‘Maybe just a glass before I go?’

‘Why? What would be the point? You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. They banged me up for session after session. They wanted to know everything about the pair of us, the way we’d been together, what had taken us to Africa, to Portugal, what had brought us back here. They’re convinced we’d crashed and burned. They were like a pair of pervs, sniffing around, sniffing at our lives. They’re convinced I’d been beating her up, threatening her, robbing her blind, making her life a misery. They think all the business on the beach was some kind of set-up. They think it was me who put the clothes there when all the time she was back here, brown bread, while little me dreamed up ways of getting rid of her.’

‘Brown bread?’

‘Dead. The phrase they’re using is crime scene. Here. Where we stand. Crime scene. Can you believe that?’

There’s a long silence. Dimly, from next door, I think I catch the roar of a crowd from Evelyn’s TV but I’m not sure.

‘So, what did you tell them?’ I manage at last.

‘Nothing. I told them fuck all. In the end they had to let me go. And you know why? Because fuck all means fuck all. And that’s all they’ve got.’

I nod. I have something to say, something important, but I’m not at all sure how to put it.

‘There might have been an easier way,’ I suggest.

‘Like what?’

‘Like you could have told them what really happened.’

‘What?’

McFaul is staring at me. I’m about to re-phrase what I’ve just said when he puts a finger to his lips and gestures wildly round. Moments later, he has me by the arm and we’re heading for the front door. Outside, the rain has stopped and it’s much colder.

‘That’s your car?’ He’s nodding at my ancient Peugeot.

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got a key?’

‘Yes.’

The key is in my jeans pocket. Within seconds, we’re sitting together in the front.

‘What’s this about?’ I’m feeling the first prickles of what might be apprehension. ‘You want me to drive you somewhere?’

‘Not at all. They’ll have bugged the house. It’s what they do. Microphones. Transmitting gear. Tune in and help yourself. It never fucking fails. Park up down the road there, go round the corner. They may be watching the place, too.’

I hold his gaze for a moment, and then shrug. Paranoia, I think. We’ve gone about a quarter of a mile, down towards the town centre, when he points to an area of semi-darkness between two streetlamps.

‘There,’ he says. ‘But keep the engine on.’

‘Why?’