‘Will he be okay?’

I pull on some trousers and then lead her through to the kitchen.

‘Tea?’

She nods, gratefully.

‘Will he be okay, though?’ I repeat, filling the kettle and plonking it down on to the stove.

‘I just tried to pay a flying visit on Mr Huff,’ she murmurs, slightly dazed, ‘but he wasn’t at home. Apparently he’s gone. He’s – would you believe this, Carla? – he’s walking to Douai!’

‘But I only just got back from Mulberry myself …’ I scowl (slightly concerned – even confused – by the powerful sinking sensation in my belly at the conjunction of the words ‘Mr Huff’ and ‘gone’).

‘It was Mr Barrow who told me,’ she continues. ‘He was guarding the gate.’

‘Douai?’ I murmur (Mr Huff walking to Douai? Can that be right?).

‘It seems he consulted with Mr Barrow about the best route before he left. Mr Barrow said that Mr Huff had been operating under the illusion that Douai was only thirty or forty miles away. Mr Barrow gently informed him that it was well over double that. Closer to ninety, in fact. Ninety miles! Just imagine! On foot!’

‘But why on earth would Mr Huff feel the need to …?’ I mutter.

‘I’m guessing it’s because they had this big meeting all set up,’ she explains, ‘but then I rang Father Tierney and warned him off. I told him that Mr Huff simply wasn’t to be trusted. I was really spooked after the conversation we had earlier. Following your little session in the sauna. When you hinted that he might be working for the CIA.’

‘It wasn’t a “little session”,’ I almost snap, offended, ‘and I didn’t say he was working for the CIA, Alys.’ I add, ‘I was just sharing something funny that Mrs Barrow had mentioned to me in passing …’

‘And after all those creepy phone calls!’ She shudders (oblivious). ‘I was convinced it was him! Completely convinced! Oh my goodness’ – she covers her face with her hands – ‘what a complete and utter fool I’ve been, Carla – in fact we both have! Both of us! Such a pair of hysterical idiots!’

‘So if it wasn’t Mr Huff …?’ I start off, after a brief pause, rather tight-lipped (my slight irritation at the CIA slur now compounded by being branded a ‘hysterical idiot’).

‘It was King!’ she exclaims.

‘King?’ I echo.

‘It wasn’t actually a person on the phone! It was just King!’ Alys grabs a couple of the mugs from the small group suspended on hooks under the top cupboard. ‘Unbelievable as it may sound, it was him – King – all along!’

‘Sorry?’ I’m still confused.

‘King!’ she repeats. ‘The mynah bird I’m taking care of. It was him. He was simulating the sound of the phone!’

‘A mynah bird?’ I’m bemused.

‘Yes! He was pretending to be the phone. For a prank. He had me running up and down that house like an absolute maniac. And whenever I answered, he’d simply hang up.’