Shape of Snakes

It was a question he hadn't expected and he stroked his beard pensively while he considered his answer. 'Sometimes,' he admitted. 'Where is she now? I know she remarried because one of her friends told me, but I've no idea where she went.'

'Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire. She did a postgraduate course in Southampton after you and she split up and now she's head of the history department at a comprehensive in Leicester. Her husband's a bank manager called Jim Garth. They have three daughters. The eldest is thirteen and the youngest seven.'

His lips twisted in a regretful smile. 'She always said she could do better without me.'

'She wanted an identity of her own, Jock'-I leaned forward, clamping my hands between my knees-'and if you'd encouraged her to train as a teacher while you were still married ... who knows? Maybe you'd still be together.'

He didn't believe that any more than I did. 'Hardly. We weren't even on speaking terms by the end.' His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, and I guessed he had as much pent-up distrust of me as I had of him. 'I've always blamed you for the divorce, you know. Libby didn't have a problem till you came along, all she wanted was babies ... then you move into the street and, suddenly, babies aren't good enough. She has to have a career, and it has to be teaching.'

'I didn't know she was so easily influenced.'

'Oh, come on! Every idea she had was recycled from the last person she spoke to. That's probably why she became a history teacher,' he said sarcastically. 'You don't have to think so much when your subject's been chewed over for centuries by other people.'

'That's rubbish. Jock. Libby knew exactly what she wanted out of life ... also what she didn't want.'

'Yes, well, I could always tell when she'd been with you. She was a hell of a sight more belligerent about her rights when she'd had a dose of Ranelagh left-wing feminism.'

'Maybe it's a good thing you never introduced her to Sharon then,' I said dryly. 'Or you'd have had a prostitute for a wife.'

He wouldn't look at me-afraid, I think, of what I might read in his eyes-but his neck flushed an angry red. 'That's a stupid thing to say.'

'No more stupid than you trying to blame me for your divorce,' I said evenly. 'Nothing I said or didn't say could alter the fact that Libby was sick to death of your gambling. She wanted some stability in her life, not a roller- coaster ride of wins one day and losses the next. It was bad enough when it was just the stock market, but when you admitted to losing three thousand quid on a poker game...' I shook my head. 'What did you expect her to do? Pat you on the back?'

'It was my money,' he said sulkily.

'It was also your money when you won,' I pointed out, 'but you never shared your winnings with her, only your losses. You put Libby through hell every time you lost and used your winnings to buy blow jobs off Sharon.'

It began to dawn on him just how much Libby had told me and he retreated into an offended silence, punctuated only by the regular ticking of a pendulum clock on the mantelpiece. I made no effort to break it. Instead I glanced about the study, trying to imprint what I could see on my memory. It was an impossible task, so I looked for what wasn't there: silhouette pictures of Annie's grandparents, mosaics of Quetzalcoatl, items of jade, artillery shells and peacock feathers...

There was a fine seascape in a gilded frame on the wall opposite showing a ship under full sail battling with a storm-tossed sea, and I could just make out the words on the small plaque screwed to the bottom of the frame. Spanish Privateer in Great Storm off Kingston, Jamaica, 1823. I was so absorbed in trying to decide whether the date represented the year the storm happened or the year the picture was painted, that it was a while before I realized Jock was watching me.

'What the hell's going on?' he asked suspiciously, following my gaze. 'Has Libby got some crazy idea that she can get more money out of me?'

I shook my head. 'I came to ask you about the night Annie Butts died.'

He gave an exasperated sigh. 'So why drag Libby into it? Why not be upfront at the beginning?'

It was an obtuse remark from a man who always attacked first and asked questions later. 'Sorry,' I said apologetically.

'You could have talked to me on the phone,' he said, warming to his grievance. 'I've always answered your questions in the past. I even drove round to St. Mark's Church the other day to find out the vicar's name for you.'

'That was kind,' I agreed.

'Then what's the big deal?'

I pulled a wry expression. 'Nothing really. I'm just not very good at this. I was afraid you'd clam up if I dived straight in with questions about where you were and who you were with that night.'

He looked surprised. 'You already know all that. It was in my statement. I was with Sam at your place. We had a couple of beers and then I went home.'

'Except it was a Tuesday,' I reminded him, 'and Libby told me Tuesday was your fellatio day.'

'God almighty,' he growled angrily, hating the whole subject, 'I went to Sharon first. Okay? I came out at about half-seven, bumped into Sam and went back to his place for a beer.'

'Sam said you bumped into each other at the tube station.'

He shifted uncomfortably. 'It was twenty years ago. You can't expect me to remember every wretched detail.'

'Why would you be at the tube if you'd just left Sharon? I thought you had sex in her house.'

'What the hell difference does it make? Annie was alive and well when we passed her in the street.'