‘Well, I hope nothing, but I haven’t seen my neighbours since Saturday. I don’t know them very well, they moved in only about…well, I’ll tell you…June now, they arrived after Easter, so…’

‘Just a few weeks then?’

‘Yes. Not sufficient for me to get to know them, so I don’t know their routine, except that he works from home and they tend to go everywhere by car. So not being seen for a day or two and the car not having moved, and also parked unusually.’

‘Unusually?’

‘They normally reverse it into the drive and leave it closer to the road than the house.’

‘Do you know their names, sir?’

‘Williams. Max and Amanda, couple in their fifties, late fifties.’

‘And you last saw them on Saturday?’

‘About three o’clock. Their adult children visited. The son is an officer in the Royal Navy, their daughter is a civil servant and normally lives in London. They did tell me once that when their son and daughter visit they invariably go to the Mill.’

‘The Mill?’

‘It’s a restaurant, well out of my price range, but they enthused about it. It’s near Stamford Bridge. I noticed two sports cars in the drive on Saturday evening, they’d gone by the Sunday evening and the Volvo was parked in the drive, but not, as I said, as it usually is. I assume that their children had visited and they had gone for a meal, as is their wont on such occasions. I caught a glimpse of Amanda on the Saturday afternoon, just caught a glimpse of her as she entered the house, but nothing since. I don’t want to be alarmist, they could be on holiday…the lights are going on and off as if on timer switches, there is uncollected post…they have a glass-panelled porch, as you see.’

‘I think you’re right to be concerned, sir. Sorry, your name is…?’

‘Thorn. T.H.O.M. Schoolmaster, retired. History.’

The constable wrote on his pad. ‘And your address, Mr Thorn?’

‘Number twenty-six, Old Pond Road. That’s my house there.’ He turned and pointed to his house. ‘Next property to the Williamses’, they’re twenty-eight, Old Pond Road, the last house in the village on this road, not a building beyond their bungalow on this road until you get to Upper Leemans, a mile and a half distant. Me and my best friend here do that walk each day. We do it in the evening this time of year. He’s a black dog, as you see, and, like all black dogs, he suffers dreadfully in the heat. That’s when I thought something was odd, walking past the Williamses’ on our way home, the lights went out at about eleven-fifteen on successive evenings.’

‘Any other neighbours share your concern?’

‘I am the only neighbour really. The people across the street are away and have been for a week or so. You see, they have asked me to keep an eye on their property, which I am pleased to do. I don’t know the Williamses well, but we are on friendly enough terms for them to be able to ask me to keep an eye on their house if they went away for a few days. Which all adds to my worry. The thing to do, I would suggest with utmost respect, is to contact their son.’

‘He’s in the navy?’

‘Yes, by sheer coincidence, he’s shore-based at Knaresborough.

At least, he was when Max and Amanda moved in. Could have been posted on by now, of course, but he’s not so distant that he can’t come home for the weekend.

Max told me about their son when they moved in. Anyway, it’s over to you, but I feel better for having reported it.’

‘You were right to do so. I’ll go and have a closer look at the building. If there’s nothing out of the ordinary, I think I will take up your suggestion and phone the Andrew.’

The Andrew?’

The navy.’

‘George.’

‘Sir?’ Hennessey looked up at the small, for a police officer, dapper, immaculately groomed man who stood in the door frame of his office.

‘Got a disappearance, I hear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything in it, you think?’ Commander Sharkey held an old-looking book in his hands.

Too early in the piece to say yet, sir.’ Hennessey picked up the phone. ‘Just contacting the relatives now.’

‘I see.’ Sharkey approached Hennessey’s desk. ‘Actually, I just stopped by to show you this. I found it in a charity shop, it’s a first-hand account of the Battle of Waterloo.’

‘Oh…’ Hennessey took the book from Sharkey. ‘How interesting.’

‘Knowing your interest, I thought that would be right up your street.’

‘I’ll read it this evening, sir. Thank you. I’ll let you have it back as soon as.’

‘Oh no, keep it. It hardly cost me anything, a few pence…I can run to that.’ Sharkey paused. ‘Speaking of pence…you’ll let me know if…’

‘Sir.’ George Hennessey smiled. ‘Please don’t worry…about the corruption, I mean. If there is anything going on, I’ll know and I’ll be the first to tell you.’

‘Yes.’ Sharkey nodded. ‘It’s just that I saw enough of that in Hong Kong to last a lifetime, enough to see me well out.’

‘Sir, believe me. There’s nothing, nothing for you to worry about. This isn’t Hong Kong. We are not in anybody’s pocket.’

Thanks, George. That’s a great comfort. I mean that.’

Sharkey left the room looking, thought Hennessey, a relieved man. He continued to dial the number. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said when his call was answered.

‘Morning, Lieutenant Home-Dawson, Officer Watch One.’

‘Chief Inspector Hennessey, North Yorkshire Police.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Wonder if you could help us?’

‘If we can.’ The speaker was a young-sounding, confident-sounding man.

‘Do you have a Lieutenant Williams with you at present?’

‘We might.’

‘I see. I can understand your caution. I might be anybody.’

‘Quite,’ but said with good humour.

‘Well, should you have a Lieutenant Williams stationed with you at the moment, would you be good enough to ask him to phone myself, please, Chief Inspector Hennessey, Micklegate Bar Police Station in York?’ Hennessey relayed the phone number. He added, ‘You could tell him not to be worried, it may well be nothing to be concerned about.’

‘Very good, sir. He’ll appreciate that.’

Hennessey replaced the phone and glanced out of his office window at Micklegate Bar, where the severed heads of traitors, rebels and enemies of the Crown were once displayed.

He glanced at his office, the police mutual calendar and the Home Office issue filing cabinet, of battleship grey.

It was, he felt, a dull, hard, cold office but any softening would be frowned on by the police authority. He had on occasion visited other places of work, offices in the private sector and the public sector, and had been envious of the comfort offered by a potted plant or a poster of a faraway place. He stood and made himself a mug of coffee in the detective constables’ room, carried the steaming mug of liquid through to his office and sat sipping it as he leafed through memos, reading each one and then initialling it to denote that he had ‘read and absorbed it’ and then returned them to the wire basket prior to carrying the basket of memos through to the detective constables’ room for each officer there to read and initial the memos.

Then his phone rang.

‘Hennessey,’ he said as he snatched it up.

‘Phone call for you, sir,’ said a nervous young woman on the switchboard. ‘A Lieutenant Williams.’

‘Oh yes. Put him through please…hello…Lieutenant Williams?’

‘Speaking.’ The voice was cold and aloof. Quite, quite different, thought Hennessey, from the warmth and friendliness of Lieutenant Home-Dawson. He also thought that Williams sounded older. Somehow, the enthusiasm of Home-Dawson did not extend to Williams.

Thank you for coming back to me so soon.’ Hennessey leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk top.

‘Shore-based,’ Williams said, and Hennessey picked up a sour note in his voice. He found it interesting, always having believed that a good measure of a person can be taken from their speaking voice, and because of this valued ‘meeting’ people by means of telephone. Here was sourness.