Just over a week later, Evelyn and I take an early Eurostar to Brussels, en route for Prague. Pavel comes with us, his ashes still contained in the plastic urn I failed to get through the security checks at Gatwick last year. In this respect, and many others, the train does the business. There’s an X-ray machine at St Pancras International, but no one is the least bit troubled by the ghostly image of Pavel passing through.

By the time we change trains at Brussels, Evelyn has brought me up to speed with the latest Budleigh gossip. After the excitement of last month, life has settled down. Passing conversation on the street or in the butcher’s, says Evelyn, still returns by some strange magnetic force to that evening when we took on the forces of law and order and won. People still treasure those wonderful moments in the public hall, and the organizers of this year’s literary festival have asked Evelyn to deliver another talk, which she describes as a riff on the perils and rewards of civil disobedience. This sounds a bit worthy but Evelyn assures me that it’ll be anything but.

Mention of the literary festival is the perfect cue for the next stage of our journey. Once we’ve settled down on the train that will take us to Frankfurt, and then Prague, I fetch out a biggish envelope and lay it carefully on the table between us.

‘What on earth’s that?’

‘It’s an entry,’ I tell her. ‘For your Golden Nymph competition.’

‘Really?’ She’s intrigued already. ‘May I?’

She slips out the manuscript and studies the title page. Raimundo has titled his story Sheppey, and as Evelyn begins to flick through the opening pages, I tell her about my recent trip to Lisbon.

‘You met him? Andy?’ She is astonished. ‘How is he?’

‘Much the same. Solitary. Not a lot of small talk.’

‘But he told you what really happened?’

‘Yes.’

I repeat McFaul’s account of that Sunday night, Christianne not well, the Fentanyl readied, her favourite chaise longue waiting at Bill’s house, the grave already dug, Presley’s van bumping over the golf course, willing hands only too ready to help with her final journey through the undergrowth and on to the clifftop.

‘And that’s really how it happened?’

‘Yes, according to Andy.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘I do, yes.’ I nod at the pile of manuscript and explain briefly about Raimundo. ‘It’s very good. Very impressive. See what you think.’

Evelyn, as you might expect, is a quick reader and by the time we get to the Czech border, she’s finished. She sits back, staring out at the last of the daylight, her fingers drumming lightly on the final page of Raimundo’s manuscript.