He walked home. Across St. James’s Park, into Lower Regent Street. Along Orange Street, where he had first spent a night with Tosca.
1944.
A garret under the eaves.
Melting pizza and stolen chocolate.
He wondered about the “thing.” He knew exactly where Venetia’s line was leading, and he hoped she never got there.
1944.
His other lover, Diana Brack. A friend of his sisters, so almost certainly a friend of Venetia’s.
1944.
He had shot Diana dead.
“The Tart-in-the-Tub Case,” as an insensitive press had so cruelly put it.
The case that made him famous.
He hoped Venetia never got there.
That was “the trick,” after all, to see she never got there.