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his foot then rotating the ankle the way the physio at the hospital had shown him. The woman had her back to the pool. She was lying full length on a padded bench, her hands behind her head. Her feet were hooked beneath a bar and she was doing a series of stomach curls, sets of ten. She had a long, supple body, and nicely shaped legs, and theway she performed the exercises – easy, fluent – suggested someone in their physical prime.
    Barnaby watched her a little longer, wanting her to turn round. She was wearing a pair of headphones and the little Sony Walkman was clipped to a heavy leather belt around her black leotard. Now and again her hand would drop to adjust the volume, and the way she did it – deft, positive, self-confident – aroused Barnaby’s curiosity. Who was she? Where did she come from? What kind of life did she lead?
    He lay back in the water, kicking for the deep end, feeling the muscle tighten in his bad leg. Inventing answers to questions like these was the best relaxation after a hectic week in the law courts, and he closed his eyes, letting his fantasies off the leash. She’d be a stranger in the city, someone down for the weekend, staying in the hotel. She’d be in her late twenties, maybe younger. She’d have a career, something glamorous. She’d be in fashion, or the media, or high finance. She’d have a regular boyfriend, she might even be married, but just now she was down on some kind of liaison.
    Barnaby warmed to the story. She’d have a room upstairs, somewhere discreet with a huge bed and a view of the Isle of Wight, and just now she’d be killing time, waiting for her man. This guy might be part of the D-Day jamboree. He might be one of the media people, a cameraman, say, or a producer. God knows, he might even be one of Clinton’s boys, a White House insider, a political heavyweight with a direct line to the President. Barnaby nodded in approval, trying to imagine the man, then – abruptly – his body came to rest in the water, his head cushioned from the tiled wall by something soft. His feet found the bottom and he stood up, pushing back the goggles. A woman was sitting on the edge of the pool. She was wearing a blackSpeedo one-piece, modestly cut. She had a strong, open face and her hair, drawn back, was beginning to grey at the temples. Barnaby blinked. Beyond the tall plate-glass windows, the gym was empty. The woman slipped into the pool. Her face and shoulders were pinked with recent exercise.
    ‘Funny,’ she said, ‘I knew it was you.’
    The smaller of the two bars was at the front of the hotel, overlooking the street. They sat at a table beside the window, Barnaby nursing a long glass of orange juice and soda. The last time he’d seen Kate Frankham in the flesh had been the winter of ’92. The photos in the local paper since had done her less than justice.
    ‘So how does it feel? Being famous?’
    ‘Famous?’ She laughed. ‘Are you kidding?’
    ‘Not at all. I’m impressed.’
    ‘By what?’
    ‘By what you’ve done. Heritage Chair in less than a year? That’s some going.’
    Kate ducked her head, trying to hide the grin, but when she looked at him again it was still there, as irrepressible as ever. She’d never been less than candid with him, an honesty he’d occasionally found difficult to handle.
    ‘I’ve had the time,’ she said simply. ‘And the opposition’s not up to much. Not in local politics.’
    ‘You mean the Tories?’
    ‘No, our lot. The comrades. Labour. We’ve got some good people, but not enough of them. If you put your mind to it, anyone could get there. It just needs application.’
    ‘And time. Like you said.’
    ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘that, too.’
    She broke off, looking at him, and Barnaby found himself reaching defensively for the plastic card lying beside her purse. He tapped the date beneath the photo. Her annual membership had nearly run out.
    ‘You come here a lot?’
    ‘Most days, first thing normally. It’s