He began his search in the most obvious place – the small, book-lined snug-cum-study at the front of the house, that Terry had always liked to refer to as his library. In the walnut writing bureau he certainly found a lot of papers – bills, bank statements, even Terry’s passport. But not what he was looking for.

Trying to quell a sense of mounting panic, he went through the bookcases, but found nothing hidden either between or behind the books.

Next he went upstairs, where he found the second, spare bedroom empty of everything except a bed and a wardrobe. He commenced searching the main bedroom. In the bedside cabinet, however, he only found an old Edgar Wallace paperback that Terry had been reading, along with an electric torch and a bottle of aspirin. On top of the cabinet there was only a small portable alarm clock – the kind that folded away into a small, hard, square leather-bound case when not in use, or when you needed it if you were travelling away from home.

In the bathroom cabinet there was nothing but the usual toothpaste, toothbrush and shaving gear.

He searched under the mattress. He lifted the Axminster rug at all four corners and peered underneath. He went to the wardrobe and searched through the pockets of any garment that happened to possess them.

With a growing sense of panic he went to the kitchen – a last resort – but found nothing but tins of this and that in the cupboards, a half-empty box of cornflakes standing beside the draining board, and only the usual array of cutlery in the cutlery drawer.

Of the piece of paper he was looking for, there was not one sign.

For a moment he leaned despairingly over the sink, his hands shaking a little as he tried to think. It wasn’t at his office, for he’d already searched it from top to bottom, and now it didn’t seem to be in Terry’s home. Where else hadn’t he looked?

He could only hope the police hadn’t already found it. But would they have any reason to search the belongings of the victim of a motor car smash? He hoped not. Because if they had found it, he’d be …

Motor crash! Of course! Geoffrey Thorpe let out a breath of relief. Terry’s car! He could have kept it there. Not that Terry owned a car as such, choosing instead to drive around for weeks at a time in one or other of their sports cars. But he had his favourites.

He drove to the car showroom, cursing every weather-related delay, even though he was glad (for once) that the atrocious weather had kept the salesrooms closed. He certainly didn’t want curious staff watching what he was doing. He made his way to the large, freezing and deserted showroom and searched all the cars that Terry favoured. But their glove compartments and side-door pockets were bare.