I turned the key in the ignition – it was time to go and see Mary. I knew I shouldn’t have shared what she’d told me with Molloy, but with the town completely cut off I couldn’t just sit back and rely on client confidentiality if people were in danger. Whoever had killed Bob Jameson was still in the vicinity. I hoped there was something in the Guide to Good Professional Conduct for Solicitors on which I could rely, but I might well have been stretching it. So some damage limitation might be needed.

Mary’s guesthouse was half a mile away, on a hill above town, so in little danger of flooding. I drove slowly up the long straight road, hawthorn hedges dripping on either side, with a clear view of the house. It was large, ugly and modern, with chimneys on either side, like rabbit’s ears. Built for purpose as a B & B or in anticipation of a much larger family than Mary had ever had, it must have had at least ten bedrooms. Mary had been single for as long as I’d known her; the first hint of a relationship I’d heard was Leah’s mention of a broken heart, long in the past.

A garden in front of the house was bounded by a concrete wall and a gate. A sign swinging from a post bore the words Mary’s B & B. She needed to come up with a better arrangement for her car parking, I thought, it was a little chaotic. There were cars parked all along the front together with Jude’s motorbike, which was blocking the entrance to a shed containing another car. He must have walked to the town, I thought, taking advantage of the brief break in the weather. The dead man’s black Lexus was there too, the car Derek had been looking for on Thursday afternoon.

I parked beside Jude’s bike, which was becoming a bit of a habit, climbed out of the car and pushed open the gate to make my way up the path. A sad row of daffodils and narcissi lay flattened along the front, beaten and battered by the rain. The house may not have been a thing of beauty, but a valiant effort had been made to soften its edges. There were rose bushes on either side of the front door, luckily not yet in bloom or they’d have gone the same way as the daffs.

I rang the bell and, when there was no answer, I knocked on the heavy door knocker. After a few minutes Mary herself came to the door. She was wearing a simple olive-colored dress, which with her green eyes would have been stunning, were it not for the fact that they were red-rimmed. She had been crying.

“Mary, I’m so sorry,” I said. “What an awful thing to happen to one of your guests.”