‘We both had, Bill and me. We were doing National Trust work at the time. We waited for rain to soften the earth, and then used their spades. The hole was deep enough to keep the foxes out. Took maybe ten hours, off and on, between us.’

‘And the dog? Hundchen?’

‘That was Chris’s last wish. She loved the dog, and the dog loved her. You might have seen it. Old. Half blind. Bill thought it was a blessing.’

‘Fentanyl again?’

‘Injected. In a solution of warm water.’

‘I see.’

Throughout this story, Raimundo has been keeping a discreet distance, his back half-turned, smoking a small cheroot, but I get the impression he’s heard it before.

‘So, you buried her?’ I’m back with McFaul.

‘Yes. Full moon. Stars. Birds calling from down below.’ He frowns, then studies his hands. ‘You want me to go on?’

‘No, of course not. I’m really, really sorry. Truly I am. But maybe it was for the best, eh?’

I put my hand over his. When he looks up, I think I detect just a glint of a tear.

‘She loved you,’ he says. ‘She really did.’

At my insistence, we abandon the rest of the cakes, and find a nearby bar. I very badly need a drink, and so does McFaul, and we both agree to change the subject. The bar is perfect: small, intimate, shadowed spaces with just a thin scatter of other drinkers, most of them solitary men. McFaul confesses that he comes here a lot when he’s in town, and looking round I believe him.

Raimundo, it turns out, has a new job, working in a bigger bank. It’s given him a substantial salary raise plus two days off every month that he never expected.

‘Raimundo wants to be a writer,’ McFaul announces. ‘But he’s far too shy to admit it.’

‘That’s true?’ I’ve been watching him taking the occasional sip of Diet Coke.

‘It is, yes.’ His English is near perfect, all the sweeter for just a hint of a lisp. ‘I used to write stories when I was a kid, back in Africa. I read all the time, books and books and books. Just recently, with this new job …’ He smiles.

‘You’ve started writing again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Short stories? Poetry?’

‘Neither.’ McFaul nods at the briefcase beside Raimundo’s chair. ‘You want to show her?’

Raimundo looks a little awkward. I can tell he’s hating this.

‘I’d love to see it,’ I tell him. ‘May I?’

With some reluctance, he bends to the briefcase and extracts a yellow file.

‘For you.’ He gives me the file. ‘I have another copy.’

‘For me?’ I’m looking at McFaul again. Raimundo’s file is heavier than I’d expected.

‘It’s a novella.’ McFaul empties his glass and checks his watch. ‘We thought we’d put it in for that competition Evelyn announced. Back last year. In the church.’

FORTY-ONE