It hadn't been the best week I'd ever had.

On Monday I'd lost my job. Actually, that's a euphemism. I hadn't 'lost' my job at all. I knew exactly where it was. The simple truth is that on Monday I'd been fired.

On Tuesday my wife had walked out on me. No warning. No explanation. Just packed her bags and gone. I'd got back from a training session at the gym and found that she'd taken everything from the flat that either belonged to her or was of any value. She hadn't even left a note.

On Wednesday morning I lay awake in bed trying not to think of either of those things and struggling to get back to sleep. When I heard the little click that the alarm clock always makes a second or so before it starts to ring I reached over and switched it off. There wasn't much point in getting up early; there wasn't much to get out of bed for. The day was likely to be long enough as it was.

My world had fallen apart at 9.35 am on Monday when the managing editor had told me that the paper was, with reluctance, 'going to have to let me go.'

'It'll give you an opportunity to stretch your talents elsewhere,'he'd said, without even blushing. I wondered if I'd have liked it more if he'd been blunt about it. 'We don't like you. You're fired. Get out. Life's tough.' Probably not.

I knew why they'd done it.

For six years I'd been the paper's chief investigative reporter. As long as I confined myself to writing about the sort of crooks who wore masks and carried sledge hammers they'd been happy. But I'd written too many stories about financial crime in the city and they hadn't gone down well with the paper's owners. To avoid any confusion I ought to make it clear that it was my stories that hadn't gone down well. The crimes hadn't gone down badly at all.

To begin with there had been a few subtle warnings. The news editor had sent me up to Manchester to cover a murder trial. I'd spent two weeks there and had sent back about fifteen thousand words of copy. They'd used two paragraphs and one of those had been from an agency reporter.

But I've never been very good at taking hints. When I got back to London I carried on doing some research into computer fraud in one of the City's leading banks. When the news editor had told me that they couldn't use the story I'd passed the information I'd acquired on to the police.

That hadn't really been a bright career move. The man who'd founded the paper just happened to be a director of the bank.

I'd known that when I'd started the story but I've always been a stubborn bastard.

I was still a stubborn bastard, but now I was an unemployed stubborn bastard.

I shuffled out of the bedroom into the kitchenette. I love the way estate agents make up words like 'kitchenette'. It sounds sweet and neat. In fact it means that even they are embarrassed to call six square feet of space a kitchen. I gulped down a glass of orange juice and staggered back into the bedroom. I rummaged around on the floor by the side of the bed until I found my grey tracksuit. Finding my running shoes took longer. One shoe was under the bed and the other was half buried under a pile of dirty washing. I was beginning to live like a slob. It wasn't out of character. I felt like a slob.

The three mile run round the park woke me up but it didn't make me feel any better about myself or the future. Apart from breakfast I didn't have any plans for the future. I cooked mushrooms, tomatoes, scrambled eggs and vegetarian sausages. I gave up eating dead animals three years ago.

I made breakfast last as long as possible. I read the morning papers, made toast under the grill and drank two large cups of black coffee. The smell of the coffee and the toast should have made me feel better but it didn't. At ten I finished the crossword. The only thing left to read in. the paper was the page listing the share prices and I wasn't quite that desperate. I dumped the dirty dishes in the sink and wandered back into the bedroom. I had planned to get changed but I'd only got one clean shirt and I thought I'd better keep that in case I really needed it.

I shrugged, wiped a blob of marmalade from the front of my tracksuit and headed for the door. I had to get out. I didn't know where. Just out. The postman had delivered two bills and a bank statement. I tossed them onto the table in the hall. I knew exactly how much I'd got in the bank without looking.

As I left the phone started to ring. I ignored it. I couldn't think of anyone in the world I wanted to speak to. I suddenly realised that since I'd left the paper I hadn't spoken to a single, living soul. Unless you count a few words to the checkout girl at the local supermarket.

Downstairs in the underground car park I found that someone had slipped a note underneath the windscreen wipers of my car. It was the usual threatening note from the insurance broker who lives in Flat 3D and is chairman of our building's Residents' Committee. He pointed out that my car overhung my parking bar by 17 inches and that it was a potential inconvenience to other residents. I crumpled the note up and tossed it into a nearby litter basket.

My car is a steel grey Bentley S 1. I bought it three years ago with money I earned from a book about mass murderers. It was built in 1958 for a long forgotten and recently dead actor who had more taste than talent. I bought it partly because I liked it, partly because it was a bargain I couldn't refuse and partly because I thought it was probably a good investment. I've never been much good with money. There isn't any point in my putting money into a bank or building society account. I just draw it out the following week and spend it. But I knew that I wouldn't sell the car unless I became desperate.

As I slipped the key into the lock I wondered how long it would be before I became that desperate. The red leather seats were cracking with age but they still felt firm and comfortable. And, as always, the engine started first time. The car needed servicing every 2,500 miles but it was worth it. It cost me a fortune in garage bills and the 4.8 litre engine rarely managed more than 12 miles to the gallon but it never let me down.

I drove down St John's Wood Road, past Lord's cricket ground, and turned left heading for Baker Street. The roads around London are so clogged with traffic these days that it is usually quicker to drive straight through the centre of the city. Everyone else expects the city centre to be one big traffic jam so they keep well away.

The gym I usually use is in South London, on the other side of the river. It's unfashionable, dirty and patronised almost exclusively by fighters or would-be fighters. I'd never found a better way of keeping fit than working out at a gym with young, tough, aspiring professional boxers. They aren't there because it's fashionable to work out or because they want to look good; they are there because they are hungry for success.

About two years ago I tried one of the new, smart city gyms that have sprung up to cater for businessmen who want to keep fit. I paid my several hundred pounds membership fee and went there twice. There was plenty of shiny, chroniium-plated equipment but I didn't feel comfortable there. I like my work-outs to be real not superficial. I walked out of the smart gym when I heard two guys who were supposed to be training discussing the price of copper. In a real gym no one talks. They may grunt occasionally but they don't talk. Anger and sweat are the two most vital ingredients for a good work-out and there was very little of either in the upmarket city gym.

I parked the car on the piece of wasteland that adjoins the gym and gave Johnny a couple of coins to keep an eye on it. Johnny is about sixty and used to be a fighter. His brain was slightly scrambled when he prolonged his career by one fight too many but he's still lean and hard and the local kids don't mess with him. He always hangs around so that he can look after cars. I gave Johnny the keys so that he could sit in the car if it rained.

I was about ten feet from the door to the gym when I heard someone call my name.

I turned and saw someone I vaguely remembered standing by a small BMW on the other side of the road. He wore a blue two piece suit with a white silk shirt and a cricket club tie that I recognised. He had one arm half raised, presumably to attract my attention. It wasn't really necessary. The road where the gym was situated isn't exactly heavily populated. There was no one else in sight.

'Mark Watson?' he said, holding his jacket together as he ran across the road. 'My name's Michael. Sunderland, I'm sorry to bother you.'

The ten yards run seemed to have winded him. He was in his late twenties but already had a noticeable paunch. It was, however, his eyes which caught my attention. They looked hollow. He looked haunted and exhausted.

I took his outstretched hand and shook it gently. It felt plump and podgy.

'Can I talk to you?' he asked, breathlessly. 'It's very important.'

'Sure.' I remembered why I knew him. He worked in the advertising department of the paper I'd just left.

He looked around. 'Is there somewhere we can go?'

'There's a cafe two hundred yards up the road.' I told him. The only people who used it were the guys from the gym. None of them were likely to be there at this time of day.

Sunderland pulled his car keys out of his trouser pocket and started to head back across the road towards his BMW. I caught his arm.

'Let's walk,' I said. I waved to Johnny and signalled for him to keep an eye on the BMW as well.

Neither of us spoke during the walk to the cafe. Once inside I ordered two large mugs of tea and two plates of bread and butter. The owner doesn't like people going in there just for a drink. We sat in silence until the drinks and the food came.

'I hope you don't mind my coming to you,' began Sunderland. He tried to pick up his mug of tea but his hands were shaking too much. He put it down again quickly.

'What's the problem?' I asked. 'Why me?'

'I didn't know who else to go to.'

I picked up a slice of bread and butter, folded it in half and bit a chunk out of it. George uses ordinary thick sliced white bread and unsalted butter but his bread and butter always tastes better than anyone else's. I've never understood why.

'Peter Norton suggested I talk to you.'

I recognised the name. Peter Norton is one of the paper's staff lawyers. He's more than an acquaintance and not quite a friend.

I put three large spoons of sugar into my tea and stirred it carefully.

'I don't know where to start.'

Suddenly, I noticed that he had tears in his eyes. It was a long time since I'd seen another man cry. I looked down feeling uncomfortable. I know crying is supposed to be really healthy but it always embarrasses the hell out of me. 'Start at the beginning,' I told him. I've always been an original thinker.

He licked his lips and took a deep breath. It was clearly all a tremendous effort. I didn't know how to make it easier for him. I just waited. .

'I got married ten days ago,' he blurted out suddenly. 'I married a girl called Barbara. You might have seen her. She works in the classified ads department.'

I tried to place her.

'Blonde, about five foot ten, always dresses well. Very pretty.'

I nodded. I'd seen her. It wasn't too difficult to remember her. She was more than just pretty'.

'Beautiful girl. You're a lucky fellow.'

He nodded and tried to pick up his mug again. His hands were still shaking too much for him to hold it.

'Go on.' I said, after a few moments silence.

'We went to Paris for our honeymoon. It was marvellous. The most wonderful time of my life. Everything was perfect. The hotel. The weather. The food.'

I started to say something about it not being perfect if he'd noticed the weather but stopped myself just in time. I'm not often tactful and I felt proud of myself.

'Three days ago it was time to come back. We had about an hour to go before we needed to catch the bus to the airport so we went to the Caf6 de la Paix near to the Opera for a last coffee.'

I nodded. I knew it well.

'We'd left our luggage at the hotel and were planning to get a taxi up to the bus depot at the top of the Champs d'Elysee and pick up our bags on the way.'

I nodded again.

'I ordered the coffees and then decided to go to the loo before we set off for the airport.' His whole body was shaking now. I reached out and put a hand on his arm.

'I wasn't away more than a couple of minutes at the most,' he went on. 'When I got back Barbara was gone.' Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

'At first I just thought I must have mistaken the table,' he went on. 'Then I thought that maybe she had slipped off to the ladies. Or gone outside to buy a newspaper or a magazine from the kiosk on the pavement.'

'But she didn't come back?'

He shook his head. 'I asked around,' he said. 'But the only person who remembered her was a German woman. She said she'd seen Barbara leave with another man. She said he was about medium height, heavy build, balding and wore a thick tweed overcoat.' He paused. 'I asked her for a good description in case it was someone I knew.'

'But it wasn't?'

He shook his head again. There was a lot of nodding and shaking going on.

'So, what did you do then?'

'I still half expected her to reappear,' said Sunderland. 'It all seemed like a nightmare. I couldn't think what could have happened or where she could have gone.'

I could see that he was making a real effort not to break down completely.

'I waited at the cafe for another half an hour and then I went to a telephone, called the airport and told them that we wouldn't be making the flight.'

I nodded encouragement. He needed it.

'The German woman who'd seen Barbara leave said she'd gone willingly with the man in the tweed overcoat after he'd told her something that had made her cry,' Sunderland said. 'I couldn't understand any of it. I couldn't understand why she'd left, why she hadn't left me a note, why she didn't come back.'

'What did you do then?'

'I went back to the hotel. Our cases were still behind the receptionist's desk where we'd left them. But no one had seen Barbara. I managed to re-book a room for the night and left a message there for Barbara in case she showed up. Then I raced back to the cafe and left a message for her there too. I tried giving the message to one of the waiters but he suggested I taped a note to her onto the glass doors at the front of the cafe.'

'I take it that she still hasn't turned up?' I said. 'You haven't heard from her at all?'

He shook his head.

'How long did you wait in Paris?'

'Another 24 hours. I tried the police, the British Embassy and the local hospitals. I tried everyone I could think of.'

'What did the police say?'

'They didn't seem very interested.'

'What about the Embassy?'

'The same. Everyone seemed to think I was making a fuss about nothing. They all said that I should just go home and that she'd probably turn up in a few days.'

'How long had you known Barbara before you got married?'

'Two years,' he answered. 'We'd lived together for six months.'

'What made you get married?'

He blushed. 'We wanted to start a family.'

'As far as you know did she have any friends in Paris?'

'She'd never been to France before. She didn't even speak French.'

'Had you met anyone while you were over there?'

He shook his head. 'We were on our honeymoon,' he reminded me. 'We didn't want to be with anyone else. We didn't even go on any of the coach tours that were part of the trip.'

'Did she have any money with her when she disappeared?'

'The police wanted to know that. She had 50 or 60 pounds I think. Mostly in sterling.'

'Did she have her passport?'

He nodded.

'Did she suffer from any health problems? Epilepsy? Diabetes? Anything like that?'

'No. Nothing.'

'And the hospitals hadn't admitted anyone answering her description?'

Another shake of the head. 'I actually managed to get someone from the Embassy to ring round all the hospitals that I hadn't been able to check. But there was nothing.'

'When did you get back to London?'

'The day before yesterday. In the evening. As soon as I got back I rang round her friends in London. No one had heard anything. Then I telephoned the police. They said that since it happened in Paris it was nothing to do with them.'

'And then you went to see Peter Norton?'

Another nod. 'He's a good friend. I've known him for years.' Why did he suggest you talked to me?'

'He said we had to consider the possibility that she might have been kidnapped. He said you knew more about crime and criminals than anyone else he knew.' He paused. 'He said I could trust you.'

'Have you received a ransom note?'

'No.'

'Nothing at all?'

'Nothing.'

'Did Peter tell you that you could find me here?'

'He gave me your phone number, your home address and this address. I tried to ring you last night and this morning but there was no reply. So I came here.'

I picked up my mug and took a long, slow drink from it. 'Can you think of anyone who would want to kidnap her?'

'No.' He paused. 'We don't have enough money to make it worth anyone's while.' He said it as though he was slightly embarrassed.

'You don't have rich parents?'

'My father is a painter and decorator in Reading. He and my mother live in a semidetached house.'

'What about your wife's parents?'

He shook his head. 'Barbara's parents aren't rich either.'

'Have you any enemies?'

'Enemies?' He seemed startled by the question.

'Anyone who would want to harm you?'

'No.'

'Has Barbara?'

'No, of course not.'

I took another bite out of the slice of bread and butter and washed it down with a gulp of sweet tea.

Across the table Michael Sunderland took out a linen handkerchief and noisily blew his nose. It was a long time since I'd seen anyone use anything other than a piece of crumpled tissue for nose blowing. 'I just don't know what to do,' he said, very softly. He looked forlorn and lonely; a bewildered and frightened man who had, probably for the first time in his life, come into contact with the dark realities of the world. He looked straight at me; his plump pink cheeks tear stained and his eyes lifeless and almost empty of hope. 'I don't know what to do,' he said quietly. 'Will you help me?'

I didn't know what to do either but it was easier for me to stay tough and sound optimistic.

'Yeah,' I promised. 'I'll try.'

Back