Terry also gave us a full rundown on the occupants. That was the joy of living in Alderney. Everyone knew everyone. More than that. They seemed to know everything about everyone too.

‘He’s a good stick, Dr Queripel. Everyone likes him. My mum had a cancer scare last year and he looked after her, made sure she got into the University Hospital in Southampton. He inherited the house from his dad. He was also a doctor but he died in a car accident about five years ago in the South of France, his wife with him. Terrible for Dr Queripel, losing both his parents that way. Mrs Queripel’s lovely. She teaches at the local school and the kids will do anything for her . . . except pass their exams. She’s been fighting to keep it open. Spends half her life trying to get funding . . . new this, new that. Never stops! People say it’s only thanks to her that it’s still there. But you can’t imagine Alderney without a school. It wouldn’t bear thinking about.’

I was relieved when we finally pulled in at the edge of a narrow lane. Hawthorne and I got out. Terry stayed behind the wheel. He was still watching us as we walked up the path to the house.

‘Tony, do me a favour, will you?’ Hawthorne said abruptly as we reached the front door. ‘While I’m talking, try not to give anything away.’

I knew that he was referring to our last two cases. On both occasions, he’d accused me of speaking out of turn. ‘That’s a little unfair,’ I retorted. ‘I’d have said I’ve been very careful so far.’

‘Maybe not as careful as you think.’

He rang the bell.

It was opened a few moments later by a strikingly attractive young woman, even if her looks somehow took me back to the 1940s. She had blue eyes and blonde hair tied back in a bun. She had no make-up apart from two very precise strokes of bright red lipstick, accentuated by the paleness of her skin. She was wearing a cardigan and baggy trousers. As she stood there, examining us, I realised that I had seen her before. She was the woman who had been sitting next to George Elkin at my session in the cinema and who had asked the question about teen literacy.

‘How can I help you?’ She managed to be polite and suspicious at the same time.

‘Are you Mrs Queripel?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Yes.’ Now she was a little puzzled.

‘My name is Hawthorne . . .’

‘I know who you are.’

‘I spoke to your husband this morning. Is he in?’

‘Yes, he is.’ She gave the information reluctantly and she didn’t move, still blocking the way.

‘I’d like a word with him. Can we come in?’