As we turned into the approach road that led to the airport, we were overtaken by another car and I saw Special Constable Whitlock driving with Deputy Chief Torode in the back seat. He was sitting with his head against the window, part of his face pressed flat by the glass. He hadn’t noticed us and I thought he might be asleep, but when we finally drew up in the car park, he got out and came over to us.

‘Hawthorne . . .’

‘Have you come to say goodbye, Deputy Chief?’

‘I wish. But actually, it seems I may need your help after all.’

We were standing in the car park with the entrance to the airport in front of us. I noticed the minibus that had met us when we’d arrived. Marc Bellamy was just getting out, followed by Kathryn Harris. As usual, she was carrying all the luggage. The aircraft that would take us all to Southampton was waiting beside the runway.

‘We went to arrest Derek Abbott this morning,’ Torode continued.

‘And?’

‘He’s not at home. He’s not answering his phone.’

‘You think he’s done a runner?’ Hawthorne was amused.

‘I would have thought that unlikely. This is an island.’

‘I hadn’t noticed that.’

Torode frowned. ‘Look here, Hawthorne. You talked to him. You know him better than any of us. I thought you might want to come along because you might see something that could help us find him. Or you can get on a plane and piss off home and we can forget we ever met. It’s entirely up to you.’

There were actually a few things that Torode was forgetting, starting with the fact that it was Hawthorne who had supplied him with the information that had enabled him to arrest Abbott in the first place. Also, Torode had reneged on his agreement and had told Hawthorne that he wasn’t going to be paid.

Despite all this, I wasn’t at all surprised when Hawthorne turned to me and asked: ‘What do you think, Tony? Do you mind getting a later plane?’

I was fine with that. I was uncomfortable about running into Marc Bellamy again and I was curious to see more of Abbott’s home. ‘Sure,’ I said.

So off we went, in the back seat of Torode’s car with our luggage in the boot, Torode silent, Whitlock grim, Hawthorne thoughtful. It wasn’t the most pleasant journey across the island, passing the sites of not one but two murders, and I was glad when we finally arrived at Quesnard Cottage and got out. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the door; from Alderney or Guernsey, I had no idea. Whitlock stayed in the car, her hands still gripping the steering wheel as if she was afraid someone would drag her out.