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The governor absently stroked his beard, looking between the prisoner, the lawyer and my master. 'We will take time to consider the matter.' He stood up. There was a bustle of noise as the audience rose to its feet. The judges filed out towards a room at the back of the chapel. I wondered whether I was expected to follow them, but nobody looked in my direction, and I simply gathered up my notes and waited.

Gradually noise and laughter spread through the courtroom. Everyone seemed to speak to everyone else, as if it were market day. Everyone, that is, but Mr Rosen, who stood with his head bowed, just occasionally looking up and staring from left to right, wild-eyed, like a man who has lost his mind.

After the best part of an hour the judges filed in again. The prisoner seemed close to fainting. 'Abraham Rosen,' the governor said in a grim voice. A mouse could have been heard in the chapel. In my excited state, my hand shook as I wrote his words. The jangling of the chains around the apothecary resumed. 'Of all forms of killing, that of the poisoner is the most vile. It is insidious and unclean. It uses dark and unnatural forces. The perpetrator lives in the shadows and slinks back into them when he has done his work. We find you guilty of the murders of which you have been accused. But you are not only a murderer. You are also a traitor to the country which harboured you, and to the Queen under whose protection you have lived in England.'

At this point Mr Rosen gave a great cry. 'No! I did not do this! God is my witness! I am an innocent man!'

I knew this from the contents of Marmaduke's secret panel. And now the apothecary's distress was so great, and his protestations of innocence so obviously sincere, that surely the court would believe him too.

Ralph Lane let the uproar and the man's cries subside. And while the apothecary sobbed, he pronounced sentence without a hint of mercy in his voice. 'Sentence appropriate to high treason will be carried out this day. You will be hanged and taken down while still living. Your private parts will then be cut off. Your bowels will be removed while you still live, and you will be beheaded as you die. Captain Vaughan, see to it with despatch.'

CHAPTER 28

'Chuck Martin? Harry Blake here. I got your e-mail message. It was lucky I checked them. But how did you know where to reach me?'

The lawyer ignored my question. 'I'm glad you phoned, Mr Blake. Very glad.' He lowered his voice. 'Are you free to talk? I mean, are you out of hearing?'

I glanced out at the balcony. The wind and rain had eased during the course of the day, and now the only evidence that it had ever been was vapour rising from the occasional puddle. Dalton was taking a break from the decode and splashing around in the pool. He had the trim body and flat stomach that goes with hour-a-day workouts and that I could only envy. Zola was on a garden bench in the shade of a papyrus tree, wearing a yellow towel, dark glasses and a broad-brimmed straw hat. She was scribbling on a pad. Sheets of paper next to her were held down by a glass of pink fluid.

'What's the problem?'

'Can you get away from your companions this evening? Say for a couple of hours?'

'Ho hum. What's going on, Mr Martin?'

'I want you to meet some people.'

'I don't like the sound of this. What's going on?'

'Believe me, Mr Blake, it's in your best interests. Look, there's an open-air jam near Matilda's Corner tonight. Lots of people partying. Can you be there?'

'Maybe,' I said.

'It gets underway after dark. That's in an hour or so.'

'Just who are you representing, Mr Martin?'

'I see my client as Miss Tebbit. But she's little more than a child, Mr Blake, and I'm not sure she could handle the information I want to give you. It's in her interests as much as yours that we should meet.'

Dalton was out of the pool and drying himself. The sun, with its usual tropical speed, was already low on the horizon behind Kingston, surrounded by technicolour clouds.

I didn't like the situation, but on the other hand didn't see what else I could do. I grabbed wallet and car keys and headed for the Toyota. Zola looked up in surprise.

'Going into town,' I explained.

'What? But what about the cipher?'

I didn't bother to reply. I sensed Zola's eyes on me all the way to the car. The Toyota was under the shade of a papaya tree, big pink fruits threatening to squelch down on it, but the steering wheel was still painfully hot to touch. I took it gingerly down the mountain pass while the sun touched the sea in a blaze of red and yellow clouds, the fleeing remnants of the storm, and finally sank under it.

I made my way along the Old Hope Road to Matilda's Corner and parked the car in a side street. A deep, thumping rhythm was echoing off buildings. A stream of lively teenagers was heading for the source of the noise and I followed them. There was a park, lit up like a fairground. I joined a queue and paid three thousand Jamaican dollars to a fat man with an enormous knitted cap with red, gold, black and green stripes. He was smoking a large, hand-rolled joint. Then I was under an archway with DIS AND DAT in blue letters, and into the park along with at least a thousand others, nearly all of them younger than me and nearly all of them black-skinned. At least I stood out in the crowd.

I jostled my way to a jerk chicken stall and filled a paper plate with odds and ends. Coloured lightbulbs were strung between trees, swaying in the wind, and the air was light with ganja and spice, and Caribbean chatter and dancehall music of a sort coming from awesomely large speakers. Young men with guitars were leaping around on a brightly lit stage. I felt a hundred years old.

There was no sign of Chuck Martin. But would I ever see him in this melee?

A fantasy thought struck me: that Cassandra and her friends might be pulling the lawyer's strings. Short of a knife in the ribs, I didn't see what they could do in this crowd. It was a safe place to be. That, of course, would be just what they wanted: me to feel safe. Suddenly nervous, I decided to give it ten minutes and clear off. In any case, much longer than that and I would have permanent hearing damage. I finished my food and grabbed a rum punch from a bar counter: the entrance fee, it seemed, paid for the drinks. I started to ease my way back towards the exit.

'You wanna dance?' She was about twenty, dark-skinned, with a short yellow top which exposed her midriff and most of her bosom, and a short yellow skirt which exposed a lot of thigh.
Nice thighs,
I thought. She had a wide smile which exposed perfect white teeth. She wore a gold necklace and earrings, and white mules.

'Not really,' I said, loud enough to be heard over the music.

'I don't bite,' she smiled.

'And I don't dance.'

'You just have to move your feet.'

She took my hand. It was small and warm and I thought, what the hell. I put the rum punch down on a table as I passed and then we were mingling with the hot, densely packed dancers. There was a smell of rum and jerk, and sweat and ganja, and the night air was hot. Her dance was an uninhibited affair of undulating hips and pelvic contact. I tried to imitate her movements but couldn't get the rhythm. She said, 'Well it ain't Cool 'N' Deadly. I told you, you have to move your feet.'

'What's your name?'

'Helen. I think you don't like parties.'

Here it comes. The invitation to go someplace quiet. 'Got it in one, Helen.'

'We could go someplace quiet.' That smile.

'Tell you what. You find someone more sociable and I'll go home to bed.'

This time she laughed. 'You don't get rid of me so easy. Come on.'

She took me by the hand again and we made our way through the crowd. She was still dancing to the music, wriggling her bottom and swinging her shoulders rhythmically. The group came to some sort of climax and a DJ started to mouth some rubbish in half-English, half-patois, delivered with a horrible synthetic whine.

She'd be aiming to get me into some quiet, dark spot. The trick would be to see what was lying behind this pickup without going the way of Tebbit. I was sweating. Either she was just a girl after my wallet or she was leading me to someone. Or maybe she was just being friendly and the earth was flat after all. She led the way past the stalls and bars to the edge of the park. It was darker here. There was a high fence and an exit, and beyond it a road with a stream of cars, and beyond that a concrete wall and a row of dirty, shuttered, one-storey buildings. Alarm bells were ringing in my head.

She felt my hesitation, put her arm in mine. 'Don't be nervous. Come with me.' She wasn't smiling any more.

'What do you do for a living, Helen?'

'Not what you're thinking, Mister.'

We walked on to the street and she took me across the road, judging a gap in the heavy traffic, and along the street, still with her arm in mine. There was no conversation; the pretence of a casual pick-up was long gone. About fifty yards on, she glanced behind us and took me around a corner. Here the street was narrow and dark.

A man emerged from the shadows. Helen, if that was her name, would try to hold onto my arm when he attacked, to stop me running. My plan, for what it was worth, was to punch her unexpectedly on the nose and take off. I was a split second from doing so when I recognised Chuck Martin. He had company: two men, in their late thirties. The shorter of the two had a dark, Mediterranean complexion and pockmarked cheeks. The other was tall, stooped, slightly awkward, with spectacles. I couldn't see him as a physical threat.

Martin said, 'I'll leave you gentlemen to it.'

'Nice meeting you, Harry,' said the girl. Then she was into a big four-wheel-drive jeep. The lawyer climbed into the passenger seat and she waved as they drove off.

The tall man opened a wallet and showed a stamped Polaroid photograph of himself next to some writing which I couldn't read. He said, 'Inspector Wotherspoon, United Kingdom, Special Branch. And this is Inspector Menem of the Turkish National Police.'

Special Branch
?
Turkish Police?

Wotherspoon said, 'Sorry about the clandestine stuff, Mr Blake. We had to be sure you weren't being followed. A casual pick-up at a dance party and a trip to a quiet lane was the best we could think of at short notice.'

'This is bizarre.' In the circumstances, it seemed a lame comment.

'We've been following your progress with great interest, Mr Blake.'

'Are you telling me I've been under surveillance?'

Wotherspoon sidestepped the question. 'We're here to ask for your help.'

'How long have you people been watching me?'

'It's a long story.'

'This is something to do with Dalton, right?'

There was a quick exchange of glances. Menem asked, 'Was that a guess?'

I didn't reply. 'Can we find someplace air conditioned?'

Wotherspoon said, speaking to nobody in particular, 'So he's calling himself Dalton.'

'Naturally. It's his name.'

'Exactly what is your connection with this so-called Dalton?' Menem asked.

'If we've been under surveillance, surely you know?'

Menem waited until a man and a miniskirted woman had sauntered past. The man was counting a thick wad of Jamaican dollars. 'We'd appreciate it if you just answered the question.'

'And I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what this is about.'

'You seriously claim you don't know?' Menem's tone was becoming openly hostile.

'Goodbye.' I actually turned away, but Wotherspoon grabbed me by the arm. He attempted a soothing tone. 'I think maybe we're all getting a bit hot out here. Let's find that air-conditioned cafe and start again.'

We had to walk several blocks before we got away from the party noise. We ended up in a pool hall with a few busy tables. A bunch of youths were clustered noisily around an arcade game in a corner. A TV over the bar was showing a martial arts movie. We sat on stools and I asked for a milkshake; the policemen settled for coffees.

I took the initiative: 'Where do the Turkish Police come into the equation?'

Menem said, 'The position is that we ask the questions and you answer them.'

I was trying to control my temper. 'No, the position is that I'm a free citizen in a free country and you can go to hell.'

Wotherspoon sipped at his coffee. He made a face. 'You're right, Mr Blake. But we've come a long way, we're jet-lagged, and we'd greatly appreciate the answers to some questions. You have no idea how urgent this matter is.'

I wondered if this was the good-cop, bad-cop routine I'd seen in TV dramas but had always assumed was a creation of fiction writers.

Menem asked, 'How do you come to be associated with these people?'

I was still angry at being jerked around. But I told them, 'I've been commissioned by an old Lincolnshire family to investigate a manuscript. It has things in it that need specialised knowledge. Zola's a marine historian, and Dalton is an expert on religious relics. What we've learned so far has taken us out here.'

'You claim to have no prior connection with this Dalton?' Menem's voice was carrying the tone of authority that went with the job; he was definitely getting on my nerves. Maybe it was my fault: I have that anarchic streak that would have made me a disaster in any organisation requiring teamwork. Ask my old Army sergeant.

'Absolutely none.'
Special Branch. Turkish National police.
I voiced a thought which had been slowly crawling out of my subconscious for days. 'Are you people by any chance thinking terrorism?'

'Interesting you should say that,' Wotherspoon said. I waited for an answer. Instead he asked, 'Are you people looking for something?'

Menem shot him a look, as if he'd said too much.

'How did you know that?' Tasked.

'A lucky guess,' Wotherspoon said, stirring his coffee. He didn't expect me to believe him and didn't care.

Inspector Menem said, 'It happens that my country is at a crossroads between East and West, Europe and Asia. To the west, our neighbours and ancient enemies are the Greeks. To the east are Armenia and Iran, countries which hold Turkey responsible for past genocides. We have, unfortunately, a bloodsoaked history.'