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sure that he had done the right thing.
    Now, it seemed to him that selling the old house had been a cowardly act – that a real man would have stayed in it, and battled the demons of rebuke and regret on their own territory.
    He saw the blue E Type Jaguar parked just up the street, and thought – somewhat guiltily – of the heated exchange between himself and Monika Paniatowski, which had followed him telling Woodend that he needed to take a couple of hours off that afternoon.
    â€˜
Why’s that
?’ Paniatowski had asked. ‘
Have you got a date
?’
    â€˜
As a matter of fact, I have, in a way
,’ he’d replied coldly. ‘
I’m interviewing nannies for Louisa
.’
    Which had been perfectly true – as far as it went. But what he’d neglected to mention was that he’d asked Elizabeth Driver – the owner of the blue E Type Jag – to sit in on those interviews.

Seven
    M ark Hough had all-but perfected the art of being in a wheel-chair, Woodend thought, as he watched the man skilfully manoeuvre his machine around the maze of pub tables, before bringing it to a sharp and very precise halt when he reached the table in the corner.
    He was about the same age as Terry Pugh, but because of his bushy beard, which was flecked with grey, he might possibly have been taken for a few years older. He had a powerful torso, but the very breadth of it seemed only to draw attention to the withered legs beneath it.
    Woodend had known several cripples who had self-consciously hidden their legs – covering them with a thin blanket even in the heat of summer – but Hough’s legs were there for all to see, and even the expensive well-cut trousers could not hide just how wasted they were.
    Woodend and Paniatowski followed Hough to the table, and sat down opposite him.
    Mark Hough looked with something akin to real envy at Woodend’s frothing pint.
    â€˜I used to enjoy best bitter myself,’ he said, ‘but it goes through the system far too quickly, and since going for a pee is no longer the joy it used to be, I stick to malt whisky now.’
    He picked up the whisky Woodend had bought for him, took a small sip of it, and placed it on the copper-topped table.
    â€˜I rang your headquarters as soon as I heard the news about Terry,’ he continued. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do, in the circumstances. But, by the same token, I don’t honestly see how I can be of much use to you.’
    â€˜You’d arranged to meet Terry Pugh last night?’ Woodend said.
    â€˜I had.’
    â€˜Why in this particular pub?’
    â€˜Because it’s close enough to my factory for me to be able to wheel myself down, and thus not have to bother anybody else.’
    â€˜Your factory?’ Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘Wait a minute, you’re not
the
Hough of Hough Engineering, are you?’
    â€˜Guilty as charged,’ Hough admitted.
    â€˜I read in the paper that you’ve just gone public,’ Woodend said.
    â€˜Well remembered,’ Hough said.
    â€˜What made you do it? Were you feelin’ the pinch?’
    â€˜Far from it. There’s a worldwide demand for precision engineering valves, and mine are some of the best on the market. The order book’s full to overflowing, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I either had to turn away business or expand my capacity. But expansion always takes capital, Chief Inspector, and rather than go cap in hand to the bank, I thought I’d issue shares.’
    â€˜But you refused to sell to large investors, didn’t you?’ Woodend asked, remembering why it was that the article in the newspaper had managed to stick in his mind. ‘You told all the merchant banks an’ insurance companies that were sniffin’ around the company to go an’ take a runnin’ jump.’
    â€˜That’s exactly what I told them,’ Hough confirmed.