Later, when he looked back, he was aware that three twenty-one on the afternoon of Thursday, October second, was the moment when all hope of solving her murder in a straightforward aboveboard way died. But at the time he didn’t know that. He felt only grievance and anger, and he resigned himself to the delays and irritations which must ensue if Hathall couldn’t be directly pursued. He still thought ways were open to him of discovering the identity of the woman without arousing fresh annoyance in Hathall. He could delegate. Burden and Martin could make approaches of a more tactful nature. Men could be put on the trail of those girls on Aveney’s list. In a roundabout way it could be done. Hathall had betrayed himself, Hathall was guilty therefore, the crime could ultimately be brought home to Hathall. But he was disheartened. On his way back to Kingsmarkham he had considered phoning Nancy Lake, taking advantage—to put it into plain words—of Dora’s absence, but even an innocent dinner with her, envisaged now, lost the savour the prospect of it had had.
