This woman, I can sense already, can’t resist the grand gesture. The way she dresses, the way she carries herself, the trophy beau she lives with, all speak to a passion for drama. She needs to be noticed, to be listened to, and if she feels that Christianne’s last hour on planet earth might call for a bottle or two of decent red, then so be it. This was her account, her moment in the spotlight around Bill Penny’s table, but the question that begins to shape itself deep in my brain is deeply troubling. Was it all a lie? And does McFaul know that?

I find Evelyn still on the sofa. She appears to have adopted the recovery position and when I enquire further, it turns out that Man City have put no less than eight goals past the luckless Watford. Not only that, but the clincher, in the eighty-fifth minute, came from – yes – Kevin de Bruyne.

This, she says, calls for a modest celebration. I do her bidding, glad to forget about Andy for a moment or two, and return from the kitchen with two glasses and the remains of the bottle of Armagnac. We toast the sainted Kevin, and then someone called Pep, and we’re on our second glass of brandy before she asks me where I’ve been.

‘Next door,’ I say.

‘You’re telling me Andy’s back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Safe and sound? A free man?’

‘Police bail. He has to report twice weekly while they make further enquiries.’

‘They still think he killed her?’

‘I suspect they do, yes.’

‘And can they prove it?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘And you, my lovely?’

‘I was there to listen. And maybe try and help.’

‘I meant London. Earlier you thought you might go home tomorrow. After we all meet on the beach.’

‘I know.’

‘And?’

‘Second thoughts, I’m afraid.’ I reach for the bottle, thinking once again about Beth’s story. ‘Maybe later in the week.’

EIGHTEEN

Next morning, as Bill had promised, the weather behaves itself. The rain and the murk have gone and the sun is heavenly as Evelyn and I make our way down through the town. The road dips suddenly towards the big car park at the end of the beach and already I can see a knot of people gathered on the pebbles. They’re standing beside a splash of scarlet, deep in conversation.

Walking on the beach is awkward, thanks to the size and smoothness of the pebbles, and I take Evelyn by the hand, steadying her when she loses her footing. The splash of scarlet turns out to be a couple of towels, carefully rucked. Beth is talking to Bill Penny, but she breaks off when we approach. She’s wearing an ankle-length cotton dress that stirs in the wind off the sea. Her feet are bare and a patterned bandana gives her a faintly warrior look.