“What?”
“Robert Graves.”
“Yes. The poet.”
“Any other context?”
“No.”
“Maureen Kleinknect?”
“No.”
“Joanna Scott-Meyers?”
“No.”
“Jacob Ben-David?”
“No.”
“Erica Burroughs?”
“Yes.”
“In what regard?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”
“Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”
“If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”
“Lance Cabot?”
Stone said nothing.
“If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”
Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.
“Just once more; Lance Cabot?”
“He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”
“How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”
“He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”
“Did you know him before arriving in London?”