“Thank God for that,” he responded with feeling. “I’m too much of a gentleman to tell you about some of the potentials that have been thrust my way since I got here. Just suffice it to say I wasn’t so much put off by their charms as scared to death of them.”

Andee had to laugh. “Well, hopefully Graeme has told you that we’re not into matchmaking unless it’s specifically requested.”

“That was her decision,” Graeme informed him as Dan entered the large kitchen, where his host was concocting something that smelled so delicious it made Dan’s stomach growl with unseemly impatience.

“Don’t worry, we have canapés to be going on with,” Andee chuckled. “I’ve set them up outside in the garden, but let me get you a drink first. Wine? Gin? Vodka?”

“A white wine would be great,” Dan responded, dropping his battered leather briefcase on one of the sofas that flanked a magnificent fireplace before going to shake hands with Graeme. “You’re looking good,” he told his old friend, who indeed always did, and always had, although there was plenty of silver in the thick dark hair these days, and the increasing intensity of his expression might have intimidated those who didn’t know him. It only took a smile to transform his features completely; the trick was getting the smile.

It wasn’t slow in coming among friends. “You’re not looking too bad yourself,” Graeme responded, “and we’re one short for the cricket team this summer, so I’ve signed you up.”

“Another attempt to get me to go out more?” Dan replied, pleased to be asked.

“Unless you’ve lost that unerring eye for the boundary,” Graeme replied, “we need you,” and reaching for the TV remote he was about to turn off the news when Andee said, “Hang on. Let’s just listen to this.”

The large screen over the fireplace was showing a five-story house on a well-heeled London street that had featured in several bulletins over the past week, so it was generally known to be the home of the recently convicted financier Marcus Huxley-Browne. However, during the past few days the focus had switched from the man himself to his wife, Rebecca, and stepdaughter Cara, who apparently hadn’t been seen since the end of the trial.

At that moment a smartly dressed detective captioned as DI Carl Phillips was ending a statement to the press.

“. . . I’m afraid there’s no more we can tell you at this stage, but if anyone has information regarding Mrs. Huxley-Browne’s whereabouts, or that of her daughter, we’d ask them to please get in touch.”

“Do you suspect foul play?” a female voice called out.

The detective didn’t answer; he was already merging into a small group of officers standing in front of the house.