‘That’s where it gets really odd. The money was transferred from an account held by Fagerholm in his name only at a bank in Nicosia, Cyprus. His wife didn’t even know he had such an account. He’d been to Cyprus on a bird-watching holiday shortly after he was diagnosed with leukaemia. She said he’d wanted to go while he was still well enough to make the trip. She hadn’t accompanied him. It looks like he opened the account then. The Cypriot bank declined to give her any information about it on the grounds of client confidentiality, so she’s no idea where the money came from originally.’

‘She could think of no explanation at all?’

‘Only that it was payment for something he’d done that she knew nothing about.’

‘What could that be? And why should someone think you needed to be told about it?’

‘Exactly. What? And why?’

There’s something in Nick’s expression that suggests to Wada he already has answers to both questions. She says nothing, but looks at him expectantly.

He slides the cutting out of the plastic wallet and pushes it across the desk towards her. ‘Take a look at the photograph of Karl-Erik Fagerholm printed with the article. It was a recent picture, according to his wife.’

Wada picks the cutting up and turns in her chair so the light from the window is behind her. Karl-Erik Fagerholm, retired university lecturer, of Uppsala, Sweden, gazes out of the photograph, smiling faintly. He’s wearing a brown jacket and open-necked cream shirt. He’s thin, white-haired and slightly haggard, the haggardness – perhaps a sign of his illness – accentuated by the squareness of his jaw.

‘You see it, of course,’ says Nick. ‘I can tell by your frown.’

She puts the cutting back on the desk and looks Nick in the eye. ‘Tell me what you think.’

‘I think the similarity would be enough to carry him through the few minutes he needed to manoeuvre Nishizaki into position on the beach. And enough to convince you, up on the cliff, that the man dressed in Driscoll’s clothes, behaving like Driscoll, really was Driscoll. I think the money was payment by Driscoll to a dying man to die in place of him. Last April, at Porthtowan.’

Wada is about to argue with Nick, to point out all the reasons why his theory doesn’t make sense. But, glancing down at the photograph, she finds there are no reasons. Or, rather, those reasons aren’t sufficient. There is a similarity. It could have been enough. It’s not impossible. And what’s not impossible … is possible.

‘If I’d simply come across this story by chance,’ Nick continues, ‘I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But the cutting was sent to me. The article was drawn to my attention. Someone wanted me to know.’

‘You think this came from Driscoll?’

‘I don’t know.’