‘Budleigh Salterton. A different world, believe me. Beware of rumours. They’re bad for your health.’

I hang up moments later, after agreeing to meet for a drink once I’m back in town. When Rosa asks again about Pavel’s mystery script, I promise to have a look at his MacBook. Then I’m gone.

West London to East Devon is three and a half hours’ drive. I attend to a number of chores I’ve been putting off and then hit the road. I’m very happy to be seeing Evelyn again and I’ve packed for the best part of a week. My sat nav delivers me first to Budleigh, and then to a quiet cul-de-sac at the very top of the town. By now it’s early evening, and I stand beside the car in the gathering darkness, perfectly still. From far away, I think I can catch the rasp of surf on pebbles. Closer, the sigh of the wind in a stand of elms.

Evelyn has already sent me a couple of photos of her new home, but it seems bigger than I’d somehow expected, a neat but spacious-looking bungalow with double bay windows at the front, and an attic extension upstairs. One side of the property is bordered by a field, while the bungalow next door looks near identical. This is a world away from the muted roar of traffic Evelyn has lived with for the last umpteen years, and I’m still enjoying the absence of aircraft descending into Heathrow when I become aware of a presence behind me.

I glance round. He’s tall, gaunt, maybe a generation older than me. He’s wearing jeans and a green hoodie and there’s something wrong with his face. The bottom half, from the eyes downwards, is latticed with scars which have a bluish tinge in the half-light, but his smile has just a flicker of warmth.

‘You’re Evelyn’s friend?’ I detect a flat London accent. ‘Come to stay?’

‘I am.’

‘I’m her neighbour. Lovely lady. We’re keeping an eye on her.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Christianne. She’s French, like you. Lots to talk about. You’ll love her.’ He studies me a moment longer, deep-set eyes under a savage buzz cut, then he digs deep in his jeans pocket, turns on his heel and limps away. No handshake. No opportunity to introduce myself. No chance to ask how he knows I’m French. Just the scrape of his key from the neighbouring bungalow as he opens his front door and disappears inside. Strange, I think, as I lift my suitcase from the boot. Strange, and a little unsettling. Pavel would have loved this exchange. Not a good sign.

‘His name’s Andy. Andy McFaul.’