I kick off my sandals and pause to run my fingers over the upholstery where the swell of the seat folds into the backrest. Clever, I think. Half a lifetime ago, when I was still living at home in Perros-Guirec, my mother encouraged me to try my hand at upholstery and it wasn’t until I had a go at re-covering an ancient armchair she’d stored in the garage that I realized how difficult it was.

‘Beautiful.’ I glance up at McFaul. ‘Don’t you think?’

He nods, says nothing. Then he mutters something about Pavel’s MacBook. I can take it, if I want. He’s had another look but he honestly doesn’t think that the file I’m after still exists.

‘Not worth another go? Just one? If you’ve got the time?’

He’s frowning now, and I sense he’d prefer if I took it and went, but I still haven’t tried the chaise. I settle in the corner, leaning slightly back, feeling the support of the back and the arm exactly where it should be. Then I pivot on my bum and extend my legs, half-closing my eyes, trying to conjure the view from Bill Penny’s bedroom, and I’m still wondering why he’s parted with a piece like this when there comes a rap on the door. McFaul, I realize, has been staring at something out of the window. Already, he’s in the hall.

I hear voices, McFaul’s and someone else. A conversation develops. Then, after a brief silence, I’m looking at two faces peering round the door. One of them is middle-aged, maybe older. His greying hair is carefully parted on the right-hand side and he’s wearing glasses. With his rumpled suit and hints of exhaustion around the eyes, he looks like an accountant troubled by far too many clients. The other face, much younger, I know. His name’s Brett Atkinson, and he’s a detective.

‘Ms Andressen.’ He has Malo’s easy smile. ‘We meet again.’

I nod. I’ve yet to move from the chaise. Earlier this year, this young man was responsible for keeping me safe from a fate that still – just sometimes – keeps me awake at night, and I like to think we bonded as a result. That little episode ended with Brett getting badly glassed in a pub fight in Exmouth, and I can still make out the scar across his throat.

The other man’s name is Frank Bullivant. According to the ID dangling from his lanyard, he’s a DI, short for detective inspector. He’s gazing at the bareness of the room, aware of the little indentations still visible on the carpet from last night’s furniture.

‘You’ve cleared this place out, Mr McFaul?’ Flat accent, difficult to place.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Too much stuff, gets on top of you, time for a change.’

‘And where’s it gone? This stuff?’

‘The tip, I expect.’