On the ‘Contact’ page of the website there was an email address and a mobile number. In my experience, people are much more likely to answer texts than emails. I sent one, reading: ‘Please ring me about Ingrid Richards’ death. I am not a journalist.’ I gave my name but no reason for my interest in the case. If I was contacting the right Philip Dickie, he would either be intrigued and want to talk to me. Or, more likely, he wouldn’t.

My little online excursion had only lasted half an hour. But at least it was half an hour when I wasn’t worrying about Ben.

I cooked an omelette for lunch and in the afternoon forced myself to be more positive. The clothes which had belonged to Pauline Finch were still in the back of the Yeti. I got the boxes into my front room and went through them. One pile for recycling, the other for hardly worn stuff that could go to the charity shops.

There’s quite a broad range of charity shops in a city like Chichester. It has more than its fair share of wealthy, well-meaning older women to staff them. Local prosperity also ensures that the quality of second-hand clothes available is remarkably high. Designer labels at knockdown prices. They do good business.

And, though I would never have told Edward Finch, his late wife’s wardrobe wouldn’t be of interest to the snootiest of the charity shops. Too much Marks & Spencer, Next and Country Casuals. Which is not my style either, though for different reasons. When I’m not wearing my blue SpaceWoman livery, I just slop around in jeans and T-shirts (much to the disgust of Fleur and, when she’s around, my fashion-conscious daughter Jools).

Anyway, I’m an expert on the local charity shops. I have a lot of dealings with them and I know exactly what they will accept or reject. So, after a quick visit to the recycling bins, I targeted the right shops and offloaded the rest of the late Pauline Finch’s wardrobe.

I was nearly home when the mobile pinged. I didn’t check it till I was in the house, imagining Ben sending me up again about my unwillingness to use the phone in the car. It was a text from him, saying he was back in Nottingham. That’s all it said, though.

I had one call that evening. I was hoping it would be Phil Dickie. It wasn’t. The voice at the other end of the phone identified herself as ‘Cara Reece, Eddie Finch’s friend.’

I thought that, bar sending the invoice, my duty in that area was all done, but Cara said, ‘I’m afraid Eddie’s in trouble again.’

TWENTY

I didn’t sleep well and faced the Wednesday morning blearily. Yes, it was mostly worry about Ben. But also trying to impose a pattern on the shattered jigsaw of ideas about Ingrid Richards’ death and the possible involvement of Alexandra and Walt. The one person I didn’t worry about in my wakefulness was Edward Finch.