Two days after I got back to London, I went to see my agent, Hilda Starke. I walked over to Greek Street in Soho, where her office was located on the fourth floor of a narrow building hemmed in between an Italian restaurant and an off-licence. There was no lift and the stairs creaked menacingly under my weight, as if warning me that I was not really welcome here. I think it’s true to say that Hilda preferred books to authors. In the three years I had been with her, I’d only gone to her office half a dozen times.

I arrived at a dusty landing where a door opened into a tiny reception area, made tinier by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books. A single window allowed a little daylight to seep through, but it was a room that devoured daylight. I gave my name to the receptionist and told him I had an appointment with Hilda.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked vaguely.

‘I’m one of her clients.’

‘Oh.’

Ten minutes later, I had squeezed into Hilda’s office. There was so little space in the building, all the furniture seemed to be in the way. She was behind her desk, holding a Sharpie and covering a manuscript with black markings. I wondered if she did the same with my work when she received it.

‘Have you been offered coffee?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Your receptionist didn’t even know you represented me.’

She wasn’t troubled. ‘He hasn’t been here long.’

‘How are you?’ I asked.

She looked at me, puzzled. ‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’

According to Hawthorne, she had been on her way to the doctor, worrying about tests, when I’d met her seven weeks before. Could he have been wrong? The trouble was, if I told her what I knew, it would look as if I’d been prying. ‘I just thought you seemed a bit down when we last met,’ I said, trying to sound casual.

‘No. I’m perfectly well. How was Alderney?’

She was obviously keen to change the subject and I just hoped that whatever the problem was, it had sorted itself out. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. Quickly, I described the festival and the two murders that had followed. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to write the third book in the series,’ I concluded.

‘Why ever not?’

‘I’ve just explained. Derek Abbott was the killer and he committed suicide rather than go back to prison.’

‘What’s the problem with that?’