A Woman Unknown Page 0,6

sneezed. He found his hanky and his Rowntree’s Pastilles. ‘The cigar smoke gets to me.’

Poor Fitz, with his weak chest.

She would miss Fitz if he died, his rasping breath, the smell of printer’s ink and solvents he brought home on his clothes, the snuff, the heavy tread of his feet on the stairs, the regular wage packet. Some morning she would wake to find that Fitz had died in his sleep. Why shouldn’t that happen? After all, you spent most of your childhood praying for a good death. Prayers might as well be answered sooner rather than later.

For herself, Deirdre had long ago giving up praying for a good death in favour of a more lively life.

Something made her look up to the box on her right, the royal box, in which King George and Queen Mary would sit in the unlikely event they came to Leeds Grand Theatre to enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan.

There were two couples in the box. The man who looked back at her, catching her glance but giving no sign of recognition, was the chap who had nabbed her in Marshalls, and nearly had her prosecuted over that bottle of perfume.

Sykes tried out his ventriloquist skills, whispering without moving his lips. ‘Don’t look now. Middle of the third row, Cyril and Deirdre Fitzpatrick.’

Fitzpatrick had told Sykes that he and his wife would be coming to the theatre to see The Pirates of Penzance. Since I was the one who would have the dubious pleasure of tailing Mrs Fitzpatrick, here was my opportunity to take a look at her. The conductor waved his baton. The orchestra struck up the overture. As the auditorium lights dimmed, I raised my opera glasses without enthusiasm and glanced at the top of Mrs Fitzpatrick’s head.

She was not my main reason for being at the theatre. There were four of us in the royal box: Sykes, his wife Rosie, me, and my former beau, Marcus Charles. Marcus had unexpectedly telephoned to say he would be in my neck of the woods and was I free this evening. Suggesting an outing for four meant that I did not have to be alone with Marcus. He is a chief inspector at Scotland Yard. We first met last year, both investigating the same cases. To say we became close is one way of putting it. We fell for each other, but on my part not deeply enough. I desperately hoped he had not come to renew his proposal of marriage. He possesses some good qualities, but can be pompous and secretive. That could perhaps be ironed out, but being married to a rising star of Scotland Yard would mean giving up on all that I most enjoy – sleuthing on my own behalf.

The rousing overture reached its conclusion, and the performance began. By the time the pirates sang the sherry-pouring song, I had all but forgotten my client in the third row. As the first act drew to a close, I gazed down at the Fitzpatricks. They were leaning towards each other, as if exchanging a word, not looking in the least like jealous husband and errant wife. I wished now that I had refused Mr Fitzpatrick’s request, and certainly felt no sense of urgency about following Mrs Fitzpatrick.

The applause for the first act was so loud that Sykes and Rosie had to make a dumb show of saying they were off to stretch their legs. A tactical move if ever there was one. Marcus and I were left alone, to pore over a box of chocolates and be a little awkward with each other.

Then of course we both spoke at once. I insisted he go first, feeling reasonably confident that he would not renew his proposal of marriage during the interval. All the same, my eyes must have narrowed.

He said, ‘It’s not what you think. I won’t raise that question again. I respect your answer, and I understand. But I’m glad we can be friends. I know that we can trust each other.’

A policeman, when he reaches Marcus’s rank, has spent a great deal of time working out how best to talk to people to achieve his required ends. What was he after?

‘You’re here on an investigation?’

Marcus smiled. He was solid and handsome when he smiled, the kind of man a woman could rely on – if he were ever there and not off sifting evidence, or laying a hand on a scoundrel’s shoulder.

‘Kate, you know I can’t say.’

‘And if we had married? If