He would have found it easier to cope if he hadn’t received an unexpected phone call in the middle of Easter Monday afternoon from Barry Holgate. He didn’t take the call and Holgate didn’t leave a message, but, when he phoned again later, while Nick was alone, there seemed nothing for it but to answer.

‘I was just calling to ask if you had any news,’ Holgate explained. ‘The Stapletons tell me there’s still been no word from Martin Caldwell.’

Nick had no intention of revealing what he knew of Caldwell’s fate. He assumed the Icelandic police were still trying to identify the bodies they’d found at Stóri-Asgarbær. For all he knew, they might never succeed. ‘I’ve no news for you, I’m afraid.’

‘What about your father – Peter Ellery?’

‘I’ve given up trying to track him down.’

‘Really?’

‘He evidently doesn’t want anything to do with me. So, I’m returning the compliment.’

‘When we met, I had the feeling you were going to be more … persistent.’

‘’Fraid not.’

‘What about the Takenaga woman? Heard anything from her?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘I see. Well, as it happens, I might be on to something halfway relevant. Do you want me to keep you posted?’

Nick thought about how to answer that question for so long Holgate had to prompt him.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. I’m here.’

‘So, do you want me to let you know what comes of it? If anything does.’

‘Not sure.’

‘Not sure?’

‘That’s right. I’m not sure at all.’

Wada navigated her evening with Dr Morrisette as if crossing a minefield. She thought it quite possible she was misinterpreting natural Australian friendliness. Michaela – as Dr Morrisette insisted she call her – was clearly a tactile and outgoing character. And the quantity of wine she drank with a rustled-up fish supper only made her more so.

Wada also considered the possibility that so long had passed since any hint of intimacy in her life she was simply out of practice at judging and handling such situations. She disliked talking about herself, which Morrisette urged her to do, but she hoped occasional mentions of her marriage to Hiko would at least persuade her hostess that nothing was likely to happen between them.

As early as she reasonably could, she complained of exhaustion after a taxing day – which was true enough – and said she really had to go to bed.

There were a few brushes of hand and hip in the dormer-windowed attic guest room while Morrisette gave her some towels. Wada decided to attribute these to the wine, although Morrisette’s rueful smile as she left suggested there was more to it than that.