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were married. I asked James if he had slept with her and he denied it.’
    ‘So he’s an adulterer and a liar. You worked on some murder cases with James before. Anyone from the past likely to have surfaced?’
    ‘I thought about that. They’re all still locked up or dead.’
    ‘Maybe relatives? Friends?’
    ‘Could be.’
    ‘Here’s your sandwich. Eat.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘So what are you going to do to help James? Sit wallowing in some unreal world where it’s all your fault?’
    ‘Charles!’
    ‘Snap out of it, sweetie. Martyrdom is ruining your looks.’
    Agatha glared at him. ‘My husband is missing, maybe dead, and all you can do is insult me?’
    ‘That’s what friends are for.’
    Agatha proceeded to tell him between bites of sandwich exactly what she thought of him.
    Charles listened amiably and, seeing she had finished eating, called for the bill. ‘We’d better get back,’ he said. ‘There may be more news.’
    James Lacey stumbled in a daze along the waterfront at Bridport in Dorset. Night was falling. His head throbbed and he had no idea how he had got there, only that he seemed to have been wandering for days.
    Suddenly a squat little woman wearing a yachting cap appeared in front of him. ‘Why, it’s James, James Lacey! You look a mess.’
    Somehow his dazed mind registered her identity. ‘Harriet,’ he said.
    ‘We’re about to set sail for France. Tubby’s on the yacht. Look at your head. There’s dried blood in your hair. What have you been up to?’
    ‘Bar brawl,’ said James, fighting away a memory of a swinging hammer and crashing furniture. ‘I’ll be all right.’
    He knew some awful memories of what had so recently happened to him were about to come flooding back. And in that moment he remembered a monastery he had visited once in Agde, in the south of France. He remembered the cloistered peace, the sun slanting through the cloisters. He suddenly felt if he could get there, he would be safe.
    ‘Can you take me to France?’
    ‘I think you should go to a doctor and get that head examined.’
    ‘It’s just a bit of blood. Worse than it looks. I’d really like to get away, Harriet.’
    ‘Got your passport?’
    James searched in the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Yes, I have,’ he said with something like surprise. He tried to remember why he had his passport but could not.
    ‘Luggage?’
    ‘No luggage. I sent it on ahead,’ said James, improvising.
    ‘You look as if you’ve been sleeping in those clothes. It’s a good thing I know you to be a respectable gentleman or I would start to think you were on the run from the police.’
    ‘Not from them,’ said James. Harriet looked up at him curiously and then gave a little shrug.
    ‘Come along, then. We’re nearly ready to set sail.’

Chapter Three
    Three weeks had passed since the disappearance of James. Agatha had railed at the police. In these days of modern communications, someone must have seen him somewhere. He had not packed any clothes, although his passport was missing. He would have to buy clothes somewhere, draw money. There must be a trace of him.
    But there was nothing.
    It had been established that the blood in the cottage and in the car belonged to James. Bill told her they were still waiting for the results of further tests on hairs and threads and other bits and pieces carefully scooped up by the forensic team, but these days, he said, the lab was overloaded.
    It is not only the police who suspect the nearest and dearest of murder. When Agatha went to the local pub or shopped in the village store, she could sense an atmosphere when she walked in.
    She sank even deeper every day into depression. She had barely the energy to get out of bed, and when she did, she wandered around in a shapeless house-dress. From time to time, she would feel with a stab of deeper pain that she should be out roaming the countryside, looking for James. Then she would remember that the police were looking for him with