Cherry was Butcher. At what point she'd decided that Cheryl wasn't a name that did much for a crusading lawyer's crusade-cred Joe didn't know. But he did know that his accidental discovery via another old acquaintance of what the C stood for gave him one of his very few vantage points in their relationship.
'Yeah, how about it, Cherry?' he said.
She gave him a promissory glare and said, 'I don't know him all that well but he does have a reputation of being a top dirty-tricks man.'
'Eh?'
'He practises law to the outer limits of legality,' said Butcher.
'In the firm Felix says that they never decide a case is lost until Victor says it's lost,' said Lucy Naysmith. 'He likes to claim he's descended from Michel de Montaigne.'
'Who?'
The essayist. Over his desk he's pinned the quotation, No man should lie unless he's sure he's got the memory to keep it up. It sounds better in French.'
It sounded pretty good sense to Joe in English.
'And he's got the memory, I take it?' he said.
'That's right. Phenomenal. In law he can remember things the rest of us don't even know we've forgotten.'
'I was forgetting. You're a sort of lawyer too, right, Mrs. Naysmith?' said Joe.
'I am, or rather I was, a legal secretary,' said the woman rather shortly.
'Who needs to know more about the law than any solicitor,' said Butcher supportively. 'But all this begs the question:
Could Victor be ruthless enough to kill, always assuming he's clever enough to be in different places at the same time?'
She thinks he probably could, thought Joe. Otherwise she wouldn't be taking the question seriously.
'I don't know,' said Lucy Naysmith wretchedly. 'And it makes me feel dirty standing here talking about the possibility. He's a friend for God's sake!'
'Most criminals are someone's friend,' said Butcher. Joe looked at her approvingly. It was nice having someone around to say the things you thought but didn't quite dare say.
'Anyway,' said Lucy Naysmith, suddenly brisk and matter-of-fact, 'it's rather beside the point until the police establish whether or not Victor actually is in France.'
'Or Felix remembers who attacked him,' said Butcher.
'Yes, that too,' said the lawyer's wife.
Joe felt a gentle tingle in his ear. As a small boy subject to the tyrannies of larger lads like Hooter Hardiman, he had developed a defensive sensitivity to linguistic nuance and could differentiate at a hundred yards between the 'come here!' which meant 'so's we can thump you!' and the 'come here!' which simply meant 'come here'. It seemed to him now that there was something a bit too throwaway about Mrs. Naysmith's 'that too'. As if maybe she didn't expect her husband to remember? But, shoot! the guy only had a concussion, not major cerebral trauma. Or as if maybe he's remembered already and told her he had reasons of his own for keeping quiet? Or maybe the poor woman was just in a real panic to get out of the hospital.
She certainly didn't look too well, but he forced his sympathy down and said, 'I'd really appreciate a few words with your husband, Mrs. Naysmith.'
She stared at him for a moment then said, 'OK, I'll see ... but I'm pretty certain ...' then turned and went out.
Butcher said angrily, 'For Christ's sake, Sixsmith, can't you see that all the poor woman wants is to get out of this place?'
'Yeah, sorry,' said Joe.
He stepped outside just in time to see Lucy Naysmith turning a corner in the corridor. He followed her and peered cautiously round. About six feet away and fortunately with his back towards him was a tubby figure he recognized even from behind. It belonged to PC Dean Forton, whose view of Pis in general and Joe in particular was that they were a waste of space. Any vague thought he'd had of getting in without the woman's say-so vanished.
He returned to the waiting room where he and Butcher sat in silence for two or three minutes till Lucy returned.
'Sorry, no, he's asleep,' she said. 'Now, please, can I get out of here before I collapse and the bastards try to keep me in as well!'
She took Butcher's arm and the two women left.
Joe picked up the Reader's Digest. Hospitals didn't bother him. In fact, he felt safer in here than almost anywhere out there. And this looked like quite an interesting article on The Most Charismatic Person I Ever Met'. But he knew it was an illusory safety. Sooner or later PC Forton or the mountainous security man would winkle him out.
With a sigh, he hurried after the women.
Seventeen.
It was the second last night of the year and as if in rehearsal for tomorrow's Hogmanay Hoolie, the Glit had started jumping early.
By half seven most of the tables were taken, the air was heavy with smoke, and the rising tide of chatter was
