Timber Wolf arrived punctually, looming large in his Loden coat and tweed hat. He grinned and wiped his glasses on a red-and white-spotted handkerchief as he joined Charles at the table. ‘You bring your English weather to Brussels. We are usually grateful for British imports but our negotiators should insist on a tariff on this one.’

‘All part of the Brexit export drive. How long have you got?’

‘Not long, less than an hour. We are very busy preparing for the next round of talks.’

They ordered straight away. Then, with a bottle of Timber Wolf’s favourite Chianti open before them, Charles put his arms on the table and leaned forward. ‘Thanks for fitting this in at such short notice, Eddie. I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t urgent.’

Timber Wolf nodded, his eyebrows slightly raised, his expression receptive. Charles took out his pocket diary, laying aside the folded piece of paper marking that day’s page. He pretended to consult the short list he had written in the diary. ‘There are three things. Firstly, Gareth. Have you heard from him?’

‘No. Is he still ill?’

‘No. At least, we don’t think so, though it’s possible. He was around at the end of last week and seemed okay but since then he’s gone missing. We simply don’t know where he is.’

Timber Wolf’s small eyes widened behind his spectacles. He put down his glass and sat back. ‘You mean he . . . you can’t find him? He’s not at home?’

‘Not at home, not at work, not anywhere that we know of. And not a word to anyone. He hasn’t tried to ring or email you or anything?’

‘Not at all, I have heard nothing. Could it be an after-effect of his tropical illness that causes him to lose his memory or become depressed?’

‘We don’t know, we just don’t know.’

‘What was his illness, exactly?’

A good act, Charles thought, assuming it was one. Timber Wolf’s question suggested confidence in his own abilities, perhaps over-confidence. Although a natural question, it was unnecessary, a self-indulgent tease designed to put Charles on the spot and see how he coped. ‘Seems to have been one of those Third World bugs in the bowel things, like liver-fluke but not liver-fluke. Not a fever, either, not something that turns the head, but debilitating, very debilitating. Has an exotic name I can’t remember. Curable with drugs, fortunately, usually without after-effects but not invariably. We’re at a loss for what to do.’ He hoped his own act was as good. He wanted Timber Wolf to feel on top of things, to feel he was in control.

‘Have you asked the police to help?’

‘Yes. They’ve launched a missing persons inquiry and checked hospitals to see if he’s had a heart attack or something, but no news.’

‘How terrible for Suzanne.’