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if we can help, we will. Same telephone number, is it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘No glamorous new office?’
    ‘I fear not!’
    Minutes later they stood together watching him walk away.
    Davina’s eyes had narrowed, her husband noted with a sinking heart. She said, ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident – Neil’s car crash, I mean. Maybe he killed his wife and the guilt drove him to suicide! He could have driven into something deliberately.’
    ‘And pigs could fly, Davina!’ He sighed loudly. ‘Make us another pot of tea, dear – it will calm you down.’
    Two days later, as Donald Watson waited at the reception desk in Henley’s police station, Detective Sergeant Ackrow walked past, paused and turned back.
    ‘Watson! Is that you?’
    ‘It is indeed and I was just asking for you.’
    The Detective Sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘What have I done to deserve this unexpected pleasure?’ Glancing at the clock on the wall he said, ‘I’m due at a meeting in half an hour but I can spare you a few minutes if it’s urgent.’
    ‘It’s urgent enough.’
    ‘Come through here then.’ He was a large man, large frame, large hands and feet and a large square face. His voice matched his size, and when he raised his voice, everyone sat up a little straighter. DS Ackrow led his visitor to a small room where they normally interrogated suspects. A gloomy room with sparse furniture and a single light bulb overhead from which dangled a sticky fly paper.
    ‘It’s about the Matlowe case,’ Donald explained, as they sat down. ‘And please spare me that look!’
    ‘What look?’
    ‘The one I recognize from seven years ago! There have been some new developments. I’ve had . . .’
    ‘Why do I know I’m not going to be happy about whatever this is!’ A look of resignation settled over the detective’s face, making him look lugubrious.
    ‘I’ve had contact with a young man named Richard Preston who is the—’
    ‘Preston? That rings a bell!’ He looked puzzled.
    ‘The younger brother of Leonora Matlowe née Preston.’ He watched the policeman’s eyes light up with recognition. ‘He’s now twenty-three and wants to find his sister. He’s been looking in America without any luck and now . . .’
    DS Ackrow held up his hand imploringly. ‘Haven’t I got enough on my plate? There’s a robbery, a suspected suicide beside Henley Bridge, a suspected arson at a timber mill on the other side of the town – a fireman died.’
    ‘I heard. Poor blighter.’
    ‘So if it’s not important I’d rather not hear any more, Mr Watson.’
    ‘He’s not asking you to reopen the case. Richard Preston has engaged me to check out everything we did before and find anything new that might be significant.’
    ‘What makes him so sure she’s still alive? We began to suspect foul play, if you remember. Mrs Matlowe stirred up a can of worms but when we switched our attention to her son she changed her tune – and by then he’d taken off.’
    ‘All I’m asking,’ Donald said patiently, ‘is to know whether or not there have been any developments or leads in the years between then and now that might warrant a follow up. He’s coming to England – might even be here already for all I know – and will be hoping for something, if not much.’
    The detective shrugged. ‘When I have a moment I’ll have a quick glance through the file and if I find anything worth passing on – which I doubt – you shall have it. Will that do?’
    ‘Most certainly will. Thanks.’
    ‘Just don’t drag us into it unless it’s something spectacular. We’re pretty well up to here at the moment.’ He held a hand up to his chin and stood up. ‘You at the same address?’
    ‘Yes.’ He stood up also and reached for his hat.
    The detective said, ‘I’ll send someone round tomorrow with anything I find.’
    It wasn’t much but Donald was satisfied. He’d worked with DS Ackrow and knew he was a man of his word. And so the search begins, he told himself with