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  Roy arranged the flowers in a vase. The two visitors were quiet, their movements studied and restrained. Ann piled the books on his bedside table—Ludlum, De Mille, Clavell.

  'What is it?' Dunlop asked.

  'We spent the night with Ava,' Roy said. 'We helped her to go out the way she wanted to. She did it with pills and gin and no fuss. We all had a good time.'

  'She said to say goodbye, Luke,' Ann muttered.

  Dunlop felt the tears coming. He closed his eyes and fought against it. Tears would have been the last thing Ava would have wanted. He tried to focus on images of her in full flight—drinking up, flicking ash, her swaying walk. Ava. 'She was something special,' he said thickly.

  Ann cleared her throat. 'Yes, she was.'

  Roy patted Dunlop's right shoulder. 'I've got to run now. 'Bye. I'll see you straights later.'

  He left the room and Ann gestured for Dunlop to move over. She perched on the side of the bed. 'It shouldn't have turned out like this.'

  'It could have been worse,' Dunlop said.