'No, but he really was upset, Max. He said now he knew it wasn't me who'd written it he didn't know what he was going to do about finding out who had. He was very low, honestly. You could tell.'
'Well, there's no need for you to start worrying. Old Willie gets these moods. They don't necessarily mean a hell of a lot. I'll have a word with him in the morning. Quite likely he'll have forgotten all about it by then.'
'I wish you would. Sorry, I'm holding you up.'
'You're not in the least. Take as long as you like.'
'No, I'll just…'
Half an inch of Chartreuse at once was too much for Pearce. He choked and coughed. Hunter got up and beat him heartily on the back. He saw that the four at the next table were watching, with half-smiles of different kinds but the same high level of offensive-ness. Fixing on the younger of the men, a shop-soiled faun with a small mouth, he gave him his best public-lavatory leer over Pearce's shoulder. All four heads turned away as if twitched by the same string.
Pearce gave a final gasp. 'Really does the trick, doesn't it, thumping? Sorry about that.'
'So I should hope. After that exhibition the least we can do is leave quietly.'
They did so. Outside it was still light. Hunter explained that where they were going was only a few hundred yards away, so they might as well leave in the hotel car-park the pick-up truck in which they had driven over. The street they walked along was crowded, but on one side there was part of a canal with yards and warehouses that looked deserted. Twice Hunter's shoulder brushed Pearce's as they moved to avoid groups of passers-by.
'Here we are,' said Hunter.
They went into the entrance-hall of a small block of flats dating some thirty years back. There was no lift.
On the stairs Pearce said, 'Tell me again about this bloke.'
'He's called Vincent Lane. About thirty. Unmarried. Friend of my brother's. In the insurance business. He spends about half his time here and half in London. I don't know who else he's asked tonight. It should be quite fun.'
By this time they had reached the second floor. Hunter pressed a bell. They heard it ringing, but then nothing happened.
'Mm, this doesn't look too good,' said Hunter, ringing again.
More silence. Hunter stooped down and turned back a corner of the doormat to reveal a latchkey. He opened the door of the flat with it.
'What do you think's happened?' asked Pearce.
'He may have got held up. He wouldn't mind us letting ourselves in like this. Let's see if he's left a note.'
Off the tiny hall was a long, rather narrow sitting-room with faded rugs, leather armchairs and an expandable dining-table against one wall. On this table they saw a sheet of paper with typewriting on it. It read,
Sorry boys-called to London late this afternoon. Urgent (they say). Couldn't seem to get you at the camp, Max-left a message with some moron which if you're reading this you can't have got. Managed to put everybody else off. Insist you have a drink now you're here. As many as you like. Help yourselves. Feel free. Give me a ring next week, Max. Many apologies for dragging you all this way.
Then, in a shaky hand,
In haste,
Vince
Pearce gave a quick glance at Hunter, walked down the room to the window and stood looking out.
'Can I get you a drink?' said Hunter to his back.
'No thank you.'
'Do you mind if I have one?'
'Of course not.'
Hunter hesitated for a few seconds, then joined Pearce at the window. From here the canal was in view. There was still nobody to be seen near it. After another pause, Hunter put his hand on Pearce's nearer shoulder. He did this not because he thought this was the right moment, but because he could think of nothing else to do and nothing whatever to say. With his heart seeming to shake his whole chest, he turned slowly and put his other hand on Pearce's other shoulder, noticing the coarseness of the cloth there. Pearce's eyes were shut.
'Oh, Andy,' said Hunter, calling him by this name for the first time.
He kissed Pearce gently on the cheek near the mouth and felt him grow tense. When he kissed him
