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hour’s time. I can see him whenever he wants to come after that. I’ll be here probably for the rest of the day.’
    â€˜Actually,’ said Cara, screwing up her face so that it was no longer at all pretty, ‘I think he expects you to go to him.’
    â€˜Tough,’ said Willow robustly.
    For some time she had been waging war on any bullies she encountered in any area of her life, and she was beginning to think that Scoffer might be one of the worst. She retreated into her own office, beckoning. Cara followed, looking nervous. Willow shut the door and said quietly: ‘You owe it to yourself to stand up to anyone who tries to tyrannise over you. Even if they are senior to you, you mustn’t let them do it.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ said Cara at once, hanging her head.
    â€˜No, you’re not. You’re just trying to stop me criticising you by agreeing-with me, but I’m not criticising you: I’m only giving you a bit of friendly advice. If you give in to bullies or apologise in the hope that they’ll stop tormenting you, they just get worse. Now, nip along and tell Mr Scoffer to come here after two. He can’t kill you, and words may be horrible, but they don’t actually do you any harm unless you let them. Okay?’
    â€˜All right,’ said Cara, backing towards the door and looking even more scared.
    As soon as Cara had gone, shutting the door behind her, Willow decided that she had had enough of tax inspectors for the moment. She wanted to find out something about the real Fiona Fydgett rather than the confusing paper version of the files and rang the number that the minister had given her for the dead woman’s sister.
    â€˜Five Plough Court,’ said a heavy male voice.
    â€˜Oh,’ said Willow, feeling stumped. ‘Urn, I was trying to get in touch with Ms Serena Fydgett. Have I got the wrong number?’
    â€˜No. I’ll put you through.’
    A moment later Willow was speaking to Fiona’s next of kin.
    â€˜And so,’ she finished her explanation of who she was and what she was doing, ‘I wondered if I could come and talk to you about it all.’
    â€˜Yes, all right,’ said Ms Fydgett, sounding both less surprised and more co-operative than Willow had expected. ‘I’ve got a string of conferences this afternoon, and I’m in court tomorrow, but I could see you here in chambers afterwards, say at five, if that’s any good to you.’
    â€˜That’s fine,’ said Willow, at last realising what Five Plough Court must be.
    She could not think why the minister had not told her that Serena Fydgett was a barrister. He seemed to have been remarkably economical with useful details about the people she was likely to encounter during her investigation. A charitable interpretation of that could be that he had not wanted to influence any of her judgments, but there were other, rather more sinister, possibilities. They made her uneasy.
    â€˜I’ll see you then,’ she said, betraying none of her thoughts. ‘Five Plough Court. Is that in the Temple?’
    â€˜That’s right. I’ll expect you at five. Goodbye.’
    Willow put down the telephone, collected her handbag and left the building. She was not at all hungry, but she was restless and thought that some fresh air would probably help.
    It was not until she was striding up the Vauxhall Bridge Road towards Victoria that she realised what she really wanted was to go to Tom’s office in Kingston and persuade him to have lunch with her. She had an extraordinarily strong impulse to talk to him.
    Smiling at her own absurdity, she dismissed the idea. Both of them had always managed to give the other space and time in which to work undistracted, even in the days before they had decided to marry. She consoled herself with the thought of a late dinner together when she would tell him about her day and hear about his.

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