‘You know I won’t tell you, Miss . . .’

‘Benedict. Cassandra.’

‘That organisation?’ He nodded to the teapot and the folded newspaper.

‘The Post,’ she said. ‘How many passports?’

‘Silence’ – he smiled the apology – ‘is just too old a habit.’

‘But we know,’ Hessa’s voice was unsteady, but firm, ‘that you did it. We just don’t know why.’

Cavendish looked from Hessa to Casey and back again.

‘The eternal question,’ he said. ‘Why?’

They waited. The sea pounded against the rocks, far below.

‘The wind is getting up,’ said Cavendish. ‘I do hope your ferry back to Corfu isn’t delayed. You can get awfully isolated over here, at this time of year. The ferry doesn’t come over for days. Or have you got a place to stay? Lakka, maybe? It’s the nearest village. Best not stay there, ideally. It’s known locally as Lakka facilities.’

A half-wink, and he smiled to himself, sending a creak of laughter towards his feet.

‘Please tell us,’ said Hessa.

She needed to be liked even when it was all a lie, thought Casey. It made the job so much harder.

‘If I had done all that you say,’ said Cavendish to Hessa, ‘surely these children would have gone to good homes? Loving homes?’

‘They might have done,’ said Casey. ‘But you couldn’t possibly know that. And what about the women left behind in Bangladesh?’

‘We want to know who was coordinating it all,’ said Hessa. ‘Who is behind everything.’

‘Ah,’ said Cavendish.

He stood up, stepped away from the table, lost in the curved mirrors of memory. A pear tree stood there, just starting to bud. Cavendish ducked his head towards it.

‘Have you ever seen a Poire Williams?’ said Cavendish. ‘Eau de vie. Or brandy, really. With a whole pear trapped in the middle of the glass bottle. Now, I ask you, how do you get the pear into the bottle? That whole perfect pear? My permanent secretary asked me that question on my very first day at work, many years ago.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Casey.

‘You place the bottle over the growing pear,’ Cavendish gestured. ‘Right from the very start. And the pear grows inside the bottle. And, when it’s ready, you just snip the stem, and it is done.’

He looked west, across the blue of the Mediterranean. There was an immeasurable sadness in his eyes.

‘You don’t realise you are trapped until it’s far too late,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I should have been firmer with Gabriel, right from the start.’

A bird sang in an olive tree beside the old stone wall. Cavendish took a few more steps away from the table.