Free Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar

following day.
    I slip my hand into his—and squeeze—and hope this pressure will tell him my reaction was in no way a rejection of Matt Cassidy, only of Bayswater. But, after all, I remind myself: isn’t he the Great Clairvoyant? The Amazing Mr Mind-Reader? Surely he already knows.
    â€œThen what are you gonna do?” asks Walt. “Wander round the streets all night?”
    â€œWhy not? There’ll be more than enough going on. It’s all part of history and we don’t mean to let a single moment of it pass us by.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I say. “And even if we do change our minds I know my mother would be glad to put us up.” I plan to ring her, anyway, as soon as I get the chance—simply to say, Hello, isn’t this great, just listen to London. “Chesham’s only some twenty-five miles away.”
    Matthew grins. “In other words we could take the jeep and these two can walk or thumb a lift.”
    I agree, cheerfully. “Plenty of trams around! Pity about the taxis.”
    Trixie looks at Walt and gives a tolerant shrug. “The pair of them are loony but so far as I’m concerned they’re more than welcome to the jeep—eh, sweetheart? In any case, we won’t be walking. We’ll be flying, more like!”

9
    Thursday. I spend an aimless day on my own. Am unable to concentrate on books or newspapers or television. Go for a walk on Hampstead Heath and do a small amount of marketing, even a bit of vacuuming. Can’t stop worrying about my future. Or my past.
    I now look back almost with fondness on our hours of trekking round hotels.
    Cooking the evening meal is the only thing that affords me any true escape. All that cutting meat and bacon into cubes, peeling shallots, slicing mushrooms and onions, foraging for garlic and bay leaves and thyme, searing and browning and sprinkling and stirring. Pouring in cider. The sauce is rich, the chuck steak tender. By halving the quantities, I’ve cooked enough—allegedly—for three. Tom and I dispose of it with ease. He even wipes some bread around his plate, then round the cooking pot. “Perhaps,” he says, “we shouldn’t have gone to reception to ask about missing guests. We should have marched right into the kitchens to ask about missing chefs.”
    â€œIt would certainly have gotten us as far.”
    He tells me he’s employed a firm to phone the bed-and-breakfasts.
    â€œI’ve also been faxing off copies of that snapshot to various contacts round the country.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œTo try to identify the church. With a magnifying glass one can make out a fair amount of detail. I spent an hour at the Royal Institute of British Architecture. Hoped that Pevsner or some other authority might come up with the answer.”
    â€œI don’t see that it’s important. She was only a day-tripper.”
    â€œAny pudding?” he asks.
    â€œCheesecake.” I start to clear the dishes and Tom gets up to help. “No,” I say, “ I’ll do it!” My tone sounds testy.
    â€œWhy just you?”
    â€œEarn my keep.”
    â€œBalls.” He continues to help. He says after a minute, “No, I agree with you. About the photo. It does have an air of holiday. But at the moment it’s the only thing we’ve got.”
    He hesitates.
    â€œAnd if we locate that church it will at least give us an area to home in on. Maybe we could even publish the picture in the local press.”
    â€œIn the hope that our doing so will produce my father’s name?”
    â€œIt could do.”
    â€œI’d have thought he’d have produced it himself—if he was missing me.”
    Tom bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.
    â€œOh, sure. Not that anyone does appear to be missing me.” There hasn’t been any word from Herb Kramer. Nor from Sergeant Payne.
    â€œNo… Well, I’d say it now looks