‘He’s a friend of mine,’ I tell her again. ‘But he’ll be back in a minute, so you can ask him yourself.’

Mitch takes longer to make it back from the golf course than I’d anticipated. It’s raining again, and he’s soaking when he finally turns up. Beth has been pressing me for location gossip from my last movie, but the moment she hears the knock at the door, she breaks off and gets to her feet. This afternoon’s outfit, a mash-up of Budleigh bien pensant and middle-aged vamp, perfectly showcases her figure. Normally she wears loose outfits that leave a great deal to the imagination, but not on this occasion. For a woman who must be in her forties, she’s in extraordinary shape.

‘This is he?’ she mouths.

‘It is.’

I sort out Mitch on the doorstep. He removes his Doc Martens, which are thick with mud, while I field his anorak and shake off the excess rain. I’m about to take him into the lounge but Beth has beaten me to it. She’s standing in the hall, looking winsome.

I do the introductions. Mitch is studying her with some interest.

‘Your name again?’

‘Beth. I came to say thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘That link Evelyn sent. It’s exactly what I’ve been after. You must have read my mind.’

I retreat to the kitchen with Mitch’s anorak and leave them to it. By the time I get back to the lounge, they’re both sitting on the sofa. Beth has her legs tucked beneath her, a faintly yogic pose, while Mitch has stockinged feet propped on Evelyn’s beanbag. Mitch has a real talent for putting people at their ease, for sensing how best to get them talking, but with Beth he’s spared that effort. All he has to do is listen.

As I settle into Evelyn’s armchair, she’s telling him about the impact the hospice footage made on her. Powerful, she says, doesn’t begin to cut it. Ever since Christianne disappeared, she’s been trying to find a bunch of images that might explain why someone with her problems, someone confronted with the guarantee of an ugly, ugly death, might take things into their own hands. She’s tried the Dignity in Dying people. She’s poked around the internet. She’s even been in touch with survivors – wives, husbands, best friends – who might have taken a photo or two as the end approached. But in every case, she’s hit a brick wall.

‘People don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to tell you how horrible it is, won’t let you close enough. It’s like the end is some kind of secret. So tell me, be honest, how crazy is that?’

‘Very crazy.’ Mitch is examining a hole in his sock. ‘So, what happens next?’

‘I develop that hospice footage, put it to good use.’

‘How?’