‘Well, it looks that way,’ Smale backtracked. ‘He said there appeared to be some clothes missing. Jackets, suits, that sort of—’

‘What about his car?’

‘That’s still there. But the railway station’s a ten-minute walk, with trains to London every hour.’

‘Did Barnes talk to him last night?’ asked Osborne.

‘Yes - he made his final call at half past seven and says Chief answered as usual, with nothing to report. He was just getting ready to go over for his morning pass-by when I rang.’

Osborne harrumphed. ‘Well, if Chief doesn’t see sense now and let the chap have the spare bedroom, I don’t know what we do. This system clearly doesn’t work.’ He turned back to Smale. ‘What about neighbours? Has Barnes had a chance to ask around yet?’

‘Most people are at work. But he said one local claims to have heard a car around nine last night.’

‘What time did you leave, again?’ I asked Pritchard.

‘Around then,’ he said, meeting my gaze. Yes, he suspected me, all right.

Osborne took his glasses off, decided they were dirty, and rubbed them on his tie, smudging them even more. He nodded at Smale, who scurried over to the trolley and put the kettle on.

Farraday was looking at Osborne. ‘Chief received the Slavin dossier as soon as it arrived?’ he asked.

Osborne glanced up, red indents from his frames either side of his nose. ‘Yes - he was sent it yesterday morning. Why?’

‘Well, because within twenty-four hours of receiving it, he’s disappeared, that’s why!’ said Farraday.

I asked him what he was implying.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Paul,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I know you’re close to the old man. But there is a link with this Grigorieva- Maleva - you’ve just told us so yourself. Mighty suspicious, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ I said.

But Farraday was on a roll. ‘What could that be, though?’ he pressed. ‘According to this file you’ve dug up, which Chief himself wrote,’ - he stabbed a long finger at the initials at the top of the page - ‘she died in 1945. Either he’s lying or the dame in the photo ain’t her.’ His attempt at hard-boiled American vernacular was painful, and thankfully he dropped it at once. ‘But it does look rather a lot like it is her, doesn’t it?’

The kettle whistled and everyone suddenly busied himself with passing cups and saucers around. Chief’s empty chair suddenly looked very bare.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Godsal. ‘It’s unthinkable! I mean . . . I mean . . .’ He searched for a way to get it across. ‘We’re talking about Chief, for God’s sake!’

‘The same Chief,’ said Farraday, ‘who conspicuously failed to catch Philby and fluffed the Cairncross business. And like them and the rest of the rotten bunch, he’s a Cambridge man.’