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Commission flats that don’t clash with the original feel of the place. Rehabilitation only goes so far; there are still winos in the park which the concrete railway bridge keeps constantly in half-shadow.
    Hilary Fanshawe’s office was in a narrow terrace house. The door was barely a metre from the street; there was no knocker or bell but a polished hunting horn was mounted on the wall beside the number. I pressed a button on the horn and heard a trumpeting blare inside. It was the sort of sound you didn’t want to hear more than once. The door gave a click and a pleasant voice came through the horn.
    â€˜It’s open. Second on the left.’
    I went into a narrow passage; five long strides would have taken me to the stairs, three took me to the second door which was open. The woman who sat at the desk facing the door was huge. She wore a black T-shirt; her jowls and chins settled down near its neckband. All this flesh was pale; she had green eyes and dark auburn hair.
    â€˜Yes?’ It was the same voice I’d heard through the horn but sweeter and more musical. The Garbo of voices. I felt like looking around for the speaker but the fat woman’s mouth was moving. ‘What can I do for you?’
    â€˜Are you Hilary Fanshawe?’
    She nodded. I wanted her to speak again to hear that sound.
    â€˜My name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective. I’m trying to get in touch with a client of yours.’
    I held up my licence and ID photo. She waved me to a chair in the small room. There were photographs everywhere photographs could be put, also magazines and film posters. ‘Bail?’ she said. ‘Maintenance? Loan default? I assume you’re some kind of process server?’
    â€˜No. That’s not much in my line. Do a lot of your clients have that kind of trouble?’
    â€˜Enough. I don’t suppose it’s something good then—an inheritance? I could use a client with some bread. I need investors.’
    â€˜Don’t we all. No, Miss Fanshawe, I don’t deal in good news much either. He came to see me and then matters became rather confused. I want to see him again to straighten things out.’
    â€˜Someone should straighten your nose out. How many times has it been broken? If you were on my books I’d list it. Can you act?’
    â€˜No. Can Gareth Greenway?’
    The name hit her pretty hard. She dropped the pencil she’d been fooling with and lifted herhead so that some of the loose flesh around her neck tightened. ‘Who?’
    â€˜You heard. Gareth Greenway, one of your clients.’
    â€˜The one that got away.’
    â€˜What?’
    She sighed and the flesh slackened again. ‘He could’ve made it, I always thought. He was really good. He lifted a couple of the things he was in from shit to hopeless.’ She smiled; her teeth were as beautiful as her voice. ‘That’s a joke, Mr . . .?’
    â€˜Hardy, Cliff Hardy.’ I think I gave my full name because I wanted to hear her say it.
    â€˜You’re supposed to laugh, Cliff. God, it’s a double joke really.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, you’re going to have to explain it to me.’
    She shrugged. ‘He was good, as I say. With a bit of luck and persistence he could’ve got good parts, made a success. I’d have been pleased for him and pleased for me.’
    â€˜But he gave up acting?’
    â€˜Threw it in.’ She smiled and showed those excellent teeth again. There was a chuckle with the smile this time. ‘So that joke was on me. I hardly made a cent from him. The second joke’s sort of on you.’
    â€˜How’s that?’
    â€˜Gareth gave up acting to be a private detective.’

7
    S HE really laughed then. The flesh on her upper body shook and quivered and tears ran from her large, green eyes. ‘I’m s . . . sorry,’ she said. ‘It just struck me as funny. God,