She asks me to confirm my name. I hold the door open and invite them in. The light in the hall is dim, but the woman knows the caution by heart. I’m to be arrested for conspiracy to murder. Anything I say may be taken down and used in evidence against me. Evelyn has left the radio on in the kitchen, a habit she’s adopted to keep the bad guys away. These are the bad guys, I suspect, and we stand there for a moment, listening to some carol or other, before the woman volunteers to accompany me to my bedroom where I might like to get dressed.

We mount the stairs, and she turns her back while I pull on whatever comes to hand. Police stations are normally warm, so I resist the temptation to bring an extra woolly.

‘Toothbrush? Flannel? Soap? Towel?’

I collect all four from the bathroom downstairs, wondering quite how long a stay these people are anticipating, and then hesitate outside Evelyn’s bedroom door.

‘Enora? Is that you?’ It turns out she’s heard the voices in the hall.

I put my head around her bedroom door. She’s already found the switch for the little lamp beside her bed.

‘What’s happening?’ she asks. ‘What’s going on?’

I explain I’ve just been arrested. Back soon, fingers crossed.

‘Arrested for what?’

‘Conspiracy …’ I manage to muster a smile. ‘To murder. Do you mind telling Mitch?’

Outside, it’s still pretty dark. The woman handcuffs herself to me in the light from the door before we walk to the waiting car. Together, we sit in the back while the other detective takes the wheel. His driving, given the lack of traffic, verges on the sedate. Neither of my two companions has any interest in conversation and the journey passes in silence. Conspiracy to murder. Giving Christianne a helping hand. Bizarre.

By the time we get to Exeter, the rising sun is throwing long shadows over the car park behind Heavitree police station. This is where they took McFaul, back in September, I tell myself. This is where he batted every question away with a tight-lipped ‘No comment’.

I’m arraigned before the custody sergeant, who gets a complicated booking form on screen and types in my answers to a long list of questions. Down the nearby corridor I catch just a glimpse of Bill Penny in the company of a stout turnkey and I start to wonder how many other bodies have ended up in Operation Bulldog’s trawl net. Conspiracy is an elastic term. Three? Half a dozen? Le tout Budleigh? I can hardly wait.

The custody sergeant wants to know about legal representation. I shake my head when he suggests the duty solicitor and give him Tony Morse’s phone number which, thank God, I’ve memorized. The news that Tony will have to drive from Portsmouth puts a scowl on the sergeant’s face.