She took a couple of paracetamols and sat in one of the oversized leather armchairs in the hotel’s gleamingly marbled lobby. Time passed. But her anxiety didn’t. She picked up a copy of the Financial Times that was lying on the table in front of her and turned to the shares page. Nishizaki were one of the FT500, priced at ¥10574, up slightly on the week, the only Japanese stock listed that had gone up rather than down.

Who was Wada kidding? Nishizaki was unchallengeable, certainly by the likes of her. She might as well—

That was when the reception clerk materialized beside her, smiling broadly, and announced that a package had just arrived for her.

They went to the desk, where the clerk handed her the parcel. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Could you prepare my bill, please? I’m going up to clear my room, then I’ll be checking out.’ The decision, now she’d taken it, seemed inevitable, even though her plan for what to do next was still barely half formed in her mind.

‘You’re leaving us today?’

‘Yes. I am.’

As Holgate had said, there was a hell of a lot for Nick to take in. The Stapletons sympathized with him in that respect, having learnt more about Martin Caldwell in the previous twenty-four hours than they had in all the years of being his close neighbours. They described the events following Mimori Takenaga’s arrival on their doorstep the day before and Barry Holgate recounted how he’d followed up the deaths of Peter Ellery and Alison Parker as a reporter in June 1977. If Nick now understood why Mrs Takenaga had answered Caldwell’s phone, there was much he still didn’t understand, but he wasn’t alone in that either.

The Stapletons had heard nothing from the police. According to Holgate’s contact on the Force, however, the search for the intruder – described by Mrs Takenaga as an unusually tall Japanese man – was continuing, despite no reported sightings of him after leaving the house. As for Mrs Takenaga herself, it was assumed she’d gone back to London. ‘I don’t think this case is being given much priority,’ Wally Stapleton complained. ‘These days, a burglar has to murder you in your bed for the boys in blue to take much notice.’

‘It’s complicated but not serious.’ Holgate treated them to a cynical smile. ‘So I’m afraid it probably won’t get much attention.’

‘They won’t even be looking for Martin, as far as I can tell,’ lamented Joan Stapleton. ‘Not missing, they say. Just away from home.’

‘The answer to all this,’ said Holgate with a degree of relish he couldn’t quite disguise, ‘goes back forty-two years. I’m certain of that.’

‘And what is the answer?’ asked Nick.

‘Ah, well, there you’ve got me. But I reckon it must be something to do with you.’

‘Me?’