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garments each with little intention of buying, although Ellie was tempted by a short tunic and flared trousers with a distinguished label, and Philly would certainly have bought the off-white Donna Karan body and skirt if she had not overused her credit card and been overdrawn at the bank.

      But each of them bought a white cotton shirt, so they went out carrying the black on white Minimal carrier bag in triumph. The bags looked good slung over the shoulder.

      It was a hot summer’s day and as they stepped outside, they sniffed the air. It didn’t smell so good, but little Londoners both, they were used to the strange city smells.

      Still, this was richer and sharper than most.

      ‘Something’s burning, Philly.’

      ‘Something not nice.’

      ‘Nice when it was alive, maybe, but I think it was dead.’

      ‘Put your hanky to your nose, Philly, and run for that cab.’ Cabs were few and far between in this part of Spinnergate so you grabbed one when you could.

      They barely noticed Phoebe but Phoebe noticed the two girls because it was both her habit and training to notice people.

      ‘They’re girls from the show at the Stella Pinero Theatre.’ The manager spoke somewhat nervously; she was a jumpy young woman, stylish but on the alert. ‘I recognized their names from the programme: Phyllis and Eleanor, they kept calling each other Ellie and Philly. I was at the show – I didn’t recognize their faces, of course, but you could tell they were dancers. Stella Pinero lives near here. Do you know her?’

      ‘Of her,’ said Phoebe. ‘I do indeed.’

      ‘I had Miss Pinero in here the other day.’

      ‘Did she buy anything?’

      ‘A silk shift.’ She nodded towards a display of three shifts, one blue, one yellow and one black; they looked good, you had to admire the professionalism and skill of the establishment. Which made it all the more surprising in Spinnergate which was not a rich, upmarket area.

      Here in the Second City of London where John Coffin was chief commander of the police force, responsible for the keeping of the Queen’s Peace in the turbulent boroughs of Spinnergate, Leathergate, Swinehouse and East Hythe, the rich inhabitants (and there were such in the new expensive residences lining the old Docklands) drove to Bond Street and Knightsbridge to shop and the poor sped towards charity shops and the large department store in Swinehouse which held regular mark down sales.

      ‘That one over there, but in cream. She has wonderful taste.’

      I bet, thought Phoebe. But I’d better not buy a cream shift. Not that she was going to.

      ‘The black would suit you.’

      Phoebe fingered the thick, lustrous silk, taking in the price with some amusement: Stella might afford it, she wouldn’t. (Although she had heard that the Stella Pinero Theatre was not doing too well financially just now. But Stella herself had a TV series going and had been filming abroad. Money there, no doubt.)

      ‘I’m trying to cheer myself up before an important interview,’ she confided. ‘I thought if I found something really good, I could call it a happy omen.’

      The manager studied Phoebe. ‘Would you wear it to the interview? Do call me Eden, it’s more friendly.’

      ‘No, I wouldn’t wear it, just a cheer up thing really.’ Phoebe studied her face in a long wall mirror; she didn’t look as good as she would like. She rubbed her cheek thoughtfully. ‘That your name? Unusual, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s a family name. The other one is Brown, so you can see my mother thought I needed something livelier.’ Eden was a small, neat blonde with tiny hands and feet and big brown eyes, her olive skin suggested that the blonde hair was dyed.

      Well done, though, Phoebe decided, and no roots showing. Phoebe was tall and slender but she had good muscles and was limber and athletic.

      ‘No, I wouldn’t wear it,’ she said, turning away from her image. ‘This is my interview gear.’

      ‘What about this dress?’ Eden came from behind a white screen with a plain linen dress. ‘This is anthracite grey.’ Her customer seemed to go for dark colours. She did not understand about the interview. What was she being interviewed for, for heaven’s sake? A funeral parlour? Surely something cheerful and strong was the best bet? ‘Very nearly black … I have it in tangerine, too.’ She pointed to a flame-coloured dress.

      ‘I like it,’ said Phoebe, ignoring the grey linen and going towards the flame-coloured one. She studied the label and assessed the price from that particular Milan designer.

      ‘Try it on.’ Eden knew that once a customer had tried on a garment you were that much closer to a sale.

      Phoebe held it up against her. ‘No, I won’t do that … Tell you what – keep it for me.’

      ‘Well …’

      ‘I’ll put down a deposit, and if I get the job, then I’ll come back and buy it.’ Then she had another thought. ‘No, I’m going to take both. And I’m going to take them with me.’

      She had no doubt she would get the job, for which she was highly qualified, and John Coffin was head of the force in which she would be working. He would be on the interviewing committee. They had once been close, very close, but that might mean he would feel obliged to be neutral. But there were other factors …

      Still, she was tense.

      ‘And if you don’t get it?’

      ‘Oh, to hell with it!’

      ‘It’s unusual,’ Eden said doubtfully, thinking of her deposit. Who was this woman?

      ‘I’m an unusual woman.’

      You can say that again, said Eden to herself.

      ‘No, I think I’ll get it,’ said Phoebe absently. She stared at herself in the looking glass again and moved her finger down her cheek. ‘Do you know, I think it’s swollen … I’ve got bad faceache.’ It might be more than toothache and that was why she was taking two dresses. She had to opt for life.

      ‘It’s tension.’ Eden was sympathetic. ‘I get red blotches all over my face when I’m tense.’ But she was still worried about the bill.

      More tension than you know, Phoebe admitted inside her head as she held the dress against her. More than I’m going to admit to. Her mind made pictures; this tension comes in packets, personal packets named Phoebe Astley and a more formal packet labelled Job Description.

      Inside both packets was the name of John Coffin because he came into both bundles.

      In the past they had known each other well, too well, he might now think since his marriage. They had met recently in Birmingham where she had been working, heading her own small unit. The case he had been engaged upon then had been both personal and painful, she had helped him, he would be the first to admit, but they had walked carefully around their past relationship.

      She didn’t know what truths and lies he had told but she had let him have more than her average number of lies. He was going to find out now; the matter would not come up at the interview session, of course, although she could imagine the amused, informed stare from his blue eyes as the matter of her married status came up. Nothing much would be said, he had probably long since checked that particular untruth anyway, but later, ah, yes, later … she would be asked questions.

      The truth will out, she said to herself, although as a serving police officer she knew that it did not always do so.

      The maddening thing was that he would understand, and might not laugh. He had a kind heart beneath the steel.

      Stella Pinero was lucky and Phoebe hoped she knew it. She had heard that Stella had tantrums, but then she was a beauty and a celebrated actress, and was entitled to her tantrums; they came with the job.

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