A touch of the remote control, and the garage door glided upward to receive the Rolls. “We’re home,” he said to Clare, who had her eyes closed.

Originally an early nineteenth-century farm building, the house had been completely gutted and converted, an undertaking that had cost him nearly ninety thousand pounds, but it had been worth it. On the open market there would be no shortage of buyers at an asking price in excess of a quarter of a million.

They went into the huge, split-level lounge with its massive natural-stone fireplace, large enough to roast the traditional ox if the log fire had been real. He pressed the ignition button and the living-flame gas jets plopped into life and licked hungrily at the sculptured logs. The instant warmth and the friendly red glow from the flickering flames increased his good humour to the extent that he was only mildly irritated to see that Clare had gone straight to the bar and was pouring herself a drink. Well, at least she had rationed herself at the function, so he’d let this one go by without comment.

“I’ll just give the Taylors a ring to make sure Karen’s all right,” he told her.

“Why shouldn’t she be?” his wife snapped.

A touch of jealousy there, he thought. He’d been noticing it more and more of late.

Loosening his bow tie, he walked over to the phone and jabbed at the push buttons.

Debbie’s parents were in bed. It was her father who eventually answered the phone, yawning loudly and at first not taking in what Dawson was saying. “No, Max, Karen’s not here. Isn’t she with you?”

Dawson stared at the phone in disbelief. Had the fool gone mad? “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted. “She was going to the cinema with Debbie, then spending the night with you. It was all arranged.”

“I know,” yawned Taylor. “Debbie waited outside the Odeon, but Karen never showed up. We assumed you’d taken her to the dance with you.”