‘That was a mistake,’ she says, ‘on my part. I thought they’d forgotten about it, buried it. Andy didn’t talk to me for days, weeks, not that I blame him. Ratted him out? Isn’t that the phrase?’

‘But he was the one on the receiving end. At least, that’s the story I got.’

‘It’s true. It wasn’t bad enough for stitches, but you’d never wish a bruise like that on anyone. Poor man.’ She nods towards the vans at the kerbside. ‘And now all this nonsense.’

It’s gone six when I get the call from Bill Penny. He has a talent for giving you his full attention, and now is the perfect example. On the spur of the moment, he says, he’s decided to host a modest little soiree, nothing alarming, just a handful of chums, and he would be flattered if I could find the time to pop over.

Soiree? Chums? Flattered? Pop over?

‘You mean this evening?’ I ask. ‘Like now?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Lovely,’ I say. ‘What time?’

‘Seven would be perfect, but don’t break a leg, eh?’

I arrive fifteen minutes late to be met at the front door by Bill. There’s no sign of his precious little dog and when I ask, he says she’s gone missing.

‘She was out sniffing around for rabbits all morning, poor thing. At her age, I’m afraid she’s doomed to disappointment, not that it seems to matter. Either way, she hasn’t come back.’

‘But you think she will?’

‘We live in hope.’

Already, as I step into the house, I can hear the murmur of conversation through the open door that leads into the lounge, and a murmured comment about the country being safe in the hands of Comrade Corbyn raises a collective chuckle. According to people in the know, we’re barely months away from a general election, though I doubt that Budleigh will be troubled by a rash of Labour posters.

To my surprise, there are only half a dozen armchairs around the log fire. Presley, I already know, and I vaguely recognize the figure sipping a glass of wine in the adjacent chair. She must have at least a decade on Presley but she’s very striking: loose pantaloons the colour of blood, a pair of sandals in worn black leather, and a gorgeous Indian-looking kurta I once glimpsed at a Bollywood launch in Leicester Square. Last time I saw this woman, she was wearing a pair of trackie pants and helping manhandle the chaise longue into McFaul’s bungalow.

‘Beth.’ Presley gets up to do the introductions. ‘My other half.’

We shake hands. Lovely wrists. Lots of silver bangles. She holds my hand for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

‘You’re Evelyn’s friend,’ she murmurs. ‘I thought she was fabulous the other night. So fucking wise. She really fired me up.’

‘I’ll tell her.’