This is brave, and possibly foolish, but I have no other choice, partly because I know far less than Brett and Bullivant assume, and partly because I have no intention of ratting anyone out. Back in the bungalow, Evelyn is in a tizzy. The uniformed policeman is both patient and courteous, but she hates strangers riffling through the drawers in her bedroom. After half an hour, sooner than expected, the search party departs with a laptop, a mobile, and a handful of documents.

‘Christ.’ Evelyn sinks into her favourite armchair. She’s normally a strong woman, resilient, but I can see she’s close to tears. She looks up at me and blows her nose before gesturing towards the bungalow next door. ‘What has that bloody man started?’

What, indeed? That night, from my bedroom upstairs, I put a precautionary phone call through to Tony Morse. I catch him on the motorway, driving back to Portsmouth, and when I mention the body on Budleigh beach it turns out he’s been following the news coverage for most of the day.

‘I was down there myself,’ I tell him. ‘This place has become a circus. Every man and his dog.’

‘I’m not surprised. The pictures were amazing. Tell me it wasn’t her in the box, that friend of yours.’

‘It was.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ I’m nodding. ‘I’m afraid I need a bit of a steer, Tony.’

‘About?’

‘Euthanasia. This is getting yourself killed, right?’

‘A mercy job, yes.’

‘So, either you do it yourself, or someone else helps, or someone does it for you, yes?’

‘Correct.’

‘And is that legal?’

‘God, no. We lawyers call it murder, or sometimes manslaughter.’

‘And the penalty?’

‘Up to fourteen years. That’s life to you and me.’ He laughs. ‘The polls close in twenty minutes. Phone when you need me.’

‘When or if?’

‘When.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

Next morning, I awake to the confirmation that Boris Johnson has romped home to a victory that even he didn’t expect. The Labour Party is routed, the Brexit Party have folded their tents and stolen away, and our newly elected prime minister is standing on the door step of Number Ten looking, if anything, a bit sheepish.

Mitch Culligan phones me shortly afterwards. He’s an investigative journalist I was close to several years ago and I think I still count him as a friend, but all that matters this morning is that he hates the fucking Tories. We haven’t talked for months.

‘Did I get you up?’ he grunts.

‘No.’

‘I pulled an all-nighter.’ He’s groaning now. ‘I thought that exit poll had to be a piss-take. Eighty-four seats? Someone was having a joke.’

‘Wrong. It’s a nastier country than even you ever thought.’

‘Impossible. And nasty doesn’t begin to do it justice, if you want the full conversation.’ He smothers a yawn. ‘Still slumming it in Holland Park?’

‘Budleigh Salterton, since you ask.’