’d you get it?’ Hathaway said.
‘They’re free to anyone who wants one.’ She grinned again. ‘Ninety million in print round the world.’
‘But you’re always telling me I’m a filthy capitalist.’
‘You can change.’
Hathaway thought about the business he was in.
‘I wonder,’ he said.
When they walked back to the car park, a police car was parked beside his Austin Healey. Sergeant Finch was lolling against the bonnet, face turned up to the sun. He stepped forward when he saw Hathaway approach.
‘Sorry to disturb your day, John, but the chief constable would like a word.’
Elaine looked from him to Hathaway, wide-eyed.
‘Am I being arrested?’
‘Arrested?’ Elaine said. ‘Why?’
‘No, no,’ Sergeant Finch said, attempting a smile. ‘He’d appreciate a word. If you’re too busy, I’m sure he’ll understand.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘OK.’
Elaine had come out of shock.
‘OK? It’s not bloody OK. This is police harassment.’
‘Elaine.’
‘Why on earth would they want to talk to you?’
‘Elaine.’
‘Let me phone my dad’s lawyer-’
‘The chief constable is a family friend.’
Elaine stepped back.
‘Your family is friends with a pig? Oh man.’
‘Johnny. Sorry to spoil your day. Please send my apologies to your girlfriend. A lovely girl by all accounts. But I wanted a little chat with you. Do sit down.’
‘Chief Constable,’ Hathaway said, taking the proffered seat.
‘Please, Johnny, call me Philip. There’s no formality here. I’ve broken bread at your house. Well, your dad’s house.’
Hathaway nodded then waited.
‘Have you heard the news? The Brighton police are officially no more. It’s now the Southern Police Force.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
‘No. Actually, it’s about your dad. I wanted a quiet word.’
‘Shouldn’t you be talking to him?’
‘Well, as you know, he’s not the easiest man to talk to when he’s got a bee in his bonnet.’
Hathaway frowned.
‘Has he got a bee in his bonnet?’
‘Exactly what I wanted to ask you. See, I thought we had a gentleman’s agreement around town. I thought that meeting on the Palace Pier made that clear. I allow you a certain leeway and you respect the law in other areas.’
‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’
‘Did you?’ Simpson clasped his hands. ‘Your dad seems determined to hog all the action. I hear he’s just taken control of the baggage handlers at the airport to help facilitate his smuggling activities.’
‘Chief Constable-’
‘Philip-’
‘I really don’t know why you’re talking to me about this. I’m in the music business. I manage and promote a few bands, book them into venues.’
‘And the ancillary stuff.’
‘I never got to university. Ancillary?’
‘The little extras. We know your legit business – and it ain’t all that legit – the pop industry is like the bloody Wild West. Be that as it may, we know that’s just a front for your drug dealing, your protection rackets.’
Hathaway thought for a moment.
‘What point are you trying to make, Philip?’
Hathaway was trying to sound calm but he knew he was out of his depth.
‘The deal was that brothels, abortions and protection were mine.’
Hathaway flushed.
‘I don’t touch brothels.’
Philip Simpson adjusted his desk pad.
‘Not you – your father. Jesus, I don’t care about the smuggling as long as I get my tithe, but he can’t do everything. Does he want to be Brighton’s Mr Big? Does he?’
Simpson was red-faced with anger. Hathaway tried to remain impassive.
‘Tell him that’s my role.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Hathaway said, standing abruptly. ‘Or don’t you have the guts?’
The chief constable reddened further as he too stood and leaned forward, his fists planted on the desk.
‘Listen, sonny, don’t mistake friendliness for softness. I’m asking nicely but we can do it a different way. Don’t forget who has all the real power and a private bloody army if I choose to exercise that power.’
‘Didn’t do your predecessor much good, did it?’ Hathaway said. He smirked, though he knew he shouldn’t.
The chief constable reached over and pressed an intercom button.
‘Come on in.’
Hathaway looked from the chief constable to the door.
‘Oh – what? The rough stuff now?’
The chief constable watched the door swing open. A constable came in.
‘You know each other, of course.’
Behind the constable, Barbara came hesitantly into the room.