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climbed out. One had a disconcertingly small nose, the other a mustache wider than his face. The doctor met them and gave them details about Graham while they pushed their caps back and gazed up at the building. "You called us, did you?" snub nose said.
        "No, I was on the bridge."
        Sandy squeezed Toby's arm and stood up, wobbling. "I called the ambulance."
        "You are…"
        "Sandy Allan. I worked with him. I was supposed to be visiting." Lowering her voice for Toby's sake, she said "I saw him fall."
        The mustached policeman lowered his gaze to her. "All this is double-glazed, isn't it?"
        "I believe so. Can we talk somewhere else?"
        "Is it open where he came from? We'll need to take a look." At the sound of an oncoming ambulance he muttered to his colleague "If that's for this, they'll have to wait for the photographer."
        After the evening chill, the heat of the building made Sandy uncomfortable. So did the swaying of the lift, and the smells of the policeman-sweat, talcum powder, pipe tobacco. A charred smell met her at Graham's door. She ran into the kitchen and switched off the oven. "You seem to know your way around," the policeman said.
        "I've been here a few times."
        She sat down on the wide couch, feeling as if her legs had been about to give way, while he leaned against the window that overlooked the river. "You said you worked together," he said.
        "At Metropolitan, the television station. I'm a film editor. I should let them know what happened. I don't mean for the news."
        She was talking too much, too haphazardly, and she wondered what that might imply to him. He had her dictate her name and address and phone number, then he moved to the bedroom door. In the projector beam he looked disconcertingly like an actor dressed as a policeman. "Were you in here?"
        "I was, yes. That's how I saw." Now she seemed unable to say enough. "He was on the other roof," she managed.
        He followed his deflating shadow to the window and gazed up. "What were you doing in here?"
        "Watching. What do you think?" At once she regretted snapping at him; if anyone was accusing her, it was herself-accusing her of being too slow to stop Graham. "I mean," she said wearily, "I was trying to call out to him not to do what he did."
        "Had you some reason to suspect that he would?"
        "Before I saw him up there? No." It was beginning to seem even more unreal. "What could have made him do it? I had a drink with him at lunchtime and he couldn't have been happier."
        "Happy enough to be reckless?"
        "He wasn't like that at all."
        He continued to question her until he appeared satisfied that she couldn't help further, which only made her more convinced that she had failed Graham. "Let's hope his son can shed some light," the policeman said.
        "Which son?"
        "Wasn't that his son with him down there?"
        "Toby?" Her keeping their secret might make him suspicious. "They lived together."
        "Ah." He stared toward the projection booth, where he had already noted the disarray. "What kind of films did you make together?"
        It was less the question or its implication than his innocent delivery of it that infuriated her, but losing her temper wouldn't help Toby. "We didn't. Graham was the film researcher at the station. He used to find lost films. He'd invited me tonight for a private viewing."
        "What sort of film would that be?"
        "An old horror film with Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi."
        "Is that all? Why, I'd let my daughters watch that." He sounded relieved on Sandy's behalf. "So the two of you were purely professionally involved."
        "No, we were good friends."
        "I'm sorry if this is painful for you," he said in the tone of a rebuke. "And where was his young friend while all this happened?"
        She cleared Toby as best she could, while the