The characters of Lewis, Hathaway, and Superintendent Innocent belong to Colin Dexter and/or ITV. I merely borrow them for this story which is making me no money. All other appearing characters are my creation and completely fictional. Similarities to any existent persons are not intended.

Bright daylight filters through the blinds of the windows, lighting up a small but tidy office. The blueish glow from the computer screen makes the woman sitting at the solitary desk look rather pale though she's wearing neatly applied make-up. She's in her mid 40s, wearing a dark blue skirt and a white blouse with a scarf wrapped around her neck for decoration.

One by one she opens the stack of letters on her desk, sorting them. Bills on one stack, correspondence with clients on another, very urgent matters on a third stack.

She opens another envelope and removes the folded paper. She recognizes it immediately as she unfolds it and drops the letter opener in horror. A shriek escapes her mouth before she clamps her hand over it. She is still holding the letter in a badly trembling hand.

A moment later the door to her right flies open and a man in shirtsleeves rushes in. He's in his early 30s and looks ready to hit someone in the face. "What the..." he says before his eyes fall on his trembling and now truly pale secretary. "Beatrice - what is it?"

Beatrice Farnham is still too shocked to speak. She simply holds out the paper to the man who impatiently grabs it from her trembling fingers and fully unfolds it. His eyes narrow in anger as he scans the text. "Another one of those! Someone really must think it's funny to send threats."

Beatrice finally finds her voice. It's still weak though. "It's the fifth in just two weeks, Mr. Alexander. Shouldn't you - I don't know - tell the police about it?"

Philip Alexander looks at her for a long moment, his eyes still narrow slits of anger. "The police, eh? And what would they do?"

His secretary looks away nervously.

"You really do worry, don't you? Beatrice?" The man tries for a softer tone. There was no need to snap at his secretary like that. But it always seems to be his first reaction whenever someone suggest he might need help with anything. Usually he doesn't need help. But maybe Beatrice is right about this.

"All right, I shall discuss it with father. And if he thinks I should worry, then I will go to the police." He still thinks it's all a bad joke, but the worry on the woman's face has put a tiny bit of doubt in his mind. It can't hurt to show the letters to his father. He'd been in business for so long, he had probably received hundreds of such letters in his life.

Beatrice nods, trying to get a grip on herself again. She knows Philip Alexander doesn't like scenes, doesn't like weak people, so she does her best to calm down. Her hands tremble a lot less when she hands him the 'urgent' stack of letters. "You should look at these, Sir. They need answering."

Philip Alexander takes the letters from her, glad to be able to just get back to work. He retreats to his office with both the threatening letter and his business mail, closing the door behind him.

The room is panelled in dark wood and the lights are low. Around the table the Alexander family has gathered for dinner with Zachary Alexander at the head. He's a broad shouldered man, his hair a silvery-white, well cut. He is wearing slacks and a pullover with the collar of his shirt visible. A golden Rolex is on his wrist and a golden signet-ring on his right hand.

"Have you ever received threat letters, father?" Philip asks casually and picks up his wine glass.

"Threat letters?! No, I have not. What a question is that!" Zachary has a dark and booming voice. He's a self-made millionaire who worked his way up, originating from the working class. Having started out as a factory worker he never gave up the habit of nearly yelling in conversations to drone out the noise of the machines. Today it might be because of his fading hearing, though.

The answer does worry Philip a bit. He had been sure it was nothing special for a rich magnate to receive threats. "Well..."

His mother looks at him with worry. She's a slim, petite woman. Her high cheekbones make her look elegant, a look that is intensified by the pearl necklace and earrings she wears to her cream blouse and dark trousers.

Philip drove to dinner at his parents' straight from work and is still in his pin-striped dark grey business suit. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and produces the letters, all five of them, wondering why he had bothered to keep the first four as he had taken them for a bad joke. Silently he hands the letters to his father.

The old man fishes around in the pocket of his shirt for his reading glasses and when he finally produces them from under his pullover, begins to read. His wife looks from her husband to her son and back, the worry on her face growing with every moment of silence.

"When did you get these?" Zachary finally asks.

"They arrived over the last two weeks with the regular business mail."

"I hope you've reported this to the police."

Philip shifts uncomfortably under the gaze of his father. "Uhm, no, not yet. I wanted to talk to you about them first."

"Let me see them!" His mother grabs the letters from her husband's hands and seems to turn paler with every letter she reads. "Oh my God! You must go to the police with these, Philip! I cannot believe you have not done so yet!" She obviously is very alarmed.

"I agree with your mother there. Don't take something like that lightly. Now if it was just one, maybe. But five! Go, call them immediately." Zachary points to the phone on the side table at the end of the room but Mrs Alexander cuts in. "It's no use phoning them, you need to go to the police. They need to see the letters!"

Philip retrieves his mobile from his inside pocket. "They can come over and pick them up. I've been drinking, I can't drive anyway."