thought she heard, 'You filthy bitch, I'll. . .' As she walked down the passage to the Northern line, Hannah couldn't find a litter bin in which to dispose of Marvin's grubby clothing. They had all been removed some time before after a sudden outbreak of IRA bombs in the London Underground. She had to carry the jeans and pants all the way to Chalk Farm, where she finally deposited them in a skip on the corner of Adelaide Road, then strolled quietly back home. As she opened the front door, a cheery voice called from the kitchen, 'Lunch is on the table, my dear.' Mrs Rubin walked through to join Hannah and declared, 'I've had the most fascinating morning. You wouldn't believe what happened to me at Sainsbury's.' 'What will it be, honey?' asked a waitress who wore a red skirt and a black apron and held a pad in her hand. 'Just black coffee, please,' said T. Hamilton McKenzie. 'Coming right up,' she said cheerfully. He was about to check the time when he was reminded once again that his watch was on the wrist of a young man who was now probably miles away. McKenzie looked up at the clock above the counter. Eight fifty-six. He began to check everyone as they came through the door. A tall, well-dressed man was the first to walk in, and as he scanned the room McKenzie became quite hopeful and willed him to look in his direction. But the man walked towards the counter and took a seat on a stool, with his back to the restaurant. The waitress returned and poured the nervous doctor a steaming black coffee. Next to enter the room was a young woman, carrying a shopping bag with a long rope handle. She was followed a moment later by another smartly-dressed man who also searched the room with his eyes. Once again, T. Hamilton McKenzie's hopes were raised, only to be dashed when a smile of recognition flickered across the man's face. He too headed for the counter and took the stool next to the man who had come in a few moments earlier. The girl with the shopping bag slipped into the place opposite him. 'That seat's taken,' said T. Hamilton McKenzie, his voice rising with every word. 'I know, Dr McKenzie,' said the girl. 'It's been taken by me.' T. Hamilton McKenzie began to perspire. 'Coffee, honey?' asked the waitress who appeared by their side. 'Yes, black,' was all she said, not glancing up. McKenzie looked at the young woman more carefully. She must have been around thirty - still at an age when she didn't require his professional services. From her accent, she was undoubtedly a native of New York, though with her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin her family must surely have emigrated from southern Europe. She was slight, almost frail, and her neatly-patterned Laura Ashley dress of autumn browns, which could have been purchased in any one of a thousand stores across the country, made certain she would be forgettable in any crowd. She didn't touch the coffee that was placed in front of her. McKenzie decided to go on the attack. 'I want to know how Sally is.' 'She's fine, just fine,' said the woman calmly. She reached down and with a gloved hand removed a single sheet of paper from her bag. She passed it over to him. He unfolded the anonymous-looking sheet: It was her writing, no question of that, but she would never have signed herself 'Sal'. The coded message only made him more anxious. The woman leaned across and snatched the letter back. 'You bastards. You won't get away with it,' he said, staring across at her. 'Calm down, Dr McKenzie. No amount of threats or rhetoric is going to influence us. It's not the first time we've carried out this sort of operation. So, if you hope to see your daughter again. ..' 'What do you expect me to do?' The waitress returned to the table with a fresh pot of coffee, but when she saw that neither party had taken a sip she said, 'Coffee's getting cold, folks,' and moved on. 'I've only got about $200,000 to my name. You must have made some mistake.' 'It's not your money we're after, Dr McKenzie.' 'Then
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