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simply acres of glass. You'd better come and see."
Martin followed her through the tastefully furnished living
room and into a hot, south facing conservatory.
"What do you think? " she asked anxiously.
"It's a lot of glass."
"Can you do it?"
"Two pounds fifty," said Martin shortly. "There's an hour of
daylight left. I could start now and finish tomorrow evening."
"Oh good."
She sat in the flower-choked back garden near a granite gnome
supporting a birdbath and watched Martin sweating with leather
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and squeegee as he laboured on the endless glass. It was
exhausting work. At the end of sixty minutes, he peeled off his T-shirt
and flopped out on the lawn. A shadow crossed his face. She was
standing over him looking down. Not such nice legs as Carrie's
he thought, but it was Carrie's face and very nearly her smile.
"Would you like a drink?"
"Yes, please."
"Tea or coffee?"
"Beer."
"There's only lager."
"That'll do fine."
She returned with two brimming pewter mugs and sat on the
grass opposite Martin with her knees drawn up to her chin: an
innocently immodest pose although she kept her eyes fixed on
Martin's eyes.
"Do you think we did the right thing?" she asked.
"We haven't done anything yet."
She giggled. "I mean letting that man off."
"That implies he was guilty," Martin pointed out. "We said
that he wasn't."
"Most people would say 'infer'," said the girl.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She pushed a blade of grass between her teeth. "It means that
you don't sound like a window cleaner."
"What should a window cleaner sound like?" Martin knew
that his question sounded like a line from a bad radio play but
the girl's cool arrogance had angered him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."
"Would you like me to touch my forelock?"
"I said I was sorry."
Martin drained his mug. "I'd better be going."
"Can I ask you something?" It was Carrie's eyes upon him.
"Those awful magazines. Did they . .." She hesitated.
"Did they what?"
"Did they have any affect on you? I know girl's aren't supposed
to be affected by such things but I was curious to know what
sort of affect they had on you."
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It was a good opportunity to hurt her - to pay her out for the
double garage, the Westminster chimes and the accent which
had probably cost her parents half as much as the house.
"If you mean, did they give me an erection, the answer's 'no'
but the way you're sitting is."
She went pale and stood up. "I think you'd better go now,
please."
"What's your first name?" Martin asked at the front door.
"Virginia!" the girl snapped, and slammed the door in his
face.
Only when he was nearly home and realised that he hadn't
been paid did Martin stop chuckling.
A little encouragement from Leon Polder's cold chisel and the
flimsy plywood back to the firearms cabinet sprang easily out of
its groove. Typical, he thought as he lowered the board silently
to the floor; they buy a robust looking storage unit for their
weapons and don't bother about the back. It amazed him just
how stupid the British could be. No wonder their country was
virtually bankrupt. It hadn't even been necessary for him to
break into the social club building. All that had been required
was for him to hide in one of the toilet cubicles during the
evening and wait until all was quiet. The club steward was too lazy to
make sure the building was empty before he locked-up. Typical.
Polder shone his penlight into the cabinet and helped himself
to four sleeved-down .38 Smith and Wessons and four boxes of
ammunition. Fifty rounds in each box. Plenty. He noticed the
"Made in Spain" labels. Typical. One of the largest arms
manufacturing countries in the world and they let a club undermine
their balance of payments by importing ammunition.
It took Polder less than two minutes to spring the plywood
panel back into place and ease the cabinet back against the wall.
He hadn't liked leaving the raid until so soon before he expected
the trial to take place but there had been no choice. The
club met twice a month; timing the robbery for tonight meant
that the theft wouldn't be discovered for another two weeks. By
which time he and the three conspirators against the life of the
Ugandan trade minister would be many thousands of miles away
in Cuba.
Part Three
SURFACE TENSION
"Murder, Members of the Jury," said Ralph Anders in his opening
address on the Tuesday morning, "is when a person or persons,
with malice aforethought kills another person -- that person
dying within a year and a day of the offence being committed."
He turned his cadaverous head towards the dock and gestured to
the two prisoners. "You will hear how the accused: Rosemary
Richards and her lover -- Colin Reginald Freeman, devised and
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executed an ingenious method of killing Sven Richards -- the
husband of Rosemary Richards ..."
Anders' monotonous voice droned on, detailing the circumstances
of the alleged crime. It was only 10:45 but Martin had to
suppress a yawn. He had lain awake all night worrying about
Carrie. An early phone call to the hospital had not been helpful.
Carrie was still under sedation, they said and could say no more.
"Please don't worry, Mr. Janssen. You'll be able to see her
between one-thirty and two."
Anders' soporific voice rolled on: "Cunningly sought to conceal
their evil intention . .. Confident that the time he spent shut
in the steel coffin would ensure his death . . ."
Virginia was sitting beside Martin. She had completely ignored
him. Martin cursed his spiteful tongue. How many times
had he used it to deliberately hurt Carrie?
He searched in his pocket for a piece of paper and a pencil.
Taking great care not to be noticed, he wrote on the back of a
final demand and passed it to Virginia: "Sorry I was such an
oaf. Can I finish doing you this evening?"
Virginia glanced down at the message and gave a barely perceptible
smile and nod. Martin relaxed to concentrate on the proceedings.
Rosemary Richards sat tensely in the dock with her eyes
fixed on Anders, following every word. Every now and then she
mouthed the words: "It's not true." Martin couldn't lip read, but
it was clear from her whole demeanour what she was saying.
The woman police constable whispered something to her -- probably
telling her to be quiet. Her fellow prisoner and alleged
lover, Colin Freeman, lounged in the dock and stared at the
back of Golding's wig.
Martin didn't consider Rosemary Richards particularly attractive.
If he was Colin Freeman, he would've looked round for
something better. Were they lovers? Had they plotted the murder
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