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so-called friend’s name,” I said.
    â€œDaniel something,” he said. “Foreign name. It’s in the CPS bundle. I’ll get it for you on Monday.”
    â€œCan I see the whole file?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll try, but I really shouldn’t be having anything to do with it.”
    â€œThen don’t. Tell me who to talk to and I’ll get it from them.”
    â€œYou’ll have to approach Kenneth’s solicitor. It’s a woman.” He said it as if he didn’t fully approve of female lawyers. “I have her card somewhere. I’ll give it to you before you go.”
    â€œWhere is Kenneth?” I asked.
    â€œHe sits in his flat most days just feeling sorry for himself.He’s been suspended from his pupilage pending the outcome of the case.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he spend his time looking for the missing friend?”
    â€œIt’s a condition of his bail that he can have no contact with the Crown’s witnesses.”
    â€œ
Witnesses
plural?” I asked. “Who are the others?”
    â€œThe police mostly. Arrest officers, search officers, and so on. And then there’s also the drug analysis company.”
    â€œIs it legal for me to have any contact with the friend?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œWhat could be the consequences?” I asked.
    â€œIf you found him and then the friend complained that you’d been in contact, Kenneth would probably lose his bail. So be careful. It’s also possible that you might be arrested for attempting to pervert the course of justice, although that’s unlikely.”
    â€œHow unlikely?”
    â€œVery unlikely, I’d say. Unless, of course, you offered him money or threatened him in order to get him to change his story.”
    I might need to do both.
    Faye and Lydia came back downstairs.
    Quentin looked at his watch. “I have a client conference call in five minutes,” he said. “Don’t leave until after I’m finished.” It was more of a directive than a request.
    â€œWe mustn’t be too long,” I said hesitantly.
    â€œBut you will stay to lunch, won’t you?” Faye asked anxiously. “I’ve got a whole fridge full of food that needs eating before Monday. Q will eat at his club all week.”
    I looked at Lydia.
    â€œYes, we’d love to,” she said. “I’ll help you.”
    â€”
    WE DIDN’T LEAVE until well after two, by which time Faye was exhausted. So much for us not making her tired.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, again unnecessarily, as Lydia and I stood on her doorstep to say good-bye. “It’s not the cancer or any treatment that makes me so tired, it’s more because I’m not sleeping very well at the moment.”
    â€œDarling Faye,” I said, “you don’t have to apologize. It is all our fault for staying so long.”
    She gave me a big hug while whispering ever so quietly into my ear, “Now, Jeff, get along and marry Lydia, won’t you. I want to still be round for my little brother’s wedding.”
    She pulled back and smiled at me.
    Oh God, I thought. Now what do I do?

4
    O n Monday morning I took the Tube from Willesden to the British Horseracing Authority offices in High Holborn, to my desk in the Integrity, Licensing and Compliance Department, more commonly referred to as the racing security service.
    I sat for an hour and tried to reply to the multitude of e-mails that had accumulated unanswered in my in-box during my week away in Cheltenham, but I wasn’t really concentrating. My mind kept wandering off to what was happening three and a half miles away at the Royal Marsden Hospital.
    Faye had been admitted at six that morning and was scheduled to go to surgery as the second patient of the day for the surgeon.
    I wondered what time that would be. How long would his first operation last? How long for Faye’s?
    I had asked Quentin