‘There was a reporter on that beach.’ This from Bullivant. ‘I was there. I saw him myself. He was taking photos.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So, who invited him along? And why?’

‘I’ve no idea. Christianne going missing was a big story. The search was huge. That kind of stuff sells newspapers.’

‘Indeed. And a photo appeared in the Journal the following Wednesday, did it not?’

Unprompted, Leadbetter produces a copy of the paper’s front page. The photo shows the boat offshore, listing slightly as we gather to watch the wreath drifting away on the tide. Bill Penny has lowered his head. I’m still holding my copy of the young resistant’s last letter. Town mourns missing swimmer, runs the headline.

‘This was a ploy, was it not, Ms Andressen? A red herring? Confirmation that this friend of yours had been lost at sea? Wasn’t that the purpose of the gathering? And doesn’t that explain the presence of the reporter? By Friday, thousands of people knew Ms Beaucarne had drowned. Why? Because the Journal said so. Very clever, very artful. But a lie. Isn’t that the case, Ms Andressen? Weren’t you all there in the knowledge that this whole episode – the woman dancing round the towel, the face paint, the dropping of the wreath at sea – was a pantomime? To lead us all astray? To disguise the truth of what really happened?’

‘No comment.’

I resist the temptation to glance at Andrea. This is beginning to get tricky again and I’m very aware that not answering questions puts me in a very bad light indeed. Bullivant seems to sense this.

‘Well, Ms Andressen?’

‘I was there in good faith. I missed my friend. By then, McFaul had told me about the MND and I thought she’d drowned herself on purpose.’

‘And it never occurred to you that there might be another explanation?’

‘God, no. Why should it?’

‘Not even with your background? Movies? Plot twists? All that?’

‘This was different. This was real life.’

‘And you think that makes a difference?’

‘Of course it does. What I do for a living is entertainment. Drowning at sea is something very different.’

‘But she didn’t drown, Ms Andressen. She died of a drug overdose. Thanks to Fentanyl that we suspect you supplied. You were there. You watched. You may have held her hand, tried to comfort her. You knew. On that beach, in that boat, you knew. Please don’t go through this charade again. You might not like us, Ms Andressen, but we’re not as stupid as you might think. Just admit it. You were there when she died. You knew.’

‘Wrong. I didn’t.’