‘Reykjavík … Iceland?’

‘Of course.’ He was beginning to sound tetchy now.

Wada thought as quickly as she could, which she sensed wasn’t as quickly as usual. ‘Ah, I think a friend of mine is staying there. Martin Caldwell.’

‘Mr Caldwell? From the UK?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was staying here. But he left … two days ago.’ What? Why was Caldwell in Iceland the day before he was due to meet her – and Nick Miller, apparently – in London? Wada couldn’t imagine what that signified.

‘Did he say … where he was travelling on to?’

‘I wasn’t on duty when he left. Back to the UK, maybe?’

Maybe. Yes. Maybe. ‘Did he—’ Wada broke off. A man had appeared at the foot of her bed. He wasn’t a doctor. There was no white coat. It was hard to tell exactly what he was. A plain clothes police officer? Too old, surely. He was a thin, rumpled, slightly stooping man of seventy or more, bald, bespectacled, but keen-eyed and alert. His tweed jacket and corduroy trousers hung off him as if he’d lost quite a bit of weight since buying them, although that didn’t look to be recently. ‘I will phone again,’ she said, ending the call.

‘Didn’t mean to interrupt,’ the man said. ‘Mind if I come in? The nurse seemed to think it’d be all right. They know me here, you see. I’m what you might call a regular.’

‘A regular what?’ Wada asked suspiciously.

‘Visitor. Patients who don’t have family or friends dropping in like a chat with someone from time to time. I do my best to oblige. Glad to see you’re well enough to, er … be making calls.’

‘I don’t want a “chat”, thank you, Mr …’

He smiled ambiguously. ‘Holgate. Barry Holgate.’ He studied her reaction for a moment, then added, ‘I think you might recognize the name.’

She did. He was the reporter who’d written most of the newspaper articles kept by Caldwell. ‘You are a journalist, Mr Holgate.’

‘Retired journalist, actually, though I still do a bit of freelancing, when I’m not hospital visiting. I’ll clear off if you say the word. Or you can get me frogmarched out of here by pulling that red cord behind your bed. But you don’t want to do that, do you? Mind if I sit down?’ Without waiting for an answer, he perched himself on a chair beside her. ‘I’ve still got contacts on the Force. They told me about the to-do at eighteen Barnfield Hill. So I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Caldwell’s collection of cuttings dated from the late seventies, according to your statement, and that means my name was on most of them. Correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘That whole episode is unfinished business as far as I’m concerned. So, Mrs Takenaga … I was rather hoping you could fill me in on what Caldwell’s been up to.’