Upstairs, he switched on only a couple of lamps, poured himself a small whisky, and stood looking down the deserted avenue to the ancient gateway, and then across to the cathedral, its great stone bulk in darkness now, because all save a few low street lamps went off at midnight.

Time. How much? Fifteen years or so more in the job. Nothing would change there unless he moved to a larger force. No.

Fifteen years or so living here, which he loved, which was his. But it was not his, he owned nothing.

He sat down and looked round at his white room, the polished boards, the rugs, the pictures, books. His long table. What would he lose, irreplaceably? Only the situation and the experience of living at the top of a Georgian house. Everything else he could have again, and more, as well as so much outside space, and the country beyond, the quietness, plus the complete separation from work, which was a relief he had always found at his sister’s farmhouse, though neither was more than half an hour into Lafferton.

He finished his whisky but he knew that he would not sleep even now, his mind was electric with thoughts, plans, worries, questions, hopes. Fears.

He had a warm shower to try and relax his mind as well as his limbs, found a book. He got into the cool cotton sheets, and lay back luxuriating, until the top that had been spinning in his head for hours at last began to turn more and more slowly.

He sat up. Idiot. He was an idiot.

No, this was not enough, this would not do for the rest of his life, or even the rest of the year. He had been ignoring the gentle insistent voice, turning his back, stubbornly pushing himself down deeper into the old pit, the old way of thinking, acting, living. Being.

Idiot.

He reached for his phone and it rang, but only once.

‘Hello?’

‘You’re awake.’

‘So are you. Do you have a day off tomorrow?’

‘No. I have a long weekend though . . . Friday until Tuesday night.’

Rachel said nothing.

‘If you don’t want to or it’s not the right time or not time enough, say so now.’

She said nothing.

‘Oh God, Rachel . . . listen. I love you.’

‘Yes. I know. I’ve always known.’

‘I want to get up now and come over.’

‘No. I’ll let you know tomorrow. About the weekend. Goodnight, Simon.’

A second after he had put the phone down, he picked it up again.

‘Simon . . .’

‘I know. I’m sorry not sorry.’

She laughed and she did not mind, she had wanted him to call back, he was sure of that.

‘Just something I want to ask you . . . you might know the answer. I should but I don’t . . .’

‘Google it?’

‘Can’t be bothered.’

‘All right. What?’