In fact, Hawthorne was waiting for me at the platform and we travelled together in silence. He was still reading The Little Stranger, the book he had brought with him to Southampton, and I noticed that he wasn’t many pages further in, but then I could imagine him being not just a slow reader but a methodical one, going over every sentence and every paragraph so that he would be up to scratch when he met with his book club.

It was only in the taxi, driving through Oxford, that I asked him: ‘Did you tell Anne I was coming?’

‘No. I’m sure she won’t mind.’

‘But if she’s making lunch—’

‘You can have mine!’

Anne Cleary lived in exactly the sort of house I would have imagined for her, part of a curving terrace in a quiet area of Oxford with lots of trees. It was Victorian, red brick, with sash windows and a flight of steps leading up to the front door, the kitchen and dining room below street level. Even before we went in, I knew it would have the original cornicing, stripped wooden floors and high ceilings. There’s something about Oxford that has always appealed to authors and it seems to me that it has somehow seeped into their work. Think of Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Iris Murdoch and, more recently, Philip Pullman. It’s hard to imagine them living anywhere else.

Anne was surprised, but seemed pleased to see me and led us both into a comfortable front room. She collected Wedgwood porcelain figurines – milkmaids, ballet dancers, Little Bo Peep. They were displayed on shelves along with books, photographs, an ornamental clock, piles of letters and perfumed candles. The room managed to be simple and cluttered at the same time. Anne looked very much at home here. She was the sort of woman who liked to be comfortable, who would wear clothes that were sensible, never expensive. I suspected she had lived there for most of her adult life.

As soon as we sat down, Hawthorne produced the Sakura fountain pen that he had retrieved from Marc Bellamy. Anne snatched it up with delight. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to have this back,’ she said. ‘I’ve got other pens, but this one writes so beautifully. Are you going to tell me where you found it?’

‘I can’t,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Had someone taken it?’

‘Let’s just say that I persuaded them to give it back.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, Mr Hawthorne.’ She placed it on an ornamental table in front of her. ‘And I hear you managed to solve what happened in Alderney.’

‘You know about Derek Abbott?’ I asked.