Candlenight

George pronounced it Pontmoorig. 'Make sure the parts will be here tomorrow.'

Elinor, distant, still staring out of the window, said, 'Should have had it towed away. Back to England, if necessary. We could have taken a taxi.'

George didn't bother to reply.

Elinor stood up and turned back the covers of the bed to see if the sheets were clean. Unfortunately, they had the look of being freshly-laundered. She sat down again, on the edge of the bed.

As she sat down this time, the bed shifted and a floorboard creaked.

'Better ring the office too.' George said. 'Get them to stall any clients.'

'We won't be here for ever, George.'

'Can't count on anything these days.' Tidy George unpacked two clean shins and hung them in the wardrobe.

'Good job you're so efficient.' he said brightly. 'Enough clothes here to last the week out.'

Elinor was determined not to rise to this bait.

'Handling it awfully well, though, isn't she?' George said.

'What?'

'Claire. I was quite surprised.'

And relieved no doubt, Elinor thought. He could never deal with women's tears. Blubbing, he called it once. Only once — she'd almost had his eyes out.

'No, she's a tough girl.' George said admiringly. 'What d'you think of her new hairstyle? Quite fetching. I thought. I'd almost forgotten what her natural colour looked like.'

'George,' Elinor dug her nails into the bedspread. 'Go and make your phone calls.'

The floorboard creaked again as she stood up.

That night must have been an encouraging one for Simon Gallier. Conservative Parliamentary Candidate for Glanmeurig.

There weren't enough chairs in the Memorial Hall in Pont; groups of people were blocking the firedoors and clustered in the passageway to the lavatories.

Novelty value. Berry Morelli thought. It was obviously a real night out for many members of the audience. Most of the men wore suits and ties.

He was standing under the platform, searching the crowd for Bethan McQueen and failing to spot her. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned expectantly.

'We're down here, mate.' Ray Wheeler said. 'One space left on the Press table'

'Oh. Sure, Thanks.' Berry allowed himself to be steered to a chair between Shirley Gillies and Bill Sykes.

'Mind boggles, eh?' Sykes grated. 'Bet old Johnny Gore's never pulled a bigger crowd since his wedding. Oh, sorry John, didn't see you there.'

'Evening, Bill,' said the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, leaning across the Press table and then whispering. 'Afraid I'm going to be a trifle boring tonight. Don't want to outshine the boy.'

'Poor old Johnny,' said Sykes, as the Minister hefted his considerable bulk up the three wooden steps to the platform. 'Couldn't outshine a ten-watt bulb.'

'I was wondering.' Berry said, 'what Ole Winstone would've made of all this. Think he'd've come?'

'Not a hope,' said Bill Sykes. 'You wouldn't have got Winstone back to Wales for a lorry load of Glenfiddich.'

It struck Berry that you could get a hell of a lot of Glenfiddich on a lorry. More than enough to make a cynical old hack overcome his prejudices. He made a mental note to raise this with Sykes when the speeches were over.

There were a few cheers as Simon Gallier stepped onto the platform. He was built like a front-row rugby player, had prematurely greying hair and a shambling, untrimmed moustache like, Berry thought, a badly made yardbrush.

Gallier made a tough, rousing speech, full of commitment to Wales and the language, a few Welsh phrases scattered strategically around. When he threw these in. there were odd noises of appreciation. English immigrants. Berry thought. Token Welsh wouldn't cut much ice with the locals.

His perception surprised him. He must be getting the measure of this strange, mixed society.

The Secretary of State for Trade and Industry was indeed, even by comparison with Gallier, extremely predictable. Almost as boring as the questions people asked afterwards. Jerry suspected most of the questioners were plants. These guys were preaching to the converted. No opposition here — except, he thought, amused, for Bethan sitting somewhere back there discreetly absorbing it all for Guto's benefit. Mata Hari.

'One of Johnny's belter efforts. I thought,' grunted Sykes as the minister sat down for the last time.

'Oh, Berry,' a voice breathed in his ear.

As Gallier's applause died. Berry turned to find Shirley Gillies contemplating him, a bijou smile dimpling her plump, downy features. She said, 'You must be getting really fed up, stuck in the Drovers' all night.' She dipped her eyelashes. 'I was wondering… why don't you wander back to the Plas Meurig for a couple of drinks before turning in?'

The implication was clear.

He couldn't believe it: she was genuinely turned on by all this shit. Wow. Was there a name for a person who was erotically stimulated by the cut and thrust — with the emphasis on thrust — of party politics?

'Thing is, ah, I arranged to see someone later.' he said, trying to sound regretful. 'Thanks, though, Shirley.'

'Oh, right, OK.' said Shirley. 'Just a thought'

It was going to be somebody's lucky night. Maybe even Bill Sykes's, depending how legless the alternatives were around midnight.

As they stood up, the hall clearing, people talking in bunches. Berry said to Sykes, 'When you said Winstone wouldn't come back to Wales, you meant because of the bad time he had covering mat story in the sixties, the murder of the two farmers?'

'Ha!' Bill Sykes snapped a rubber band around his notebook. 'Winstone never covered that story. He wasn't even born then. Indeed, that's the whole point.'

'Huh?'

'Now there's a mystery for you, old boy. Remind me to tell you about it sometime, eh?' Bill began to rub his knees. 'Not good for the joints, these damn chairs.'

'Hey, come on. Bill, t—'

Tell me now, he'd been about to say, but there was a hand on his shoulder again and this time, to his relief — relief and a frisson of something more interesting — the hand belonged to Bethan.

She was wearing her white raincoat, Guto's beautiful spy.

'Can we be seen talking?' Berry said out of the corner of his mouth. 'Or should I leave a message in the dead-letter drop?'

'Actually, this is probably the one place we are safe,' Bethan said, 'if Guto sees us together one of us will need to seek asylum in England.'

'Right. Ah…' Good a time as any. 'I was gonna ask. Guto — Guto and you…?'

'He thinks I need to be protected,' Bethan said.

'By him.'

'Of course. He thinks living alone is not good for me. He thinks I am in danger of having a nervous breakdown.'

'What do you think?'

'I think a nervous breakdown would be quite a relief,' Bethan said softly. 'Come on, let's go.'

It was George who made the discovery, just as they were getting ready for bed.

'That's it!' he announced, sitting on a comer of the bed. flinging down a sock. 'I'm going to find out what's causing it.'

He's drunk too much, Elinor thought. 'It's only a loose floorboard,' she said.

'Getting on my nerves.'

Elinor had more to worry about than a creak. It had been a most unsatisfactory evening.

She'd been almost hopeful at the start — Claire turning up at the inn at around seven, joining them for