Half an hour later, maybe longer, I jerk awake to hear McFaul’s front door opening again. Back at the window, I watch Bullivant and one of the forensic team manhandling the chaise longue into the back of the van. The chaise is covered in heavy duty polythene, and both men are wearing blue gloves. The rear doors closed, there’s a brief kerbside conference before Bullivant taps his watch. Moments later, with his helmet back on, he’s astride the big bike and away.

Hours later, over supper, it turns out that Evelyn had also witnessed this little scene. The chaise has taken her eye, too, and she wants to know more. I tell her what little I can, that it was probably some kind of present from Bill Penny, and leave it at that.

‘And what about the chap with the motorbike?’ she asks.

‘He’s a man of God,’ I say bitchily. ‘But he’s unforgiving.’

SEVENTEEN

Next morning, the work of the forensic team is apparently over. The van has gone, the curtains at the front of the bungalow are pulled back, and the only evidence that McFaul’s life has been picked apart is a neat stash of folded cardboard beside his wheelie bin.

I go for a long walk along the seafront, climbing the coastal path that I’d discovered with Christianne only a week ago. At the very top, before the path zigzags down towards the holiday park at Sandy Bay, I pause beside the fence that separates the path from the golf course. A party of four have circled a nearby hole and I’m watching one of them lining up a difficult putt when I realize that another of these men is Nathan Kline. He’s recognized my yellow anorak, and he saunters across.

‘Difficult evening the other night.’ He’s inspecting me over the fence. ‘Your take on that story of Beth’s?’

‘I thought it was very sad.’

‘Indeed, but all too plausible I imagine. A state like that, I’m sure you’d reach at every straw.’

Quite what he means isn’t clear, but I get the feeling I’m somehow being put to the test. This man has an almost lordly presence, de haut en bas as the French like to put it, and years of cross-examination have definitely left their mark. We wring our hands a moment or two longer over Christianne’s final hours, agreeing that a bottle or two of decent red would ease the pain, before a whistle from one of the golfers summons him back to the business in hand.

‘Staying down here a while longer?’ he says.

‘I might. It depends.’

‘Well, let’s hope so.’ He pauses, ignoring another summons back to the game. ‘Ever fly at all? Ever tried it? Little planes? Up and away?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I loved it.’