was she able to see from the way he clutched his fork, or his sudden loss of appetite, 
that this was a significant question? He had to ask it, however it might seem to her. She 
thought for a moment before answering. When she did, there was something of the 
street-corner gossip in her slightly lowered voice; whatever came next was to be a secret 
between them.
    "He used to come down here at all times of the day and make telephone calls. He told 
me he was calling people in the business-he was a stuntman, you see, or had been-but I 
soon cottoned on that he was making bets. It's my guess that's where the debts came from. 
Gambling." Somehow Marty had known the answer before it came. It begged, of course, 
another question: was it just coincidence that Whitehead had employed two bodyguards, 
both, at some point in their lives, gamblers? Both-it now appeared-thieves for their 
hobby? Toy had never shown much interest in that aspect of Marty's life. But then maybe 
all the salient facts were in the file that Somervale had always carried: the 
psychologist's reports, the trial transcripts, everything Toy would ever need to know 
about the compulsion that had driven Marty to theft. He tried to shrug off the discomfort 
he felt about all this. What the hell did it matter? It was old news; he was healthy now.
    "You finished with your plate?" "Yes, thanks." "More coffee?" "I'll get it." Pearl 
took the plate from in front of Marty, scraped the uneaten food onto a second plate-"For 
the birds," she said-and started to load plates, cutlery and pans alike into the 
dishwasher. Marty refilled his mug and watched her at work. She was an attractive woman; 
middle-age suited her.
    "How many staff does Whitehead have altogether?" "Mr. Whitehead," she said, gently 
correcting him. "Staff? Well, there's me. I come and go like I said. And there's Mr. Toy, 
of course." "He doesn't live here either, right?" "He stays overnight when they have 
conferences here." "Is that regular?" "Oh, yes. There's a lot of meetings go on in the 
house. People in and out all the time. That's why Mr. Whitehead's so security conscious." 
"Does he ever go down to London?" "Not now," she said. "He used to jet around quite a 
bit. Off to New York or Hamburg or some such place. But not now. Now he just stays here 
all year round and makes the rest of the world come to him. Where was I?" "Staff." "Oh, 
yes. The place used to swarm with people. Security staff; servants; upstairs maids. But 
then he went through a very suspicious patch. Thought one of them might poison him or 
murder him in his bath. So he sacked them all: just like that. Said he was happier with 
just a few of us: the ones he trusted. That way he wasn't surrounded by people he didn't 
know." "He doesn't know me." "Maybe not yet. But he's canny: like nobody I've ever met." 
The telephone rang. She picked it up. He knew it must be Whitehead on the other end. 
Pearl looked caught in the act.
    "Oh . . . yes. It's my fault. I kept him talking. Right away." The receiver was 
quickly replaced. "Mr. Whitehead's waiting for you. You'd better hurry. He's with the 
dogs."
    
    14
    The kennels were located behind a group of outhouses-once stables, perhaps-two 
hundred yards to the back of the main house. A sprawling collection of breeze-block sheds 
and wire-mesh enclosures, they had been built simply to fulfill their function, with no 
thought for architectural felicities; they were an eyesore.
    It was chilly out in the open air, and crossing the crusty grass toward the kennels 
Marty had rapidly regretted his shirtsleeves. But there'd been an urgency in Pearl's 
voice as she sent him on his way, and he didn't want to leave Whitehead-no, he must learn 
to think of the man as Mr. Whitehead-waiting longer than he already had. As it was, the 
great man seemed unruffled by his late arrival.
    "I thought we'd take a look at the dogs this morning. Then maybe we'll make a tour of 
the grounds, yes?" "Yes, Sir." He was dressed in a heavy black coat, the thick fur collar 
of which cradled his head.
    "You like dogs?" "You asking me honestly, sir?" "Of course." "Not much." "Was your 
mother bitten, or were you?" There was a twitch of a smile in the bloodshot eyes.
    "Neither of us that I can remember, sir." Whitehead grunted. "Well you're about to 
meet the tribe, Strauss, whether you like them or not. It's important they get to 
recognize you. They're trained to tear intruders apart. We don't want them making any 
mistakes." A figure had emerged from one of the larger sheds, carrying a choke chain. It 
took two glances for Marty to work out whether the newcomer was male or female. The 
cropped hair, the shabby anorak and the boots all suggested masculinity; but there was 
something in the molding of the face that betrayed the illusion.
    "This is Lillian. She looks after the dogs." The woman nodded a greeting without even 
glancing at Marty.
    At her appearance several dogs-large, shaggy Alsatians-had emerged from the kennels 
into the concrete run, and were sniffing at her through the wire, whining a welcome. She 
shushed them unsuccessfully; the welcome escalated into barks, and now one or two were 
standing on their hind legs, man-height against the mesh, their tails wagging furiously. 
The din worsened.
    "Be quiet," she snapped across to them, and almost all were chastened into silence. 
One male, however, larger than the rest, still stood against the wire, demanding 
attention, until Lillian drew off her leather glove and put her fingers through the mesh 
to scratch his deep-furred throat.
    "Martin here has taken over in Nick's stead," said Whitehead. "He'll be here all the 
time from now on. I thought he should meet the dogs, and have the dogs meet him." "Makes 
sense," Lillian replied, without enthusiasm.
    "How many are there?" Marty inquired.
    "Fully grown? Nine. Five males, four females. This is Saul," she said, speaking of 
the dog she was still stroking. "He's the oldest, and the biggest. The male over in the 
corner is Job. He's one of Saul's sons. He's not too well at the moment." Job had 
half-lain down in the corner of the enclosure and was licking his testicles with some 
enthusiasm. He seemed to know he had become the center of conversation, because he looked 
up from his toilet for a moment. In the look he gave them there was everything Marty 
hated about the species: the threat, the shiftiness, the barely subdued resentment of its 
masters.
    "The bitches are over there-" There were two dogs trotting up and down the length of 
the enclosure.
    "-the lighter one's Dido, and the darker's Zoe." It was odd to hear these brutes 
called by such names; it seemed wholly inappropriate. And surely they resented the 
woman's christenings; mocked her, probably, behind her back.
    "Come over here," Lillian said, summoning Marty as she might one of her pack. Like 
them, he came.
    "Said," she said to the animal behind the wire, "this is a friend. Come closer," she 
told Marty, "he can't smell you from over there." The dog had dropped down onto all 
fours. Marty approached the wire cautiously.
    "Don't be afraid. Go right up to him. Let him get a good sniff of you." "They don't 
like fear," said Whitehead. "Isn't that right, Lillian?" "That's right. If they smell it 
on you, they know they've got you. Then they're merciless. You have to stand up to them." 
Marty approached the dog. It looked up at him testily: he stared back.
    "Don't try and outstare him," Lillian advised. "It makes the dog aggressive. Just let