‘No! He lives in a fantasy world.’

‘Yes,’ said Cara. ‘Eddie’s a very unusual man.’

‘That is certainly true.’

She must have registered the irony in my words, but she didn’t seem upset. Rather the reverse. ‘I was rather worried,’ she said. ‘About you and him.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I was friends with Eddie and Pauline … you know, all being schoolteachers and … but I never really liked Pauline. It was Eddie I liked. And now Pauline’s gone … I enjoy doing things for Eddie.’

‘He’s very lucky to have you,’ I said, not adding that he took her for granted and treated her with contempt.

‘Yes. And I’m so lucky to have him … I mean, now I know he hasn’t got you.’

He never had me! I suppressed the urge to say the words out loud. If Cara Reece wanted to continue being patronized and treated like a doormat by Edward Finch … well, that was up to her. It was clear that she got some perverse satisfaction out of the relationship. Fine by me.

So long as I didn’t have to have anything more to do with him.

‘And actually,’ Cara said rather winsomely, ‘I’m about the same size as Pauline. And you. The new dresses would fit me.’

I shuddered, said goodbye to her and got into the Yeti.

My mobile rang while I was still driving through the bungaloid sprawl of Lancing. I parked and answered it.

‘Is that Ellen Curtis?’ the voice at the other end asked cautiously.

‘Yes.’

‘You left a message for me. I’m Phil Dickie.’

I felt a surge of excitement.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’ He still sounded guarded. ‘Your message said you’re not a journalist.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then why are you interested in Ingrid Richards’ death?’

TWENTY-ONE

‘They didn’t understand so much about PTSD back then.’

Phil Dickie was sitting in his studio in a special chair. It had a complex arrangement of padding, presumably to ease the pressure on his back injuries. A pair of crutches was propped up against his desk. He wore a polo shirt and, incongruously, shorts. I say ‘incongruously’ because they revealed that one of his legs was made of articulated metal. The trainer at the end of it matched the one on his real foot.

He saw where I was looking and grinned. Whatever the state of the rest of his body, he had a very handsome face. Startlingly blue eyes, short white hair, neatly trimmed white beard. Probably in his mid-sixties, a good decade younger than Ingrid Richards.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘If I know I’m going to see people I put on a pair of jeans. Today I just thought I’d be editing in here.’

‘I gather from your website that you digitize old cine film.’

‘Yes. That’s how I started after … you know, when I could think about working again. There was a whole generation of people with yards and yards of cine, family holidays, birthday parties, you know the kind of stuff … which they could only watch by setting up projectors and what-have-you. And they wanted that transferred into a form that could be watched on their computers. So, I set up the business. I don’t do so much of that digitizing now. More family documentaries.’