Chapter One

Although Majadahonda is only ten miles from Madrid as the crow flies, it had taken me over three hours to find the damn town. Madrid airport is situated north-east of the city - Majadahonda is north-west of the city. A simple drive around the ring road would surely be easy.

No.

I made the mistake of asking the car hire assistant the best way out of the airport.

“Si. Take the M13, west, then M11 then M607 and follow the signs, easy.”

Easy! Like hell.

Driving, and trying to read a map at the same time is not easy. I ended up almost going through the centre of Madrid, which I would not recommend to anyone. I found myself instead on the wrong motorway heading south. I did not have an appointment as such, so time was not really an issue. I was just frustrated at having to waste petrol, even though I wasn't paying for it. I eventually found the connecting M30 and was reassured to see signs to Majadahonda.

This old town, once just a small farming village, has grown like a Phoenix out of the wilderness in the past twenty years. It is now a desirable up-market suburb of Madrid, which the rich and famous have made their own.

Celebrities, businessmen, diplomats, sports personalities and the nouveau riche, can be found here. Most of the architecture is modern - very modern.

Spain has a wonderful mix of new and old, which sits well together, and Majadahonda is no exception. Mostly laid flat during the civil war, it was neglected for many years until the early 1970's when, with the aid of EEC funding, began to find a new life. The rich and famous wanted to move out of the noisy and overcrowded streets of Madrid, and they slowly started to buy up the cheap land, where they built villas and luxury apartments.

I really hoped this would be my final destination. I had visited several countries in six months looking for this lady, and all the signs were that I had finally found the mystery woman my (temporary) employer was so eager for me to make contact with.

I parked in the plaza major and asked for directions to Calle de Fontis. All around me were expensive shops and restaurants, and the café society sat at shaded tables reading, talking, drinking and people watching. I was envious. I wanted to sit there sipping coffee and reflecting on my life, but I had a task to complete, then I could relax once more, back home with my lovely Jayne.

Calle de Fontis is a long, wide, tree-lined cul-de-sac. The stunning villas are nearly all new, although pseudo in style, they are nevertheless impressive.

Number fourteen was towards the end of the street on the north side of the road. I could see beyond the end of the road open land, with a small copse. Very tranquil I thought, but quickly refocused on what I was going to say, if, and when the door opened.

I slowly climbed the polished black stone steps to the equally gleaming polished white double front door and rang the bell. The door was partly glazed with frosted glass but I could see a shadowy figure approach.

The door opened slowly. A young girl around eleven or twelve years old looked at me curiously, and stood with the door only slightly ajar, ready to close it again quickly.

“Si, Senor,” she whispered and squinted in response to the sunlight.

I heard a voice in the background calling to her in Spanish, “Lucie, who is there darling?”

The voice came from an older woman, which was clear and distinctive, but I was hard put to tell the nationality, although the accent seemed Spanish.

“I do not know Grandmamma,” the girl replied in Spanish, still in a whispered voice.

My Spanish was not conversational, just enough to order beer and tapas, so I went with English and smiled. “Hola. I am looking for Dianne Greenway, por favor.”

I stared at the girl, who did not move or respond, hoping for a reaction. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I was about to repeat the question, this time in some broken Spanish when I heard the other woman's voice coming from behind the girl, but closer to her this time, although I could still not see her.

“Who is asking for Dianne Greenway?” The question was in English and took me by surprise, and I hesitated a few seconds before regaining my concentration.

“Madam, err, Senora, I have been looking for Dianne Greenway on the instructions of my client in England.”

There was a silence for what seemed like forever. The next question came more measured and inquisitively.

“Who is your client, and why would this person know Dianne Greenway?”

I thought quickly. I needed to see this woman. I had a feeling, after all this time, I was finally at journey's end. My heart was pounding fast.

“Senora, my client is dying, and as for why I am here, I can only reveal that to the lady in question.”

I ground my teeth, hoping I had said enough to gain entrance. A hand appeared on the young girl's shoulder, and a woman slowly emerged out of the shadows of the shaded hallway.

. . .

Michael Parker was in agony. He had not taken his last batch of tablets and was now regretting it.

“I think I'll go to bed with a bottle of whisky and take all the tablets there," he said out loud. He was alone in the house so it did not matter what he said. He did, however, mean it.

The last few months had been getting worse. Treatment had stopped six weeks ago.

“Sorry, Mr Parker,” the consultant had said, “the treatment is not working. I am afraid we can do no more except make you as comfortable as possible,” and then continued to relate all the options open to a patient who was going to die of cancer.

He was actually sincere in his deliverance, but Michael had stopped listening after the first three words. “Sorry, Mr Parker”. Michael knew the rest. He knew in his heart weeks ago he was fighting a losing battle. He could only think of one thing now. James must find her, and find her soon. Time was running out.

 

Chapter Two

Michael Parker was a successful business-man, husband and father, but for all his success and modest wealth, he now felt alone and empty.

His wife, Rachel, had died tragically five years ago from a bee sting. On average ten people each year die from an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Relatives and friends at the funeral would say, “It was a one in a million chance, Michael, it's not your fault.” Michael knew that. Of course, it wasn't his fault. Just a tragic accident, like so many tragic accidents that happen all over the world every day. Although, he thought, it was not strictly an “accident”. An accident is something that happens when you know it is happening; like being run over, or having a ladder fall on you. Rachel did not know she had been stung. He told himself in future he would not use the word accident - misfortune was more appropriate he thought.

Michael's son, Charlie was devastated, as were his wife Helen and their children, Michael Jnr. and Elizabeth. After the funeral, back at Charlie and Helen's house, Michael wandered off into his son's study. Like his own it was a quiet place for reading, listening to music and reflection. He sat at the desk in the comfortable leather chair and closed his eyes. He could hear the din of the gathering from beyond the study where he had heard the same commiserations so many times that morning.

He wanted to be alone for a while, and he knew no one would object today.

The problem with being alone at a time like this is that you can't help recalling the past – reminiscing, searching the mind for all the good things that you shared over the years; holidays, parties, marriages, births and just being together. Michael knew he had had a good marriage, and said a silent “thank you” to Rachel for the good times they had been together.

From the reflection on the computer screen, he could see his great-granddaughter, Zoe, who was just four years old, open the study door and tiptoe towards him.

As she got closer, Michael swung the chair around and surprised her. “Saw you,” he said smiling and swept her up on to his lap.

Zoe looked puzzled. “How did you see me, Granddad?”

“Did you not know I have eyes in the back of my head?”

“Daddy has as well!” she exclaimed. “Will I have them when I grow up?" she asked in all seriousness.

“You know what my love, I really believe you might,” and she slid off his lap onto the floor. As she walked to the door she turned and said in a gentle innocent voice. “Is Grandma with the angels’ Granddad?”

Michael smiled and swallowed, and just about stopped a tear forming in his left eye. “I think she is Zoe, I really do.”

“I do as well, Granddad. Are you coming back to the party?”

Michael frowned and smiled at this wonderful innocent child standing before him. Where people gather to eat and drink, it must be a party. The innocent logic of a child was faultless.

“I will be in soon,” he replied, smiling reassuringly. Zoe left and closed the door, and Michael returned to his memories. Far in the back of his mind, he had compartments for memories.

We all have, but some of us are better than others with storage and retrieval. Michael started to keep thoughts, or memories, stored like this after seeing a memory act many years ago. He was fascinated by the ability the man had for remembering anything; dates, names, places - anything that was thrown at him, he knew the answer. Michael met up with the same entertainer a few years later and spoke at length to him about his unique talent.

The man had smiled, and after hesitating momentarily, informed Michael it was not a God-given talent, but he had learnt the art of remembering. He was so enamoured with Michael's interest he told him his “secret” there and then.

Discipline is the key. The mind has to be disciplined to accept information stored in a particular way, and in a way that it can be retrieved. The least important memories are kept in the back of the mind, like keeping old books on the very top shelf or abandoned clothes in one corner of the wardrobe.

You might say that is what we do with any information we don't use a lot - true, but if it is stored randomly it will take longer to retrieve, especially in later life; then you will be labelled with memory loss when you could so easily have retrieved what you wanted.

Michael had “pigeon-holed” many such old memories and was starting to filter them out when one, either consciously or otherwise, came slowly forward from the darkness of his storage vaults, from the very back of his mind, and sat there, waiting to be opened, like Pandora's Box.

Michael shuddered and opened his eyes as if waking from a disturbed sleep. Had he been dreaming? No, the memory was still there. He knew of course what was in it, but he had not summoned this one intentionally. He felt ashamed. It was not what he wanted to remember, on today of all days.

He tried to clear his mind and return the memory to the designated corner of his mind, but the more he tried the more it kept coming forward and forward until he had to open it. And there she was - Dianne. It may have been over forty years, but once the box was opened, the memory was as fresh as if they had met yesterday. The study door opened again and this time Helen put her head around the door, and whispered, almost mouthing the sentence. “Are you OK, shall I send Charlie in?”

Michael smiled back but could not rid himself of the memory that now occupied his mind.

“I'm fine thank you, Helen, I will re-join the . . .” he was about to say party but stopped himself. Helen would not understand, “I will re-join you all in a minute.”

Satisfied he was alright, Helen closed the door as quietly as she could, “OK, Michael, we understand.”

Michael stood up and pushed Dianne as far as he could to the back of his mind. “Today is not about you, Dianne. Go away.”

Now, five years later, he had been given the news he had skin cancer. He had had biopsies on three moles, all of which turned out to be malignant. He was put on a course of chemotherapy which would last for three months, and if he did not have the “all clear”, or something close to it, the prognosis would not be good.

News of this magnitude focuses the mind, but Michael was not one to panic or fret. He let others do that. He would not “give in” as others put it, but if his time was up then he was at peace with that. Certainly better, he thought, than a sudden death with no warning. No time to “put things in order” or “right any wrongs”.

He was not sure why he had thought that: right any wrongs, but the more he said the phrase over in his mind, the clearer it became. Dianne. Michael, in fact, did not have unpleasant memories of Dianne. On the contrary, their brief relationship of just six months was a joyous occasion. It was 1965. They had met while Michael was visiting the British Museum in London one wet and cold Monday during his lunch hour. He was in a section of the Egyptian room eating a sandwich, sitting on one of four semi-circular stone benches, staring at a giant obelisk.

“Do you like that?" he heard from behind him. He turned to see a pretty young woman looking at him, her head cocked, expecting an answer. He was tongue tied and did not like being at a disadvantage. “Err... I am not sure. It's very large,” was all he could manage. She stepped over the bench and sat next to him. Her smile was infectious.

“Not the bloody Hatshepsut obelisk, the sandwich. Do you want it? I'm starving," he gave it to her willingly, and she devoured it.

“Don't they feed you here?” He saw a museum badge pinned to her cardigan so assumed she was staff.

“Yes,” she said, wiping her mouth on the paper napkin from his lunch box, “but they don't pay holiday students, and its miles back to the canteen, even I get lost.”

Michael smiled, and they both laughed.

For the rest of that week, Michael shared his lunch with Dianne in the Egyptian room. They talked about what she was doing there, and what he did, and by Friday he had asked her out. “Can I buy you a proper meal tomorrow?” She smiled her smile and kissed him on the mouth. “You can take that as a yes.”

Their relationship was passionate. They made love on every occasion, and each time was better than before. They would lie on her single bed after making love and share a cigarette, and listen to Bob Dylan, Neil Young or Leonard Cohen. She was twenty-four and he was twenty-eight, and they didn't have a care in the world. By the end of the summer, she was to return to university in Leicester to complete her studies in Archaeology. Michael had thought it through, and he would visit her every weekend.

On the week of her leaving he called round to her rooms in Bayswater, where she shared a house with two others. One was a student studying law who had rooms on the top floor, one above Dianne, and the other was a backpacking Aussie touring Europe but had not moved on since moving in three months ago. Her name was Pamela, and Michael did not get on with her at all.

“Hi, Mike,” she said, in her usual greeting, hovering outside her room on the ground floor. Michael had stopped trying to correct her in the use of this hated abbreviation of his name, but she now did it on purpose just to annoy him.

“Di's not here if you are looking for her,” she said, in her coarse Melbourne accent.

Michael dismissed the information and walked passed her, and jogged up the stairs two at the time. He knocked on Dianne's door and turned the handle but it was locked.

Pamela had followed him upstairs. “Told you she wasn't here.” She said smugly.

“Pamela, don't play games, where is she?” Michael was staring daggers at her, letting her know he was serious.

“Don't talk to me like that, Mike, you're not wanted here anymore.”

Michael stood back in shock. “What did you say? What are you talking about?”

“She's gone, and she won't be back afterwar . . .” Pamela stopped herself.

“Afterwards . . . is that what you were going to say? Tell me woman . . . after what!” Michael was shouting now. “After what!”

Pamela turned to go downstairs, but Michael caught her hand on the top step and held her as if to let her fall if he wanted to. Pamela shouted back. “Leave me alone – haven't you done enough damage?”

Michael steadied the woman and released his grip. “What damage, tell me for God's sake, Pamela.” His voice was quieter now, but his expression was one of grave concern.

Pamela said nothing for while – dragging out the suspense, preferring to stare at the ground. “She was pregnant. She's having it out.” She looked at him impassively but was bracing herself for the response.

It came. “You're lying, you jealous dyke, you're lying. Where is she?" he grabbed her again and started to shake her. He felt a hand on his shoulder which pulled him around.

“Hey, leave her alone Michael. What's going on here?” It was the student from the top floor flat.

“This bitch. . .” Michael started to say.

“Stop calling me that,” Pamela shouted back, staring at him squarely.

Michael turned back to the student. “She says Di was pregnant. What do you know? Tell me she's lying.” He demanded, panic now resonating in his voice.

“Sorry, I can't help you, Michael. I think you had better leave now.” The young man said coolly, without expression, but looking beyond Michael towards Pamela.

“Surely you must have heard something. How come she knows and not you?”

The student just shrugged. “Come on, let's all go downstairs,” he said, and he and Pamela started down the stairs, leaving Michael at the top, still trying to understand what was going on.

Realising they had moved, Michael followed them down. The two stood in the narrow hallway whispering. As Michael approached, Pamela just gave a sarcastic smile.

“Please,” he begged to both of them, “when she returns get her to call me. I will be at home," he left the house, still in a daze, and walked towards his Lambretta.

He sat for over an hour watching the front door of the flat in case Dianne came back. He could see her bedroom window on the first floor, but there was no sign of movement. Eventually, he drove off, his mind still full of questions, realising he may never see her again. Every hour he telephoned her. He did this for the next five days until the others got fed up and left the phone off the hook.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks into months and still with no word from her. Michael eventually got back to normality, but he never accepted Dianne was pregnant. Why had she left so suddenly? And why not tell him, whatever the reason? Why didn't she leave a note?

Their relationship had been so intense they had not really talked about each other's families or the past.They lived for the moment, enjoying life, and the summer of “65”.

All that was a long time ago and Dianne had been placed in storage in the back of Michael's mind for over forty years. Until that is, she had crept her way forward and forward until he could no longer ignore her.

 

Chapter Three

Michael was now consumed with memories of Dianne, and, maybe having not long to live, decided to do something about it.

He had made his Will many years ago, and as he prospered he had added beneficiaries here and there when he thought someone was deserving of his goodwill. The last time he had met with Morris, Sterne and Wicks, the family solicitors, was after the death of his wife. Rachel had been a director of the company and they had separate Wills. They had agreed, however, they would leave the bulk of the estate to each other, and if they died together, everything was to go to their son, with the usual exceptions such as relatives and friends. Rachel, however, had included in her Will beneficiaries such as the local gardening club, the art club, the local school and her housekeeper, Smithy, who had worked for them for over thirty years.

He was determined then and there to spend some of his hard-earned cash on one final quest. And maybe die, finally knowing the truth about Dianne's disappearance all those years ago.

. . .

The offices of Morris, Sterne and Wicks, in Notting Hill, had grown over the years. A reflection on their success, due in part to their specialist area in company Law and Litigation, which was most lucrative. They also had a very good Will and Probate office, which had been headed by the late Mr Sterne.

“Mr Lacey.” The call was more a command than a request. “Here, now please.” The command had come from the now most senior partner Mr Morris, head of the practice, and an excellent solicitor in Law.

I had been junior clerk to the late Mr Sterne, in Wills and Probate. I am James Lacey.

“Yes, sir,” I said as I entered Morris's office. Morris was reading through a file. “Sit," he said, without looking up from his notes.

I had become used to Morris's “command speech”. He spoke like that to everyone. Some of the staff would joke behind his back that he spoke to his wife like that. “Can you imagine,” they would say, “old Morris giving his wife commands. “Bed”, “Undress”, “Hold” . . .” and they all laughed.

Mr Sterne, on the other hand, despite his name, had been the opposite. Kind, gentle and very approachable. Everyone was saddened by his death, but I was especially sad, not just because I worked with him, but I really liked the man and had looked upon him as a mentor.

“Your workload will increase somewhat. Can you cope?” Morris had not looked up from the file he was reading.

“It will be difficult sir. Are we . . . you . . . looking to replace Mr Sterne, and find a new partner in Probate?”

Morris finally looked up from the file and removed his spectacles. “How long have you been with us, Mr Lacey?”

“Almost eighteen months, sir.”

“Do you like it here”?

“Yes, sir, very much. I was hoping to . . .” but was stopped mid-sentence.

“Good. Mr Wicks will cover Probate for a while, and we will take on a temporary clerk. I have something I want you to do.”

I was intrigued. I thought Morris was going to just pile more work on me until they replaced poor Mr Sterne.

“Do you know our client Mr Michael Parker, of Parker & Son?”

I thought a moment trying to recall some of the clients. “I think I have seen the name on the system, but I have had no dealings with them.”

“This is the Will file for Mr Parker,” handing me the buff file he was reading. “Mr Parker has requested a visit to make changes to his Will. I want you to visit him at his home in Guildford. Can you handle that?”

I was starting to read the file. “Yes, sir. When does he want to see me?”

“As soon as possible he told me, which means something else has happened in the family since the death of his wife.” Morris was thoughtful. “He has been a good client over the years, so get down there as soon as you can. That's all.”

I rose obediently to the command. Morris called out as I reached the door.

“Mr Lacey, don't forget to keep all receipts otherwise you cannot reclaim expenses.”

 

Back in my office, I read through the file more closely. Michael Parker had been with the firm for over forty-five years and had not only his company business with them but also his personal undertakings. I read through a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Mr Michael Parker. Nothing unusual here. Probably decided to leave something to the local cat's home. I can see this being a waste of time and thought it could have been done over the phone. I looked at my “IN” tray, then back at the Parker file. “Guildford it is then.”

I telephoned Michael Parker and arranged to meet him in two days’ time. He had sounded very “matter of fact”, and had not given any hint of the reason for the meeting. When I casually suggested if what he wanted could be conducted over the phone, he just insisted he preferred a visit, and why could not Mr Morris come himself. I assured him I would be there as arranged.

. . .

I live with my girlfriend, Jayne, who is twenty-four and is a marketing assistant for one of the brand managers at Glaxo, on the Slough Business Park. We had met at a party two years ago and just “clicked”, as Jayne would say. I'd like to think it was also something to do with the fact she reminded me of a petite pixie. Just five foot four, short auburn hair and the widest brown eyes you have ever seen – we had talked all night and when we kissed goodbye, I knew she was special.

Within six months we had found a flat and moved in. Jayne's parents were not happy at first. Before they had met me they had built a picture of what I would be like - a typical white middle-class attitude, in response I suspect on hearing a description of me from Jayne.

I had grown up with these attitudes, and even in today's multi-racial society I still come across people with preconceived conceptions of what they expect me to look, and be like. Most are always surprised on meeting me. I am indeed from an immigrant bloodline.

My grandparents came to the UK in 1946 just before the partition of India fearing the worst was to come, and wanting a better life for their yet unborn child, my mother. My grandparents loved England, and what was considered unusual in those days, embraced English society and culture, but without forfeiting their religious beliefs.

Consequently, my mother was brought up in English ways and customs, while being taught her parents' faith, but did not have any of the strict rules and regulations of her religion enforced on her. She was able to choose her destiny, and it was to meet and marry my father, who was a young white man just out of University, training to be a dentist.

It was a low-key wedding with not many guests. Even close friends of her parents were afraid to attend in case they were seen as approving of a mixed-marriage. Nevertheless, my mum and dad were very happy and lived a quiet, comfortable life. She worked in a solicitor's office and Dad built up a good dental practice. I was born three years later. When I was nine years old my father died suddenly of a tumour on the brain. Everyone was devastated. Mother mourned for months, as was the custom, but she was also doing it out of love for her husband, not just duty. Mother inherited what was then a small fortune. Certainly enough to keep her, me and her parents in comfort forever. Following in my mother's liberal upbringing I was also allowed the freedom later in life to choose my path in society, and instinctively chose that of the country I had been born and raised in. I was English by birth and therefore I am an Englishman.

By the time I reached eighteen, however, mother had decided to suddenly revert back to her maiden name of Sharjeel, without any explanation.

The reality was, however, she wanted to find another husband, and this time she was looking amongst the Asian community. Eventually, she did remarry, but I did not get on with my step-father and vowed never to take his name.

I was also convinced he was after mother's money. I left soon afterwards for University but had deep concerns about leaving her alone with her new husband.

 

 

Chapter Four

I arrived exactly on time. I had always been a good time-keeper. Mother always said that if one had an appointment with God you would not want to be late, so why be late for anyone else. I am not sure I understood the complete logic of her astuteness, but it has held me in good stead for being punctual.

The door was opened by an elderly woman, with a stern expression. “Yes.”

“My name is James Lacey. I have an appointment with Mr Michael Parker.”

She opened the door wider so I could enter, but said nothing more, although I could tell she was studying me – summing me up.

The entrance hall was large and square with a flight of stairs straight ahead, and with two doors leading off to the right, and one at the end of the corridor.

“Wait here.” She said and went through the second door on the right.

I stood and waited. Just inside the hall was a large coat stand holding several coats, suitable for all weather conditions. Next to that was a large white ceramic umbrella holder with one umbrella and three walking sticks. An oval mirror with a dark mahogany frame hung on the wall opposite the coat stand. I checked my tie and hair. Both were perfect.

“Mr Parker will see you now.” I jumped. The elderly woman was suddenly standing next to me, and I am sure I saw the faintest of smiles on her wrinkled lips. I followed her into the furthest room. “Don't tire him out,” she whispered, now expressionless, and closed the door behind her.

“Don't take any notice of her,” I heard a voice somewhere in the dim room, “my hearing is still perfect. It's the rest of me that's falling apart. Come here man, I can't see you. Come and sit down opposite.”

I negotiated a nest of coffee tables and saw Michael Parker sitting in a high backed comfortable chair. He was dressed in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, and I realised then he was not a well man. All around him were dozens of pill containers and bottles of what I assumed was medicine.

“Come here – I don't bite, and take no notice of all this paraphernalia. It's all worthless.” Michael insisted. I stood in front of the man and felt I was being judged, yet again.

“You're young. How old are you?” Michael asked in a matter of fact way.

“Twenty-eight in December, sir.” I knew that would surprise him. It always did when I told someone my age. It is said I look five years younger, which was good in some ways, but a curse in others.

Michael, however, did not flinch at the answer.

“How long have you been with Morris's lot?”

“Eighteen months, sir. I worked with Mr Sterne before he died,” I replied, and added for no particular reason, “poor man.”

Michael was expressionless. “Yes, he was OK I suppose . . . ” he said, looking away a moment as if thinking. “More manners than that Morris fellow. Never did like him," he finally said. “Sit down man, sit down,” he demanded as if talking to a pet.

I looked behind me and sat in an identical high backed chair facing Michael Parker, and started to take a file out of my briefcase.

“You won't need that. Just a pen and pad to take notes, unless you have one of those Dictaphone thingy's.”

“No sir, pen and pad it is, but don't you want to talk about your will?” I asked with interest.

Michal was silent for a while, and I just sat and waited. He looked older than seventy-five, with a gaunt expression, probably due to whatever was ailing him. He had deep-set blue eyes and thinning mousy-coloured hair. He removed his thick-rimmed glasses and stared beyond me. I could see he was struggling to relate what he wanted to tell me, and after a moment I took my eyes off the muted man and surveyed the room.

We were in semi-darkness for some reason, and from what I could see as my eyes became accustomed to the dimness, was that the room was in fact very tastefully decorated - full of furniture and bookshelves.

Michael Parker was actually very much aware of what he wanted to say but sat studying the young man in front of him. Was I old enough, or experienced enough to undertake a wild goose chase? How would I feel about leaving home for an undetermined length of time? Am I married? Am I gay? Who would miss me? Probably his mother, Michael thought, looking at me again. Looks a mother's boy.

“Do you have a passport?” Michael eventually asked.

I turned, startled by the question. “Yes. . . I have a passport. Is that relevant?”

“It could well be young man. It could well be," he confirmed, almost smiling, pushing back some whispers of hair behind his ear.

“Let me tell you why I asked Morris to send you over.” He said thoughtfully. “My wife died as you know. We had been married for forty years and we have a son, Charlie. I built up my father's business making furniture, and in the past fifteen years Charlie extended the business to mass-produce hotel furniture, which has been very successful, and made us all very rich.” He paused to reflect. “You can take notes if you want to,” he added pointing to the pad.

“I'm OK for now, sir, most of that is in the file I have read about your company.”

“Good. I'm glad you have done some homework. But now this is a story that is not documented," he paused again and took a deep breath.

“Many years ago, in 1965, when I was a young man, around your age, I met a young woman. Her name was Dianne Holland. She was studying archaeology at Leicester University, and we met at the British Museum where she was on holiday work experience. We clicked immediately - love at first sight, I suppose you could say. It was a passionate affair, and neither of us knew if it would last or not. We spent our free days out of London on my Lambretta, usually in Brighton or somewhere on the coast. Mostly I stayed at her flat. I was living at home so it was more convenient.” He paused again for a sip of water. Smiling at a memory.

“We made love at every opportunity, and we would lie in bed listening to Neil Young or James Taylor all night, or until we fell asleep in each other's arms.”

Here was a man I have never met relating a most private moment in his life. A wonderful memory. A time of close intermittency. Could I do that? Talk about Jayne and me like that to a stranger.

“Are you OK?” I heard Michael ask.

“Yes, sorry. Thinking how lovely that sounded.”

“Ah, I see you are a romantic as well. Romance is the secret to a good partnership – and good sex," he added, and actually laughed, to ease my embarrassment, I think.

“We both loved the songs of Dylan and others like him, and one particular singer I introduced her to was Leonard Cohen. Do you know of him?”

I shook my head. “Not really. But I have seen the name somewhere”.

“Yes, he did a World Tour in 2008 at the age of seventy-four. He had a band with him and singers, but back in the early days he just sang and played the guitar. He was a poet, and his voice was . . . how can I say . . . an acquired taste. Rough some would say, but to his fans it was the words, not the singing that was important, and that made him special. He was a very prolific writer and said what had to be said, whether they were anti-war protest songs or love songs." He smiled at more memories, and I wrote the name on my pad. I now had two entries. Dianne Holland. Leonard Cohen.

“I brought her several LP's of Cohen. Now, of course,