The cops picked up Peter Lovell's thugs a couple of weeks later in a routine raid on an after-hours speakeasy in Bradford. They charged them with Tony's murder. The Crown Prosecution Service, who love bent coppers about as much as the police do, also added mur¬der to Lovell's list of charges under the "joint enterprise" principle. According to Delia, who was on the point of giving up the elbow crutches and moving back into her house, it looked as if they were all going to go down for a very long time. Oh, and Dan Druff and the Scabby Heided Bairns signed a deal with an indie record company on the strength of their first Nazi-free gig. They've promised me the first pressing of the first single to roll off the pro¬duction line. I can hardly wait. It'll look great framed on my office wall. Not.

The law on fraud being what it is, Alan Williams and Sarah Constable probably thought they were unlucky to do any time at all. But the police did a good job, tying them into ripping off the bereaved in Birmingham, Durham, and Plymouth. They each got eighteen months, which they'll do easy time in an open prison. It probably won't stop them coming up with another nasty little scam when they come out, but at least it's got them off the streets for a few months. Their boss at Sell Phones did a bit better; all they could get him on was obtaining phone calls by deception, on account of the laws in this country affecting telecommunications are so archaic it's hard to nail anybody on anything to do with cellular phones. And since nobody much likes phone companies, he only got a suspended sentence. He lost the business, though, which is a kind of rough justice.

I also got around to talking to Josh. He gave me a load of toffee about how he wanted to devote some of his capi¬tal to working with small businesses, and I told him to cut the crap and get to the horses. The deal we worked out meant he bought Bill's share of the business, but in recog¬nition of my sole contribution to the profits, my stake in the partnership was upgraded to 55 percent. So I got an extra twenty percent for nothing except running the agency and doing all the hard graft. . . Josh also promised me that when I can afford it, I can buy him out for what he'd paid plus the rate of inflation. I know a good deal when I see it. I nearly bit his hand off. The best part about it was that overnight I stopped wanting to rip Bill's arm off and hit him with the wet end. That Sheila's a really good laugh when you get to know her.

Alexis was happy with the way I sorted things out with Helen and Flora. With the single-mindedness of all parents-to-be, she didn't much mind who'd killed Sarah as long as it wasn't going to bounce back and wreck her happy idyll. I never did tell her about Sarah Black-stone's nasty little trick of dropping her own eggs into the mix. I couldn't bring myself to say anything that would poison Alexis's happiness.

It's just as well I didn't. When Chris gave birth six months later, there was no mistaking the genetic source of Jay Appleton Lee's shock of jet black spikes. I swear the child cries with a Liverpool accent.

I wish I could close the account there. Everything in credit, almost a happy ending. It's never been that neat, in my experience. About two months after the showdown in her kitchen, Helen Maitland turned up at my office one after¬noon around close of business. I left Shelley in charge and took her up to the cafe at the Cornerhouse for an herbal tea and a flapjack. Sometimes it's dead handy having an art cin¬ema so close to the office.

Over a cup of wild strawberry, she told me that Flora had just got a job in a university library in Wyoming. "I didn't know they had universities in Wyoming," I said. Cheap, I know, but I never claimed to be otherwise.

"Me neither," Helen said, smiling with the half of her mouth that wasn't clamped around a cigarette.

"You looking for a job, then?"

"You mean am I going with her?"

I nodded. "I wondered if this was good-bye, don't worry, we're out of your life."

"I suppose it is, in a way. Flora won't be back, and the one thing I'd pray for if I had any religion left is to be allowed to forget the whole sorry mess. So you can rest assured you won't be hearing any more of this from me. And Flora... well, she has too much to lose. The police never arrested anyone, never even seriously questioned them. The case is going to die now, just like Sarah did."

"Better that way," I said.

"Better all around," she agreed. Her green eyes looked distantly over my shoulder. "I'm not going to join Flora, though. Ever since she told us what had happened, I've scarcely been able to tolerate being in the same room as her. I may have stopped loving or hating Sarah, but I never wanted her to die, not even in our most terrible fights. And I hate the thought that I was the instrument of her death."

"Don't be daft," I protested. "It was Flora who knifed her, not you. You didn't even know she was going to see her. You certainly didn't suggest it, that much was obvious from your reaction to Flora's confession."

"Maybe not overtly. But she'd never have dreamed up the idea if my obsession hadn't planted it. If I hadn't told her the meaning of the photograph and the lock of hair, she'd never have gone near Sarah. I may not have held the knife, but I carry the guilt."

I could tell there was no point in trying to get her to change her mind about that. We finished our drinks, talk¬ing about anything except Sarah and Flora. Then she excused herself, saying she had someone to meet. I sat by the first-floor window and watched her striding out across Oxford Road, dodging cars and buses. I watched her long stride as far as the corner of Princess Street, where she turned left and disappeared.

The story was in the next night's Chronicle. DOCTOR DIES IN HOTEL PLUNGE. She'd taken a room on the top floor of the Piccadilly Hotel. She'd even brought a club hammer in her overnight bag in case the window didn't open far enough. At the inquest, they read out a note where she'd quoted that bit from Keats about censing on the midnight with no pain.

Some nights, I dream of Helen Maitland falling through the air, morphing into a bird and suddenly soaring just before she hits the ground. I hope somebody somewhere is making babies with her eggs.