For the first time Albert was showing signs of his age. The eyes closed again. He was collecting his thoughts. Sunlight slanted through the small window on to his face. His eyes remained shut as he continued to talk.

“There was a planning matter. A certain development in a sensitive position. There would have been objections, bound to have been. They wanted to make sure that it all went through quickly. Ernest knew someone on the council, played golf with the senior planning officer. I don’t know any details. I’ve told you, I wouldn’t have approved. But promises were made. We have interests abroad. There were offers of holidays, talk of a share of a villa in Spain. I’ve stopped it all now. There’d be no point anyway, as things turned out. But if the press got to hear of it, we’d be ruined. There’s no need now for anyone to know.”

“But Charlie knew what was going on, didn’t he? That’s why he went to the office the Friday before he went north.”

Albert opened his eyes. Bloodshot and triumphant, they stared at George.

“Charlie knew all about it. But he wasn’t trying to blackmail us. Quite the opposite. The … negotiations I’ve described. They were all Charlie’s idea.”

Molly was walking around the island, following the hightide line. She walked slowly. Occasionally she stopped and crouched to pull a piece of smooth thick glass from the drying seaweed, before discarding it and continuing her walk. Then she found what George had told her to look for. It had been washed on to the sand and was still quite intact. It was the size and shape of a honey jar and the screw top was still tightly in place. There was no label, no trace of glue on the glass where a label might once have been. She was not sure, at first, what to do with it. Surely all the fingerprints would have been washed off by now. But why then did George think that it was so important? Finally she took out a rather grubby handkerchief, and with that lifted the jar into her small canvas rucksack. The tide was full in now. There was no more that she could do until George came back.

George knew that he would have to see Savage, but he delayed the interview. He drove north along the coast into the steep, wooded valley where Jerry Packham lived and where Charlie Todd had owned a cottage. He could have telephoned. He knew that the trip was an indulgence, a diversion, but he needed time to form his argument before he saw Savage. He could go no further without the police. The valley ran inland, at right angles to the sea. The road twisted down to a cluster of cottages and a small harbour, but Jerry’s house was built into the hillside, at the head of the valley. The land fell away beneath the cottage so that despite the trees there was a fine view and a clear light.