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legs and goes into a connecting room.
    He sits himself on a chair. “Now, how can I help you, Ms. Galley?”
    He’s remembered my name first time around. “Mr. Albin, I’m advising Mr. Richard Thomas Ellaway on charges of assault and murder. According—”
    “Murder?” He interrupts as if I’ve hit him. The shock sounds genuine, though a bit theatrical in his modulated voice.
    “The murder of John Marcos. You may or may not know that Mr. Ellaway has already confessed to assaulting John Marcos last moon night. And yesterday, he was murdered.” Albin rubs his hand across his mouth. “Now, according to Mr. Ellaway, you spoke to him on the telephone at about nine p.m. yesterday. Can you verify that?”
    In the silence that follows, I can hear the ivy on the façade tapping on the window.
    “Jesus.” Albin puts his head in his hands. “Jesus.” It comes out like a sigh.
    I frown at him. “Are you a close friend of Mr. Ellaway, would you say?”
    He looks up at me, pale. “No.”
    “Can you verify that he called you?”
    “Yes. Yes, he did.”
    Sarah comes in with a tray. There’s a coffeepot, three cups, milk in one jug and cream in another. She serves me, and brings the tray over to Albin and pours his coffee black as I sip my own. Toasted velvet fills my mouth.
    He takes her hand. “Sarah,” he says. “This lady’s got some bad news. You remember Dick Ellaway? It seems he’s been accused of murder.”
    Her eyes grow big in her face. Albin looks at me to explain myself, but I want to see how he’s going to say it. She sits down and rests her head on the back of the sofa, and he gives her her hand back. “Dick Ellaway attacked a man, you remember? And it seems someone shot the man yesterday, and he’s been accused. Ms. Galley’s advising him.”
    Skillful. Very skillful. Or else innocent. There’s nothing in what he’s said that tells me anything about Ellaway, their relationship, or how much he knows. Sarah’s breath hisses out through her teeth, and she wraps her arms around a cushion. “I remember Dick Ellaway,” she says.
    First things first. “Mr. Ellaway says that he called you on a cell phone. Do you remember hearing any noise in the background?”
    Albin rubs his face; his hand doesn’t linger on the scar. “Voices, I think, slightly tinny. It sounded like he had the television on.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Not that I remember offhand. I wasn’t really paying attention to the background noise.”
    “But it sounded like he was inside?”
    “Yes.”
    “How was the line? Clear? Interrupted?”
    “It was clear. No break-ups.”
    “And what time was this?”
    “Nine or nine thirty, I’d say.”
    I don’t feel good about this. What Albin says will probably stand up in court. I doubt Albin and Ellaway are in league: there’s a sobriety about Albin that’s as different from Ellaway as I can imagine, and I can’t see them getting along well under pressure. My client is saved. So like I say, I don’t feel great.
    “How do you know Mr. Ellaway?”
    Albin rubs the back of his hand against his chin. “We met at a party a couple of months ago. Met for drinks a few more times since. I deal in antique furniture; he was interested in buying some pieces.”
    “And did he?”
    “I sold him an old coffee table—would you like to see the invoice? I can send it to you. Nothing more. He wasn’t really an antiques enthusiast.” His voice is neutral, giving away little of how he feels about this: he’s just telling me.
    “I would like to see it, thank you. What did you talk about when he called you?”
    Albin frowns and taps his foot for a moment. He looks over at Sarah, who’s leaning back against the sofa, then turns his head toward me. “Is that relevant to your case?”
    “If your account and his tally, it would help confirm his alibi.”
    “I see. But there’s no law that says I have to tell you, is there?”
    “Not at this time, no, Mr. Albin. But it would be doing everyone a