‘We are very fond of Mr Rapoport. My parents and I just want him back, safe and sound. Should we increase the reward, do you think? Please help us, Inspector. He could be wandering around, not knowing who he is, or how to get home.’

My tears were sincere enough to terminate the interview. ‘We’ll talk again at the end of the week, if nothing turns up,’ grunted the inspector, seeing me off the premises. ‘You know where to find me if anything comes to light.’

I took a taxi back to the office, where Father was distractedly sifting papers and two young constables were interviewing our staff one by one, in the corridor. The phones had stopped ringing. Someone had opened a window. Aunt Mabel was standing at my desk.

‘A word with you, young Martin,’ she said.

‘Of course, Auntie.’

‘In private.’

The only secluded place in the doorless office was the ladies’ lavatory, with its clanking, dripping cisterns and porcelain wash-basins. Aunt Mabel strode inside, checked the individual closets, beckoned me in and planted her five-foot frame solidly against the emulsified oak door. ‘Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she demanded.

‘What do you mean, Auntie?’

‘Your father’s out there mourning the destruction of Jerusalem, your mother’s at home going off her head – “Edwin’s gone,” she said, when I dropped round. Why did she call him Edwin? Did he have some hold over her? I told you I never trusted that Polish boy. You are the only one in the pack, Martin, who has his head screwed on, so tell me, before I blow my top, what the bloody hell’s going on.’

‘There’s no more to tell than you already know, Auntie. Dovidl didn’t turn up for his concert. We don’t know why, and neither do the police. They have launched a nationwide search.’

‘I can read the newspapers for myself, Martin,’ she said icily.

‘Now, I’m going to ask you once more, nice and polite, and if you give me any flannel, I’ll ram your swollen head down the bog until you cough up some sense. This is my family that’s being messed about. Violet and Mortimer have no idea what’s hit them and you’re just a whipper-snapper with a fancy college scarf. So give me the low-down and let Auntie Mabel see what she can do. Any dodgy business I need to know about? Any nasty friends?’

There was no point in prevaricating. I told her about the gambling, the syndicate, the Maltese debts. ‘Thought as much.’ She sniffed. ‘My Kenneth is a bit of a night-owl. He told me he saw your friend at the Tinkerbell Club, but was too pissed to be sure. Now we know.’

‘What will you do, Auntie?’