A short, spare man in his 50's, trim of moustache and military of bearing, was crouched over doing something important with a spade and flowerbed. Whe... he saw he had visitors, he arose to greet his guests."Commodore, fancy meeting you here, and whose this with you? James? Is that you? You look so ... different. Say, I'd heard you'd been picked up." Do you mind us just dropping by like this, George?" asked James, kindly. "I'd hate to put you out." Oh, not in the least. It's just myself these. I approach the receptionist— a uniformed officer — safe behind a plate glass screen. He could be a constable. I'm not sure. I clear my throat."Yes sir?" My name is Joseph McEwan," (it feels strange to use my full name but surely this is the occasion for it?). "I have an appointment to see Sergeant Borland at 9.30. It's about my wife. She has ... has disappeared." I can hear my voice trailing off as I get to the end of my little speech.The official narrows his eyes and inclines his head slightly. More

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