‘Is that of the beach? May I have a look?’

Heather froze. In that long awkward moment, she could think of no good reason not to hand the Polaroid over, so she passed it to him, feeling her face flush crimson. She was certain he would recognize Michael Reave. After all, he had one of the most infamous mugshots in British criminal history, and it was clearly the same person, down to the little flash of white hair at his temple. And then he would ask what on earth she was doing with such a photo … But instead, he just stared at it, his face very still. Eventually he nodded.

‘Yes. How interesting. The folly was in a bit of a state back then,’ he said. ‘It went through an extensive restoration at one point, and I’m pleased to say it’s less of an eyesore now.’

‘Do you know when that was? The restoration work, I mean?’

‘Oh, in the mid-Eighties, I think. Yes, that’s right.’ He smiled, stretching dry lips across his long teeth. ‘They made the place habitable again.’ He looked like he was about to glance at the reverse of the photo, but instead he passed it back to her politely. ‘Discovering you have history here, are you?’

Heather looked up at him sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’

He shrugged, a one-sided movement with his crooked back. ‘You said your mother’s friend was here at one point. Is that not her? In the photo.’

‘Oh. Oh, yeah, that’s right. Pamela.’ She smiled. ‘To be honest with you, Bert, I just like looking at old photos.’

He tipped his head to one side, a motion that wasn’t quite a nod.

‘Well. I’ll be letting you get back on with it then, lass.’

When he’d shuffled some distance away, Heather turned to watch him go. He didn’t seem like a typical spa customer, and she couldn’t imagine why he had dragged himself all the way up the hill on a rainy day, but as he reached the foyer she saw the blonde woman come out from behind the desk to greet him, and watched as they chatted together for a few minutes. Perhaps, she reasoned, the receptionist was a relation – a granddaughter, or a niece.