‘Of course,’ I say lightly. ‘There’s a hole in the fence up here. We can get to his place across the golf course.’

The rain is much heavier now, and by the time we finally make it to chez Bill we’re both soaked. The rain has brought with it an early dusk and the lights are on inside Bill’s house as we step in from the road. Parked on the sweep of gravel drive is a police forensics van, and when I look up to the first-floor window, I catch a glimpse of a hooded figure clad in a grey one-piece, peering at something in his gloved hand.

Bill comes to meet us at the door.

‘What’s going on?’ I gesture towards the van.

‘Routine enquiries, my dear. Our friends in blue earning their crusts. Come in. You’re soaking wet. Just like last time.’

I introduce Mitch and step inside, grateful for the sudden warmth. Bill departs in search of towels and we stand in the hall. Upstairs, through an open door, I can hear a low murmur of conversation and then the hiss of an aerosol, while Mitch seems more interested in the pictures on the wall.

One of them is a watercolour. Rocks in the foreground frame the view beyond. Pine clad hills descend to a valley. It must be autumn because little patches of deciduous trees have turned golden in the thin sunlight, and the soft swell of a mountain on the far horizon is shrouded with an eiderdown of greyish cloud.

‘The Harz Mountains – you know them?’ Bill has returned, silent as a ghost.

‘Ja. Das ist die Blocksberg am Horizont?’

‘Die Brocken, ja. Sprechen sie Deutsch?’

‘Ich spreche ein wenig.’ Mitch is still gazing at the watercolour. ‘You painted this?’

‘You’re too kind, but I’m afraid not. We used to walk in the Harz at weekends, my wife and I. October was always our favourite, just a nibble of winter in the air. I saw that painting in a gallery in Bad Harzburg. Far more than I could really afford, but I had to have it. To do justice to a view like that in watercolours is remarkable.’ He smiles. ‘My compliments, Mitch. You’re only the second person who’s ever put a name to that view.’

‘And the first?’ It’s a question I can’t resist.

‘Christianne, of course. Come with me. You’ll catch your death here.’

We have tea in Bill’s cavernous kitchen. He’s careful to shut the door. From upstairs comes the faint whine of something that sounds like a Hoover.

‘Maybe they’re tidying up,’ I say brightly. ‘Maybe it’s a housecleaning visit. Getting you ready for Christmas.’

‘Sweet thought.’ Bill is rummaging for a tin of biscuits. ‘They only appear to be interested in that one bedroom, the one you liked so much. That, I suppose, is a blessing.’