Who wouldn’t? McFaul has a talent for cutting to the chase and I’m guessing Christianne loved him for it. In a situation like this, you can wring your hands and share your grief on Facebook for just so long but none of that stops it getting worse. In the end – and ‘the end’ is le mot juste – you have to do something. There’s an obvious question here, and I know I have to ask it.

‘Did you know about last night? Going swimming? Never coming back? Was that planned? Something you talked about?’

McFaul glances up at me, just the hint of a smile on his face. This is a man, I sense, who welcomes bluntness, maybe even admires it.

‘No,’ he says. ‘She’d never have told me, warned me, discussed it. Inside she was very private. Once, quite recently, she said I was never to be afraid. Whatever she did would be for the best. But that was it. Finito. End game. In her own time. When she thought it was right. Strictly no tears. All gone.’

With anyone else, on the page, on screen, or – God help us – in real life, this would have triggered a flood of tears, but McFaul simply holds my gaze. Should I reach out? Should I give him a hug? Should I call him Andy? I do none of those things and when I later ask myself why, I realize that the answer’s beyond simple. He doesn’t need it.

‘So why did you report her missing?’ I ask. ‘Why not let her drift away?’

‘Because it took me a while to realize what was going on. When I found her clothes there was no note. I thought she’d gone swimming, just like always, and I thought she might be in trouble. I went looking for her. I tried to find her. I shouted her name. Nothing. Fuck all. So I made the call and the rest …’ He shrugs. ‘Just happened.’

‘Evelyn says they brought you back here, to the bungalow.’

‘They did. She’s right. Apparently, they always search the home premises. People can be odd, they told me. You think they’ve gone missing and they turn up in the strangest places, under beds, in wardrobes, up in tree houses, weird shit like that. I told the guy he was wasting his time, but he found that note for you, so maybe I’m wrong.’

‘Where did she leave it, as a matter of interest?’

‘On the bathroom floor, beneath the basin. She probably propped it against the mirror. Pull the door shut, and the draught would do the rest.’

I nod, swallow hard. McFaul might be immune to grief but I’m not sure I am. He watches me for a moment, then asks me if I’d like something to drink. When I nod, he struggles to his feet and limps next door before reappearing with a bottle of brandy.

‘Neat?’ he says.