‘OK,’ said her husband, ‘look at it that way.’ He was very fond of his wife, he valued her and quickly felt guilt over his frequent enforced neglect of her. This time any neglect would be as if by design, the result of that bone-deep need of his to unravel mysteries. ‘Don’t give me that Gorgon face. I’ve said I won’t let this spoil your holiday and I won’t.’ He touched her cheek, gently rubbing it. ‘And now I’m going to have my bath.’

Not much more than twelve hours later he was walking the path to Mirna. The sun was already hot and there was a speedboat out in the bay. Carpet sellers had spread their wares in the market place, and the cafés were open for those who wanted coffee or – even at this hour – plum brandy.

The Bosnia, most of it mercifully concealed by pines and ranks of cypresses, looked from close to, with its floors in plate-like layers and its concrete flying buttresses, more like an Unidentified Flying Object come to rest in the woods than a holiday hotel. Wexford crossed a forecourt as big as a football pitch and entered a foyer that wouldn’t have disgraced some capital city’s palace of justice.

The receptionist spoke good English.

‘Mr and Mrs Nyman checked out last evening, sir.’

‘Surely they expected to stay another three days?’

‘I cannot tell you, sir. They left last evening before dinner. I cannot help you more.’

So that was that.

‘What are you going to do now?’ said Dora over a late breakfast. ‘Have a hilarious cops and robbers car chase up the Dalmatian coast?’

‘I’m going to wait and see. And in the meantime I’m going to enjoy my holiday and see that you enjoy yours.’ He watched her relax and smile for the first time since the previous evening.

The Nymans were at the back of his mind all the time, but he did manage to enjoy the rest of his holiday. Werner and Trudi took them to Mostar to see the Turkish bridge. They went on a coach to Budva, and the members of the taxi boat syndicate ferried them from Mirna to Vrt and out to Lokrum. It was in secret that Wexford daily bought a London newspaper, a day old and three times its normal price. He wasn’t sure why he did so, what he hoped or feared. On their last morning he nearly didn’t bother. After all, he would be home in not much more than twenty-four hours and then he would have to take some action. But as he passed the reception desk, Dora having already entered the dining room for breakfast, the clerk held out the newspaper to him as a matter of course.

Wexford thanked him – and there it was on the front page.

Disappearance of Tycoon’s Daughter, said the headline. Beachwear King Fears Kidnap Plot.

The text beneath read: ‘Mrs Iris Nyman, 32, failed to return to her North London home from a shopping expedition yesterday. Her father, Mr James Woodhouse, Chairman of Sunsports Ltd, a leading manufacturer of beachwear, fears his daughter may have been kidnapped and expects a ransom demand. Police are taking a serious view.