“Thanks for taking care of things here. You survived?” He played down any hint of anxiety in his voice.

“I enjoyed it. Max spent most of the weekend working on those papers you two were studying on Friday night. He’s got them all across your desk, I’m afraid—I hope you don’t mind. Listen, Alex, I can’t chat. I’m at the wheel on my way to a commercial shoot. But tell me, is Lucy all right?”

“I think so. Siân, tell me quickly about the envelope in the kitchen?”

“Put through your door on Saturday. Max and I lunched at the Rainforest Café, and it was there when we came home. It had something in it, so I didn’t leave it in the hall. Is there a problem?”

“Not sure. Any idea who left it?”

“Sorry, no. What is it, Alex?”

“Lucy’s chain, and that key of Will’s which I had copied for her. They tore it from her neck on Friday night in France. That’s a statement—for it to arrive here next day.”

Siân felt the same threat. “Should I talk to Calvin?”

“Yes—if you would. But I’m late for the hospital now. I’ll have to phone you this evening. Listen, thanks for this weekend.”

“No problem, Alex. Love to Lucy.” Her voice wavered.

HIS SECRETARY WAS WAVING AT HIM AS HE WALKED IN. HE WAS WANTED urgently by Dr. Anwar who’d been assisting in surgery since the early hours. Jane Cook had left him a message; one of his students was looking for him; and Mr. Azziz would be here from Harefield shortly: could he join him around eleven for coffee?

“Oh, and you’ve been asked to step in for Dr. Franks and lecture tomorrow evening at Imperial about T-cells, if possible.”

He smiled. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet. Welcome back, Alex, he thought.

“Don’t panic, Emma. Say yes to everyone, and I’ll find Zarina Anwar now.”