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curtained-off area. Woodend drew the curtain back, and found himself looking down at a battered couch.
    â€œLooks like they have all the comforts of home in here,” Rutter said, over his shoulder.
    â€œAye, a real little palace all right,” Woodend replied.
    The two policemen climbed down the steps again, and Woodend walked over to Rick Johnson and his wife.
    â€œWhy don’t you slip out and have a cup of coffee?” he suggested. “Half an hour should be long enough.”
    Johnson jumped slightly, as though he’d been so wrapped up in his conversation he hadn’t even heard the chief inspector’s approach.
    â€œIf we want coffee, we can get it here,” he said.
    Woodend shook his head disbelievingly. “Don’t play thick with me, lad. You know what I meant. I want you out of here, so I can have a private conversation with the Seagulls.”
    â€œI’m not supposed to leave the club unless the door’s locked behind me,” Johnson said.
    â€œWhat? Worried about burglars when you’re leavin’ two bobbies inside?” Woodend asked. “Trust me, lad, the place’ll be safe enough.”
    â€œI’ve got my instructions,” Johnson said stubbornly.
    â€œI think we’d better go, Rick,” his wife told him. “After all, if this policeman wants to—”
    â€œKeep your trap shut, Lucy!” Johnson said angrily.
    The woman – the girl! Woodend couldn’t think of her as a woman, even if she was married – looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly together on her lap. Her brown hair, which curled in to cover her cheeks, shifted slightly, and the chief inspector saw the bruise under her right eye.
    Woodend thought of his own daughter again, and felt a sudden anger rising from the pit of his stomach.
    â€œHave you been knockin’ your wife about, Mr Johnson?” he demanded roughly.
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with you?” Rick Johnson said, jumping to his feet and thrusting out his chin aggressively.
    â€œGo on, take a swing at me,” Woodend said softly. “I’d really like you to do that.”
    â€œWhy? So you can summons me for assault?”
    Woodend shook his head. “No. Because it’ll give me just the excuse I’m lookin’ for to knock you flat on your arse.”
    â€œYou an’ whose army?” Johnson sneered.
    â€œSir . . .” Rutter said, putting his hand on Woodend’s arm.
    The chief inspector brushed the hand away. “You stay out of this, Bob,” he warned. “This is between him an’ me.” He turned his attention back to the doorman. “I’ll tell you somethin’ for nothin’, Johnson. You might get the better of me, but you won’t find it as easy as beatin’ up a kid like her.”
    The two men stood glaring at each other, Johnson with his fists bunched, Woodend watchful and tensed. It seemed as if they would be like that for ever – until, perhaps, they had turned into stone – then Lucy Johnson said, “Rick didn’t hit me. I walked into a door.”
    Woodend was struck by how vulnerable her voice sounded. It was almost, he thought, like the cry of an injured kitten.
    â€œYou heard her!” Rick Johnson said. “I didn’t hit her. She walked into a door.”
    â€œWell, you’d better make sure she doesn’t walk into any more,” Woodend told him. He forced his body to relax. “But to get back to the other matter, I’m goin’ to have to insist you leave the club now. I’ll square it with Mrs Pollard.”
    Johnson looked down at his wife, then put his hand on her arm and half-assisted, half-pulled her to her feet.
    â€œHalf an hour,” he grunted. “That’s how long we’ve got to be out of the club, isn’t it?”
    â€œHalf an hour,” Woodend agreed.
    He watched them head for the stairs, Johnson with his arm