The answer dumbfounds us all. Lead story on the BBC news, and on ITN as well. Extended coverage on Sky and the promise of a special on tomorrow evening’s BBC Spotlight half hour. Thanks to Christianne, little Budleigh Salterton is well and truly on the national radar. By now, with most of the wine gone, we’re all euphoric, Beth especially. Mitch, trapped in the bay window, is mobbed. Women embrace him. Men pump his hand. Everyone agrees he’s played a blinder. I seize a passing bottle and pour the remains into his empty glass. Then I turn to the crush between us and the door.

‘To Mitch.’ I raise the empty bottle. ‘And to our lovely Evelyn.’

THIRTY-NINE

We get up late next day. Thanks to resupplies from Bill and Nathan, we drank until three in the morning, reliving every moment from that extraordinary gathering in the public hall. Word about the Budleigh Six has spilled on to social media, a flood of postings, the huge bulk of them beyond supportive. People, in Mitch’s phrase, love to stick it to authority, and here is the perfect opportunity. The target of choice, perhaps inevitably, is the police and literally millions of voices are raised on the internet. Much of this stuff is unprintable, but a small circle of us spend the early hours reading out post after post. One of them, a personal favourite, reads, How come you spend all that money when you couldn’t be arsed to even look for my stolen gnomes?

I totter downstairs at eleven. Mitch is already at the kitchen table. He’s been out for the newspapers and has a selection spread before him. Last night’s event was too late to make this morning’s edition but many of the tabloids, and even some of the broadsheets, have run feature pieces to steal a march on broadcast coverage. Once again, Budleigh Salterton is hogging the limelight. Reminder photos of the coffin at the foot of the cliff. Nicely framed shots of the curl of pebble beach and the sun on the water beyond. God’s waiting room has become a national treasure.

Mitch directs my attention to my mobile. I must have left it in the kitchen last night.

‘It’s been ringing all morning,’ he says. ‘You’d better take a look.’

I scroll through a long list of messages. They’re mostly from friends and colleagues. Rosa says she’s proud of me. A fellow thesp thinks I’ve been following the wrong career all these years. Stick to campaigning, she’s written. You’ve done so, so well. Then, towards the end of the messages, another name catches my eye. Brett Atkinson.

Shit. I glance up, feeling a sudden chill in the kitchen.

‘You OK?’ This from Mitch.

‘I’m fine.’ I’m looking at my mobile again. ‘Something might have come up.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’