Tomorrow's ghost

'On this hunch of yours, whatever it is.'

Promotion, riches and fame, the voice promised her: not a witch-hunt - perish the thought! - but if you bring Colonel Butler's head on a platter, Fisher, the world is at your feet.

'I'll do my best.' Frances felt seduced, on her back.

'That's fine, then. And now I have one little bit of good news for you: those expensive gloves of yours have been found.'

Gloves?

Those expensive gloves of yours?

Those expensive gloves of yours have been found?

'Oh - ' The white-washed wall blazed in front of her. 'Oh?'

Gloves? She had a pair of black gloves at home, bought for Robbie's funeral and never worn since; she could remember clenching ice-cold hands in them as the rifles fired over the grave. Once she had had a pair of grey woollen mittens, when mittens were all the rage in the Fifth Form ... And Robbie had bequeathed her a pair of dirty white-and-green cricket gloves and a well-worn Fives glove...

She never wore gloves.

'Yes?' She stared at her left hand, with its short life line on the palm. Mustn't be superstitious - and don't let him ask her to describe them until she knew more about them, these expensive gloves of hers which had been found, but never lost, never even possessed.

'Young Mitchell found them ... somewhere in the Library, in the Common Room, I think he said. Khaki-colour - are those the ones?'

Frances looked at her sleeve. Paul had seen this suit yesterday, and it would be like a man - and particularly like Paul - to describe this beautiful new Jaeger green so insultingly.

'Green - yes.' She committed herself to Paul and the gloves.

'Good. I'll get him to post them on to you - not to worry.'

Frances worried furiously. That couldn't be what Paul intended with the mythical gloves. But what the hell did he intend?

It could only be communication. Since he couldn't know where she was, he had to tell her where he was.

'Where are they?' Was that the right question?

'Where are they?' For a moment he was thrown by the sheer triviality of the present-whereabouts-and-status of Mrs Fitzgibbon-Fisher's expensive khaki-green leather gloves. 'They're in his hotel - the Royal Europa, Harrogate. But I'll get him to post them.'

'No. I can make time to pick them up tomorrow.' Frances curbed her excitement: if it wasn't the right question it had been near enough. But what she had to do now was to reinforce its triviality. 'Those are my very best gloves. They cost a fortune -' (That was safe. Anything made of leather cost a fortune) '- and the colour-match is perfect... I'm not trusting them to the Post Office. I shall pick them up myself.'

'All right. Fisher - if you must!' He chuckled. 'Mulier est hominis confusio. '

'What?' She pretended not to understand the chauvinist jibe.

'Nothing ... As I said, just so you concentrate your energies on Colonel Butler, m'dear. Because ... none of this has gone on record, but we're relying on you to come up with something, make no mistake about that. Understood?'

Promotion, riches and fame - or demotion, penury and oblivion.

'I understand.'

Click.

Wait ten seconds.

* * *

'Directory inquiries, please ... I'd like the number of the Royal Europa Hotel, Harrogate, please.'

She rummaged in her handbag for her wallet. With phone charges what they were at peak times, how much did she owe Isobel?

* * *

'Royal Europa Hotel.'

'May I speak to the Head Porter, please.' (For a guess, Paul would start at the top.)

'Head Porter. Can I help you?'

'My name is - ' (Frances experienced a moment of confusion: what was her name?)' -

Fitzgibbon. I believe you have a pair of gloves for me. Left by a Mr Paul Mitchell?'

'Ah... Miss Fitzgibbon - yes... And that would be Miss Frances Fitzgibbon, I take it?'

'Yes.' Frances licked her lips. 'You have my gloves?'

'Yes, madam. We have your... gloves.' He placed a curious emphasis on gloves,