Glenn had already established, by watching her, that she was right-handed. If he now observed her eyes carefully, he should see them move to the left if she was lying or to the right if telling the truth.

Her eyes moved sharply to the right. ‘Not a word,’ she said. ‘Something has happened to him, please believe me.’

He pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘Am I right that you’ve had no word from your husband since Friday night?’

Again her eyes flicked distinctly to the right.

‘Yes.’

‘Has Jim ever been absent for a period like this before?’

‘No, never.’

She still appeared to be telling the truth. He made a note, then sipped his coffee, but it was too hot, so he put it back down.

‘Forgive me if I sound insensitive, Mrs Towers – did you and your husband have any kind of argument before he – disappeared?’

‘No, absolutely not! It was our wedding anniversary – our twenty-fifth. The night before, he told me that he wanted us to renew our wedding vows. We were – are – extremely happy.’

‘OK.’ He looked at the biscuits longingly, but continued to resist. ‘How much did he tell you about his clients?’

‘He told me lots about them, if they were interesting – or odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘He had one guy this summer who hired him to go out deep-sea fishing who turned out to have a penchant for fishing naked.’ She managed a grin.

‘Whatever floats your boat,’ he said, grinning back.

Then, in the awkward silence that followed, he realized that was probably not the best analogy to have used at this moment.

‘So what are the police doing about – about trying to find him?’ she asked.

‘Everything we can, Mrs Towers,’ Glenn replied, his face burning from his faux-pas. ‘The coastguards have launched a full air-sea rescue team, with support from the RAF, out looking for the boat. They’ve stopped tonight but will resume again at first light. All UK and overseas Channel ports have been alerted. All shipping has been alerted to be on the watch for the Scoob-Eee. But so far, I’m afraid, there has been no reported sighting.’

‘We had a table booked for dinner at eight o’clock on Friday night. Jim told me the boat had been chartered for the day by the police diving unit, and that all he had to do was move it back to its mooring, when they returned, and he’d be home by about six.’ She shrugged. ‘Then at nine o’clock his boat was seen going through the Shoreham Harbour lock and heading out to sea. That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Perhaps he got a last-minute charter?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Jim’s very romantic – he’s been planning this evening for weeks – months. He wouldn’t have taken a charter that night, absolutely no way.’

Glenn finally succumbed, took a biscuit and bit a chunk. Chewing, he said, ‘I don’t want to sound insensitive, but we know that a lot of smuggling, both of humans and of drugs, goes on in this city. Is it possible that your husband could have been involved in some kind of shipment?’

Again she shook her head vigorously. ‘Not Jim, no.’

Still happy that she was being truthful, he asked, ‘Does Jim have any enemies?’

‘No. None that I’m aware of, anyway.’

‘What do you mean by that, Mrs Towers?’

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked.

‘Go ahead.’

She pulled a packet of Marlboro Lites from her handbag, took out a cigarette and lit it.

‘Everyone loves Jim,’ she said. ‘He is that kind of man.’

‘So in all his time as a private eye he never made an enemy?’

‘It’s possible. I keep thinking about all his old clients. Yes, he might have upset someone, but he’s been out of that game for a decade.’

‘Could it be someone he put inside who’s just been released?’

‘He didn’t put people in prison. He was more – you know – following unfaithful spouses around, doing a bit of industrial espionage. He just snooped around, followed people, that sort of thing.’

Glenn made another note. Then he asked, ‘I presume Jim has a mobile phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not here?’

‘No, he always has it with him.’

‘Could I have the number?’

She reeled it off from memory and he wrote it down.

‘Who is the provider?’

‘O2.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

‘About quarter past five on Friday. He’d just picked up the boat from the police diving unit and was back in his berth. He said he was going to tidy her up and then he’d be home.’

‘That was the last conversation you had?’

‘Yes.’

She started sobbing.

Glenn sipped his coffee and waited patiently. When she had quietened down he asked, ‘Presumably you’ve tried ringing him?’

‘About every five minutes. Nothing happens. It just goes straight to voicemail.’

Glenn noted that down. He looked up at Janet Towers and his heart went out to her.

Then he thought again about the man who had answered the phone at his home. The man who was babysitting his son and his daughter.

The man he had never met, but at this moment hated more than he had ever believed it was possible to hate anyone.

If you are sleeping with Ari, he thought, then God help you. I’ll rip your testicles out of your scrotum with my bare fingers.

He forced a smile at Janet Towers and handed her his card.

‘Call me if you hear anything. We’ll find your husband,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll find him.’

Through her sobs her voice suddenly turned to anger. ‘Yes, well, I hope to hell you find him before I do, that’s all I can say.’ She began sobbing again.

Roy Grace, holding tightly on to the most expensive bottle of champagne he had ever bought in his life, slipped his key into the front door lock of Cleo’s gated townhouse.

As he did so his phone rang.

Cursing, he dug it out of his pocket and answered it. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace.’

It was ACC Alison Vosper. Just the person he did not want to speak to at this moment. And to cap it, she sounded in a characteristically sour mood.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘I just got home,’ he said, hoping she might be impressed that it was after nine o’clock.

‘I want to see you first thing in the morning. The chief’s been talking with the Chief Executive of Brighton and Hove Council about all the bad press Brighton is getting over your case.’

‘Sure,’ he said, doing his best to mask the reluctance in his voice.

‘Seven o’clock.’

Inwardly he groaned. ‘Fine!’ he said.

‘I hope you have some progress to report,’ she added before hanging up.

Have a nice evening, he mouthed. Then he opened the door.

Cleo, in a man’s shirt over ripped jeans, was on her hands and knees on the wooden floor, playing who owns the sock with Humphrey. The dog was snarling, growling, whining, tugging away at the sock as if his life depended on it.

‘Hi, darling!’ he said.

She looked up at him, without stopping her tug-of-war and without noticing the bottle he was brandishing.

‘Hi! Look, Humphrey, look who’s here. It’s Detective Superintendent Roy Grace!’

He knelt and kissed her.

She gave him a quick peck, but her concentration was on the dog. ‘Champagne!’ she said. ‘How nice!’ Then, squinting at the black ball of yapping fluff, she said, ‘What do you think of that, Humphrey? Detective Superintendent Roy Grace has brought us champagne! Do you think it’s a peace offering?’

‘Sorry I’m late – got held up after the briefing meeting.’

She tugged the sock, hard. Humphrey slithered towards her, his paws failing to get traction on the polished oak boards. His jaws released the sock, then snapped back on it. Cleo looked up at Roy. ‘I’ve made you the best martini of your life! A fantastic new vodka I’ve discovered – Kalashnikov. It’s in the fridge.’ Then she added, ‘Lucky bastard, you’ll have to drink it for both of us!’