I wondered, though, whether it was Walt’s presence in her life that seemed to have made Alexandra more cheerful. Or was that down to renewed contact from her absent father? Or possibly both?

And had her improved mood maybe given Alexandra the confidence to confront what she had come to regard as a blight on her life, the existence of her mother? Even to the extent of suggesting an extreme way of solving that problem once and for all …?

But no. I was going too fast. I was overreacting to the suspicions of Alexandra that Niall Connor had sown in my mind.

As soon as I got back home, I poured the large glass of Merlot I’d been promising myself all the way from Hastings. Maybe I could distract myself with one of my medical soaps now?

My mobile rang. I recognized the number as Mary Griffin’s.

‘It’s Dodge,’ she said. ‘I think he’s dead.’

FOURTEEN

I could see that Dodge wasn’t dead but he was in a bad way. It was by then after ten on the Saturday evening, which meant the streets of Ferring were totally deserted. Buttoned-up and sniffy, the village wasn’t one of the late-night hotspots of the Costa Geriatrica.

Dodge lay on the pavement between Mary Griffin’s front door and his Morris Tipper. There was blood everywhere.

Mary had been hysterical when she rang me. She was unable to give a coherent account of what happened. I couldn’t even gather whether she’d witnessed the attack. Whether she’d phoned the police or called for an ambulance. Basically, she was terrified. I’d told her to wait indoors till I joined her there.

I’d parked the Yeti next to the van and left the headlights on, so that I could see the scene of the crime. And, as soon as I looked at Dodge, I knew that a crime had been committed.

He had suffered a severe beating. I think most of the blood spattered over his sweatshirt had dripped down from his head wounds. Whether there were open cuts on other parts of his body, I couldn’t see.

But the face had taken a vicious battering. It looked like that of a boxer just before the fight was stopped. His eyebrows were split and swollen. So were his lips. His nose was a shapeless mass, like butcher’s meat. The backs of his hands were cut and bloody, presumably from attempts to protect himself.

The beam of my headlights glinted on the fresh blood but also on the eyes whose lashes flickered. Which told me he was alive.

‘Dodge,’ I whispered, ‘are you all right?’

Even as I said the words, I realized what a stupid question it was. I had only to look at him to see that he was far from all right.

‘Been better.’ The reply cheered me. Not only did it prove he was conscious, it also had an edge of humour to it. I also realized that, because of his limited mobility, Dodge was actually looking me in the eye. For the first time in our relationship. So that’s what it took.