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stable employee, Lee Furness, been related to Jordan?
    These would be my next lines of inquiry into the matter.
    As well as the e-mails, there was a thin, translucent blue pocket folder that had been left on my desk by Crispin Larson, chief analyst in the intelligence section. There was a short, handwritten note paper-clipped to the front:
    Jeff, Enclosed came via RaceStraight. Worth a look, methinks. Use your customary dark methods to scour the land. Toodle-pip, Crispin.
    A blue folder indicated that the intelligence section believed it to be a matter worth pursuing but that it was not particularly urgent; those came in red folders and needed dealing with immediately.
    Crispin Larson was, in my view, totally obsessed with security. He started out with the assumption that every phone and every computer connected to the Internet was hacked and nothing should be sent by external e-mail unless you were prepared to have it read by others. Hence, he persisted in delivering the blue and red folders to investigators’ desks personally.
    I glanced up at the clock. The hands had miraculously moved on to eight minutes to eleven without me having watched them once since ten-twenty.
    Could I call the hospital yet?
    I dialed the number and, after being put through to the correct department, was informed by a firm but polite voice that Mrs. Calderfield had not yet gone down for the surgery. She was still waiting in her room.
    Poor Faye.
    The waiting must feel interminable. I now wished I’d gone to be with her, but she had insisted she would be fine with just Quentin.
    I watched as the clock’s hands moved reluctantly to eleven o’clock.
    Thinking about Quentin reminded me of Kenneth’s missing ex-friend. I dug the solicitor’s business card out of my pant pocket and dialed her direct number.
    â€œDiane Shorrocks,” said a female voice briskly.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Shorrocks,” I said. “You don’t know me, but my name is Jeff Hinkley. I’m Kenneth Calderfield’s uncle.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Hinkley,” she said slowly. “How can I help you?”
    â€œI’d like to look at the Crown’s evidence bundle for Kenneth’s case.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Hinkley, but that would be impossible without Mr. Calderfield’s written authority.”
    â€œI only want to find out the name of the person who provided a statement to the police. Could you look for me?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Hinkley,” she said again without sounding it. “I am unable to discuss anything about the case with you, or with anyone else for that matter, without Mr. Calderfield’s express permission. It would constitute a breach of client/solicitor privilege.”
    â€œOh,” I said. “Well, I’d better get a written authority, then.”
    â€œYes,” she said, “although my client has his own copy of theCrown’s case. He would be at liberty to show it to you, if he so wished.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
    I hung up and rang Kenneth’s cell instead.
    He answered at the sixth ring just as I was beginning to think he wouldn’t.
    â€œHello,” he said in a bored-sounding monotone.
    â€œHello, Kenneth, this is Jeff Hinkley, your uncle, Faye’s brother.”
    â€œI know who you are,” he replied without any enthusiasm.
    â€œYour father has asked me to try and help you out of your present predicament.”
    â€œI can’t think how.” He sounded as if he had already given up hope and was resigned to his fate.
    â€œKenneth,” I said sharply, “are you guilty?”
    â€œCall me Ken,” he said. “Only my father calls me Kenneth. And, no, I’m not guilty.”
    â€œThen please stop sounding like you are. Do you want my help or not?”
    â€œYes I do,” he said, “but I can’t see how you can.”
    â€œLet me be the judge of that. Now,