‘That is Miss Reid,’ she said. ‘My companion. A tiresome person in many ways but invaluable. You will be dealing with her in future.’

‘If I take the job.’

She raised an eyebrow. The gesture caused hundreds of tiny wrinkles to spring into life all over her face. Her skin was old-leaf yellow. She had a thin nose and mouth and all the life in her face was around the eyes. They were dark and still large although flesh had fallen in around them. They looked disconcertingly young in that ancient face.

‘I am of course Lady Catherine Chatterton.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t be flippant, Mr Hardy. The world is not a flippant place and neither is the situation I am about to confront you with.’

She sounded as if she had thought it all out so I let her have her say. Something about her voice, firm with the stamp of the right breeding and the right schools on it, struck a note in my memory. I’d been in court five or six years before when her late husband had handed down one of his savage judgements. It hadn’t worried me, I’d been on the winning side, but the manner and tone of voice of Justice Sir Clive Chatterton had stuck. Making allowance for the sex difference, this was the same stuff — measured, arrogant, utterly self-assured. I couldn’t have been flippant to save my life.

‘I want you to find my grandson.’

‘The police have a missing persons department,’ I said. ‘They’re experts.’ You have to tell them that. It’s like reading them their constitutional rights. They never listen. What she said in reply sounded like ‘Tsshaw’ and might have been.

‘He’s been missing for many years. The police would not have the resources or the flexibility the matter needs. Besides, I have been told that you are…‘ she hunted for the word, ‘discreet.’

That was nice. Not brave, not clever. Discreet.

‘Who told you that?’

She waved the question and everything to do with my professional standing aside.