‘Down at the front.’ He points towards the sea. ‘There’s a great place by the beach.’

‘Thank you.’

He assesses her quietly. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

‘Lorna. Lorna Cutler.’

‘I don’t really understand what all this is about,’ he says, more kindly now.

She pulls her bag more firmly over her shoulder. ‘I don’t either,’ she says, sighing. ‘It must be a different Daphne Hartall . . . the Sheila connection, though.’

He falls silent, as though thinking something through. ‘Do you fancy some company at the café? We could get a drink and you could tell me all about it. I did know Sheila Watts so I might be able to help.’

She brightens. She’s not being irresponsible by walking to the café with him, is she? In broad daylight in a public space?

‘That would be lovely,’ she says.

‘Come on then.’ His eyes twinkle at her and she smiles at him in a rush of gratitude. He closes the door behind him and they walk towards a main road. This is more like it, thinks Lorna, as they cross the street, heading through some pretty gardens and past a bandstand as they follow the path down to the sea front. People are meandering along in shorts and T-shirts, eating ice creams and enjoying the gorgeous May weather. Alan talks about his walking stick and his dodgy hip that needs replacing. But he’s surprisingly steady on his feet, walking faster than her. She has to keep trotting in her heels to keep up with him.

He leads Lorna to a funky little coffee shop with music and tables set outside on a terrace overlooking the beach. People are milling about, some drinking pints and others sipping cappuccinos in huge colourful cups and saucers.

‘What would you like? It’s my treat,’ she says, waving away his offers to pay. ‘It’s kind of you to talk to me.’

‘It’s my pleasure. I’m happy to have the company.’ He grins. He has a dimple on his left cheek. He says he’d love a beer and Lorna decides to order a glass of wine. It’s not like she has to drive, she tells herself. She can get a takeaway coffee afterwards to drink on the train.

Alan has found a table at the corner of the terrace, overlooking the bay and the ice-cream-coloured row of beach huts. She sits next to him and takes in a deep breath of the sea air. She could live here, she thinks, with the sun on her back, the music, the hustle and bustle. She suddenly yearns to be back in San Sebastián.

Alan thanks her for his pint and takes a long glug, the froth settling on his top lip. ‘This has hit the spot.’