Mitch has never mastered settling-in, never begun to understand what it means. He’s been a moving target as long as I’ve known him, relying on quick feet and a ready intelligence to keep out of trouble. By nature, he can’t help himself. He’s selectively honest in his dealings with others and is extremely hard on himself. He sets the journalistic bar very high, questions everything, all the time, and was probably born subversive.

We sit together on the sofa, two outsiders in this little community. I tell him about meeting Christianne, and McFaul, and their joint efforts to get on top of MND.

‘But you can’t,’ he says at once. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I agree, ‘and that’s probably what put her on the beach.’

‘You mean a mercy killing? Early doors?’

‘More than possible.’

‘So how would that work?’

I tell him I don’t know, not the details, which happens to be true. I also resist the temptation to share my mercifully brief encounter with MI5.

Mitch has found Budleigh on Google Earth. I’m looking at a jigsaw of streets and cul-de-sacs surrounded by the rich greens and reds of rural East Devon. Mitch follows my finger as I point out the highlights. Evelyn’s cul-de-sac of bungalows. The High Street. The big car park on the seafront. And the long shallow crescent of cliff away to the west.

‘About there.’ My finger comes to rest on a tiny splinter of beach at the foot of the cliff. ‘That’s where she ended up.’

‘And here?’ Mitch has tracked inland.

‘That’s a golf course. The poshest part of Budleigh is right beside it, but none of the roads come down as far as the coastal path and the cliff. A good friend lives around here …’ I think I’ve found Bill’s house. ‘He was our man in Berlin for a while. I think that was his last job before he retired. He knew Christianne well. I ought to introduce you.’

‘He was an ambassador?’

‘Yes. I expect Budleigh’s full of them. But he’s still a nice man.’

The distinction puts a brief smile on Mitch’s big face. He’s taking another long look at Google Earth, tightening the focus, teasing out the detail. What seems to interest him most is the golf course.

‘Popular?’

‘Very, as far as I know. While the daylight lasts, this is a very active little town. Tennis, croquet, bowls. And golf, of course.’

‘And after dark?’

‘A grave.’

At Mitch’s insistence, we go for a walk so he can scout the ground. En route to the seafront, a couple of passers-by pause for a brief chat, much to Mitch’s amusement. The talk, inevitably, is of Thursday’s events, and what might happen next, but what takes his fancy is the fact that I’ve made friends already.