The article ended in a speculative vein. After pointing out that the insurance company had lost on a legal technicality, it went on:

The probability is very strong that Billson did survive the crash, if crash there was, and that Hendrik van Niekirk did see him in Durban. If t his is so, and I think it is, then an enormous fraud was perpetrated.?100,000 is a lot of money anywhere and at any time. ?100,000 in 1936 is equivalent to over?350,000 in our present-day debased currency.

If Peter Billson is still alive he will be 75 years old and will have lived a life of luxury. Rich men live long and the chances are that he is indeed still alive. Perhaps he will read these words. He might even conceive these words to be libellous. I am willing to risk it.

Flyaway Peter Billson, come back! Come back!

I was contemplating this bit of nastiness when Charlie Malleson came into the office. He said, 'I've done a preliminary analysis of the consequences of losing the Whensley Group,' and smiled sourly. 'We'll survive.'

'Brinton,' I said, and tilted my chair back. 'He owns a quarter of our shares and accounts for a third of our business. We've got too many eggs in his basket. I'd like to know how much it would hurt if he cut loose from us completely.' I paused, then added, 'Or if we cut loose from him.'

Charlie looked alarmed. 'Christ! it would be like having a leg cut off – without anaesthetic.'

'It might happen.'

'But why would you want to cut loose? The money he pumped in was the making of us.'

'I know,' I said. 'But Brinton is a financial shark. Snapping up a profit is to him as mindless a reflex as when a real shark snaps up a tasty morsel. I think we're vulnerable, Charlie.'

'I don't know why you're getting so bloody hot under the collar all of a sudden,' he said plaintively.

'Don't you?' I leaned forward and the chair legs came down with a soft thud on to the thick pile carpet. 'Last night, in a conversation lasting less than four minutes, we lost fifteen per cent of Brinton's business. And why did we lose it? So that he can put the arm on Andrew McGovern who is apparently getting out of line. Or so Brinton says.'

'Don't you believe him?'

'Whether he's telling the truth or not isn't the point. The point is that our business is being buggered in one of Brinton's private schemes which has nothing to do with us.'

Charlie said slowly, 'Yes, I see what you mean.'

I stared at him. 'Do you, Charlie? I don't think so. Take a good long look at what happened yesterday. We were manipulated by a minority shareholder who twisted us around his little finger.'

'Oh, for God's sake, Max! If McGovern doesn't want us there's not a damn thing we can do about it.'

'I know that, but we could have done something which we didn't. We could have held the Whensley Group to their contract which has just under a year to run. Instead, we all agreed at the AGM to pull out in ten days. We were manoeuvred into that, Charlie; Brinton had us dancing on strings.'

Charlie was silent I said, 'And you know why we let it happen? We were too damned scared of losing Brinton's money. We could have outvoted him singly or jointly, but we didn't.'

'No,' said Charlie sharply. 'Your vote would have downed him – you have 51 per cent. But I have only 24 to his 25.'

I sighed. 'Okay, Charlie; my fault. But as I lay in bed last night I felt scared. I was scared of what I hadn't done. And the thing that scared me most of all was the thought of the kind of man I was becoming. I didn't start this business to jerk to any man's string, and that's why I say we have to cut loose from Brinton if possible. That's why I want you to look for alternative sources of finance. We're big enough to get it now.'

There may be something in what you say,' said Charlie. 'But I still think you're blowing a gasket without due cause. You're over-reacting, Max.' He shrugged. 'Still, I'll look for outside money if only to keep you from blowing your top.' He glanced at the magazine cutting on my desk. 'What's that?'

'A story about Paul Billson's father. You know – the accountant who vanished from Franklin Engineering.'

'What's the score on that one?'

I shook my head. 'I don't know. At first I had Paul Billson taped as being a little devalued in the intellect – running about eighty pence in the pound – but there are a couple of things which don't add up.'

'Well, you won't have to worry about that now. Franklin is part of the Whensley Group.'

I looked up in surprise. 'So it is.' It had slipped my mind.

'I'd hand over what you've got to Sir Andrew McGovern and wish him the best of British luck.'

'You've seen him recently?'

I thought about that and shook my head. 'No – Billson disappeared when we were in charge of security and there's still a few days to the end of the month.'

'Your sense of ethics is too strongly developed.'

'I think I'll follow up on this one myself,' I said. 'I started it so I might as well finish it. Jack Ellis can stand in for me. It's time he was given more responsibility.'

Charlie nodded approvingly. 'Do you think there's anything in Billson's disappearance – from the point of view of Franklin's security, I mean?'

I grinned at him. 'I'll probably find that he's eloped with someone's wife – and I hope it's Andrew McGovern's.'

I went down to Fleet Street to look for Michael English, the journalist who had written the article on Peter Billson. His office thought he was at the Press Club, the Press Club invited me to try El Vino's. I finally ran him to ground in a pub off the Strand.

He was a tall, willowy, fair-haired man whom I disliked on sight, although what he had written about Billson might have influenced my feelings. He was playing poker dice with a couple of other journalists and looked at me doubtfully when I gave him one of my business cards to prick his curiosity.

'Security!' he said. There was a shade of nervousness.

I smiled reassuringly. 'I'd like to talk to you about Billson.'

'That little twit! What's he put you on to me for?' Apprehension surrounded English like a fog.

'You've seen him recently?'

'Of course I have. He came to the office making trouble. He threatened a law suit.' English snorted with unhumorous laughter. 'Our lawyer saw him off smartly on that one.'

I was deliberately obtuse. 'I'm surprised he bothered you. If your article was correct he stands a good chance of a jail sentence – although his grey hairs might save him, I suppose.'

English looked at me in surprise. It wasn't the old man. It was someone who claimed to be his son – said he was Paul Billson. He made quite a scene.'

I looked around and saw an empty corner table. 'I'd like to talk to you about it. Over there where it's quiet. What will you have?'

English hesitated, then shrugged. 'I don't mind. Make it a double scotch.'

As I ordered the drinks he said, 'I suppose you're investigating for the insurance company.' I made an ambiguous murmur, and he said, 'I thought they gave up years ago. Isn't there a time limitation on a crime like that?'

I smiled at him as he splashed water perfunctorily in his glass. The file is still open.'

English had been called into his editor's office the day after the article had appeared – the day before Billson went missing. He found the editor trying to cope with an angry and agitated man who was making incoherent threats. The editor, Gaydon, said in a loud voice, 'This is Mr English who wrote the article. Sit down, Mike, and let's see if we can sort this out.' He flicked a switch on the intercom. 'Ask Mr Harcourt if he can come to my office.'

English saw trouble looming ahead. Harcourt was the resident lawyer and his presence presaged no good. He cleared his throat and said, 'What's the trouble?'