‘Budleigh where?’ He pauses. ‘Hang on, haven’t they just found a body there?’

‘Right. That’s why I’m here.’

‘You’re a journalist now? A paramedic? An undertaker?’

I start to laugh. Culligan is a journalist of real talent. He has a doggedness and a fierce sense of right and wrong I’ve always admired. He writes like an angel, gets most of the facts right, and has a sour wit I’ve always found irresistible. I suspect it’s kept him afloat through some seriously dark times, but now he wants to know more about the body on the beach.

I give him a brief account of what I’ve been up to. He’s met Evelyn a couple of times, when she was still my neighbour in west London, and he’s intrigued by her choice of retirement destination.

‘Why on earth Budleigh? From what I remember, she had a lovely flat. London on her doorstep? A neighbour like you? What’s not to like?’

I tell him about the literary festival, and about how quickly she’s come to love her new home.

‘She adores the place,’ I tell him. ‘She thinks it’s one of God’s best-kept secrets.’

‘Not any more, it isn’t. Not with a story like that on your doorstep. You’re telling me you knew this woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s some kind of mercy killing?’

‘Probably.’

‘Shit.’ He stifles another yawn. ‘Does your friend have a spare bedroom?’

Later that morning, over a late breakfast, I broach this question to Evelyn. She remembers Mitch Culligan very well and says she’d be happy to have him stay. Her third bedroom is on the small side, but I assure her that Mitch is oblivious to home comforts.

‘He lives in his head,’ I tell her. ‘Like all the other interesting people we know.’

This little aperçu sparks a brief conversation about Beth. Evelyn, it turns out, has spent half the night worrying about our little spat when she turned up yesterday afternoon. Like me, she has reservations about Beth, but she thinks her heart’s in the right place, even if she wildly overestimates her other talents.

‘Her writing is abject,’ she says. ‘You remember that short-story collection you mentioned? The Water’s Edge? She brought them round. I was very happy to read them. She’s not short of imagination, and she has bags of confidence, but she’s never made a friend of language. It doesn’t work for her on the page. She has no feel for rhythm, for character, for description. I hate to say it, but what I read of the work was wooden beyond belief. Maybe she should have been a carpenter. Like that nice Presley.’