‘And you said I did?’

‘Yes. There’s no secret about it, is there?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She didn’t sound sure.

‘He was also asking me whether you might have any of Ingrid’s research documents.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. I don’t know why he thought I might know anything about it.’

‘So, let me get this right, Ellen. Niall thought I might have taken some of Ingrid’s research papers? From her flat?’

‘I assume that’s what he meant, yes.’

‘I wonder what made him think that.’ But she sounded quite pleased.

‘Are you saying you do have some stuff?’

‘Yes, Ellen. I do.’

‘Ah. Well, I got the impression that Niall might be extremely interested in it.’

‘Hm … I wonder whether I should tell him what I’ve got.’ She sounded playful now, as if the documentation she had taken might give her some power over her neglectful father.

‘That’s up to you,’ I said. I didn’t want to get involved, though at the same time I was achingly curious as to what the papers might reveal.

‘Maybe you could advise me …?’

‘What?’

‘If you had a look at the stuff I’ve got, then you could tell me whether to show it to Niall or not.’

Why me, I thought. But the urge to see the stuff was strong.

‘If you could come over to my place …’ Alexandra suggested.

‘When?’

‘Well, this evening. I’m out now, but I’ll be back home by six thirty or so.’

Back home in Hastings, for God’s sake. I’d already done Chichester to Petworth and back. On the other hand, I was being offered more information about what I was increasingly thinking of as the mystery of Ingrid Richards’ death. And it was a mystery that needed solving. I wouldn’t rest until I knew what had actually happened.

And if I spent the evening alone at home with a bottle of Merlot, all I’d do would be to worry about Ben.

I said I’d go to Hastings.

The satnav must have expected more traffic than there was because I arrived at the address Alexandra had given me soon after six. I managed to park directly outside. It was a small house in the Old Town, probably once owned by a fisherman but now considerably refurbished. And way out of a fisherman’s price range. Hastings had become something of a property hotspot. Still a bit louche, like Littlehampton, but increasingly popular with people in the creative industries.

The front window had modern leaded panes, double-glazed ones perhaps echoing the outlines of the originals. As I unclicked my seatbelt, I looked through into the sitting room.

At an open desk in the bay window, a man I’d never seen before was sitting, riffling through a pile of folders.

THIRTEEN

He was unremarkable-looking, fortyish, short, with a couple of tendrils of mousy hair trained across his bald cranium. His owl-like round glasses might have looked stylish on someone more prepossessing. He wore a T-shirt with a camouflage design in black, grey, and white.