The front door was unlocked. Either Torode had found it that way or he had forced his way in. There was no sign of any damage. It was strange what a difference it made, arriving in the bright midday sunlight without Mozart’s Requiem playing in the background. I’d had a sense of unease when I had approached it the first time – less than twenty-four hours ago. I’d allowed my knowledge of the man who lived there to influence the way I described the place and it was interesting how little impact his home made on me now. Every writer knows about the pathetic fallacy, where the weather, the light and even music can be used to manipulate a reader’s mood. But it seemed that I’d done quite the opposite, allowing my own mood to influence the weather.

We passed into the hallway and I remembered Abbott standing there, ugly and defensive, swearing at Hawthorne before we were allowed in. This time, Torode led us into the living room, Abbott’s ‘safe space’ and the very heart of the house. As well as the chairs and the sofas, the TV and the sound system, there was a large desk with a computer, indicating that this was where Abbott worked as well as relaxed. If there were any clues to his current whereabouts, they would be found here.

Hawthorne quickly checked the surface of the desk. There was a diary open at yesterday’s date, but the page was blank. A selection of postcards with views of Alderney were lying on top of an in tray that also contained various household bills. A single rollerball pen lay to one side, the lid missing. ‘Have you searched the place?’ he asked.

‘Not yet.’ That surprised me, but Torode explained: ‘I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. That’s why I thought you might help. The computer’s locked, by the way, and there’s no convenient password this time. Anyway, it’s probably full of porn. To be honest with you, I haven’t got the stomach for it. Maybe Whitlock’s right. I can’t wait to get back to Guernsey.’

‘Does Abbott have any friends on the island? Anyone he might have contacted?’

Torode shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Most of the people on the island knew who he was and didn’t want anything to do with him. I’d guess that Charles le Mesurier was probably the only person who let him come anywhere near – and we all know how that ended.’

‘Have you examined his phone records?’

‘Do me a favour, Hawthorne. We only found out he was missing half an hour ago.’