‘Not at all. I’d use a different word. Courageuse.’

‘Which means?’

‘Brave. There were bits of her story she wanted to keep to herself. That was obviously one of them.’

‘But isn’t that odd? Under the circumstances?’ She won’t let it go.

‘Not at all.’ I hold her gaze. ‘There’s still room in the world for privacy, thank God.’

We part outside the van. Hollick says her stint as Critical Incident Manager is nearly over. Shortly, she’ll be handing over the lead in this operation to someone called the LPSM, which evidently stands for Lost Person Search Manager. They will probably be in touch, depending on what happens, but in the meantime she’s grateful for me making it down from London.

‘Ms Beaucarne obviously meant a great deal to you.’ There’s no warmth in her smile. ‘Friendships are so important, aren’t they?’

TEN

Ms Beaucarne. Quite why the use of Christianne’s family name should come as such a shock is a bit of a mystery but as I drive out of the car park, I’m fighting a gust of deep anger. In truth, I knew nothing of Christianne’s diagnosis. Neither, after the last two years, am I a stranger to the innate suspicion which is bred deep into the DNA of any working police officer. As I know only too well, these people patrol the outer fringes of human behaviour, where desperation or misjudgement can sometimes bleed into evil, and no one blames them for taking nothing at face value, yet the logic of what my poor blighted friend must have done is surely obvious.

As I’ve belatedly realized, Christianne must have been ill. Soon, she would be very ill. According to Hollick, she was facing the guarantee of a death that would terrify most of us. And so she tinkered with the mechanism of her allotted stay on earth, advanced the hands a little, left her clothes on the beach, and called time on the whole fucking charade. Sylvester’s Doomsday Clock. Made real.

Evelyn, when I finally get back to her bungalow, has come to the same conclusion.

‘Poor woman.’ She shakes her head. ‘If we’d only known.’

The fact that she seems to be including me in this act of oversight comes as some comfort.

‘And Andy?’ I nod outside.

‘I haven’t seen him, not properly, not to talk to. That’s another admission, isn’t it? Maybe we should have lived somewhere like this all our lives. Maybe we should keep closer to people.’

‘McFaul’s a grump,’ I say at once. ‘I’m not sure he needs other people.’

‘You really think so? I’ve seen them together, remember, when they didn’t know anyone else was watching. From where I was standing, he doted on her. Go next door, my lovely. Give him a hug. Tell him we’re here for him. You’re much braver than me.’