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plus whatever he had stashed in the office safe.’
    â€˜You was lucky Mr King didn’t ’ave your neck.’
    â€˜Harry made Rita go through the books with an accountant an’ the accountant gave her the benefit of the doubt.’ Steve paused, then said wistfully, ‘Used to be just jam on Harry King’s bread, the old Brooklyn, but these past six months – a goldmine. You tell Ron about Vince’s visit?’
    â€˜Nah, Ron’s got enough on ’is plate without frettin’ about my old man.’ She reached across the desk, stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and let her hand rest on Steve’s knee. ‘What you gonna do to me?’
    â€˜Nothin’,’ Steve told her. ‘You ha’n’t seen Leo and, my guess, you’re not gonna. Fact is, if Harry lays his hands on Leo you might never see your old man again.’
    â€˜Harry wouldn’t kill ’im, would he?’
    â€˜Maybe not,’ Steve said, ‘not if he gets his money back.’
    Breda said, ‘How much went over the wall exactly?’
    Steve shrugged. ‘Three grand, probably more.’
    Breda whistled and removed her hand from Steve’s knee. ‘That
is
a lotta dough,’ she said. ‘Make quite an ’ole in anybody’s pocket.’
    â€˜What’s on your mind, Breda?’ said Steve suspiciously. ‘Come on, out with it.’
    â€˜Well, I’m thinkin’, if someone got Mr King all ’is money back …’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Would there be a reward?’
    â€˜A reward?’
    â€˜Hmm,’ Breda said. ‘Ten per cent would do nicely.’
    The restaurant below ground, shared by both staff and guest broadcasters, was a good deal less colourful now the entertainers had moved out. It maintained a certain modest elegance, however, and, thank heaven, continued to serve a decent afternoon tea. After her voice test Mr Willets had carried Miss Proudfoot off to the restaurant, an invitation that, rather pointedly, did not include Susan.
    Squeezed behind her little desk Susan was typing up her notes when the producer, looking rather smug, returned.
    â€˜That went well, don’t you think?’ he said.
    Susan was tempted to ask if he meant the test or the tiffin but prudently kept her mouth shut. She typed rapidly, noisily, taking out her irritation on the keys.
    Mr Willets eased himself into the chair behind the desk and lit a cigarette. He folded an arm behind his head and blew a series of reflective, if imperfect, smoke rings.
    Susan typed furiously.
    â€˜Now,’ Mr Willets said, ‘which of us is going to give in before that poor old Underwood catches fire?’
    Susan ripped the paper from the platen.
    â€˜It’s really none of my business, sir,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I do feel as if I’ve been used.’
    â€˜Used? Hardly, Miss Hooper, though there’s nothing wrong with a bit of nepotism, is there? The BBC’s not alone in favouring those who are in the know.’
    â€˜I didn’t even know I
was
in the know,’ said Susan. ‘Was it Vivian’s recommendation got me this job?’
    â€˜On the contrary,’ Mr Willets said. ‘Indeed, if we, the BBC, hadn’t been in the midst of a frantic recruiting drive I question if your application would have been considered.’
    â€˜But
you
knew, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Let’s just say, I found out. Quite by chance I received your file from Personnel and found Vivian’s letter of character.’
    He attempted another smoke ring, gave up and dropped the cigarette into the ashtray.
    â€˜I’d kept track in a vague sort of way of Vivian’s progress. Read a couple of her books and her articles in
The Times
and did, I confess, consider calling her. When you put her name forward for
Speaking
Up
, it provided me with a perfect excuse for seeing her again. By the bye, that piece she read