‘Do your best,’ he said. ‘This is a police matter.’

He ate lunch at his desk then, still sore and aching like a bastard, he drove over, parked up, and walked into a reception area packed with soft worn-looking sofas, dusty ficus plants, and copies of the Financial Times and Tatler piled on a glass coffee table.

‘Mr Leigh’s expecting me,’ said Farmer, flashing his warrant card. ‘I phoned earlier.’

The receptionist – a middle-aged brunette running to fat – sniffed and went red in the face. ‘Go on up,’ she said grudgingly. ‘It’s the first door on the right.’

Farmer trudged up the stairs. It hurt. At every step, he thought of Poulter in the pub, smirking. At the top, he knocked and entered. A chubby florid-faced man in his fifties was sitting there, looking up at him expectantly from behind a pile of papers.

‘DI Farmer?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Please come in. May I s-see some ID?’

Farmer showed him, then sat down. ‘I spoke to your receptionist and asked if you could give me information about the purchase of a flat in Clacton by one Donald Maguire. I understand you did the conveyancing.’

‘Yes, I d-did. For the, for the flat, and f-for a house too.’

Farmer noted the man’s stammer. ‘Mr Maguire has since gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘It’s assumed he went abroad.’

‘H-he’s a policeman. I do r-remember that.’ Leigh was frowning. ‘Missing?’

‘That’s why I’m asking about the flat. His wife – Mrs Fiona Maguire – has no knowledge of such a purchase.’

‘I see. Well – I h-have all the documents for the s-sale here, including the, the deeds to the p-property.’

‘Can I take them away?’

‘I’m afraid n-not.’

‘Photostat?’

‘Yes. O-of course.’ Leigh picked up the phone. ‘Sandra, can you, can you c-copy some documents for me, p-please.’

There was a heavy tread on the stairs and the receptionist came in. Leigh handed her a bundle of papers. She shot a look of dislike at Farmer, and went out of the room.

‘Missing, you say,’ said Mr Leigh.

‘Yes.’ Farmer got out a card and handed it over. ‘If there’s anything else you ever think of that relates to Mr Maguire, please get in touch with me. That’s my personal extension number.’

Leigh picked up the card. ‘This is all a long time ago,’ he said.

‘I understand that. And it’s a confidential matter, Mr Leigh. Just between us.’

Mr Leigh looked at him. ‘Is this an o-official police enquiry, DI Farmer?’

‘No. It’s not. This is off the record.’

Silence fell between them. Farmer didn’t bother to fill it, because he thought Leigh might say something more. The man seemed nervous. But the mere presence of a police officer was enough to make some people edgy. Minutes ticked by.

Then Sandra was back. She placed two piles of paper on the desk in front of the solicitor and left the room again.

Mr Leigh shuffled one pile together and handed them across to Farmer. ‘There y-you are.’