Six weeks later, Hawthorne and I met at Waterloo Station on our way down to Southampton Parkway. It was the second time we had travelled together – the year before, we’d taken the train up to Yorkshire – and he was carrying the same suitcase with no wheels on the bottom that he had probably taken with him to school. He reminded me a little of those children evacuated during the war. He had the same lost quality.

It seemed to me that he was unusually cheerful. By now I knew him a little better, which is to say that although I had learned very little about his past history, I could at least gauge his moods, and I was certain he was keeping something from me. He’d made it clear that he had no interest in literary festivals, but he’d leapt at the chance to go to Alderney. He’d even known how long it would take to fly. He was clearly up to something – but what?

The train left on time and he took out a paperback copy of The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters. It’s a fantastic ghost story and I guessed he was reading it for his book club. We weren’t even out of the station before I’d tackled him. I couldn’t wait any longer.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to explain it to me.’

He looked up. ‘What?’

‘You know perfectly well. All that stuff you said at Random House. You told me that Graham was having an affair with Tamara, that Trish knew about it, that she’d just had a baby and that she was worried she was going to lose her job. You also said Hilda was waiting for test results.’

‘That was weeks ago, mate!’ He looked at me a little sadly. ‘Have you been obsessing about it?’

‘Not obsessing, but I would like to know.’

‘You were in the room, Tony. You should have seen it all too.’

‘Do me a favour, will you, and just tell me . . .’

Hawthorne considered for a moment, then turned his book face down and laid it on the table. ‘Well, let’s start with Hilda. Did you see her arm?’

‘She was wearing a jacket.’

‘No. She’d taken it off and put it on the back of her chair. There was a little patch where the skin was a bit paler, right over the median cubital vein.’

‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘It’s where the needle goes in for a blood test. She was nervous about something. She was puffing on that vape and she kept on looking at her phone like she was waiting for a text . . . maybe from the doctor. And that lunch of hers in Weymouth Street. I bet she made it up. It’s just round the corner from Harley Street, which is where all the doctors hang out.’

‘What about Graham and Tamara?’