Evelyn is doubtless right, especially when it comes to self-belief. Bill has told me a little about Beth’s determination to lay her hands on the missing Hundchen, and when I ask about the lengths she’s gone to, Evelyn is happy to oblige.

‘Anyone half sane would call it an obsession. I’ve seen her with the dog. She used to take it for walks sometimes, to help Bill out. It even used to spend the odd afternoon in that shop of hers. It was a yapper, that little animal, and it never knew when to stop. Anyone new, you had to watch your ankles.’

‘A bit like Beth?’

‘Touché, my lovely. Like attracts like. Maybe they were both obsessives. In any event, when the bloody thing went missing she told everyone it had to be found. For her sake as well as the dog’s. Listen to her, and you’d think she’d lost a child. Posters? Door–to-door enquiries? Stuff in the papers? Even a piece on the local radio station? Totally manic and – dare I say it – wholly of a piece with the person she undoubtedly is. The dog couldn’t bear to be ignored. And neither can she. There. Am I as horrible as I must sound? Probably worse. Be honest.’ She beams at me. ‘More toast?’

In the afternoon, I insist we go for a walk along the beach. I can sense Evelyn suspects that part of this new life of hers in Budleigh has been stolen by the media – all those pictures, all those headlines, all that fuss and bother – and it’s my job to convince her that this little flurry of attention, this grossest of intrusions, will pass. Media storms blow themselves out, I tell her, because we punters – like the seagulls pecking at the tideline – simply move on. Nothing lasts forever, especially now, and within a week or two Budleigh will sink into its normal state of torpor.

‘Torpor? Is that how you view us? Fat? Lazy? Overindulged? Too wealthy for our own good?’

We’re sitting peaceably in the thin sunshine, gazing out across the pebbles. None of the above, I assure her. Poor choice of noun.

‘Think of another, then. The devil’s in the detail, my lovely. Always was. Always will be.’

I accept this little slap on the wrist in the spirit Evelyn intends. Language, as ever, is sacred.

‘Contentment? Would that be better?’

‘Worse. It makes us far too pleased with ourselves.’

‘Secure, then?’