She ignored the last remark and simply shook her head in answer to the question. Unless she was a very good actress, she had not known about Adam. But she was not totally surprised. She had expected to hear something.

“I think that I saw him yesterday,” she said. “Adam Anderson, I mean. He was here in Fenquay.”

George felt that she was trying to divert his attention, but he had to follow this up:

“What time did you see him?”

“It was late morning, perhaps mid-day. He was in that smart coffee shop on the quay. I was walking past. He was sitting in a corner and the light’s not very good in there, but I’m sure that it was him. He looked straight at me, but he didn’t wave or anything.”

“Was he on his own?”

“There was another person sitting at his table, but the coffee shop was busy. I don’t know if they were together.”

“Was it a man or a woman?”

“Man, I think, but I didn’t see his face. I didn’t take much notice.”

She was, George thought, prepared for the next question.

“Do you know Peter Littleton?”

She looked at him, looked straight into his eyes.

“No,” she said. She was clever. There was a question and a lack of concern in her voice.

“He’s a birdwatcher,” George said easily. “Did you never hear Tom talk about him? He knew Tom well.”

She shook her head.

“Why?” she asked carelessly, matching his tone. “Do you think that he killed Tom?”

He did not reply directly. “ I need to know a little more about him.”

Then, as if it were quite unconnected, he said:

“Where did you meet Tom?”

“Here,” she said quickly. “In Rushy. It was last July, when I moved into the cottage. He used to come bird-watching to Fenquay occasionally. I’d bought a chair from a junk shop in the village and I was trying to carry it home, balanced on the baby’s pram. He saw me and helped me. I knew a bit about birds, so we had something in common.”

George did not comment and she continued in explanation: “ I came to Fenquay because I lived here once, when I was about six. I had foster parents here. I even went to the village school for a term. I was so happy. My foster father used to take me to see all the animals on the farm. He was a farm worker and we lived in a cottage just outside the village. They were very calm people—nothing seemed to upset them. Although I was only with them for six months, I was more settled than I’ve ever been. Then my mother decided that she wanted me back and I had to move with her to London. I never saw my foster parents again. They don’t live here any more, but I suppose that I wanted Barnaby to grow up in a place where I’d been happy. He was just three months old when I moved in.”