Brenda makes a date!

Cantwell was in good humour when he woke the next morning. The previous day, Debbie had managed to buy two outfits by combining their clothes' coupons. A red dress and a neat grey costume that fitted at the waist and made her look slim. Her delight was obvious! When this was followed up by a cream tea in the cafe opposite the cathedral, she had forgiven him everything. A night of honeymoon-like bliss made him feel like a boy of twenty again.

So when he walked into Temple's office, he had a big grin on his face. Temple was amused and pleased:
"From the expression on your ugly mug, I'd say your day off paid dividends."

"Just like you said, Gov. I'm amazed how little it takes to please a woman."

"Not all women, Cantwell, just some women. As I can vouch."

"Sorry, Gov," Cantwell spluttered flushing with embarrassment.

"No offence, Cantwell, it's just my jaundiced view of women. You hold onto your more generous beliefs." He pushed a couple of sheets of writing paper towards him. "Take a look."

Cantwell sat down and read the letter:

Dear Inspector Temple & Sergeant Cantwell

First I want to say a big 'thank you' for what you both did for me.
The flat was so neat and tidy. I had been dreading finding a mess.

The groceries were very welcome. I did not expect anything like that from the police.

Secondly, I think we ought to meet. There are things I would
like to talk over with you. I need some advice.

Please write back to me, as soon as possible,
suggesting a time and place.

I think that somewhere in Exeter would be good.
No one would know me there.

Please make the appointment for sometime soon but
do not come to my flat

Your truly

Brenda Ellacott (Mrs)

Cantwell read the letter twice and then looked over at Temple.

"So?" Temple queried, "What do you think? Where would you suggest we meet? You know Exeter well. What's a good place that's central but where we can keep out of general view?"

"There are several cafes, Gov, but I suppose lots of people go in and out. She obviously doesn't want to be seen." He thought for a while. "There's a large hotel opposite the cathedral. We could meet in the lounge and go on somewhere from there. It's not far from the bus station for her either."

"Fine - I'll write now - you can post it - we'll arrange the meeting for noon the day after tomorrow."

Temple decided to write the letter by hand. The typing pool girls might well do copies. He was sure of one thing and that was the less Baker knew about these investigations, the better. His writing was usually a spidery scrawl. This time, he took care that it was neat enough for her to read. He handed it to Cantwell to look at.

"You address the envelope, Cantwell. Your writing is better than mine. Then take it to the Post Office. I don't want it sent with the general post from here."

Superintendent Baker exerts his authority

Temple drove back to the station and returned the squad car to the pool. He grabbed a coffee from the canteen and went straight to his office and began thumbing his way through the growing pile of files. Recently they had grown even more. Sam Walters had sent most of his paperwork from the Met dealing with Redbourne's past activities. They ranged from protection with menaces to GBH and race fixing. The whole gamut of crime was there, plain to see on his file. Everything that is except murder. The striking fact, however, was that not one single charge had stuck to Redbourne himself. Some of his henchmen had been convicted, but each time he emerged unscathed. Every case had been stamped 'Insufficient Evidence'.

Temple pulled a face. He recalled how he and Walters had sweated blood to get a conviction for GBH on him in Camberwell. But instead of Redbourne, a very junior member of his 'gang' had done three years. All the time he was in jail, Redbourne took care of the man's family financially. In that way, he built up a loyal bunch of thugs who were prepared to take the rap, if caught, because Redbourne would look after things.

'Like the bloody mafia' Temple thought. 'But I'll get you this time, sunshine."

There was a knock at the door. Constable Truscott timidly peeped his head round:
"The Super wants a word with you in his office, Gov."

"Any idea what for?"

"No. He just said to fetch you 'pretty damn sharpish'."

"Thanks, Truscott, I'll be along shortly."

"Gov," Truscott looked sheepish, "I think he meant now - as of yesterday."

"I'm sure he did," Temple grinned. "I'm sure that's exactly what he meant - and don't worry I'll make it clear you told me just that. But I'll go when I'm good and ready. Not a minute earlier."

Some quarter of an hour later, Temple sauntered down the corridor, up the stairs and stood outside Superintendent Clive Baker's imposing brass name plate. He knocked loudly.

"Enter!" came from inside.

Temple knocked again, even more loudly. This time the voice from within was obviously irritated:

"I said enter. So enter!" The shout was more like a strangled bark.

Temple opened the door and looked round:
"All right to come in, Sir?"

"Are you deaf, man? I said 'enter' two or three times." He looked up at his large wall clock. "Anyway, what took you so long? I told Truscott ..."

"Yes, Sir, I know what you told Constable Truscott. He did say I should hurry."

"Then why this delay?"

"I was filing my case notes, Sir."

"And that took precedence over coming here?"

"I'm sure you would not wish me to leave incriminating files lying about, would you, Sir? You've always made it plain that all officers ..."

"Yes, Temple! I know what I expect my officers to do. Just make sure that, next time, you're quick about it. I don't expect to be kept waiting when I requested them to come at once."

There was a prolonged silence while Baker studied Temple's face. He was not sure whether the man was lacking in insight or just plain insubordinate. He knew that he'd served throughout the war as an officer in the Eighth Army and had a distinguished record. So he wasn't stupid. Baker tapped his desk in irritation, not knowing quite how to handle the situation.

"I had a call, this morning, from the owner of the Blandford Hotel. I gather that you were there today." He looked closely to see Temple's reaction.

"Just having my lunch break there, Sir."

"Your lunch break!" Baker almost exploded out of his chair. "Lunch at the Blandford! Canteen not good enough for you?"

"I was told they had good sandwiches, Sir."

Baker tried to discern whether this was pure insolence or genuine. He did not like the man, he knew that much. The sooner he moved on to another force, the better.

"Was there an issue about my being there?" Temple enquired.

"Did you make your presence known?"

"To whom, Sir?"

"To anybody?"

"The owner's wife, Mrs Jackson, asked my name. I told her. I didn't want to deceive her."

"Anyone else?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, Temple, I don't want you to go there again."

"I didn't know my contract stipulated where I could or could not eat and drink. Could you show me where it states that? I'm sure my contract is in my office."

"Don't be bloody smart with me, Temple. I'm not asking you, I am telling you not to go there again."

"Why would that be, Sir?"

"Because Wing Commander Jackson does not like police officers scaring off his patrons."

"Is that what I was doing, Sir?"

Baker slammed his fist on the desk:
"Don't play silly buggers with me, Temple! You just watch your step or you'll be back in uniform, before you know it! Now get back to your work."

Temple stood up, nodded, then left the office. As the door closed, Baker wondered whether Temple had actually agreed or not.

"Damn the man!" He said. "Damn you for your insolence, Temple."

WingCo & McBride get the panics!

McBride watched Temple in his rear view mirror. When he was satisfied that he had gone, he got out of his car and went straight to WingCo's office. Without knocking, he opened the door and closed it behind him. WingCo looked up in surprise.

"What the hell was that Temple chap doing here?" McBride looked flushed and agitated.

"Temple? You mean the policeman? He was here for a drink, so he told Judy."

"Did he ask any questions?"

"Not so far as I know. Why the panic?"

"He's been bothering me, that's why! Bloody officious bastard! Asking about my connections to the Ellacotts and about my other patients."

WingCo paled but remained outwardly calm:
"Well, as Ellacott's doctor, he was bound to ask questions, wasn't he?"

"It was more than that, WingCo. He was going on about my prescriptions. And we both know where that could lead, don't we?"

"Keep your cool! No one can connect us to anything ..."

"Can't they?" McBride sat down heavily opposite WingCo. "You speak for yourself. I've issued false prescriptions for Ellacott, to get the drugs for Redbourne. I could get struck off for that, at the very least."

"It was a mistake, that's all you need say. Blame it on Ellacott, he's dead, after all and can't deny anything! Anyway, doctors always stick together, don't they? You'll never be blamed."

"What about that Brenda Ellacott cow! She's digging around. She knows something's been going on."

"Redbourne will deal with her." McBride looked alarmed. "Don't look so worried! He's not going to harm her. He's going to get her involved. Once in, she'll keep her mouth shut. You know her sort."

WingCo picked up his phone:
"Judy, come on down to the office." He replaced the receiver, then crossed over to his drinks cabinet. A half empty bottle of scotch sat on the top shelf. He poured a double for McBride and a single for himself. "This'll steady the old nerves!"

Judy opened the door and saw immediately, from McBride's demeanour, that something was wrong. She looked questioningly over at her husband.

"Seems both you and Mac here have got the jitters over that Temple bloke. I've got the police sewn up. All I have to do is phone Baker and tell him that we don't want his cops here spoiling our business. He'll soon settle it. He enjoys hobnobbing with the local squires and the Master of the hunt, doesn't he? He wouldn't want to jeopardise his precious wife's invitation to the Hunt Ball."

Judy wasn't really listening. WingCo's judgement on things was not as good as he thought:
"What's worrying you, Mac? Can Temple connect us with Redbourne?"

"Redbourne, no! But as I told WingCo, I issued some prescriptions for Ellacott that were not legit, so that those bloody dodgy dogs could have a dose of something before the races. Ellacott needed the prescriptions so he could keep his books straight."

"Can you get hold of the paperwork?" Judy queried.

"Not unless I can have access to the pharmacy records. I guess that Temple has already got hold of them though."

"Did you keep records?" She asked.

"Of course, I'm bound to by law. Problem was I made them out in the names of patients who either didn't need them or who had recently died."

"Well it's obvious what you've got to do. Change the names and or the dates - whichever - then when Temple comes snooping, just produce your records. Ellacott's dead. Blame him for keeping phony records. Temple will never be able to prove different. Even if it means re-writing the whole damn book, it's worth it!"

"You're right! By God, Judy, you're right. Should've thought of it myself. My records are in ring files, so it's easy to change pages. It's my word and records against a dead man's." He drank the whisky in one gulp. "I'll get back to the surgery now and sort through the prescription files."

McBride got up and went over to slap WingCo on the back:
"I feel a whole lot better now! Anyway, I didn't come here, in the first place, to talk about Temple. When I saw him, I was on my way to give you these." He reached into his pocket and drew out a roll of £5 notes and placed it on the desk. "It's your share of the winnings from the Exeter meeting."

After he had gone. WingCo picked up his phone and dialled:
"Hello there, Clive. It's Bob Jackson here." He paused. "Yes, I'm well, thanks and Judy too. How are you and Vanessa?" He paused again. "Look, sorry to bother you, Clive, but I wanted to ask if you knew why one of your detective inspectors has been rather haunting the Blandford. Is there anything I should know? Anyone I need to look out for?" He winked at Judy. "No he hasn't exactly been bothering us. His name is Temple, so Judy told me. It's just that I don't want some of our patrons to worry that there are problems here." He laughed. "Thanks, Clive. I'll look forward to our game of golf on Sunday." He put the phone down.

"So?" Judy asked.

"I'd say it's all settled, old girl. Clive Baker will keep this Temple bloke out of our hair."

"I hope he bloody well does. For all our sakes."

Temple visits the Blandford

The Blandford car park was relatively empty but instead of going there, Temple parked the squad car two side-streets away. Walking through the car park, he scrutinised the various cars but did not recognise any of the number-plates. He did notice, however, that several of the cars were new and expensive. How, in this austere post-war time people had the money to buy Jags and Wolsey's, he could not guess. They were either born to money or, more likely, had made it in crooked dealings. Ever the cynic, he entered the lounge bar. There were more people inside than on the previous occasion when he had been with Cantwell.

He ordered a pint and sandwich from the bar. As he was paying, he glanced up at the mirror behind the bar, it gave a good view of the other customers. Temple scanned various faces but saw no one he recognised. The majority there were well-heeled and not afraid to show it.

Taking his drink and the large ham sandwich, the barman had given him, he sat down at a table in the far corner. From there, he had a clear view of everyone who came or went.

From what he could see, Temple guessed that most of the people were hotel residents and new to the area. There were a few Starmouth people and the noisiest group seemed to be members of the local hunt.

After about twenty minutes, Judith Jackson came in. She stood in the entrance looking round the clientele with her large brown eyes taking in every detail. She spotted Temple and nodded. She then crossed over to the bar and had a confidential chat with the barman. As on the previous time, she worked the room, smiling and chatting inconsequentially. The men enjoyed the attention, the women also responded well to her flattery. 'Quite the consummate performer', Temple thought. She left him until last.

"How nice to see you again. I don't think I caught your name, last time, Mr ...?"

"Detective Inspector Temple."

"Oh! The police!" She smiled and nodded, as if pleased with the knowledge. "We know Superintendent Baker very well. He often comes here with his delightful wife. But it's rare for one of his underlings to visit us."

The emphasis on the 'underlings' was said with a meaningful smile, 'Oh, she's good,' Temple thought, 'Very good indeed.'

Though he nodded, he did not respond to her comment. There was a moment's silence, then she leaned forward and sat down on the chair next to him. She whispered quietly:
"May I ask - are you looking for someone or is this strictly a lunchtime treat, an off-duty call?"

"I'm never really off-duty, Mrs Jackson. But, on the other hand, I'm not exactly looking for anything or anyone in particular."

"Oh! You know my name, Inspector. You are well in formed." She paused, the forced smile beginning to wear rather thin. "I'm not sure how good it is for business to have the police here at the bar." She gave a nervous laugh.

"But no one, apart from you, knows I am the police, as you put it. I'm not broadcasting the fact and I'm sure that you wouldn't."

"Of course not." She put her hand flirtatiously on his arm. "I would not want to jeopardise any investigation you might be doing."

"Seriously, Mrs Jackson, I am just here for a quiet pint and bite to eat." She gave him a sideways glance. "You surely would not grudge me a moment's calm in a busy day.

"Of course not, Inspector. Do forgive me. I read too many crime stories, I suppose." She rose from the seat, putting her hand to her hair and smiling again. "I'll leave you in peace.."

She returned to the bar and spoke once again to the barman. Some minute or two later a pint of beer was on its way to Temple.

"With Madam's compliments, sir." The barman said placing it on the table.

Outside in the lobby, however, Judith Jackson felt far from complimentary. The encounter had left her agitated and irritated. She went immediately to her husband's office.

"We've got the ruddy police sitting in the bar."

WingCo looked up from some paperwork:
"What, Baker?"

"No! Some jumped-up little berk who says he's an inspector."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is that we don't need coppers round here at the moment. Or have you forgotten about Ellacott?" Remember the name 'Redbourne', do you? Recall events of the last two weeks?"

WingCo straightened up and peered at his wife:
"There's absolutely nothing to connect us to any of the goings on, nothing at all. Even if Redbourne walked in here now, complete with one of his dodgy dogs, there's no one could connect us. He's just another patron. Just you remember that."

Judith Jackson sat down heavily on one of the high back chairs:
"Yes, that maybe so. But what's he doing here?"

"What does he say he's doing.?"

"Here for a quiet drink, so he says."

"Well, take it at face value, Judy. Don't do anything to encourage him. But, on the other hand, don't do anything to discourage him. Just act natural, as if you've nothing to hide. You're bloody good at that sort of thing, old girl."

Temple finished his second pint then headed out to where he had parked the squad car. As he did so, Dr McBride drove in. The timing, from Temple's point of view, could not have been better. He made a show of recognising McBride, then gave an ostentatious wave, before walking out into the street.

Brenda makes up her mind!

Brenda Ellacott was nobody's fool and she was furious with herself that she had not guessed Ben had been getting into deep trouble. How on earth had he risked all by becoming involved with Redbourne, WingCo and Mcbride? Sitting in the kitchen, she stirred an extra spoonful of sugar into her coffee. Pouring in the milk, she watched it swirl into the thick black liquid. It looked disgusting but she needed the caffeine to help her think.

She realised she was in a dicey position. Ben's death had left her expendable. Redbourne et al were not sure exactly what she knew, which was, in fact, zilch. What the hell was she going to do?

She had never had any dealings with the police but the two detectives had treated her well. Redbourne, on the other hand, was a smarmy git who would slit her throat as soon as look at her.

"Stupid cow!" she said out loud. "There's no competition here. It's obvious what I need to do."

She swallowed her coffee and went into the bedroom to Ben's old roll top desk. She pulled out a writing pad and his fountain pen. For a moment, her eyes clouded with tears. She had given him the pen for Christmas two years before. Brushing aside the tears, she filled the pen from the Quink ink bottle and began writing.

An hour later, after three drafts, she had written a letter to Temple. She re-read it, then put it in an envelope.

Never having had to go to the Starmouth Police Station, she was not sure of the address, though she knew, well enough where it was. She decided to walk past, note down the address, then take the letter to the Post Office.

She slipped on a short camel hair jacket and red beret. It was the first time she had left the flat since being brought home from the hospital. It felt good to be out in the open, though the musty smell of the gasometer hit her nose. Then, a gust of wind from the sea blew the sickly smell away.

The net curtains twitched in the windows of several houses near the end of the hill, as she passed by. For a fleeting moment, she caught sight of a woman's face before it withdrew quickly. No doubt tongues had been wagging. First Ben's disappearance, then her beating up, then Ben's death. In such a small town, one such event provoked a ton of gossip; two made a story and three were a positive drama. Brenda loathed being the object of gossip and rumour. Things would only get worse.

Temple was just leaving the police station when he saw her pause outside the building and make some sort of note. He stepped back into the entrance so as not to be seen. He watched as she turned and walked quickly towards the High Street. He was curious, she looked as though she was coming in. He wondered what she was thinking about.

When she had gone, Temple collected one of the pool of squad cars. Cantwell was having a day off to take his wife, Debbie, on a shopping spree. The extra overtime money was to be spent on buying her a new outfit. Cantwell had told Temple, if he did this, she wouldn't moan when he had to do more overtime. That, at least, was the theory. Temple knew, from his own experience, that most women were not so easily satisfied. He hoped for Cantwell's sake, that he was wrong.

Cantwell reports

The noise of the Posthorn Gallop was blaring out once again, as Cantwell left the bar. He could just glimpse the white coats of the kennel lads parading the dogs. Because he was taller than average, Temple stood out amongst the crowd by the rails. Cantwell elbowed his way to his side.

"Well?" Temple asked.

"Name is Soppy Soper, real name is Harry but everyone calls him Soppy. He doesn't like it, nor would I." Temple was about to interrupt. Cantwell knew he would tell him to 'get on with it'. So, he launched rapidly into the next piece of information. "He's a herdsman at Grange Farm. Near to Woodbury Common. It seems he looks after lots of other farm animals." He was about to describe them in some detail but thought better of it. "It seems that a greyhound kennels and training centre was set up there. He looks after the dogs. From what he said, they bring in a pretty penny."

"Anything else?"

"I asked him for a tip, just to see how he would react. He told me that if I'd met him earlier this evening then he could have given me one." Cantwell grimaced, he would be damned if he told Temple the rest of the story. Equally well, he'd be damned if he didn't tell him."

"Well, come on, man." Temple was obviously irritated by Cantwell's reticence. "There's more to it, I can see it on your face. Spit it out!"

"He said that if I met him here at the meeting on Saturday, he'd be able to give me a good tip then."

"Excellent! Good work! Why're you looking so miserable? You should be pleased."

"Gov, I promised Debbie that I'd take her out on Saturday with the overtime I got tonight. She'll go mad, if I don't!"

"Take her out to Sunday lunch instead. Somewhere really nice. Use your imagination. Then, if that doesn't do the trick, tell her you'll take her to a tea-dance the following Saturday. You can tell her that your overtime will come in really handy for all those little things she wants."

Cantwell was not so easily convinced. If Temple was so bloody clever at handling women, how come his wife had left him and gone back to London. However, he said nothing.

They did not wait for the next race. Instead they headed for the turnstiles and the car. For Cantwell, the journey back to Starmouth was over almost before it had begun. He was dreading telling Debbie about the dog racing on Saturday.

Soppy Soper appears

The so-called bar was a sad affair. The concrete floor was spattered with stains from spilled beer. Fag ends littered the place from one end of the room to the other with clumps of them near the counter itself. The air was a thick fug of cheap tobacco smoke. Regardless of the atmosphere, the place was packed mainly with men and a few drab looking women. Cantwell saw some people he recognised by sight. He doubted whether they would know him.

Temple pushed them both to the bar and ordered two pints of bitter. He grimaced in disgust as two glasses of flat brown liquid were placed in front of him. Cantwell could not believe they got away with selling the stuff but looking at the people clustered round him, he realised they all had other things on their minds.

Moving to one side of the melee, they leaned against the wall and surveyed the scene.

"Did you find out anything, Gov?"

"What I saw ties in with what you've just told me. The kennels are a maze of small dog runs. There are vans and shooting-brakes parked round the perimeter. The poor old dogs are shunted in and out of the transport, to the runs, do their racing, then it's back again to the transport. One helluva racket from barking dogs and swearing trainers. Oh! And the smell isn't great either, it rivals a cesspit." He took a long swig at his pint and pulled a face. "However, Cantwell, all that's unimportant, except for the poor dodgy dogs. What matters is that the blonde chap you saw coming and going to Redbourne's stand was also coming and going to the kennels. He always went to the same two Morris Minor vans. And who else do you think went over to him?"

"Redbourne?"

"Yep! Our pal, Redbourne, and one Dr McBride and the track side vet was pretty pally too! The really interesting thing was that McBride handed Redbourne a bottle. He examined it then gave it to the blonde man."

"Drinomyl?"

"Could be. The forensic lab hasn't got back to me yet about the tablets in that bottle we found. But if it is some sort of amphetamine, it would certainly make a dog run faster, even if it was injured."

Just then, Cantwell saw the blonde man edge his way into the room and push his way to the bar:
"There he is, Gov, the blonde chap. See?"

"Great! Just what I hoped! Try and start up a conversation with him. He might have seen me near the kennels but he won't have seen you. Find out who he is and what his connection is with Redbourne." Cantwell began moving away when Temple grabbed him by the shoulder. "Make sure you find out more about him than he does about you. I'll wait for you by the Tote."

The remark irritated Cantwell. It was totally out of order. If anyone knew how to be subtle, he reckoned, it was him. Hadn't Debbie told him often enough that he was a 'devious bastard'.

The blonde man was leaning against the counter cradling a half pint of beer and eating from a packet of crisps. Cantwell edged next to him, placing his glass on the counter. He then pulled his race card from his pocket and appeared to study it closely.

"What do you fancy in the next race? I'm right out of luck tonight."

The man's pale blue eyes locked on to him for a second or two:
"Dunno."

"No? Pity that! Hoped to buy my little niece a birthday present. Her mother, my sister, she's been real good to me. At this rate, the kid'll be lucky to get a penny chew." Cantwell sipped his beer. "Got any kids?"

The man flushed red and shook his head:
"Me? No - not married. Not even got a girlfriend. My sort of work makes it difficult like. I don't get out much."

"Really! So what sort of work do you do?"

"Animals."

"Animals. Oh, I see you're a farmer."

"No - nothin' so grand. I'm an 'erdsman up at Grange Farm, just near Woodbury Common."

"Herdsman, eh? Must be hard work."

"You'm right bout that. Up at five for the cows then there's the pigs and the dogs."

"Pigs and dogs as well." Cantwell could not believe his luck. "You've got your hands full. Still farm dogs are .."

"Not farm dogs. They're greyhounds, That's why I'm 'ere to look after the dogs. Grange Farm got bought up and it now runs a greyhound kennels and training ring for lots of local owners."

"Really! God, that's interesting!"

The blonde man smiled. When he did, he looked quite boyish. Cantwell realised that he was no more than in his late teens or early twenties, at most.

"'Spose it is interesting. 'Spose it is."

"I've always liked dogs. More a mongrel man though. These greyhounds are valuable, aren't they?"

"Yeah! Some of 'em brings in more damn money than the pigs, that's for sure!" He laughed.

Cantwell held out his hand:
"My name's Tom Carter, pleased to meet you." Why he chose the name Carter, he didn't know. He just hoped he would remember it later on.

The blonde man wiped his hand on his trousers and shook Cantwell's:
"Nice to meet 'e, Tom Carter. I'm 'arry Soper, Though everyone calls me 'Soppy' Soper. Don't much like it, but then what can 'e do?"

"Well, I'd prefer to call you Harry. Do you always brimng the dogs to the races, Harry?"

Soppy Soper looked glumly at his glass before answering:
"I'm brought along to run errands, like. I'd rather be with the dogs though."

"So - how's about a tip, Harry?"

Soppy grinned:
"If I knew somethin' I'd tell 'e. But I don't 'ave a clue for the rest of the card. Now, if I'd seen 'e before the first two races, it'd be a different thing." He glanced over his shoulder. "Tell 'e what, Tom. You come 'ere on Saturday and I'll give 'e a tip then. Meet me 'ere at the bar before the third race. I gotta go now. Got the dogs to see to."

Cantwell watched him down his drink and wipe his mouth on his sleeve. He shook his hand and left. Cantwell, feeling well pleased with himself headed out to tell Temple what he had found out.