‘We’re not suggesting for a moment that Mr Kline flew McFaul himself, but we’ve made enquiries and we’ve established that McFaul was probably in a light aircraft that took off from a private strip in mid-Devon on the morning of the …’ He checks his pad. ‘Twenty-fourth of September. All cross-Channel flights are mandated to file a General Aviation Report and land at entry airfields in France. This one didn’t. We have grounds to believe that it landed at a private strip inland from the Brittany coast. It would have refuelled there before the aircraft took off again and returned to the UK.’ Bullivant looks up. ‘Our belief is that McFaul was a passenger on the southbound leg of that journey, and that he was dropped off at the private strip. The nearest hamlet is called …’ He glances down to find the name. ‘Poullaouen Le Stancou. Do you know it?’

‘No comment.’

‘Let’s assume you do. It’s a tiny place, just a handful of inhabitants, but that’s not the point because it’s only thirty miles from Perros-Guirec. We understand you have family connections in Perros-Guirec. Is that true?’

‘No comment.’

‘Your mother still lives there?’

‘No comment.’

‘We suspect McFaul had been in touch with your mother, or perhaps you had. We think she arranged for someone to meet him at or near the airstrip to help him on his way. With a car, or even a motorbike, he could be anywhere in Europe. In the Schengen Area, borders are porous. Few checks. Little paperwork. In other words, Ms Andressen, thanks to help from you and your family, Mr McFaul thinks he’s home safe. That may turn out to be wildly optimistic, of course, but for now we think it serves as an explanation.’

I hold his gaze. The only thing that can make this nightmare worse is the involvement of my lovely mum, and now it’s happened. I want to find out whether they’ve been to knock on her door, or whether they’ve alerted the French police, or taken any number of other measures that would make her life a misery. Under certain circumstances, French bureaucracy can be unforgiving and this might well be a case in point.

‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ I say softly.

‘About McFaul?’

‘About everything.’

The interview, mercifully, comes to an end. Both Bullivant and Leadbetter leave the interview suite without a backward glance, and Tony returns from a brief chat with the custody sergeant to confirm that the time allowed for detention has been extended to thirty-six hours. By seven o’clock tomorrow evening, unless they apply to the magistrates for yet another extension, Operation Bulldog must release me.

‘Given today’s developments, they may decide to bail you,’ he adds.

‘Like McFaul?’

‘Exactly. Take a hint, my darling. Find yourself a private pilot and go home.’

‘You mean France?’