‘I’ve always liked this. I’m so glad you didn’t let that thief get away with it. I should have been very upset.’ Greta was Swedish, but she had lost all trace of her accent, save on the rare occasions when she was excited or angry. She was fourteen years younger than her husband. When she had married him twelve years ago, she had looked very much the trophy wife. She had had long, straight, blonde hair, green eyes, and the willowy but curvaceous figure which suggests both expertise on the ski slopes and enjoyment of the pleasures of the après-ski. Greta had never been stupid. She could play the dumb blonde when it suited her, but it was strictly an act, usually reserved for men whom she held in quiet contempt. If the act had been used less and less over the years of her marriage, that was simply because as time passed she saw less and less need for it. At forty-two, she remained an attractive woman. She used that attraction when it suited her even more capably than when she had first come to Britain as a capable and dazzling au pair.