“This is not a social call,” the young one says.

“It certainly is not.”

“Can we suggest you pop into your living room, the pair of you, and give us twenty minutes?” the Scotsman says, attempting a smile but already spreading his arms and herding them toward the door of the teleroom. “Sit there.” He points toward the futon. “We’ll not be long. If all is well.”

“Can we at least dress ourselves?”

“No, sir. Stay exactly where you are.”

“I’m cold.” Leonard regrets admitting it at once. It has made him sound too timorous and frail. Foolish fragile feeble flimsy frail, he thinks.

The Scotsman puts a reassuring, warning hand on Leonard’s upper arm. Bare skin. “We’ll not be long,” he promises.

“I also have a shoulder condition.” Leonard winces at the policeman’s touch, more from embarrassment and cold than any honest pain.

They are not long. But they are noisy. Francine and Leonard listen to the thump of feet on the floorboards above, the unlocking of cupboards and the slamming of doors, the rolling open of drawers. They hear the scrabble of a dog, and finally see it, a rangy, heavy-hipped Alsatian, with its handler, first on the patio, picking up the scent of cats, and then tugging on its lead toward the little outbuilding and the garbage trolleys. The Scotsman has not left the room. He’s minding them, but he has the good manners not to stare directly at them as they sit, with four bare knees, four bare arms, and their nightclothes. He does, though, study Francine, watching her reflection in the window glass. He can smell, as Leonard can, the sleep on her, the loose ends of the perfume she used the night before. He has every reason to admire her legs and hair. He does not turn when she and her husband start whispering. “I’ll ask you not to talk. Just yet. If you don’t mind,” he says, and then adds — requiring no reply and not inferring any approval either—“Interesting place you’ve got.” By interesting, he means eccentric and suspicious.

Within thirty minutes they are done. The policeman with the local accent puts his head round the living room door and tells his colleague, “Not a sign. We’re clean,” and Francine and Leonard are thanked for their patience and asked to go upstairs — without a minder — and to dress. “What’s going on?” they ask each other, as soon as they are out of earshot and pulling on the first clothes they can find in their disordered bedroom.

“It’s something to do with you, I think,” Leonard says. “With school?”

“You think it’s Celandine?”

“It isn’t Celandine. They haven’t even heard of Celandine. That isn’t it.”

“What, then? What do you think they’re looking for?”

He shrugs. “Search me. Whatever it is, we haven’t got it, have we? Or they haven’t found it.” Some kind of error, they decide. Some farcical blunder.

“The wrong address entirely?” Francine suggests.

“They have your name. They called you Mrs. Lessing, didn’t they? They do know who you are.”

Their house has almost emptied. Only the NADA agent remains. When Leonard and Francine return downstairs, ready to demand explanations, he is standing in the living room, studying the row of historic framed jazz posters on the wall — old concert programs signed and personalized for Leonard by Carla Bley, Dave Douglas, and Natty “the Gnat” Nicolson, an older generation of jammers.

“Play an instrument?” he asks, addressing neither of them in particular and not waiting for an answer. He stabs his finger at the folder he is holding. “Everything is here,” he says. “The tenor saxophone, yes?” and he looks up, smiling, much amused, it seems. “Happy birthday, Mr. Lessing. It’s today. Correct?”

“Some birthday,” Leonard says.

“Apologies if we have spoiled the festivities. Some questions, though. Then I’ll hope to leave the two of you in peace.” He flashes his photo fob and agent ID for a second time but holds them steady, requiring Leonard and Francine to verify the details. His name, Leonard is unnerved to read, is Rollins, though Simon rather than Sonny. He pulls his folder open and holds up a photograph. “Do either of you know, have either of you seen, this girl?”

“No idea,” says Francine, spreading her hands and fingers as if to say, Enough of this.

Leonard takes a half step forward. Puts a hand out. “Let me see,” he says. He knows the face at once. It’s clearly Lucy Emmerson, aged about fourteen and not yet sexy and theatrical but puppy-plump and bored. The hair, though, is unmistakable, already thick and piled. He holds her portrait with both hands, because he’s shaking slightly. Not Francine, then. He’s the one they’ve come for. It’s about the “kidnapping.” Why had he ever doubted it? He makes his mind up straightaway. This photo’s three or four years old, an imperfect likeness. He can lie about it if he wants. It’s best not to volunteer any information but to stay his hand. There’s nothing on his conscience, nothing illegal anyway. Whatever they have found to link him to this girl’s disappearance cannot be against the law, unless buying alcohol for a minor or driving with wine in his bloodstream is a serious enough crime to warrant the attentions of so many men. This is just routine, he suspects. Heavy-handed and routine. Someone, maybe Nadia, has mentioned his long-past connection with Maxie. The police are simply checking, as they should, given that they must believe this kidnapping is genuine. He will not betray his new young friend. He owes her that.

“It isn’t Celandine, that’s for sure,” he says.

“You’ve never spoken to this girl? Lucy Katerina Emmerson. Either of you?” He lets them shake their heads before turning to another printout sheet. “Then please explain the phone log that I have for calls made and received within the past forty-eight hours by phones registered to you. Thursday night, ten-seventeen p.m.: a male using your cell, Mr. Lessing, calls Lucy Emmerson’s grandfather, seeking her home number. Ten twenty-eight p.m.: a male using your cell, Mr. Lessing, speaks to Lucy’s mother, claiming to have located her stolen bike—”

“What is this, Leonard? Is this you?” Francine has whitened again.

“The same male also talks with Lucy herself, according to her mother. More about the bike, she thinks. Friday, nine-oh-two a.m., that’s only yesterday: Lucy Emmerson calls this same number, Mr. Lessing, from her own handset. That conversation lasts, let’s see, for thirteen minutes. There’s more.” He smiles again. Rollins is warming to his task. “Five thirty-six p.m., last evening. Somebody, could be anyone who has access to your handset, Mr. Lessing, reaches this young woman’s answer service but, in spite of being invited to ‘do what you have to do,’ chooses not to leave a message. Two minutes later, five thirty-eight p.m., a man using your cell again, Mr. Lessing, speaks to Miss Emmerson’s grandfather at the family home. And that conversation lasts for just four seconds. Though long enough for us to make a note of it—”

“Bravo,” says Leonard.

“Now, let me show another face to you.” He does not even hold it up for Francine but hands it immediately to Leonard. It’s Maxim Lermontov, a recent formal photograph with a police detention tag attached to it and a committal number. “Ring any bells with you?”

“It’s the guy who’s taken hostages.”

“Know him personally?”

“Used to. Once. Long time ago.”

“Seen him recently?”

“Haven’t seen him since, oh, 2006.”

“Been in touch in any other ways?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Final warning. What do those words mean to you?”

“They mean what they mean in plain English.”

“But otherwise?”

“A protest group. A violent protest group.”

“How would you know that, Mr. Lessing?”

“From the television. On the news. Yesterday. I watch the news. I keep myself informed.”

The NADA agent shakes his head. “This makes no sense to me,” he says, and chins a smile at Francine as if to ask if this makes any sense to her. He shows he’s happy when she shakes her head. “Your wife is mystified.”