“We should try and get some sleep,” murmured Grant.

“Try being the operative word,” Frankel corrected.

Grant nodded in agreement, then shut his eyes. Frankel, knowing it was hopeless, leaned back and attempted to do likewise.

He was startled awake by the cabin lights coming on and the steward’s announcement that they would be landing in twenty minutes. Frankel noticed that Grant was in his familiar post—staring into space, lost in thought. He wondered if the Scotland Yard man had fallen asleep from pure exhaustion like he had.

Frankel suspected he had not. He noticed Grant was finishing a cup of what he figured must be English breakfast tea.

Rachel stretched and looked at the two of them. “Did either of you sleep?”

“One of us did,” Grant said. He motioned at Frankel. “He snores.”

Rachel chuckled. Frankel gave an apologetic shrug, then gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from a steward pushing a beverage cart up the aisle. He wanted to be wide awake to hear whatever update Sergeant Hawley had for them.

But Hawley wasn’t there to pick them up.

Grant said it was unlike the sergeant; punctuality could have been Hawley’s middle name, especially in all matters commander.

Rachel suggested Hawley had gotten the arrival time or terminal wrong.

“Does that sound like the man you’ve been chatting with?” Grant asked.

Rachel didn’t argue the point.

Frankel watched as Grant tried to reach Hawley on his cell but the call went directly to voice mail. He could feel that concern increase when he contacted the Yard and learned no one had heard from the sergeant since the previous evening.

Frankel looked up at a digital clock on the arrivals/departures board. Eight-fifteen A.M. “Perhaps he’s stuck in rush hour traffic?”

“And not picking up his mobile?” Grant hit redial and asked someone on the other end to run a trace on Sergeant Hawley’s car and phone.

Less than five minutes later, the Scotland Yard man’s phone rang.

“I’ll bet that’s him circling the terminal,” Rachel said hopefully.

Grant looked at the display on the cell. “It’s the Yard.” The conversation was brief. “Thank you,” Grant said. “I’ll start heading that way.”

He disconnected and turned toward his daughter and Frankel.

“They traced his car to Esher. It’s also the last place his cell registered.”

“Escher like the artist?” asked Frankel.

“It’s a village in Surrey. Not far from here actually,” said Rachel. She glanced over at her father. “Did they have an exact location?”

“I don’t need one. I know exactly where to go.”

Frankel didn’t like the way those words came out of Grant’s mouth.

They had the finality of doom all over them.

They caught a taxi and headed south for thirty minutes.