‘It’s a little bit of England writ small,’ I say carefully. ‘A lot of people here have money. Many of them have come down from London. They’ve been successful. They’re used to what success and money and making your own decisions does to your life. They take all of that for granted.’

‘Post-aspirational? Does that nail it?’

It’s a beguiling phrase, and I wonder whether it’s original.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It does. This place is beautiful. It’s quiet. It minds its own business.’

‘Wants to be left alone?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘On its own terms?’

‘Yes.’

I can see where this little exchange is headed, and I start to wonder whether Carole-Anne has been talking to Mitch. He, too, paints a picture of an entire town, a whole community, turning its back on the rest of the kingdom. Much like the Brits and Europe.

Carole-Anne is writing herself a note. She wants to know about Christianne. Was she, too, an outsider?

‘She was French,’ I say at once. ‘That may be the same thing. She’d lived all over the world, often in some bloody awful places. That gives you a certain mindset. You know how to look after yourself. You make your own way.’

‘A bit like the town itself?’

I gaze at her a moment. In truth, I’ve never made this particular link, but now she’s pointed it out, I can only agree.

‘That’s right,’ I say.

‘And is that why she made so many friends? Fitted in so perfectly?’ She gestures at her notepad. ‘I must have done a dozen little interviews already and I’ve yet to meet anyone who won’t be at that meeting tomorrow night. People want to protect her memory, and they think the police are way out of line. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’

‘About Christianne?’

‘Of course.’ She’s smiling now. ‘But about this little place, too.’

Brilliant, I think. Embattled Budleigh taking up the cudgels on behalf of its own. What a great headline. No wonder half the London media are already on the road, heading south-west.

At this point, I hear a voice in the hall, a male voice, a voice I know very well indeed, and moments later I’m looking round to see that familiar face at the door.

‘Mum.’ It’s Malo. ‘I’ve been really worried about you.’

As Evelyn’s little bungalow begins to fill with more faces – some familiar, others not – I take my wayward son downtown for a drink. Carole-Anne, who seems more than happy with our brief little exchange, has joined the others in the lounge, but just now I can’t face any more harangues from Beth, and a corner table in The Feathers turns out to be a much better idea.