‘This is crazy,’ I say. ‘We don’t need this, we really don’t, not today of all days.’

‘You started it.’

‘Nonsense. I was simply asking why you thought that coffin, that shroud, had Christianne inside it.’

‘But wasn’t I right?’

‘You were. My question was why?’

She doesn’t answer, but the way she’s looking at me is deeply revealing. Christianne, and everything her disappearance has spawned, has become Beth’s property. She, more than anyone else, has rights of ownership. Her friend. Her fathomless grief at what’s happened. Her smell all over this suddenly huge development. One of Budleigh’s leading figures identifies the body on the beach. Hold the front page.

Evelyn has arrived with a tray of tea. I suspect she’s overheard most of this conversation from the kitchen because she’s determined to change the subject.

‘So, what happens next?’ she’s asking. ‘What do the police do now?’

We get an answer within hours. Another knock at Evelyn’s front door reveals a uniformed officer. He hands me a search warrant. By now it’s dark but I recognize the face in the suit behind him. Brett Atkinson.

‘This is about Christianne?’ I’m gazing at the fold of paper in his hand.

‘Yes. We’re serving a number of warrants this evening, as you’d probably expect. It shouldn’t take long. Is Ms Warlock at home? She’ll need to sign for anything we seize.’

This is wearisome. I ask what connection Evelyn could possibly have with today’s incident on the beach, but he won’t tell me. All that matters is getting the search done. An hour. Tops.

‘But what are you looking for?’

‘The usual.’ He risks a smile. ‘With your experience, I’m sure you can guess.’

‘We’re talking documents? Devices?’

‘Both.’

‘Nothing forensic?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’ My heart sinks. Evelyn is a fascist when it comes to keeping her new home, indeed any home, spick and span. She has a horror of funny smells, and always has an air freshener or three readied for emergencies. The aftermath of a full forensic search, with its crusty residue of chemical leavings, would horrify her.

‘You really think that might be necessary?’

‘I’ve no idea. There might be ways round it.’

‘Really?’ I’ve caught the tiny come-on in his voice. ‘You want to tell me more?’

He beckons me out into the darkness while the officer steps inside to explain the warrant to poor Evelyn. We stand beside his car, the unmarked Ford I last saw in the leisure centre car park over in Exmouth.

‘Well?’ I’m looking at Brett. Thankfully he cuts to the chase.

‘This is as big as it gets for Bullivant,’ he says. ‘He’s got a body at last. He’s all over the bloody media. He’s back from the dead. He’s been proved right.’