Deadheads

She had.

'Oh, she's blooming. Blooming this, blooming that.'

'Isn't she good,' said Wedderburn, impressed by the baby's sang-froid.

'In crowds and company and public places, yes,' said Ellie. 'She saves up her bad side for private performance only. She'll make a good cop. Who's your friend?'

'This is Police Cadet Shaheed Singh,' said Wedderburn gravely. 'He's just been learning that hell is the rush- hour on market days. Singh, this is Mrs Pascoe, Detective- Inspector Pascoe's wife.'

The cadet smiled. He looked like one of those elegant handsome young princes who at one time always seemed to be playing cricket for England.

'Nice to meet you, missus,' he said in a broad Yorkshire accent which made Wedderburn's sound like Eton and the Guards.

'You too, Mr Singh,' said Ellie. 'Won't you join us?'

Singh was clearly willing but Wedderburn said, 'No, thanks, Mrs Pascoe. We'll sit over here. There's one or two of the finer points of traffic control I need to discuss with the lad here and you'd likely find it a bit boring. Nice to see you.'

They moved away.

'Well!' said Daphne. 'So I'm in with the fuzz.'

The word sounded alien on her tongue, perhaps because her upper-class accent squeezed it almost into fozz.

'And,' she continued, pursuing her advantage, 'far from being your daily port of call, this elegant establishment is merely a stage-setting to soften up your victims!'

'Not quite,' grinned Ellie. 'But, OK, I did choose it specially this morning.'

'To turn me into a Trot? Or, with your police connections, are you really an agent provocateur?'

'What's your husband do?' asked Ellie.

'He's an accountant with Perfecta, you know, the bathroom people.'

Ellie looked momentarily surprised, then said, 'And how's your long division?'

'Terrible,' admitted Daphne. 'But I don't see . . . ah!'

'We may be one flesh, but the minds have an independent existence, or should have. We are not our husbands, nor even our husbands' keepers.'

'I agree, to an extent,' said Daphne. 'But it's not quite as simple as that, is it? I mean, if for instance, I told you my husband had committed a crime, wouldn't you feel it necessary to tell your husband?'

Ellie considered this.

Finally she said, 'I don't know about necessary. Suppose I told you my husband was investigating your husband, would you feel it necessary to tell him!'

Now Daphne considered, but before she could answer she was interrupted by a large, handsome, middle-aged woman, rather garishly dressed and with an ornate rose-tinted hair-do, like a mosque at sunset, who was coming from the counter with a coffee in one hand and a wedge of chocolate gateau in the other.

'Hello!' she cried. 'It's Daphne Aldermann, isn't it? Not often we see you in here. I always meant to keep in touch, dear, but it's all so hectic, one mad round after another, time just flies, just flies. And so must I. What a lovely baby. Coming, darlings, coming.'

This last was in response to a chorus of Mandy! from a distant table where three men were sitting. The woman made a valedictory gesture with her gateau and went to join them.

'So you're not so out of your depth here as I thought,' said Ellie. 'I'll have to look for somewhere really low. You should have asked your friend to sit down. She sounded interesting.'

'You think so? Well, for a start, she's hardly a friend. And in any case, there's no way you'll get Mandy Burke to join two women and a child when there's anything in trousers imminent.Just flies is the perfect motto for her.'

'Miaow!' said Ellie, grinning broadly. 'Mandy Burke? I've a feeling I've seen her around.'

'She runs a stall in the old covered market. Cane and mats and curios, that sort of thing. It's a little gold-mine, I believe,' said Daphne. 'Mandy's Knick-Knacks it's called. That's where you've probably seen her, unless your husband wines, dines and dances you at the best night spots a lot.'

'And what makes you think he doesn't?' wondered Ellie. 'But you're right. I know the stall. And in which of her milieux did you meet her?'

'Neither. Her husband used to work with mine, or the other way round really. He died about four or five years ago. I don't think I've run into her more than a couple of times since. Widowhood seems to become her. I should imagine women like her are a bit of an embarrassment to the feminist movement. So confident, so secure, so able, but absolutely anchored in a masculine world.'

She spoke challengingly and Ellie was again surprised at the vein of aggression she was finding in this superficially stereotyped bourgeois housewife. But before she could reply, Rose suddenly let out an enormous burp, then smiled complacently at her admiring audience.

The two women laughed and Ellie said, 'Let's have another coffee.'

'All right,' said Daphne. 'No, I'll get them. Don't worry, I won't embarrass you by pushing to the front of the queue.'