Ironically, it was the newspapers that shared the story with the public, with exclusives on both the front and society pages. With headlines suitably apologetic for the late printing, they informed their readers that earlier that morning, on a perfectly crisp March day, Sir Richard Carlisle, newspaper magnate and husband of the late Linnet Scott, was found dead in his office with a bullet hole in his temple.

They continued, with the front pages noting that his secretary, Miss Ruth King, had found the dead man seated behind his desk with yesterday's reports spread in front of him and a revolver in one limp hand; and the society pages noting that rumours abounded as to the truth of Carlisle's relationship with the aforementioned Miss King. Both supposed that the bulk of Carlisle's fortune, along with that of his late wife, the heiress Miss Scott, would pass to the couple's only son, Ralph. The Daily Star helpfully reminded its female readers that Ralph was, in fact, still a bachelor and momentarily, attention was diverted from the signing of the Treaty of Dunkirk. That none of the reports appeared particularly sympathetic to the dead man's plight was, to an extent, to be expected; Carlisle was not a likeable man and the overworked, unpaid young journalists on his newsroom floors were hopeful of a much overdue raise.

Inspector Bank of Scotland Yard was not a man prone to sympathy, either. The only remarkable thing about his appearance was the conspicuous absence of a moustache, one that he had felt prudent to remove with the outbreak of war and had not since felt inclined to re-grow. Nothing about his stature indicated happiness or good news but Parker, the butler who admitted the Inspector to the Carlisle house in Eaton Square at the socially unacceptable time of 8 o'clock, was too well trained to remark upon this.

"If you'll wait in the library, Inspector Bank, I will inform Master Carlisle of your arrival," he intoned as he led the Inspector into an airy room furnished with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases crammed with books that the elder Carlisle had never read and the younger Carlisle intended to. As was his manner, Inspector Bank said nothing and Parker, even at this time of odd happenings, could not be prevailed upon to do anything more energetic than walk down to the servants' parlour to fetch Ralph's valet, that the young man might be roused, dressed and brought downstairs.

It took twenty minutes for Ralph to appear, in which time the Inspector had noted the absence of family portraits and photographs in the library, determined that no more than a third of the books had ever been opened and decided that the servants were uncommonly nosy. The door opened silently and, were the Inspector a young woman prone to a young Gregory Peck kind of face, he would likely have found some magical qualities in Ralph Carlisle's bleary-eyed appearance. As he was not, he started forward and shook Ralph's outstretched hand.

"Good morning, Inspector," Ralph said through a thick-throat that spoke to the Inspector more of drink than tiredness, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" He settled himself on one of the chaises, gestured that his guest should follow suit and rummaged around in a cabinet drawer before lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.

Inspector Bank, marginally uncomfortable sitting in a dead man's library with his hung-over son, got straight to the point. "It is my unfortunate responsibility to have to tell you, sir, that your father is dead. The Yard has placed me in charge of the investigation into his death." His tone was matter of fact and Bank waited for the emotional outburst, the raging denial that usually accompanied such statements.

And he kept waiting, for Ralph continued dragging on his cigarette and looking at the Inspector like a curio in a museum. "Oh," he said at last, and his tone was one of nonchalance and cavalier acceptance. "How?" Each inhalation came a little more regularly and in the pause between his question and the Inspector's answer, Ralph called Parker for a glass of water, which he held with a quivering hand.

"He was shot, sir, in his office," the Inspector replied and could have sworn he saw Parker's ears prick at the answer before the butler left the room and was out of sight. Another drag of the cigarette then-

"Suicide?"

"Why would it be suicide, sir?"

Ralph refilled his water glass; a little slopped over the top and pooled on the polished mahogany surface. "Oh, you said 'shot'," he said and waved the hand holding his smouldering cigarette in an airy manner, "it just seemed the natural conclusion."

"I see," Inspector Bank replied slowly and, indeed, he began to. "Well, we cannot distinguish between murder and suicide at present but I am keen to keep the possibilities open."

Ralph leapt up suddenly and only the Inspector's quick hand kept the glass of water from toppling and shattering on the floor. The younger man stubbed his cigarette out, tried and failed to light another before using his body weight to open a stiff window. He stood with his face in the morning sun, his grey eyes closed and blond hair blown gently by the breeze. "Well, suicide seems plausible," he explained. "After all, my mother died, what, five years ago? I don't think he ever quite recovered from that. No, he probably did. Fairly quickly, I would hazard."

Inspector Bank sat quite still. He needed no notepad to jot down details or sergeant to accompany him; his dull exterior quite rightly indicated a dull personality but hid a memory retention that was second to none. "Have you an idea of who might have wanted to harm your father," he probed and Ralph's shoulder blades flexed.

No names, no pack drill.

"I doubt there's a shortage of people, Inspector," Ralph snorted, "you're probably aware that my father wasn't a likeable man and working in journalism doesn't lend itself to close acquaintances. Can't be sure what'll appear in tomorrow's edition, you see." He had, at last, managed to light another cigarette and his tone lightened with each exhalation.

"Were you close to your father?"

The laugh was derogatory and finally Ralph turned around to face Bank again. The nicotine had woken him up, made him relax; his face was softer and the smile on his lips was probably quite pleasing but was, in the circumstances, inappropriately genuine. "No. No, I wasn't. And before you ask, I should think that his money comes to me and I was out last night, didn't get in until early this morning. You rather woke me from a sobering sleep," Ralph joked but his gaze was shifty and cigarette trembled in thin fingers. Inspector Bank stood, his face impassive, and made for the door.

He stopped on the threshold and turned back to his host. "Army?"

"RAF," Ralph replied and all laughter disappeared, "Spitfires."

"I see," the Inspector replied and he did, more clearly than before. "Goodbye, sir." With that, he left, walking slowly down the street towards the police car at a measured pace, wearing an expression that betrayed none of his certainty that Ralph Carlisle was the man he was after. Means: undoubtedly. Motive: certainly. Opportunity: in all likelihood. A shame, really, when these war heroes fell so far from grace.

Ralph stood at the window for a little longer, the breeze cooling the sweat that trickled down the nape of his neck. Parker said something, he couldn't make out what, but he whirled around suddenly and told the butler that he would require the Daimler as quickly as possible.

He drove much too fast along the London roads, along country roads lined with hedgerows far removed from the pace of city life. He was as in control behind the wheel with a foot on the accelerator as he had been behind the controls of his plane, but the comfort he usually derived from driving had vanished and his palms were wet inside the leather driving gloves.

Damn. Damn. Damn it all.