He probably means this as a sophisticated little joke, but I know it upsets Evelyn. I watch the colour rise in her face, and she bites her lip and looks away. Strange how even the brightest people, people who should know better, have so little regard for faith.

‘What will a post-mortem reveal? What do they look for?’ I ask.

‘Evidence of physical violence, blunt object trauma, strangulation, puncture wounds, big or small.’

‘As small as a hypodermic needle?’

‘Certainly. If the evidence still exists.’

‘And?’

‘Body fluid analysis, bloods, tissues, stomach contents, all sorts. They call it tox. If she died from injection, like you’re suggesting, they’ll be looking for whatever killed her.’

‘And this stuff will still be there in her body?’

‘Certainly. I’ve prosecuted cases where the victim has been exhumed years after death. In one case, the pathologist was able to reconstruct his last meal. Poor Christianne has been dead barely a couple of months. The evidence should still be there.’ He gives us one of those creepy smiles, and then reaches for his coat. ‘Wondrous carrot cake, n’est-ce pas?’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Mitch Culligan turns up in time for a late breakfast next day. The last time I saw him behind the wheel, he was driving an ancient Renault 4 van, the model favoured by French postmen in rural areas thirty years ago, and beneath the wreckage of the bodywork – dents, scrapes, missing trim – I suspect it’s the same vehicle. Nothing’s changed in personal terms, either. He’s still a shambling bear of a man, flat feet, full beard, knitted red scarf tucked into a tatty grey anorak. His one concession to style is a rather wonderful messenger bag, looped over one shoulder, in a shade of sea green I adore at once. It turns out to hold a pair of striped pyjamas, as well as his laptop, a serious-looking camera, and a store of notepads.

Evelyn busies around the kitchen, while Mitch and I compare notes on the last forty-eight hours. The post-shock dust has begun to settle on the wreckage of Mitch’s beloved Labour Party, and – says Mitch – the outlines of a new political settlement are beginning to appear.

‘Johnson’s fucked,’ he says at once. ‘He never expected a win this big and he knows it’ll come back to haunt him. All those pissed-off Leavers in the north have believed his promises and now he’ll have to deliver. No excuses. Nowhere to hide. Total nightmare.’ He stabs a fork at his second egg and mops up the spill of golden yolk with a finger of toast.

Evelyn, who I know votes Tory, is looking bewildered. She wants to know about the NHS. Especially sorting out proper care for the elderly.