‘And so he’s resigned to his own death. More importantly, he accepts it, even welcomes it. Why? Because he knows he’s done his duty, done his best, for himself, for his family, pour la France. And that, in his own words, is enough for any man, any woman. Indeed, it makes him lucky. Because his life has had a direction, a purpose, and he’ll now die in the knowledge that he can do no more.’ Sylvester looks up. ‘The letter, as a matter of interest, is written to his mother. Women, dare I say it, are probably wiser in this respect than we men. Christianne, whom I like to think I knew, was wise. And she, too, understood the importance of making that final peace.’

Sylvester’s timing is immaculate. He stands in silence for a long moment, then folds the letter and returns it to me before nodding at his father. Bill is holding the wreath. The balance in the boat shifts a little as he steps towards the side, and people instinctively cling to each other.

Bill is looking down at the splinters of sunshine on the water.

‘Bon voyage, notre cherie,’ he murmurs. ‘Et bonne chance.’

He hesitates a moment, and then launches the wreath into the semicircle of waiting swimmers. A couple make the sign of the cross. Another blows the bobbing wreath a kiss. For a timed minute, we drift slowly inshore, all of us, the boat, Bill’s Adieu Team, and the swimmers. That long moment, with the boat alive beneath my feet, will stay with me forever, regardless of what was later to come.

Bill is looking at his watch. A nod to the skipper stirs the engine into life and we putter back towards the beach to make a landing. Only when I’m back on shore, climbing the pebbles towards the knot of mourners we’d left around Beth’s towels, do I notice the figure sitting at the top of the beach, his back against the wall. He’s peeled off the top half of his leathers but in this weather he must still be baking. His legs are clad in motorcycle boots, and he’s steadying a pair of binoculars as he tracks our approach.

DI Frank Bullivant, I think. Watching us.

NINETEEN

Bullivant departs within minutes of our return to the beach, zipping up his leathers and straddling his Kawasaki. The bravest part of me wants to confront him, to ask what’s happening to Operation Bulldog, to demand exactly what he thinks lies behind Christianne’s disappearance, but another voice in my head tells me we’ve said our goodbyes, that she’s gone, and that – in all probability – we’ll have nothing left to mark her departure.

This is certainly McFaul’s take on the morning’s events. He, too, has seen Bullivant.