“He is right,” Matt said, smiling. “I am driving.”

Edmund laughed. “One’ll be fine, surely. You’re going to have to be a little tipsy, at least, to cope with us lot.”

Matt took the can, shrugged and popped it open.

“Attaboy.”

Matt just stared at Edmund and then Pru and then Robert silently. Finally they noticed. “What?” they seemed to all say in unison.

“You’re just...” Matt seemed to struggle for the words and settled on, “You’re just all here.”

They all laughed, the booming sound seeming to echo throughout the cabin. It sounded good.

“Of course,” Robert said. “It’s June 26. Where else would we be?”

Matt looked around at them—it seemed so right. “I haven’t seen you all since Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Edmund said, “sorry about that.”

“We’ll...” Pru trailed off, and very quickly looked from him to Edmund and back. “We’ll make it up to you.”

Matt didn’t know what to say, was processing the look, when he decided to change the subject. “Where’s Tim and Rachel?”

“They’ve just gone to get our final passenger,” Pru said, nicking Matt’s can and opening it herself. “We thought our final voyage should have a special guest.”

“Who?” Matt said.

“Well, DCI Claypath, of course,” Edmund said. “He particularly wants to try the weed I brought from uni.”

Pru threw a pillow at Edmund. “Don’t listen to him.”

Matt was just about to ask who, then? when there was a loud barking coming from outside the boat. Two dogs were making a play for loudest and most unruly and the barks segued into growls. Muffled voices started growing louder—two people arguing.

Everyone got up and filed out of the cabin in turn to see what all the fuss was about. Matt emerged to see Tim, carrying two crates of beer, arguing with a middle-aged woman. Rachel was trying to keep two dogs apart—one familiar, and dwarfed by the other, less familiar.

The dogs were dancing around each other in a circle. Amy, the Bedlington, wasn’t letting the hulk of a black Newfoundland out of her sight. “Amy,” Rachel was snapping, “Amygdala, down!” Rachel had named the dog herself, when she had got interested in psychology. Amygdala—the part of the brain that processed emotion, fear.

Amy didn’t have a lead, had never needed one as long as Matt had known her. She loved all other dogs, although clearly not now. The Newfoundland snarled and lunged at Amy. Amy jumped out of the way and continued to circle.

“This dog should have a lead, little terror.” The woman was lecturing Tim, but Tim was having none of it.

“How about your dog should have a lead? It’s practically a horse,” Tim shouted. “Or maybe a donkey.”