I was awake, eating breakfast on my patio decking, reading my emails. The main one was a terse one that had just arrived from Jo – she said she was being delayed, and would not be returning until the next day. I had written back straight away, because I was concerned about her upcoming trip to Muriseay. The delay would mean there was only a day and a half at home before she had to travel again, and the Muriseay visit was open ended. She had warned me she would have to be there at least five days, maybe a week, maybe two, depending on how well it went. I did not mind and said so, but I knew how wearing these trips could be. Jo was younger than me, but not by much.

We were both at an age of denial: we wanted to act as we always had from the time we met, denying the two decades we had put behind us since, but we now appreciated comfort and the pleasures of idleness and early nights more than we would admit.

Jo replied to say all was well. She would be back early, we’d have time before she had to leave again. She had already pre-packed her bags for the longer trip.

We agreed to make contact by internet that evening.

I was still browsing through the other emails when Spoder arrived at the house. I was not expecting him because he normally turned up in the middle of the day. I knew it was him as soon as I heard him: he always arrived on his motorcycle via the narrow access road behind the house, then scraped and scuffed noisily across the gravel of the short drive, leaving tyre grooves.

He marched through the house without preamble, wearing his crash helmet. As he came on to the patio he lifted it off and tossed it aside. It landed on the edge of the table, toppled over and rolled noisily but harmlessly over the planking.

‘Sorry, sir!’ he said, when he saw my reaction. ‘I didn’t mean to drop it like that.’

I stood up and faced him. He was wearing bright blue shorts, a yellow T-shirt with the name of a rock band printed in gothic lettering on the front, and sandals. He threw down a pile of papers on the table next to my laptop, then picked up my electric jug of coffee and looked around for a spare mug. I went into the house and found one for him.

‘Help yourself to some breakfast,’ I said, indicating the small plate of rolls and croissants I had put out.

‘Thanks, but I never touch food at this time of day,’ he said. ‘Sir, you know what a pleasure it is to act as your researcher, but this time you have excelled. I am in debt to you. This is the sort of case I have always dreamed of.’