‘Brighton. Well, “Hove actually”, as everyone says.’

I knew the reference. When asked where they live, residents are reputed to say, ‘Hove, actually’, to distinguish them from their more raffish neighbour.

‘A flat in Hove,’ Alexandra went on. ‘That’s where she’s ended up.’

‘Implying that she has lived in a lot of different places?’

‘You could say that. All over the bloody world.’

‘Does that mean you had an unsettled childhood?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Alexandra demanded sharply.

‘Something in your tone of voice,’ I suggested.

‘Huh. Look, this isn’t about me. It’s about my mother.’

‘Of course,’ I said, hiding my scepticism. In my line of work, I often learn as much about the person who draws attention to the problem as I do about the one who actually has the problem. Alexandra Richards seemed to fit neatly into that box.

‘She’s always collected paper,’ Alexandra went on. ‘Books, magazines, newspapers – particularly newspapers. She claims she has some filing system for them, but so far as I can see, they’re just piled up randomly. And she chain-smokes.’

‘Ah.’

‘Gauloises. Those terrible French cigarettes that smell like tyres burning. Can’t get them in England now. But, needless to say, Ingrid has an ex-lover in Paris who keeps her supplied.’

Interesting, that she referred to her mother by her first name. As I do with mine.

‘And,’ said Alexandra, with an air of resignation, ‘she drinks.’

‘I see. So, you’re worried that …?’

‘I’m worried that one night, halfway down a whisky bottle, she’ll forget to stub out one of her Gauloises properly, pass out and …’

I nodded. She didn’t need to spell it out. ‘And you’re consulting me about her safety in the flat?’

‘Exactly that.’

‘From what you say of her, it doesn’t sound as if your mother would welcome my intrusion into her life.’

‘You’re right there. She’d hate it.’

I wasn’t fazed by that. It wasn’t unusual. ‘Is she reclusive?’

‘God, no. Rather the reverse. Gregarious to the point of depravity. Any excuse for a party – and if there is one she’s always the centre of it.’

‘She sounds like quite a character,’ I said. It’s a description I rarely use as a compliment.

‘She’s that all right,’ said Alexandra in a resigned voice. ‘When Ingrid walks into a room, she immediately monopolizes all of the oxygen.’

We stopped for a moment. There still weren’t many people on the beach, dog-walkers, pensioners taking their daily ration of exercise.

‘The thing is …’ Alexandra continued, as if sharing a great confidence, ‘and this makes everything somehow more complicated … my mother’s quite famous. I don’t know if you can imagine what it’s like growing up with that …?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I think I can.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have another drink?’ asked Fleur.

‘No,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ve told you many times. I can’t risk losing my licence. I need the car for my work.’

‘Huh,’ came the predictable response. ‘I’m sure you could get work in places you could walk to. There must be an enormous demand for cleaners in Chichester.’