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‘Ah, Special Agent Thornton,’ the man said affably, ‘please take the elevator on the right and go up to the second floor.’

The elevator had mirrored walls and Amanda checked her appearance carefully while it made its ascent. She had brushed a stray strand of dark-blond hair back into place and was straightening the knee-length skirt of her smart suit when the elevator doors flew open.

The upstairs decor was quite a contrast to the lower level. Plush carpet stretched along the corridor, paintings were mounted on the wall, and the doors appeared to have been made of mahogany. Amanda’s spirits soared as she went towards the door of her new employer. Perhaps, it wouldn’t be too bad posted there.

‘I’m Mrs Jackson, young lady,’ the woman said as Amanda entered the outer office. Assistant Director Prothero will only be a minute or two.

Mrs Ella Jackson looked sternly at Amanda as if to announce her disapproval that one as young as Amanda could work for the FBI. She seemed to be about to add something further when the intercom on her desk buzzed.

‘Mrs Jackson, is Special Agent Thornton here yet?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Jackson snapped as if to metaphorical attention.’

‘Good, then show her in,’ Prothero responded quickly.

Mrs Jackson shut off the intercom and then looked up at Amanda. ‘We’ll, don’t just stand there, young lady,’ she demanded. ‘Do as Assistant Director Prothero says and go in.’

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‘Hey, have you seen the pool?’ Debbie asked flying into the room.

Becky looked across at her friend. On the exterior, Debra Sinclair was the epitome of the dumb blonde. Her golden locks tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. Her body seemed all breasts and legs. And her face seemed to carry a permanent smile.

Anyone who knew Debbie, however, knew that the image could not have been further from the truth. Debbie, a graduate law student had worked her way up from the backwaters to the point when she was about to start an internship with one of Boston’s most traditional law firms. And that, she had achieved, entirely through brains and application.

Becky followed Debbie downstairs towards the back of the house. There, Amelia Lesalle, the final member of the trio, was waiting by the pool side.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked, proprietarily. ‘You must know by now that the Lesalles do nothing by half. And my uncle is no exception.’

Now it was Becky’s turn to smile. She had known Amy since they were freshmen and she had always wondered what had drawn them together. Becky was scholarly and from one of those professional backgrounds that carried with it disapproval both of the moneyed class and of the frivolity that often went with it. Becky’s mother was a surgeon and her father a distinguished academic. Her maternal grandfather had been an attorney and her mother’s sister followed him into the law. And her father’s father had been a clergyman. Amelia’s family was, in contrast, playboys and playgirls. Sometime in the past, the family had made millions and now every generation or so, one of his descendants followed suit just long enough to keep the rest of the family in the style to which it had become accustomed. Amelia’s father was one of these.

‘Well, what about a swim,’ Amy said, grinning.

‘I’d love to,’ Becky responded enthusiastically, ‘but I haven’t got a suit.’

‘Good grief,’ Amy said in the voice that Becky knew was about to tease her. ‘I haven’t got a suit either. You hardly need a one. Not here with just the three of us.’

‘No, but I’d rather,’ Becky said modestly.

‘Me too,’ Debbie added, leaving Becky unsure whether she meant it, or was bailing her friend out. ‘You should have said there was a pool. I’d have brought something.’

‘No problemo,’ Amy added. ‘Uncle Paul has a stack of the things, just in case.’ She went over to one of the cupboards. ‘Bound to be a bit brief. But should cover everything that matters.’

She reached in and pulled out a stack of suits.

‘Looks like your Uncle Paul is expecting a lot of female company,’ Debbie quipped at the size of the pile.

‘Any colour preference?’ Amy asked.

‘You mean they’re big enough to be coloured,’ Becky said smiling.

‘Just.’ Amy picked up the top suit and searched for a label in its bra piece. ‘Can’t remember your bra sizes,’ she said after a second.

Becky knew that she’d blushed. After all some things were private, even amongst friends. ‘Just throw the pile over here,’ she said, I’ll chose one.’

"Let me guess,’ Amy continued to tease. ‘You’re a thirty-four A, right?’ she said ignoring her friend’s previous suggestion.

‘I’m not,’ Becky said gruffly.

‘So what are you then, besides evasive.’

‘I’m a thirty-four C,’ Becky said after a second.

‘Oh, my,’ the lady doth blush,’ Amy said, rubbing it is. She discarded the first suit then looking at the bra label in the second, tossed it to Becky.

Becky caught the suit and held it up. As she expected, it was brief, very brief. But at least the bottom part had a front and a back.

‘And, you, blondy?’ Amy said in a Humphry Bogart voice.

‘Thirty-six C,’ Debbie replied.

Amy sorted through the suits until she found one. ‘I’m afraid it’s a thong,’ she said. ‘In fact all the rest are thongs. Looks like Ms Modesty over there got the jackpot in the butt-covering stakes.

‘It’ll have to do.’

‘Of course, you can go without if you wish.’

‘Fat chance, bet you that as soon as I got in that pool naked, your Uncle Paul will turn up with some of his mates.’

‘No, we’ve got the place for a fortnight. No interruptions. But I see what you mean. Strip off and there’d be a group of rock climbers outside that window.’ She looked through the pile. ‘Um,’ she said after a minute. I’m a thirty-four C, too,’ she said, selecting a suit, ‘and I’m going for polkadots.’

Becky wondered exactly how many polkadots you could get on a suit that size.

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‘How long do you think it will take to warm the pool water up?’ Debbie asked, her disappointment showing. She had rather wanted to take the swim.

‘Better give it till tomorrow,’ Amy advised. ‘I’m not sure exactly how well Paul’s heating system is.’

‘Okay, then,’ Amy continued. ‘How about a game of tennis?’

‘Looks cold out there,’ Becky said grimly, ‘after all, it is winter.’

‘Late autumn,’ Amy corrected. ‘Anyway, we’ve played later in the year than this, and I noticed that Paul left the net up.’

‘But there’s three of us,’ Debbie said, ‘why don’t two play, while I pop into the village and get some things. We’ll need some beer for tonight.’

Becky could tell by her expression that she wanted to play. So did she really. ‘No, you play. I’ll go.

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She had just reached page eight hundred when the telephone rang.

‘Special Agent Amanda Thornton?’ a woman’s voice asked.

‘Yes, it’s she,’ Amanda answered with grammatical correctness.

‘I t-think, I’m being watched,’ the voice stammered. ‘Can we meet soon. I have to get rid of this disk. I’m scared.’

‘Where are you?’ Amanda asked, as supportively as she could.

The woman appeared to ignore the timbre of sympathy in her voice. ‘M-m-meet me in half an hour at the quay, she muttered nervously.’

‘Wait, Dr. Lampton,’ Amanda continued but was cut off before she could suggest a better meeting place.

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‘I’m off then,’ Becky announced, as both women stopped to wave. ‘I’ll walk. So, it should take me about an hour and a half there and back.

She turned and made her way out to the hills. She knew that she should have taken the station wagon, which was currently parked in the drive way next to Amy’s red sports car. But she fancied the fresh air. After the aborted swim, she had decided to shower, and she now wore jeans, a T-shirt and a heavy jumper over clean white underwear and under the leather jacket she had bought that summer. On her feet were socks and walking boots.

It took her less time than she had expected to find the village. But then, it was down hill. So she made a mental note to telephone the house and ask Debbie to meet her.

The village was nothing if not picturesque. Becky decided to look around first and pick up the beer second. After all, there was no point in carrying it around. And the best place to start looking was the quayside.

As she approached the quay, she noticed that it was deserted other than a single woman standing looking out over the ocean. That woman appeared to be a couple of years older than her own twenty-three and was strikingly pretty. Dark-blond hair swirled around her shoulders and her long frame seemed mostly to consist of a pair of long legs. These were currently sheathed in a pair of expensive slacks, worn with ankle boots and a suit jacket. Beneath the jacket was a high-necked, woollen sweater.

‘Dr. Lampton?’ the woman asked, as Becky drew nearer. ‘I was beginning to give you up.’

Neither woman had noticed the two men sitting in the car just out of a direct line of vision.

‘Why don’t we snatch them both,’ the first man said.

‘No need,’ the second man said. ‘There’s nothing on the disk of any use. We’ll just take the good doctor. We can leave the FBI for now.’