"Danny – "

For a few seconds, Brett felt completely lost. His gaze travelled round the apartment, so familiar and comforting, and yet so utterly incomprehensible. How could he possibly be here, when only a moment ago...

"Are you all right?"

The fog in his mind began to lift, as his eyes focused on the speaker. "My apologies, Inspector. I must have been dreaming." His brow contracted as he tried to piece together the fragments of whatever had just played out in his unconsciousness, but before he could make sense of them, they had already melted away.

"You were quite restless the last ten minutes or so," observed Foley. She was sitting by the desk, an open book lying in front of her. "I was just about to wake you, but I thought…"

"You thought I might remember something."

She closed the book and pushed it aside. "Did you?"

"No." He felt a curious sense of failure at having to admit it, especially to someone who, as far as he knew, he'd only met a few hours earlier. "How long was I asleep?"

"Quite a while. The doctor said we should let you sleep. Do you feel better?"

"I don't feel worse." He brushed his hand over his face, in an attempt to clear away the mists. "Where's Daniel?"

"He had to attend to something. He should be back shortly."

Looking around the apartment again, Brett's attention landed on Kelly, slouched in one of the armchairs with his eyes closed, his mouth open, and a newspaper on the floor at his feet, displaying a masthead which, under normal circumstances, would never have been allowed on the premises.

"Yes, I know. He doesn't read The Times," said Foley.

Brett sighed. "At least it's not The Guardian." He realised at once, from the quizzical look she gave him, that he'd probably just cast an aspersion on her own preferred news source, and that she was amused about it. Well, it wasn't his fault she knew him better than he knew her.

"You still sound a bit muzzy," she observed. "Why don't you go and freshen up?"

It irked him to be spoken to as though he were a guest in his own home, but he restrained himself, remembering what he'd said to Daniel about the watchmaker, and how mortified he'd felt when he heard the man was dead. There was still too much he didn't know about his missing days, and the extent to which Foley had settled in during his absence. So he curbed his impatience, and took himself off to the bathroom.

On his way back he noticed the guest room door standing open. He went in and stood looking at the tallboy, then opened the second drawer from the bottom and ran his fingers through the contents.

Becoming aware of Foley's presence in the doorway, he gave a soft, self-conscious laugh. "There's nothing in there but socks. Just for a moment, I thought... but you would have gone through them, of course."

"Not personally, no," she replied. "I was with Dann – Mr Wilde, following up a lead. DCI Greenwood was in charge of the search."

Brett sat on the edge of the bed. He had a pair of socks in his hands, which he straightened meticulously and folded with mathematical precision. "Your officers certainly appear to have turned the place over most efficiently," he remarked, somewhat acidly, "although it's a pity they didn't bother to put everything back as they'd found it."

"Well, to be fair, they did have more pressing matters on their minds at the time," Foley pointed out. "You know, like wondering whether you would still be alive by the time they finished."

He retrieved more socks and repeated the folding process. She watched him for half a minute or so. "Do you always keep your socks in your spare room?" she asked at last.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Where should I keep them?"

She shrugged. "It's not my place to say."

A third pair of socks joined the others on the bed beside him. "I suppose DCI Greenwood is very thorough," he observed. "All the same, he didn't find anything."

"No, he didn't."

Brett gave her a sideways glance. "Why don't we look again? I don't mean any disrespect to your colleagues, but they might have missed something."

She shot a suspicious look at him, which he parried with a bland smile. "All right," she said. "Where would you like to start?"

He paused, as though searching his memory. "I have a feeling the wardrobe would be a good place to begin. We should take everything out and look in all of the pockets before we put it all back. And if we have no luck there, we can start on the bookshelves."

Foley stood up. "Fine. I'll go and wake Andy. But if I find out this is just an excuse to get us to rearrange all your things, your Lordship, you and I will be having words."

"My dear Inspector Foley," Brett responded airily, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Danny arrived back in London much later than he'd planned, although not as late as he'd feared.

He'd had one stroke of luck, which had probably saved him a lot of time. He knew how to get where they were going by road, but had no idea about the railway. Fortunately, it turned out Ricky knew all about it.

"We have to take the south-western line, from Waterloo," he said, as he studied the network map on the wall. They'd changed lines three times since losing Flynn, and as Danny was confident they were no longer being actively hunted, they had left the train to work out their next move.

Danny might be feeling more charitable towards his companion, but he still didn't have a high opinion of Ricky's common sense. "From Waterloo, huh? You sure about that?"

Ricky went red. "The train to Salisbury stops there. I go there sometimes for the racing."

"Right. For the racing. Okay, let's get one thing straight. You set foot on a racecourse any time soon, and you won't have to worry any more about what Ronnie's gonna do to you. Got that?" Danny turned back to the map. "All right. How do we get to Waterloo?"

Even though they'd gotten rid of their unwanted company, he didn't dare let his guard down until he'd gotten Ricky safely on board their train. It took longer than he would have liked. By the time they'd made it to Waterloo, bought their tickets and waited almost an hour for departure, the afternoon was half gone, and Danny had started to wonder if he'd make it back to town in time for supper. With this in mind, he picked up a couple of sandwiches from a kiosk at the station. He didn't like the look of them, but they were better than nothing.

He hoped Ricky would fall asleep on the journey, but he soon realised that wasn't going to happen. Ricky just stared out of the window, and whatever he was thinking, he didn't seem happy about it.

"You want a sandwich?" asked Danny. "Ham and tomato, I think. Well, some kind of meat, anyway."

Ricky shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"You should be." Danny peeled off the upper slice of bread, examined what was underneath, and grimaced. "I shouldn't have looked," he muttered. But he ate it anyway.

Surreptitiously, while leafing through a magazine which he'd found on the seat, he kept an eye on Ricky. "How's your ankle?" he asked after a while.

"It doesn't hurt much if I don't move."

"Yeah, we probably should have done something when you first sprained it. Once we get where we're going, you'll be able to rest up till it's better, but it might take a while." Danny tossed the magazine aside. "Is there anyone you want me to get in touch with, let 'em know you're okay? Any family or anything like that?"

Ricky shifted in his seat. A little crease appeared between his eyebrows. "There was only my granddad. My dad died when I was a toddler. He got knocked down by a lorry while he was crossing the road outside Wembley Stadium after the cup final. He was a lifelong Albion fan, so like Granddad always said, at least he died happy. My mother married again and moved to Canada. We lost touch years ago."

"That must have been tough," murmured Danny.

Ricky shrugged. "Not really. You don't miss what you've never had, do you?"

"I guess not." Danny let the subject drop, and went back to the magazine until they reached their destination; a tiny station with a slightly run-down appearance, not improved by the big pots of geraniums set at intervals along the platform. He asked the station master for directions, then, to save Ricky from having to walk, he flagged down a passing Land Rover and hitched a ride.

He hadn't yet decided what he was going to tell the publican. Even as he entered the cosy, old-fashioned tap-room with Ricky leaning heavily on his shoulder, his ever-active imagination was devising yet another in a whole series of far-fetched explanations. But as soon as he laid eyes on the landlord, he discarded all of them.

"It's Mr Wilde, isn't it?" Gregory Ward's ruddy, good-natured face widened into a snag-toothed smile. "Well, fancy seeing you in here again. It must be a year or more since you and his Lordship come down to sort out them dodgy doings up at Greensleeves."

"Yeah, it's been a while," replied Danny. "This is Ricky Hill, he's a friend of – well, he's – Is there somewhere we can talk?"

Ward gave him a shrewd look, then turned to one of his customers: "Harry, watch the bar for me, and don't go giving out free drinks. This way, gentlemen."

He went ahead to open the door and stood back while Danny piloted Ricky through to the small private room beyond and deposited him onto an easy chair.

"Pint of cider, sir?" asked Ward.

"Uh – no." Danny sent a warning look at Ricky, who had perked up at the offer. "How about a small brandy for Ricky, and I'll have a gin and tonic. Don't touch the cider," he added in an undertone, as Ward bustled off back to the bar. "Trust me, you don't want it."

"I don't like brandy," said Ricky.

"Drink it anyway. It'll help you sleep, and you look like you need it. Another thing, Ricky," Danny glanced over his shoulder to make sure he couldn't be heard. "Keep your mouth shut, okay? Nobody round here needs to know the whole story. Got it? Now, let's have a look at your ankle."

He eased the shoe off Ricky's foot, and studied the damage. "It's swelled up a bit, but it ain't too bad."

"What, you're a doctor now, are you?" replied Ricky crossly. He looked pretty drowsy; he probably wouldn't need the brandy.

"You know," Danny went on, ignoring the interjection, "I once sprained my ankle, doing the shake in a club in Saint-Tropez. It was fine after a couple of days."

"Back when you were young, was it?"

"Here we are, sir."

The landlord's return cut off Danny's response, which was just as well. Danny took the two glasses with a murmur of thanks, and handed the brandy on to Ricky, who screwed up his face, tossed it down like a dose of medicine and then leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed.

Danny drew Ward aside. "Listen, Gregory. Brett's gone and gotten himself mixed up some trouble."

"Well, that's his Lordship for you," said Ward. "Always in a scrape, right from when he was a little 'un. The stories I could tell you...!"

"Yeah, I've got a few, too. The thing is, Ricky's caught up in it as well, and he needs to lie low until we get it straightened out. Can you put him up for a few days?"

"On the quiet? No problem there, sir. I've got a room to let, and nobody staying at the moment."

"I'll pay for the room – yes, I insist." Danny cut off Ward's protest at the first word. "And I ought to tell you, there's some real ugly customers after him, so if you don't want to get involved, I won't push it. I'm pretty sure they won't come here looking for him, but if they do – "

"If they do, I'll whisk him down into the tunnel." Ward finished with a chuckle. "Don't you worry, Mr Wilde. He'll be safe here."

Danny took a deep breath. The thought that this might have been a really dumb idea had weighed heavily on his spirits for the last couple of hours. Now, with those few words, he could feel the pressure lifting.

"Will you be staying the night too, sir?" Ward went on.

"No, I gotta get back to town." Danny looked at Ricky. "I better put him to bed first, before he dozes off. Where's his room?"

"Top of the stairs."

"Well, that should keep him from running round doing anything stupid for a couple of days."

"I heard that," said Ricky, opening one eye.

"You were meant to," replied Danny as he helped him to his feet.

He didn't stay long, once he'd seen Ricky settled in. The room Ward showed them to was small, with a rustic, vaguely outdated homeliness about it. The noise from the tap-room below just barely reached it. It felt safe, and as soon as he was there, Ricky began to relax. Seeing the tension ebbing away, Danny realised, for the first time since he'd found Ricky hiding in a wardrobe in Esk Road, just how wound up the young idiot had been.

"Think you can get some sleep now?" he asked gruffly.

"Yeah, I think," murmured Ricky. Then, as Danny turned to go, he added abruptly: "Thank you. And – and I'm really sorry."

"Yeah, I know, kid." Danny nodded, and left the room.

It took him several minutes to square things with Ward, who was determined not to accept any payment for his help. But he finally managed to get away, and headed back to the station on foot, just making it in time to catch the train back to London.

He slouched in his seat, gazing out of the window as the deepening twilight fell over the landscape. With Ricky off his hands, he could go back to analysing the idea which had come to him hours ago, just before he'd seen the cab following him. The long pursuit through the Underground had set him onto a new line of speculation, and once he put the two threads together, it all started to make sense.

As the train pulled into the terminus, he had a theory outlined. He'd have to wait till he got back to Brett's apartment to check whether it worked. But he was definitely on to something.

There was little chance of the gangsters having tracked him to Waterloo, but all the same, he left the station and walked a little way before hailing a cab to take him back to where he'd left his car. It only occurred to him later, while he was driving back from the other end of London, that it would have been much quicker to go straight to Brett's place, and pick up the Ferrari some other time.

Either I'm more tired than I thought, he told himself, or I've caught a dose of stupid from hanging round with Ricky all day.

Dusk had turned to night before he finally parked in front of the apartment building. The two cops were still on duty outside the building. Danny gave them a friendly nod, and went in.

Foley must have been watching out for him, because she opened the door before he got there. "What on earth took you so long?" she demanded.

"Were you worried?"

"What do you think?" she snapped back. "You said you'd be a couple of hours. Where did you take him, the Outer Hebrides?"

He pushed past her. "We ran into some trouble on the way. How's Brett?"

"Oh, he's been on fine form." Foley's eyes gleamed, greener than ever. "He had us reorganising every cabinet in the place, on the pretext of thinking that he might, perhaps, just possibly, have hidden the watch there. Of course, we didn't find a thing. Now he's gone off again."

She waved towards the sofa on the far side of the room. Sure enough, there was Brett, fast asleep.

"In that case, keep your voice down. I got an idea, but I'm pretty sure it'll only work if he doesn't wake up too quick." Danny moved towards the middle of the apartment. "Remember this morning, when Brett was almost out of it, and I told him I was going out? He said it was too early."

Foley pursed her lips in thought. "Yes, I remember. He said something about Ricky not being awake yet."

"He wasn't talking about Ricky. We never got round to telling him that part of the story. I don't think he even knows who Ricky is." Danny leaned on the back of the nearest chair. "It's just a guess, but I think he was talking about something that happened on Monday, just before Flynn broke in here the first time. I told him I had to go and phone my project manager in New York, and that's exactly what Brett said then. It's too early."

"It's not much to go on." Her eyebrows drew in as she considered. "But there's something else you might like to know. Is there anything significant about the drawer in the guest room? The one he keeps his socks in?"

"Why?"

"Because when he first woke up this afternoon, he went and looked in there, and he seemed rather at a loss when he didn't find anything."

"He hid the watch in there, for a while." Danny's jaw set. "I'm gonna try something. If it works, we'll know for sure."

Quietly, he walked over to the sofa, and drew the coffee table nearer so he could sit close enough for Brett to hear him. "Hey, Brett," he said, very softly, "I got a question for you. Don't wake up."

At first Brett didn't respond, but then he stirred, and murmured in his sleep.

"No, don't wake up," said Danny again. "Just tell me something. You remember that little village I told you about? The one where they have the fancy dress boat race? What's that place called?"

There was an incoherent mumble from his Lordship.

"Sorry, Brett, I didn't hear you. Can you say it again?" Danny leaned forward, straining his ears. Foley had crept forward till she was right behind him.

"Little Worthy..."

"How d'you know that?"

Brett's eyes opened, as the increased sharpness in Danny's voice got through. For a few seconds he stared at Danny in startled confusion. "I don't..."

"Yeah, you do." Danny straightened up. "I told you all about it on Monday morning. You'd never heard of it before then. Now, you don't remember anything that happened on Monday. But you know about Little Worthy." Foley's fingers dug into his shoulder, but he didn't take his eyes off Brett's face.

"So..." Brett sat up slowly, as he began to understand what had just happened.

"So, I'll tell you what I think." Danny pointed towards Brett's forehead. "I think all the stuff you think you've forgotten is still in there, somewhere. We just have to figure out how to get to it."

He glanced up at Foley, saw from her expression that she'd already come to that conclusion, then turned back to Brett. "And I'll tell you something else. I've been going over this for the last couple of hours, and I'll bet anything you like that I'm right. Brett, they couldn't get you to talk before you lost your memory. Now, unless you get it back, they ain't never getting hold of the watch. And that's why they had to let you go."