He went downstairs to open up.

About two in the afternoon, in the empty hours between the lunchtime and evening shifts when he had the pub entirely to himself, the Welfare Officer turned up. Donald knew instantly he was from the council. He had that unmistakeable public-sector air about him, a combination of anorak plus file-of-papers plus grey-slacks-and-shirt-with-short-sleeves. He looked harassed and tired, and the way he fumbled with his papers told Donald this was an official visit.

“Hi. Um, are you Mr Emory?”

“I am.” Donald felt a faint tingle of anticipation.

“Am I right that you registered a complaint about some illegal campers on the beach?”

“That’s me.” The tingle grew stronger.

“Great.” The man awkwardly shuffled his paperwork under one armpit, then stuck out a warm, damp hand. “I’m Steve. Steve Jones.”

“Good to meet you. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks, I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry to ask, but I wondered if I could get your help locating them?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I was due to make a welfare visit. We have a statutory duty to assess any welfare issues before going any further with the… ”

“I know. Some girl called from your office and explained. What’s the problem?”

“And they’re on the beach, is that right?”

“Yes, just in the lee of the dunes – look, you can’t possibly miss it. It’s a beach hut. You walk out across the sands and there it is.”

“The thing is, I can’t seem to find them.”

Donald stared at him.

“Is it possible they’ve moved on by themselves?” Steve suggested.

“Absolutely not.”

“Do they have any transport?”

“Wait here a minute.”

Donald marched out into the street and stared at the car park, mostly empty now. The Jolly Death trap of Doom and Loveliness was missing. They must have gone out for the day. He marched back inside.

“I think I’d better show you.”

“If you’ve got time that would be brilliant.” Steve looked relieved.

“One more minute.” Donald grabbed his coat from its hook in the lobby. Then he reached under the bar for the cardboard sign he’d made the day the dishwasher suffered a sudden existential crisis and flooded the whole ground floor with warm, greasy suds. He locked the door and hung the sign on the handle. Closed due to unforeseen circumstances.

“Let’s go.”

The walk was made in awkward silence, punctuated with a series of conversational offers from Steve. When Donald had grunted brief replies to the weather, the previous season, the prospects for the winter, the premier league and the state of the tide, Steve finally gave up and followed a respectful couple of paces behind.

Their boots left clean sharp impressions. To pass the time, Donald tried to divine the footprints that crisscrossed their path. A neat line of dog-prints next to a set of boots, the sudden change in pace as the dog was set free. Small, meandering welly-prints reminded him of walking with Alicia, the way she would splash through puddles then press hard with every step, looking back to see how far she could get before the water ran out.