‘I don’t think she asked him.’

‘That’ll be nice then.’ She drains her glass and then laughs. ‘Keep notes. I’m dying for the next chapter.’

We have a goodnight hug and I make my way upstairs. A wash with a wet flannel in the tiny en suite is enough for now, and I linger briefly at the window before getting into bed. This is the first time that I’ve paid any attention to McFaul’s greenhouse. It’s tucked into a corner at the bottom of the garden, and in the darkness I can see the glow of tiny heaters inside. A cannabis factory in deepest Budleigh, I think. Yet another surprise.

In bed, I’m asleep within seconds. I dream, for some reason, about Malo. He’s young, barely nine, but already Berndt and I are having trouble getting him to school. He seems reluctant to leave us alone. It’s almost, with a rare prescience, that he doesn’t trust us to be there when he gets back. I’m in the process of insisting that we love him, that all is well, when a sudden noise returns me to consciousness. I lie quite still, trying to work out what it might have been. Then it happens again, readily recognizable, that same soft clunk, the face of a golf club against a ball.

Curious, I slip out of bed and tiptoe across to the window. McFaul’s back garden is bathed in light from his kitchen, and the man himself is crouched over another ball. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of ancient-looking shorts and there’s no sign of Christianne. For a long moment, he stands immobile, feet slightly apart, head down. A lit cigarette glows between his lips. Then a tiny movement of his wrists sends the ball rolling over the darkened lawn until it slips into the hole.

I watch for a moment longer, and then return to bed. Evelyn, ever-thoughtful, has left a radio beside the bed. The radio has a time display. 03.33.

FIVE

I wake late next morning to the sound of hammering from downstairs. When I finally make it to the kitchen, I find Evelyn preparing two slices of toast for a bacon sarnie. Beyond the open door to the garden, a figure in jeans and a scruffy top is sawing a length of timber on a Workmate.

‘This is Presley.’ Evelyn does the introductions. ‘Enora.’

Presley wipes one hand on his jeans. He says he’s glad to meet me. A glorious fall of long, blond, curly hair. A three-day growth of stubble. Light blue eyes, heavily bloodshot. A Viking god, I tell myself, safely ashore after a rough passage.

‘You’re the actress.’ His handshake is firm, lots of callouses from all that sawing.

‘What else did she tell you?’

‘Not much. But I’m a good listener.’