On a piece of paper I scribbled down the options. What I was left with was 1. Peter was not answering his phone or emails because he didn’t want to. 2. Peter was not answering his phone or emails because he couldn’t. This second possibility led to further options: a. Peter was dead. b. Peter was sick or injured. c. Peter was being prevented from answering his phone or emails by person or persons unknown.

I found myself wanting to tell someone. Oliver? He would be dismissive. I thought of other colleagues I was on friendly terms with, with whom I occasionally lunched or grabbed a quick drink at the end of a particularly long day. Over the years I’d been confided in. Steph’s messy divorce, James’s stint in rehab, Petra—her face entirely expressionless—telling me that she wished she’d never had children. But none of them would do. Suddenly I knew who I wanted to talk to.

Not possible. Not possible.

Midmorning I called around the hospitals to ask about unidentified admissions. They told me to contact Missing Persons, but that would be a job for Patricia if it came to it. Instead, I searched the Internet for Peter. I sought him here. I sought him there. But he eluded me. There were so many Peter Whites, enough to fill a football stadium, and although I peered among their ranks, I could not find the distinguishing mark that would identify my own. Nor was I surprised. Peter had given me his views on social media, on “maintaining an online presence” during a stroll by the river a few years before.

“You’ve heard of Bentham?”

“’Fraid not, Peter.”

“He was one of those eighteenth-century types. Did a bit of everything, philosophy, law, social reform. When he died, they stuffed him and put him on display at UCL.”

“Seems a bit harsh.”

“Oh, it was what he wanted.”

The Thames hurried past like a man on urgent business. The rain and wind were coming every whichaway and had deterred most other strollers. I had come out without an umbrella, so Peter was trying to shield both of us with his.

“I think you’re digressing. Tell me how Bentham has prevented you from posting updates about your cats on Facebook,” I said. “Mittens seems a bit sad today. Or, Mittens stole my sandwich.”