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visit to one of his patients, a woman ill with bronchitis. The television had been on in her bedroom, all her six children sitting there watching it. When he tried to examine her she had protested angrily at his request that the set be turned off.
    ‘I pull the plug out now without a by-your-leave,’ said the doctor. ‘If the TV’s on or their video I don’t ask any more, I pull out the plug.’
    Wexford would have liked to do that. He would have done it if he had had just a fraction more evidence for disquiet over Rodney Williams. It was curious that Joy, who had come close to pestering Dora for his attention, was now making it plain she didn’t want him there.
    ‘Will you show me the statements?’
    She turned her head reluctantly. ‘OK, if you want.’ He had put his request very politely as if she would be doing him a favour and she responded as if she was.
    It didn’t take her long to find the statements. She wasn’t going to miss more of her programme than she had to. As he began to look at the statements she leaned across and summoned a little sound out of the television, so that shrieks, exclamations and commentary were just audible. He wondered what could possibly distract her, what real event or shock, and then he knew. The phone bell. Somewhere, elsewhere in the house, the phone began to ring.
    She jumped up. ‘That’ll be my son. My son always phones me on Thursday nights.’
    Wexford returned to the monthly bank statements. Each one showed the sum of 500 pounds paid into the account more or less at the beginning of the month. A salary cheque apparently. Several objections to that one. Williams’s salary had been 25,000 pounds a year and there was no way 500 pounds a month, even after all possible deductions, could amount to as much as that. Secondly, the sum would vary, not be a set round figure. Thirdly, it would be paid in on the same day of the month, give or take a day each way, not sometimes on the first and sometimes on the eighth.
    It was evident what had been going on. Williams had another account somewhere into which his salary was paid. From that account he transferred 500 pounds a month into the account he had jointly with his wife. If this was so, and it must be, it was going to be useless asking Joy, as he had intended, if her husband had drawn on their joint account since his disappearance.
    Sevensmith Harding would make no bones about telling him where this other account was. The problem would be the intransigent bank manager refusing to disclose any information about a client’s account. He looked at the April statement again. Five hundred pounds had been paid in on 2 April. No May statement had yet been sent to Mrs Williams as May was only half over.
    She came back into the room, looking brighter and younger, her face more animated than he had ever seen it. She had been talking to her son, her favourite.
    ‘I’d like you to give your bank a ring,’ he said, ‘and ask them if the usual five hundred was paid into the account at the beginning of the month. Will you do that?’
    She nodded. He asked her to tell him about the last afternoon and evening Williams had spent at home. Rod had mowed the lawn in the afternoon, she said, and then he’d taken her shopping to the Tesco discount. She couldn’t drive.
    ‘We came back and had a cup of tea. Rod had a sandwich. He didn’t want more than that. He said he’d get something on his way to Ipswich. Then he went upstairs and packed a bag and left. He’d be back on Sunday, he said.’ She gave one of her dull laughs. ‘And that was the last of him. After twenty-two years.’
    ‘What did you do for the rest of the evening?’
    The?’
    ‘Yes, what did you do? Did you stay at home? Go out? Did anyone come here?’
    ‘I went over to my sister’s. She lives in Pomfret. I went on the bus. I had something to eat and then I went to my sister’s.’
    ‘And Sara?’
    ‘She was here. Up there.’ Joy Williams pointed to the ceiling.