Candlenight

He drank some tea.

'Who do people think you are?' she asked.

It was the strongest tea he'd ever been served. It had to be at least a six tea-bag pot.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm not helping the situation am I? I, ah… I'm a reporter. I work for an American news agency in London. Giles was my friend. Originally, what happened with this guy we both respected — dead now — he told me to dissuade Giles from throwing everything up and moving to Wales. So I came out here with Giles — early in the fall this was — lo look at his cottage. And there was… something there I didn't take to, OK? Now Giles is dead. That's it. That's everything. Basically.'

This was what reporters were supposed to be able to do. reduce the Bible to a paragraph.

And edit all the meaning out of it.

Bethan McQueen drank her tea slowly, watching him.

'Giles was my friend too,' she said eventually. 'I tried to teach him Welsh, and I failed. It was a disaster. I came to feel that the lessons were doing him harm. When I learned about his… tumour, it was as if I had personally, you know…'

'Finished him off?'

'Yes.'

'That's crazy, Beth.'

'Bethan.'

'Sorry.'

'No, I'm sorry. My husband called me Beth. I'm being stupid'

'If we're getting into self-flagellation here,' Berry said, 'most likely, I killed him. I failed to persuade him not to come here. Didn't hardly try. If he'd been in London maybe he'd have gotten some medical attention instead of pushing himself like he did, to move out here in record time, commuting to and fro, all that.'

'I don't think that is what you're saying, is it?' Bethan said.

'I'm sorry…?'

'You said you think you might have killed him because you failed to persuade him not to come here. You are implying he died because he came to Y Groes.'

'Well, no, I. '

'That is not what you were implying?'

'I… Shit, I don't know.' Berry rubbed his eyes, drank more tea. She was forcing him to say things he hadn't even put into thoughts.

'Look, give me your cup.' Bethan said. 'I should not have tried to poison you.'

'What?'

'Nobody can drink tea as strong as that. Except for me when I am feeling beaten, which is most of the time at present.'

Berry held out his cup. 'It was wonderful tea. I mean that, seriously.'

'You are joking. I'll make some fresh.'

'Listen, forget the tea. Siddown please.'

Bethan put her cup and saucer on the floor and sat down on the sofa. She reached forward and flipped the switch on the side of an archaic three-bar electric fire.

'This is kinda hard.' Berry said. 'It's like we're walking round each other, keeping a distance. Like suspicious dogs, trying to provoke each other into snapping or something,

Listen, how about we go for dinner tonight? Always presuming there's some place other than the Welsh Pizza House where we can actually get some dinner.'

'I'm sorry. I mean, I really am sorry. I have to go to Simon Gallier's meeting. In my role as Guto's secret agent. I have to report back.'

Berry thought about this. 'Well, would you mind if I tagged along? I have to file some kind of piece to the agency tomorrow. I do need to see this guy Gallier in action.'

'All right.'

'Good. Maybe we can figure out how to approach this thing. Always assuming there's something that needs to be approached.'

'Mr. Morelli, I've lived with this for so long that I don't know who to trust any more.'

'Berry, for Christ's sake.'

'Bury?'

'As in strawberry. My name.'

'Oh.'

They stood up. Bethan straightened her sweater.

'I would love to say you can trust me,' Berry said. 'Only I'm not sure I can trust myself. I'm notoriously neurotic.'

She faced him from the other side of the monster sofa with the brilliant peacock fans on it.

'She said, 'Do you believe Giles died because he came to Y Groes?'

'I.

'It's important. Do you believe it?'

Berry shook his head. 'Also, I'm indecisive.'

'Well, I believe that Robin…'

'Robin?'

'My husband. I believe Y Groes killed Robin. I hate that village, Mr. Morelli. I'd like to see the church fall down and every stone of every building smashed and pounded into The ground.'

Part Seven THE NIGHTBIRD

Chapter XLV

ENGLAND

Miranda had been absolutely determined not to do this. A clean break was the only way. They simply didn't need the hassle of each other any more.

The problem was she'd got rather pissed on the plane — private plane owned by the company, no expense spared when you were working with these people, lots of Champagne, none of this Sangria nonsense — and the thought of ferrying all her luggage out to Daddy's place had been too tedious.

Besides, the Spanish resort where they'd been shooting — two days for about six seconds — had been a sort of hot Bognor, the kind of location that dictated at least an hour in the shower absolutely as soon as one reached civilisation.

So Miranda let herself into Morelli's flat and made straight for the immersion heater. It was supposed to be one of those rapid ones, but she decided to give it twenty-five minutes, because an hour in the shower was a long time for Morelli's primitive cistern to cope with.

She picked up the mail and put it on his desk. No point in trying to pretend she hadn't been here — Miranda would have been the first to agree that her personal ambience was not the easiest to dispel.

OK then.

She switched on every heater she could find, flung her case into the middle of the floor and stripped off most of her clothes. Sometimes feeling rather cold could be quite a luxury.

Miranda hated Spain. On the other hand, she did rather enjoy doing commercials. So many well-known actors were doing them these days that people tended to think that if you were in one you must be a rather