If the Kent police could find Rutledge himself after he’d left Melinda Crawford’s house, they might be lucky enough to find Tommy Summers for him.

He told Sergeant Gibson what it was he wanted, and then went in search of his motorcar, several streets away.

The motor almost misfired as he turned the crank, and he had to start again. Once behind the wheel, he made a looping circle through the streets and drove as fast as he dared through the holidaymakers, heading east. Behind him the clouds were gathering and far out to sea, the wind had picked up. He could feel the cloying heat that presaged a storm.

The road ran along the coast for the most part, one seaside community after another, the congestion at its peak at this hour. The storm was catching him up as he drove, bits of paper and little swirls of dust marking its progress, and before very long, the sun was half hidden in the haze. Before he’d reached Hastings, the sky was dark, and the rumble of thunder followed him.

Hamish gave him no peace, seeming to gather strength with the storm.

He paused at Hastings just long enough to leave word with Inspector Norman, and then turned toward Eastfield.

The rain found him just before he got there, huge wind-driven pellets, and the lightning was fierce.

At the police station, Constable Walker listened to what he had to say, then handed him a framed photograph that Tyrell Pierce had left at The Fishermen’s Arms.

Rutledge looked at it, and damned the man. The sun was behind the subjects, and he could just recognize Anthony Pierce, smiling beneath his officer’s cap, one arm around his brother’s shoulders. Daniel’s face was harder to make out, and Rutledge had to be satisfied with his general build.

Pierce must have spent an hour or more searching through photographs to find one that was so useless.

He handed it to Walker. “I should have the man arrested for obstruction.”

And then he was gone again, driving through the pelting rain and the early darkness.

He stopped for petrol in one village, and to have a tire inspected in another, praying that the Dover police had found their man.

Hamish reminded him, “It’s no’ certain that he’s even there.”

Summers might as easily have chosen London or Southampton and taken ship anywhere. But France was closer, and the man knew the country. It made sense.

In the predawn hours when he reached the Dover police, the skies were clearing. The fishing fleet had put out to sea, their sails tiny dots on the horizon, and the first ferry to France was just pulling out.

But Dover had nothing for him.

The inspector he spoke with said, “You realize he could have sailed before you reached us.”