‘This is where Christianne left the clothes?’ I nod at the towels.

‘Yeah. It’s as close as I can get. Andy gave me the rough directions.’

‘Isn’t he coming?’ I’m looking round.

‘He said he might.’

‘Might?’ I can’t help frowning.

‘Yeah … you know … it must be tough for him …’ She steps a little closer and takes me to one side. ‘Maybe we need to remember what really happened. That man is hurting. Can’t you feel his pain?’

Really happened? I say nothing for a moment. Sooner or later, this woman owes me a proper conversation, but not here, not now.

Nathan Kline has arrived. Knife-edged flannel trousers, crisp white shirt, black tie, Golf Club blazer. He, too, wants to know about the towels.

‘They represent fire,’ Beth says. ‘It’s a Native American thing. It’s one of the projects I’m working on. Fire as a cleanser. Fire as the essence of nature. Fire as the presence of Wakan Tanka.’

‘Who?’

‘The Great Spirit. Christianne is with him now. As we all will be.’ Beth presses a hand to her chest and briefly closes her eyes, tilting her face upwards to the sun. A group of women, none of them young, are standing nearby. They’re watching this little performance, unsure quite what to make of it. All of them are carrying towels of their own, and I ask Evelyn why. More disciples of Wakan Tanka? More spiritual kindling for Christianne’s fire?

Evelyn laughs. ‘I expect they’ll be going in for a dip later.’ She nods down towards the curl of waves on the wet shingle. ‘These are the women Christianne used to swim with. It’s nice to see them here.’

Beth has abandoned Nathan Kline and is back with her partner, Presley. Presley is dressed entirely in black – jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket – and watching them together it’s easy once again to see who bosses the relationship. I suspect Beth is at least ten years older than this partner of hers, and it shows. She’s forever touching him, a hand on his arm, her lips to his ear, a commanding physical intimacy she wants us all to see, but she’s definitely kept her looks, and the longer I watch her, the more I begin to sense something slightly Aztec in the planes of her face, and the sallowness of her complexion, and that thick, lustrous fall of jet-black hair beneath the bandana. A beautiful woman, I think. Lucky Presley.

Moments later, she checks her watch and does a head count, and calls us to order. The time has come, she says, to start proceedings, but then she spots McFaul making his way along the beach.

‘No pressure,’ she says. ‘Let’s wait for who really matters.’