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The Jamaican went to the counter and got two cups of coffee. When he returned he said, 'Man, this is a bad business. Mr Magellan shouldn't have turned out on a night like that.'

Marlowe nodded. 'That's what Maria thinks. She blames me. Jenny O'Connor phoned and said she wanted to see me urgently. Maria wasn't too pleased when I went. She thinks I should have been at the farm to take your phone call and come out with the spare truck.'

Mac shook his head. 'But that isn't fair, Hugh. You couldn't have known that I was going to have a breakdown.'

Marlowe smiled bitterly. 'Don't give me that crud, Mac. Under the circumstances I should have hung around the farm last night, just in case anything went wrong. I didn't and the old man's dead. Whichever way we look at it, I'm at least partially responsible.'

He pushed a cigarette into his mouth. 'I wonder what caused the accident?'

Mac was tracing patterns on the table with one finger in a pool of spilled tea. 'I was wondering,' he began hesitatingly. 'You don't suppose anything was wrong with the truck, do you?'

Marlowe looked at him inquiringly. 'O'Connor? I don't think so. When was that truck checked last?'

'Yesterday morning,' Mac said. 'I did it myself. It was in good order.'

'That's it then,' Marlowe said. 'There was someone around the place all the time. I can't see how anyone could have tampered with it.'

'What do you think happened?' Mac asked.

Marlowe stared into space and sighed deeply. 'I think Papa Magellan was just a sick, tired, old man who should have been in his bed. He probably passed out at the wheel or perhaps he fell asleep. Whatever happened, it only took a minute.' He stood up. 'Yes, he was just a sick old man who depended on me, and when he needed me most I wasn't around.' He turned and walked rapidly out of the cafe as the impotent fury surged into his throat in a strangled sob.

It was almost noon when they managed to get what was left of the old man out of the truck. They brought him up the hill wrapped in a blanket, and Marlowe and the Jamaican stood and watched silently as the body was put into the ambulance. As the man in charge of the breakdown team scrambled up, Marlowe walked across to him and said, 'Did you find anything that indicated why he'd run off the road?'

The man shook his head. 'We aren't likely to, either. Not in that heap of scrap.'

Marlowe turned away, sick at heart, and motioned to Mac. 'Come on, let's get out of here,' he said. 'It stinks like a charnel house.'

But all the way back to Litton he was unable to get the stench of burnt flesh out of his nostrils. It stayed with him even when he opened the side windows and filled the cab with air. He told himself it was all in the mind, and took even greater risks, driving into the curves at a dangerous speed, his hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles showed white.

Mac sat quietly beside him, saying nothing. When they finally turned into the farmyard and halted outside the door, he said to Marlowe, 'What you need is a good stiff drink, man. Come on in and I'll get you one.'

Marlowe shook his head. 'No, not for me.'

'What about Maria?' the Jamaican asked. 'She'll need you at a time like this.'

'Need me?' Marlowe said. 'Why should she need me?'

Mac shook his head. 'Man, you must be blind. That girl loves you.'

Marlowe laughed savagely. 'Did love me, you mean. I'm the man who was responsible for her father's death, remember.' He turned abruptly and walked away across the yard to the barn.

He paused in the entrance to light a cigarette. It tasted like straw and he tossed it away with a curse. He walked forward into the barn, hands in pockets, head bowed down, and then he stiffened as his eyes lighted on something.

He dropped on one knee beside the pool of liquid and dipped a finger into it. He lifted the finger to his nostrils and sniffed deeply, and then he gently touched it to his lips. It was fluid from the hydraulic-braking system of the truck.

For a moment he stayed poised on one knee, paralysed and