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  ‘Or mine, but when he spoke about transport. . .’

  ‘Sounds riveting.’

  ‘It was,’ said Grace, ignoring her sarcasm, ‘especially when he touched on the future of shipping, now that the British Overseas Airways Corporation is planning to start a regular air service from London to New York.’

  Emma was suddenly aware of why her sister had rung. ‘Any hope of getting a transcript of the lecture?’

  ‘You can do better than that. His next port of call is Bristol, so you can go along and hear him in person.’

  ‘Perhaps I could have a word with him after the lecture. There’s so much I’d like to ask him,’ said Emma.

  ‘Good idea, but if you do, be warned. Although he’s one of those rare men whose brain is bigger than his balls, he’s on his fourth wife, and there was no sign of her last night.’

  Emma laughed. ‘You’re so crude, sis, but thanks for the advice.’

  Harry took the train from Edinburgh to Manchester the following morning and, after addressing a small gathering in the city’s municipal library, agreed to take questions.

  The first was inevitably from a member of the press. They rarely announced themselves, and seemed to have little or no interest in his latest book. Today it was the turn of the Manchester Guardian.

  ‘How is Mrs Clifton?’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Harry replied cautiously.

  ‘Is it true you’re both living in the same house as Sir Giles Barrington?’

  ‘It’s quite a big house.’

  ‘Do you feel any resentment about the fact that Sir Giles got everything in his father’s will, and you got nothing?’

  ‘Certainly not. I got Emma, which is all I ever wanted.’

  That seemed to silence the journalist for a moment, allowing a member of the public the chance to jump in.

  ‘When will William Warwick get Chief Inspector Davenport’s job?’

  ‘Not in the next book,’ said Harry with a smile. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Is it true, Mr Clifton, that you’ve lost seven nannies in less than three years?’

  Manchester clearly had more than one newspaper.

  In the car on the way back to the station, Harry began to grumble about the press, although the Manchester rep pointed out that all the publicity didn’t seem to be harming his sales. But Harry knew that Emma was becoming concerned about the endless press attention, and the effect it might have on Sebastian once he started school.

  ‘Little boys can be so brutal,’ she’d reminded him.

  ‘Well, at least he won’t be thrashed for licking his porridge bowl,’ said Harry.

  Although Emma was a few minutes early, Mitchell was already seated in the alcove when she walked into the hotel lounge. He stood up the moment she joined him. The first thing she said, even before she sat down, was, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Clifton.’ Mitchell, not a man for small talk, sat back down and opened his note book. ‘It seems the local authority has placed Jessica Smith—’

  ‘Smith?’ said Emma. ‘Why not Piotrovska, or even Barrington?’

  ‘Too easy to trace, would be my bet, and I suspect the coroner insisted on anonymity following the inquest. The local authority,’ he continued, ‘sent a Miss J. Smith to a Dr Barnardo’s home in Bridgwater.’

  ‘Why Bridgwater?’

  ‘Probably the nearest home that had a vacancy at the time.’

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘As far as I can make out, yes. But I’ve recently discovered that Barnardo’s is planning to send several of their girls to homes in Australia.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘It’s part of Australia’s immigration policy to pay ten pounds to assist young people’s passage to their country, and they’re particularly keen on girls.’

  ‘I would have thought they’d be more interested in boys.’

  ‘It seems they’ve already got enough of them,’ said Mitchell, displaying a rare grin.

  ‘Then we’d better visit Bridgwater as soon as possible.’

  ‘Hold on, Mrs Clifton. If you appear too enthusiastic, they might put two and two together and work out why you’re so interested in Miss J. Smith, and decide you and Mr Clifton aren’t suitable foster parents.’

  ‘But what reason could they possibly have to deny us?’

  ‘Your name for a start. Not to mention that you and Mr Clifton weren’t married when your son was born.’

  ‘So what do you recommend?’ asked Emma quietly.

  ‘Make an application through the usual channels. Don’t appear to be in a rush, and make it look as if they are taking the decisions.’

  ‘But how do we know they won’t turn us down anyway?’

  ‘You’ll have to nudge them in the right direction, won’t you, Mrs Clifton.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘When you fill in the application form, you’re asked to put down any preferences you might have. It saves everyone a lot of time and trouble. So if you make it clear that you’re looking for a girl of around five or six, as you already have a son who’s a little older, it should help narrow the field.’

  ‘Any other suggestions?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mitchell. ‘Under religion, tick the box marked no preference.’

  ‘Why will that help?’

  ‘Because Miss Jessica Smith’s registration form states mother Jewish, father unknown.’

  3

  ‘HOW DID A LIMEY ever get the Silver Star?’ asked the immigration officer at Idlewild as he studied Harry’s entry visa.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Harry, thinking it might not be wise to tell him that the last time he’d set foot in New York he’d been arrested for murder.

  ‘Have a great time while you’re in the States.’ The officer shook Harry by the hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harry, trying not to look surprised as he passed through immigration and followed the signs to the baggage claim area. As he waited for his suitcase to appear, he once again checked his arrival instructions. He was to be met by Viking’s chief publicist, who would accompany him to his hotel and brief him on his schedule. Whenever he visited a city in Britain, he was always accompanied by the local sales rep, so he wasn’t quite sure what a publicist was.

  After retrieving his old school trunk, Harry made his way towards customs. An officer asked him to open the trunk, made a cursory check, then chalked a large cross on the side before ushering him through. Harry walked under a huge semi-circular sign that declared Welcome to New York, above a beaming photograph of the mayor, William O’Dwyer.

  Once he emerged into the arrivals hall, he was greeted by a row of uniformed chauffeurs holding up name cards. He searched for ‘Clifton’ and, when he spotted it, smiled at the driver and said, ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Mr Clifton. I’m Charlie.’ He grabbed Harry’s heavy trunk as if it was a briefcase. ‘And this is your publicist, Natalie.’

  Harry turned to see a young woman who had been referred to on his instructions simply as ‘N. Redwood’. She was almost as tall as him, with fashionably cut blonde hair, blue eyes, and teeth straighter and whiter than any he’d ever seen, except for on a billboard advertising toothpaste. If that wasn’t enough, her head rested on an hourglass figure. Harry had never come across anything like Natalie in post-war, ration-book Britain.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Redwood,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘And it’s good to meet you, Harry,’ she replied. ‘Do call me Natalie,’ she added as they followed Charlie out of the concourse. ‘I’m a huge fan. I just love William Warwick, and have no doubt your latest book is going to be another winner.’

  Once they reached the kerb, Charlie opened the rear door of the longest limousine Harry had ever seen. Harry stood aside to allow Natalie to get in first.

  ‘Oh, I do love the English,’ she said as he climbed in beside her, and the limo join