‘No.’ Hawthorne had lost patience. ‘I don’t really like talking about myself.’

‘You did well enough when you were on the stage.’

‘Well, that was different – and it’s not going to happen again.’ He paused. ‘You can do the next one on your own.’

‘I think people are more interested in you than they are in me.’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘That’s not true.’

‘It is. Even Colin Matheson got it right when he introduced you. He said you were the real thing. Why do you think there are so many detective stories? People are fascinated by detectives, by what you do. I am too. It’s one of the reasons why I agreed to follow you around.’ I picked up my drink. ‘I’m sorry I got angry with you when we went to visit Derek Abbott. We’ve just got to try to be more of a team.’

Hawthorne considered what I’d just said, but before he had time to reply, the door opened and Torode and Whitlock came in. They came straight over to us and sat down.

‘I was hoping to find you here,’ Torode said. He looked as if he was off duty, wearing a jersey that was one size too big for him. It hung off his chest in softly undulating folds. Whitlock was in uniform. Perhaps she had forgotten to pack anything else.

Torode eyed our drinks. ‘Who’s buying?’

‘You are,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well, that’s not very friendly – but never mind.’ He called out to the bar. ‘A pint of best, please. And what will you have, Whitlock?’

‘A tomato juice, please, sir.’

The barman acknowledged him and Torode turned back to us. ‘I’ve got a few things to tell you, starting with Maïssa Lamar.’

‘We already know about OLAF,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Yes. That was a bit of a turn-up for the books, don’t you think? Or for the book!’ He smiled at me. ‘I had her boss on the phone just now and he didn’t give me any choice. I had to let her leave. Anyway, it’s one suspect less, so I suppose that’s something to be grateful for. And while we’re on the subject of suspects, Hawthorne . . . You’re not going to like this, but we’re going to have to let all the other writers go too.’

Hawthorne didn’t look particularly put out. ‘Is that a good idea?’ he asked. ‘One of them might have committed two murders – Helen le Mesurier just a few hours ago.’

‘That’s true. But we can’t keep them locked up on Alderney for ever and I can’t see any of them committing a double murder. Mr Pastry, perhaps, with his steak and kidney puddings? Or Mrs Fizzbang? Whitlock here can’t wait to get home.’

‘I wish I’d never come,’ Whitlock said, looking as miserable as ever.