At eleven o’clock, a man opened the door and strode in. He didn’t look local. He wore red chinos, a blue shirt open at the collar with a brightly coloured cravat, a tweed jacket, and a tan, certainly not gained in Keswick. Perhaps he was lost. It happened often. The marina was a dead end, and people were usually looking for the beginning of the Cat Bells walk. The man didn’t look like a hiker, though, and it didn’t take Graeme long to work out that he was eyeing him as if he wanted more than directions. Graeme had had his fair share of homosexual interest down the years, and it didn’t bother him in the slightest, though he knew plenty of people that it did offend, especially in the army.

He wondered idly what the man was doing here. He just didn’t fit. Perhaps he was a journalist. The story of the body in The Lady of the Lake had not died down, and Graeme had had visits from reporters as far away as Manchester. He had followed the story in the papers, and he also knew plenty of people who were reliable purveyors of local gossip. The poor bloke had been killed by a single gunshot wound to the head – a detail that had been kept out of the press – and a buzz had begun to circulate around Keswick about the similarity to an execution-style killing. Graeme had shared a few pints with Johnny Frietze, who wasn’t at liberty to say too much. Everybody knew that Johnny was DI Kelly Porter’s boyfriend, and that Kelly had been called to London.

Graeme liked Kelly, but then most people did. She was fiercely private, but once you got to know her, she was good company. He’d taught them both to sail, though Johnny was by far the more interested. Kelly was one of those people whose job filled far more hours than her leisure pursuits. Johnny was the opposite. He’d come to the Lakes to find a life after serving in the army. Graeme’s own short stint hadn’t involved any active duty, but he had trained – and been stood down – for Iraq once. He had no medals, but great memories. It had never been a long-term goal anyhow; it just looked good on his CV. It was ironic that after all that he’d ended up back at home, running a quiet marina, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

‘Morning, mate. Can I help?’ he said.

‘Bracing weather. What a lovely spot. I came here as a child occasionally, but never ventured down this way.’

‘Where are you staying? Walking holiday?’ Graeme peered at the man’s shoes; they were impractical and expensive. He looked like a City type on the hunt for a posh weekend hideaway that he’d never use. The guy clearly had too much money.