“Are there any more parties booked onto the boat?” she asked.

“Not this week.”

“You do realise we’ll want to examine it in more detail? There’ll be experts to see it first thing in the morning, and there’ll be someone here all night.”

“Why all this, then?” he asked suddenly. “Don’t you think it was an accident?”

“No,” she said calmly. “ He was hit on the head before he drowned.”

“Couldn’t he have done that when he fell?”

“Not according to the doctor.” She looked at him sharply. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

He spoke slowly, his hands gripped tightly around his knee.

“When they were looking for him, they couldn’t find any of his gear.” he said. “Even his bag and the bits of clothes he’d left below had gone. That seemed very queer to me.”

“I see,” she said, and scribbled something in her notebook.

Rosco stood up. He felt drained and worn out and could no longer think clearly. “Is that all?” he asked.

She nodded. “For now.”

“Are you going to Porthkennan?”

“Probably.” She had already moved from the saloon and onto the deck. There was a faint breeze, but the air was still hot and humid.

“I live there, too,” he said. “ I’m in the cottage on the shore. If you want me, that’s where I’ll be.”

He suddenly wanted to prolong the interview. The extent of his folly struck him and cut through his panic. He should have told her. She was sure to find out for herself. Perhaps she already knew but was saying nothing in the hope of catching him out.

“Goodbye, Mr. Rosco,” she said formally, and jumped without his help from the boat onto the quay. “I’ll probably be talking to you again tomorrow.”

He stood for a moment in the doorway of the saloon, unable to move. With the removal of the body the crowd at the harbour wall had faded away. The town was quiet. Her shadow was already disappearing among the cranes, the boxes of cargo, and fish crates on the quay. A uniformed police constable watched her go.

Louis suddenly came to life. He jumped from the Jessie Ellen onto the quay.

“Inspector!” he shouted, running after her. “Inspector, there’s something I should tell you!” But by the time he reached the constable, Claire Bingham was driving away in her expensive car.

“What’s the matter?” the policeman asked. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Louis said. “It’s nothing that won’t wait.” He turned to the policeman, who was young, only a boy. “ You might as well come aboard,” he said. “ You’ll be more comfortable there. You’ll have a long night.” Then, because the Jessie Ellen provided the only security he had, he added, “I’ll stay here with you.”

Claire Bingham went first to the police station. Berry had collected Greg Franks’ car, and she had arranged to meet him there. Before she did anything, she phoned her husband. She could never quite lose herself in her work. Whatever she was doing, her responsibility for him and for Thomas remained at the back of her mind, a guilty irritation.