Why not, indeed? Alone in the bungalow, I do the thesp thing, abandon real life and plunge myself into the world of make-believe. I’ve taken Evelyn’s advice, turned my back on London and what’s left of my career, and traded Holland Park for Budleigh Salterton. What would I gain? And what, perhaps more importantly, would I lose? Could I really flourish in the company of the kind of people I’ve been watching at the golf club? Would I do a Christianne, and take the plunge with the other year-round swimmers? Could I really build a life on bridge parties and a twirl or two around the croquet lawn? Might, in short, there be a little niche for a still-working divorcee with a dormant tumour in her brain and a French cop series to nail? The answer, I conclude, is an emphatic no, and I’m about to browse Evelyn’s new bookshelves in search of something to read when I hear a knock at the door.

I take a precautionary peek through the bay window. To my surprise, it’s Beth. She sees me at once and smiles. Knowing I have no alternative, I open the door and invite her in. She gives me a hug. This is surprise number two. The last time I saw her, she blanked me. Now this.

‘Coffee?’ I hear myself saying.

‘Water will be fine. Tap, please. Nothing from a bottle.’

I fetch a glass of water and we sit together in the lounge. Beth apologizes at once for, as she puts it, being such a cow to me. On reflection, she’s decided my need to question her story about the way Christianne really died was meant in good faith, and in some respects she doesn’t blame me. As an outsider, she says, I must find this whole thing really puzzling, and she doesn’t blame me for that, either.

I nod, say nothing. The really interesting thing, then and now, is that she lied to me, and to the others, but I somehow assume she’s made her peace with them as well. Maybe she claimed artistic licence. Maybe that night at Bill’s table she was simply drunk. Either way, she’s right. It’s over. Done. Gone.

‘That hospice footage Evelyn sent me,’ she says. ‘Who’s Mitch?’

‘A friend of mine.’ The news that Mitch is a journalist, London-based, grabs her attention at once.

‘And his second name?’

‘Culligan.’

‘Should I know him?’

‘Only if you read the Guardian, or the New Statesman, or happen to pull up his website. He’s a dying breed, a threatened species. His kind of journalism will be extinct before long.’

‘Really? And he has connections? Contacts? Still gets into print?’

‘Yes. I think it’s getting much harder for him, but there are still ways and means.’

‘So what’s he doing down here?’