When she reached the water, it was high tide, and the shingle beach was covered. As she approached the door of Rosco’s cottage, she could feel the spray on her face from the waves breaking over the bigger rocks. Before she reached the house, she knew it was empty, and the unexpected stillness made her panic. She had hoped to see the lantern hanging from the hook in the low ceiling and Louis in the low chair by the window waiting for her, patient, calm, unassuming. In the past he always had been, and she realised how much she had taken him for granted. She opened the door and called inside to him, even went into the bedroom to see if he was sleeping there, but she knew from the beginning it was useless, and she would have to return to Myrtle Cottage disappointed.

Berry, who had followed her with interest down the lane and had suffered the blackthorn and bramble scratches patiently to have his curiosity rewarded, sensed her frustration as she passed quite close to him on her way back to the big house. She had not come to Rosco’s to make a casual, friendly call or even, he thought, to discuss what had happened to Greg Franks. They were obviously what he, in his old-fashioned way would have called “ romantically attached.” Claire Bingham would have said they were lovers.

Claire Bingham would probably have taken the opportunity to go into the unlocked cottage and to search it, though she, too, had a healthy respect for rules. It never crossed Berry’s mind. They had no search warrant, and he had not obtained permission of the owner. Perhaps it would not have made much difference if he had gone inside. In that light, with only a torch to search with, there was no guarantee that he would have found the gun, hidden as it was between the mattress and the metal frame of Rosco’s bed. Even if he had defied the rule, there was no certainty that things would have been different. At the time he was more concerned about the woman. She seemed so frantic, almost haunted. So he just made sure that the door of Rosco’s house was firmly secure and followed her back up the path to Myrtle Cottage.

Chapter Six

Claire Bingham left home on Sunday morning while Richard was still sleeping. She knew it was a kind of escape. She hoped to avoid his tantrums about missing squash, the wheedling persuasion, the inevitable guilt. The guilt came all the same, as it always did with the joyous freedom which hit her as soon as she left the muddle of the house to begin work. The joy and the guilt were inseparable.