LITMIR.BIZ

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doing, you two? You are talking to a woman who is dying. I am going to be killed.’

      Tom made an opportunity to speak to Didi at the door. ‘Keep an eye on her.’

      ‘Oh, she’ll be all right. She’s got her social worker looking after her.’

      He considered. ‘Still?’

      ‘I think he’s off the job, it’s personal now. He’s in love with her.’

      ‘That’s not ethical.’

      ‘What’s ethical? Life’s not ethical.’

      Tom laughed. ‘You’re right there. What’s his name? I’ll look into it.’

      ‘Alex Edwards. I don’t know his address.’

      ‘I’ll find it.’ He saw she was more anxious about her sister than she wanted to admit.

      ‘Don’t worry too much, kid. I think your sister will have a long life.’ He was not in a position to be sure of this, who could be? But he wanted Didi to be happy.

      ‘She does get so upset.’

      ‘Don’t we all?’

      ‘Not you.’

      ‘Me too. When I’m keen on something. Or I like a person.’

      He smiled, and after a pause, Didi smiled.

      ‘I’m serious.’

      As he drove away, he wondered if he ought to have told her to be careful with the Creeley boy. But that night be over-egging the pudding. He would seek a chance to have a word with the Chief Commander, John Coffin, and say something quiet. Go into one of the pubs he used and take his chance. Like a careful man, he had taken the trouble to run a check on the life and habits of John Coffin. Meaning him no harm, he told himself, but it is as well to know what you can.

      After all, he could say, I am looking for your sister’s missing daughter (although in my opinion the mother knows more about the child than she is letting on, and they just don’t want to meet for reasons all their own but which I intend to know) and I helped with your wife’s divorce and that was a fudged-up affair as I expect you know. Or didn’t you know?

      And as he drove, he said quietly to the traffic lights as they turned red: I have put my foot in that pool and I am not taking it out.

CHAPTER 4

       Tuesday through to Wednesday. In Spinnergate

      Stella Pinero, as she went about her business for the next day or two kept a watch for her obsessive admirer. If that was what he was. Stalking a star, that was the phrase, wasn’t it?

      She seemed to be free at the moment. In her life she had been the object of passionate love, of jealousy, and of dislike. Even sometimes, almost harder to bear, of indifference. But there was something uncomfortable about being the object of an obsession.

      She considered what she knew of the figure in the shadows, Charley, she called him. There was never any attempt at contact. She had never been touched, had had no letters, never been sent a photograph, had no telephone calls.

      She had seen the man in the courtyard outside the St Luke’s Theatre after a performance. In the road outside St Luke’s Mansions, looking up, just the flash of dark glasses turned her way. Once she had seen him on the station at the Spinnergate Tube, but he didn’t get on the train with her. There may have been many occasions when she had simply not seen him. Certainly in the beginning, before she became alerted, there must have been such times.

       I am just watched. Perhaps admired, perhaps hated.

      At Coffin’s request she had made a list of the physical characteristics as she had had a chance to make them out. ‘Tell me all you can,’ he had said. ‘Every detail helps, just jot it down.’

      So she had made a list. As much for her own comfort as for his. To make the observer observed took away some fear.

      So: a thin figure of medium height. A hat pulled down over the face. Dark glasses. Hands covered in gloves. Wears boots, and a wig.

      A secretive man.

      It came to a slim catalogue and not likely to help identify the man. She knew enough of her husband’s colleagues to know that they might suggest it was all her imagination. A fantasy blown up in her mind. They would not say so directly to John Coffin, but they had their ways of showing scepticism. She wasn’t sure, indeed, how much even her husband had believed her.

      He must be a secret man, but someone somewhere knew him and was protecting him. That was what they always said, wasn’t it? But perhaps no one knew this man’s face?

      I am having a hard time. I am frightened, she told herself. And that is a fact. My fear is a fact.

      So she looked about her as she went out and kept an eye on the street. She spent hours at a rehearsal of a TV series in which she was involved, she visited her agent’s office and signed a contract, she kept an appointment with her hairdresser in Beaumont Place.

      ‘You’re fidgety, love,’ said her hairdresser. He had known her for years, and had placed a signed photograph of her on the wall above the washbasin. He had other stage ladies there too. ‘Keep your head still or I can’t get the cut right.’

      ‘Sorry, Kenny.’ Stella took a deep breath. ‘Bit on edge.’

      ‘I can tell … Why not go downstairs and get some massage? Saw you on TV last night. You were lovely.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ He was cheering her up deliberately and she knew it, but it was his pastoral skills as well as his brilliance as a cutter that kept his shop in Knightsbridge in the top league of hairdressers.

      Kenny watched her walk away (without having gone downstairs to his new and expensive health and fitness salon for a soothing massage of the neck and back). He watched her passage past the hatter’s window display and the jeweller’s boutique and the little couture house where royalty shopped, all with their flowered window-boxes and bright front doors, and shook his head. He had known her for years. That woman’s worried.

      Stella turned round to see him looking, she gave a wave, and stepped into a taxi.

      ‘Spinnergate,’ she said. ‘And don’t tell me it’s too far.’

      One of the disadvantages of living in the Second City was that taxi-drivers complained about taking you there. Not safe, they said, or no fares back.

      But this one gave her a grin. ‘Lady, for you, anything.’ He leaned out of the window. ‘Saw you in Candida. Great acting.’

      She had recently done a back to back couple of productions of Candida and A Doll’s House, first on TV and then taking them to St Luke’s Theatre on a wave of public interest to boost audiences. It had worked.

      ‘My wife liked it too,’ he shouted as he drove away.

      Well, that’s two of them that like me, thought Stella. Then she went home for a meeting with Letty Bingham and the rest of the committee which was setting up the Drama School, they would be discussing the constitution and the difficult matter of charitable status.

      And on the mat outside her door was the cat and the cat was sitting in a wreath of white roses.

      So he admires me this observer? And sends me white roses? Stella said to herself. By God, I’ll get him. I don’t have to be passive, I’ll go after him myself.

      Inevitably by this time the story that Marianna Manners had thought she was being watched had gone the rounds and Stella was told about it by Mimsie Marker as she bought a paper from the stall by the Tube station and by the chemist when she bought some aspirin. (And if ever a woman needed it, I do.)

      She had not heard about Annie Briggs’s

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