‘Do pretty girls always chase after you?’ said Ross.

William turned around to see one of the young Iberian booking clerks running towards them.

‘Can I take a closer look at that photograph?’ Blanca asked.

William took the photo out of an inside pocket and handed it to her.

She studied the man’s face for some time before she placed a hand over Faulkner’s forehead and continued to look even more closely. ‘Yes, I’m confident it’s him. One of the first-class passengers on the flight to Barcelona was bald. When I queried the photo in his passport, he told me he’d just had his head shaved, even produced the bill,’ she said, pointing to a barber shop on the other side of the concourse.

‘His first mistake,’ said Ross.

‘Do you have a name?’ asked William.

‘Ricardo Rossi. I remember, because according to his passport he was a dress designer.’

‘I’d kiss you,’ said Ross, ‘but I’m not allowed to.’

‘How disappointing,’ she said, and kissed him on both cheeks before returning to her desk.

‘I wish I lived in Brussels,’ said Ross. William didn’t hear him because he was already on the move, having spotted that the sign on the barber’s door was being switched from ‘Ouvert’ to ‘Fermé’. The security man chased after him and quickly produced his pass. The door was reluctantly opened a few inches.

‘Did you shave this man’s head yesterday evening?’ asked William, holding up a photograph of Neville.

‘I wasn’t here yesterday,’ came the gruff reply. ‘It would have been Carlo, and today’s his day off. If the customer’s got a complaint you can come back in the morning.’ The door slammed and the blind was pulled down.

‘Are we off to Barcelona?’ asked Ross when they returned to join him at the check-in desk.

‘Not much point,’ said William. ‘By now Faulkner will have flown on to his next destination and once again evaporated into thin air. We may as well go home and face the music.’

‘Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news?’ said Ross.

‘I can’t wait.’

‘You’re going to have to, because the last flight back to Luton has just taken off.’

William looked around at the rows and rows of hard plastic seats, before he asked, ‘What’s the good news?’

‘I’m having dinner with Blanca.’

• • •

Danny picked up two dishevelled, yawning detectives off the first flight from Brussels the following morning. Neither of them had slept.

‘Inspector Thomas has just called,’ he said as they climbed into the back seat. ‘They didn’t find any of Miles Faulkner’s prints in the Mercedes, but they found several of his wife’s.’

‘That would explain why there was no one to pick her up from the church.’

‘But there’s better news on the chauffeur’s cap,’ said Danny. ‘One thumb and an index finger turn out to be a perfect match with Faulkner’s right hand.’

‘So,’ said Ross, ‘it appears that right now Miles Faulkner, aka Captain Ralph Neville, is holed up somewhere in Spain under the name of Ricardo Rossi, dress designer.’