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.‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she said in a studiously cordial voice.‘Won’t you come in? I’m Susan Chetwood.’ Closing the door, she gestured with a gracious unfurling of one hand for Joe to follow her across a low, flagstoned hall with raspberry-coloured walls and oak furniture and sporting paintings in heavy gilt frames topped by brass picture-lights.A pass-door led into the more austere regions of the kitchen quarters.At the end of a short passage Susan Chetwood paused in a doorway to switch on some lights before ushering Joe into a study.‘My husband will be along in a moment,’ she said.‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your lunch.’‘Not at all.’ She gave the smile of an accomplished hostess for whom nothing short of complete catastrophe could ever justify the slightest show of bad manners.She made a graceful exit, and Joe looked around a low-ceilinged room dominated by furniture made for a much larger house: a huge kneehole desk that would have satisfied the ego of a dictator, and, taking up almost the entire length of two walls, matching mahogany bookcases in the monumental style, with columns, pediments, and diamond-paned glass doors.Beyond the desk, on either side of the window, were photographs of three golden-haired blue-eyed children, two girls and a boy: on ponies, with and without rosettes; running around a swimming pool; in school photographs and sports teams.In a couple of the shots Susan Chetwood appeared with her children, and you didn’t have to be a genealogist to spot the likeness.Beside the door were pictures of smiling fishermen standing on river banks, and shooting parties with shotguns, panting dogs and dead pheasants.There were no photographs of Chetwood.The sharp rap of heels resonated in the passage.Joe stood back as the door opened and a moth-eaten golden labrador waddled in followed by a tall figure of about sixty, of upright bearing, with a long mottled face and lugubrious slightly bloodshot eyes.He wore a tweed jacket, twill trousers and country-check shirt, a little tight around the collar.His thin greying hair was combed back, with no attempt to disguise the bald heavily freckled crown, and his boots shone like chestnuts.His handshake was brisk and distinctly hostile.‘McCarthy Never met, have we?’‘McGrath, actually.No.I was a friend ofjamie’s.We were at university together.’‘University? But he only stuck it a week.’‘Well… a couple of terms.’The hooded eyes measured Joe unenthusiastically.‘My wife tells me you have some idea of finding him.’ He made this sound like a thoroughly offensive proposition.‘I’m going to try.I was wondering if you could suggest anyone he might have stayed in touch with.’‘What exactly is the purpose of this search?’ There was something in the way the older man spoke, a slight sibilance, a peculiar emphasis, that made Joe suspect he was well fortified from lunch.‘Jenna’s family have asked me to look.They’re desperate to find her.’Mr Chetwood lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes.'Jenna?' Then, affecting to hazard a guess: ‘Ah, the wife - is that it?’Joe was careful not to dignify this with an answer.‘She stuck it out then, did she? Well, well.’Selecting a neutral tone, Joe asked, ‘So … is there anyone you can think of?’Mr Chetwood slotted both hands into his jacket pockets, bar two precisely angled thumbs, and canted his elbows backwards like a turkeycock.‘I don’t follow you.’‘Anyone Jamie might have kept in touch with, anyone he was particularly close to?’‘Can’t help on that score.In fact, not on any score.James was a stranger in this house.’‘What about when he was growing up? Friends in the neighbourhood?’Mr Chetwood raised a scornful eyebrow.‘None that he didn’t offend or insult at the earliest possible opportunity.’They stood facing each other across the gloomy room.Somewhere in the passage a door banged, a woman gave a rich laugh.‘What about at school?’‘I have no idea.’ Whenever he spoke, the older man had a way of lifting his chin and squinting down his nose, as if sighting down a barrel.‘His housemaster then.Could you give me his name?’‘Never met the man.’Joe made an incredulous face.‘Never?’‘He had his job to do.I assumed he got on and did it.’A stubbornness came over Joe then, a determination not to be bullied.‘Friends who came to the house, then? Who came to visit him?’‘Merer‘Yes.’The chin came up double quick.‘James went his own way from a young age.I didn’t care to meet his friends.’Choosing to take this as a compliment, Joe gave a slight bow.‘What about his brother and sisters?’‘He has no brothers or sisters.’Joe corrected himself diligently.‘Well, half-brothers and sisters.’The drooping warrior-eyes regarded him unblinkingly.‘James has no place in this family,’ he announced with biting precision.‘He forfeited it many years ago.He does not belong here.He is not welcome here.I’d turn him away if he came begging at my door.I think that answers your question!’Joe gazed into the stony face and said, ‘But he used to be a member of your family.’‘In the sense that he was fed, housed and educated by me.One does one’s duty.In my case, one does substantially more than one’s duty.’ Mr Chetwood snapped his mouth shut with something like fury, and, dropping his hands from his pockets, braced his shoulders.‘I think that concludes the matter, Mr … McCarthy.I have guests waiting.’He made a move towards the door, the dog scrabbled to its feet and lumbered forward, but Joe in his indignation was there before either of them.‘Perhaps you could tell me, Mr Chetwood - I’d really like to know - what did Jamie do that was so bad? What was his crime exactly?’The old man’s eyes seemed to bulge a little.‘Not something I choose to discuss!’‘But tell me - I’m curious - did he hurt someone?’The old man’s stare hardened
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