‘You want the truth? I have no idea. This job teaches you many things and one of them, I’m afraid to say, is never to discount the impossible. Eliminate everything else, like I said, and you’re probably left with the truth. Does that sound unduly philosophical? If so, you have my apologies. If and when we find something, you’ll be the first to know.’ He pauses. ‘No mobile? Am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘My congratulations, Mr McFaul. One day, when the penny drops, the rest of us may kick the habit, but somehow I doubt it. Armageddon is more likely than surrendering our smartphones. You’re a lucky man, sir. Stay sane and we’ll do our best to find your partner.’ He turns away to confer with an unseen voice on a proffered radio. When it becomes clear that this is another conversation he finds hard to finish, we turn away.

‘You want me to leave him my mobile number?’ I ask McFaul. ‘Just in case?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why not?’

We settle on the beach. The tide is out now, and I can feel the warmth radiating up from the huge, egg-shaped pebbles. A huddle of swimmers in the shallows, all of them women, are preparing to take the plunge and further down the beach an elderly couple are scolding a child for feeding the seagulls.

At length, McFaul stirs. He’s obviously been thinking about Christianne. ‘The last time we went to the GP was back in the early summer,’ he says. ‘She’s a lovely woman but every medic has the same problem with MND.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning it’s incurable, meaning there’s nothing they can really do. That’s not what they’re there for and so they fob you off with forms. That was the real killer. The bloody form. It’s called a DS1500. I’ll remember that forever. She gave one to Chrissie. Signed. Stamped. Witnessed. Everything.’

‘And?’

‘It tells anyone who needs to know that you won’t survive beyond six months. I’m sure it’s really useful, and I’m sure it opens all kinds of doors, but Chrissie was gutted. She called it an advanced death certificate and I guess she was right, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t being dead that mattered. It was what lay behind all those doors.’

‘Like?’

‘Like all the benefits you can get, all the care packages, all the blokes who are going to turn up and fit grab rails in the bathroom, and wheelchair ramps, and all the rest of it. The GP talked about the hospice, too, how Chrissie could make drop-in visits to begin with, just to get used to the place, make friends, see what’s on offer. People talk about The Journey. I’m sure they mean well, but what fucking choice do you have?’

I nod, and agree it must be horrible, but McFaul hasn’t finished.