"She meant to do me such a good turn — Chris. Irony, isn't it? That her gift should be practically my death warrant."
"I suppose you have no idea who could have done it?"
"No. I didn't know any of her friends, you know. She just picked me up one night." He considered the schoolgirlish figure before him. "I suppose that sounds dreadful to you?"
"Oh, no. Not if you liked the look of each other. I judge a lot on looks."
"I can't help feeling that the police may be making a mistake — I mean, that it was just an accident. If you'd seen the country that morning. Utterly deserted. No one going to be awake for at least another hour. It's almost incredible that someone should have been out for murder at that time and in that place. That button might be an accident, after all."
"If your coat turned up with the buttons on it, would that prove you had nothing to do with it?"
"Yes, I think so. That seemed to be all the evidence the police had." He smiled a little. "But you know more about it than I do.
"Where were you when you lost it — the coat, I mean?"
"We'd gone over to Dymchurch one day: Tuesday, it was. And we left the car to walk along the seawall for about half an hour. Our coats were always left lying in the back. I didn't miss mine till we stopped for petrol about halfway home, and I turned around to get the bag Chris had flung there when she got in." His face suddenly flamed scarlet, and Erica watched him in surprise and then in embarrassment. It was moments later before it occurred to her that the tacit admission that the woman was paying was more humiliating to him than any murder accusation. "The coat wasn't there then," he went on hurriedly, "so it could only have gone while we were walking."
"Gypsies?"