‘Angela worried me rather — all that talk of too much solitude. I hoped that she hadn’t put you off the house.’

Will laughed. ‘Nothing Angela Lazenby could say about it would influence me in the slightest.’

She took his hand. ‘And you don’t miss the force too badly?’

‘You haven’t given me a chance. I work harder now than I ever did at the nick. And it seems you have a lot more in mind.’

Kate was silent for several minutes. ‘I’ll be doing a lot of the work on the interior myself, Will — wallpapering and painting and the like. It has to be . . .’ she seemed to drift off into her own thoughts for a moment, ‘exactly right.’

He held back his quip about her lack of faith in his workmanship and returned to her question about leaving the force. ‘As to my early retirement, no, I really, truly, enjoy spending all my days with the one I love. All those scrotes and drunks . . . I can’t say I miss them at all, thank you.’ He was lying, and she probably knew it, but it sounded as if he meant it. The mention of scrotes brought him round to Gerald Grove. Kate spent hours wandering the sea bank, as did that unsavoury character. ‘Kate? There’s a man who walks the marsh a lot, he’s called Grove. Should you see him, please steer clear. He’s not the nicest man in the world.’

‘Oh, you mean Gerald. He’s no trouble.’

Will took a breath and held it. ‘You know him?’

‘I’ve spoken to him a few times. He’s studying the wildlife in the area, mainly butterflies and insects. He’s quite interesting.’

This didn’t sound anything like the man Emilia had mentioned. She had described him as unbelievably rude, an opinion endorsed by Emilia’s friend in the Post Office. So why was Grove chatting pleasantly with his wife? ‘He really bothers me, sweetheart. I’d appreciate it if you kept your distance.’

Kate pulled a face but promised to give him a wide berth in future, adding that in any case he did smell rather.

Will reminded himself to mention it to Matt and Liz.

* * *

Somewhere around two in the morning, Will awoke to see the dark shadow of his wife slipping silently out of the bedroom. Moments later, he saw the light go on in her studio and heard her sorting through her painting materials.

He was tempted to go in, ask her if she would like a hot drink or something, but fearing her reaction, decided to let her be.

He moved over to her side of the bed and breathed in her special flowery smell. He’d never been able to tell what it was — a mixture of flowers, sea breezes and washing that had been hung out to dry. It was uniquely hers.