Page 136 of Hang on St. Christopher

A few of the other parents nodded at me as I walked her into the playground, but of course, in that Scottish way, no one tried to engage me in conversation.

I went back to the empty house. I put on Radio 3 and tidied up.

The Scottish day: warm with a pink sky like crab apple blossoms, and a highland breeze bringing pine and hawthorne and all the Pictish consonants.

Radio 3 was in the middle of a Brahms marathon, so I switched to Atlantic 252, one of the pirate stations broadcasting from the Irish Sea. They were playing “These Days,” which was a nice little song only partly ruined by Nico’s weird tone-deaf singing.

I turned off the radio and sat in the quiet living room.

I picked up one of Beth’sWooden Boatmagazines and started flipping through it.

Beth had circled a listing for a River Nile tour that was taking place in October: “Join us for eleven incredible days exploring the Nile’s finest ancient maritime attractions with renowned Egyptologists Colleen and John Thompson. This century-old paddlewheeler remains a symbol of the golden age of river travel and carries her passengers in belle epoque luxury and comfort...”

Beth had underlined day four of the tour, which was a “visit to the boat yard servicing an active fleet of Aswan feluccas.”

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” Beth said. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Reading.”

“Whatcha reading?”

“Wooden Boatmagazine,” I said. “You’ve circled the Nile cruise thing.”

“Oh, my God, doesn’t it look incredible?”

“Well... could we afford it?” I asked, thinking of the grand I had just spent forging two Picassos for the Special Branch property room.

“I think so. I have a few shares that I’d like to get rid of.”

Beth, I knew, came from money. But how much money she had was not something I had pressed her about too deeply. We had a joint account, but she still had money in her building society and she had her shares. For all I knew, these shares could amount to a couple of hundred quid or fifty grand...

“Well, if we’ve got the money, would we all go?”

“Of course.”

“What is a felucca, anyway?”

“It’s a shallow-draft sailing boat with usually two lateen sails.”

I held the phone away from my head and thought about it. Maybe not a bad future, Beth leading me from ancient shipyard to ancient shipyard. Forget Ulster. Forget the war. Develop other interests. My obsession with O’Roarke was in danger of becoming Melvillean.

“Is that why you called?”

“Oh, no, I almost completely forgot. You got a call from a Bob Urquhart, from the Dumfries and Galloway police. They’ve confirmed your range time for ten this morning.”

“I’ll head over there now. Give me something to do,” I said.

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking, if you’re determined not to take up golf.”

“I am determined not to take up golf.”

“Okay, then. Must dash. Bye, sweetie.”

“Bye.”