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smokeless fuel.
    â€˜Was cold,’ Hugo mumbled by way of explanation. He swayed towards the fire and removed the still burning gas poker. ‘Shouldn’t have left that in.’ He unscrewed the lead with excessive concentration. ‘Whisky?’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    Hugo slopped out half a tumbler of Glenlivet and handed it over. ‘Cheers.’ He slumped into an armchair with his own glass.
    Charles took a long sip. It was welcome after the idiocies of the Critics’ Circle. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
    â€˜Huh. Charlotte.’ Hugo spoke without violence but with great bitterness. ‘Charlotte’s finished.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Charlotte – finished. The great love affair, Charlotte and Hugo – over.’
    â€˜You mean she’s left you?’
    â€˜Not here.’ Hugo was almost incoherent.
    â€˜She wasn’t here when you got back last night?’
    â€˜Not here.’
    â€˜Where do you think she’s gone?’
    â€˜I don’t know. To see lover boy.’
    â€˜Is there a lover boy?’
    â€˜I suppose so. That’s the usual story. Pretty young girl. Middle-aged husband. Don’t you read the Sunday papers?’ Hugo spoke in a low, hopeless mumble.
    â€˜Have you been in to work today?’ Hugo shook his head. ‘Just drinking?’ A small nod.
    They sat and drank. Charles tried to think of anything he could say that might be helpful. There was nothing. He could only stay, be there.
    After a long, long silence, he started to feel cold. The fire was nearly dead. Charles got up briskly. ‘Where’s the coal, Hugo? I’ll go and get some more.
    â€˜You’ll never find it. Let me. Come on, I’ll show you.’ Hugo led the way unsteadily into the kitchen. He picked up a torch and fumbled it on.
    They went out of the back door. There was a shed just opposite. ‘In there,’ said Hugo.
    Charles opened the door. Hugo shone the torch.
    In its beam they saw Charlotte. She was splayed unceremoniously over the coal. A scarf was knotted unnaturally round her neck. She was very dead.

CHAPTER SIX
    CHARLES RANG THE police and stayed beside Hugo in the sitting room until they arrived. Hugo was catatonic with shock. Only once did he speak, murmuring softly to himself, ‘What did I do to her? She was young. What did I do to her?’
    When the police arrived, Charles steeled himself to go out once again to the coal shed. The beams of their torches were stronger and made the colour of Charlotte’s cheeks even less natural, like a detail from an over-exposed photograph.
    The richness of her perfume, which still hung in the air, was sickly and inappropriate. The staring eyes and untidy spread of limbs were not horrifying; the felling they gave Charles was more one of embarrassment, as if a young girl had been sick at a party. And his impression of callowness was reinforced by the Indian print scarf over the bruised neck, like a teenager’s attempt to hide love-bites.
    The bruises were chocolate brown. On one of them the skin had been broken -and a bootlace of dried blood traced its way crazily up towards Charlotte’s mouth.
    Hugo remained dull and silent and Charles himself was dazed as they were driven to the police station. They were separated when they arrived and parted without a word. Each was taken into a separate interview room to make a statement.
    Charles had to wait for about half an hour before his questioning began. A uniformed constable brought him a cup of tea and apologized for the delay. Everyone was very pleasant, but pleasant with that slight restraint that staff have in hospitals, as if something unpleasant is happening nearby but no one is going to mention it.
    Eventually two policemen came in. One was in uniform and carried a sheaf of paper. The other was fair-haired. early thirties, dressed in a brown blazer and blue trousers. He spoke with the vestiges of a