‘That I couldn’t be sure. The photograph just wasn’t distinct enough. It looked like a blow-up, cropped from some larger picture. Peter Evans had a beard. He was thinner than our Peter. He looked, I don’t know, a lot more than three months older. Plus I’ve got no photograph of Peter to compare it with. Marty has, but he hadn’t brought it with him to show me, which suggested to me he wasn’t confident it would stand up to examination. Exact memories of faces fade over the years, just like other memories. If I’d chanced on the newspaper photograph without Marty leaning over my shoulder, it wouldn’t have occurred to me it was Peter. But is that because I’m sure he drowned in Cornwall? Is it all down to what you want to believe?’

‘And Martin wants to believe it’s him?’

‘Absolutely. My scepticism had no effect on him whatsoever. He said he’d written to the woman in Japan, offering to help her identify Peter Evans. Did I want to know what came of it? Naturally, I said yes, although I suspected very little would. But last Friday evening—’

‘Friday?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘That’s when he phoned me.’

‘Mmm. Well, he’d obviously decided to involve you for some reason. He told me the Japanese woman had been in touch and was coming to London this week to meet him. Did he mention that to you?’

‘No. He just said he wanted to talk to me about my father.’

Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to. To be honest …’

‘Yes?’

‘I wasn’t sure the Japanese woman was really coming. I even wondered if he’d made the whole thing up.’

‘But you saw the advert.’

‘I did. It’s an actual newspaper cutting. With a date printed on it. It looked genuine. And faking it would have been an enormously complicated exercise. Out of the question, really.’

‘Do you think maybe Martin’s lost it?’

‘You tell me. After you’ve met him. Now, they’re hovering with the dessert trolley, Nick. I suggest we put them out of their misery and order something.’

They parted in the street, halfway between the restaurant and Miranda’s house. The tumult of King’s Road wasn’t far away, but it was quiet and still in this corner of Chelsea. In the end, they’d skipped dessert in favour of coffee. Nick hadn’t wanted to risk getting home late for his appointment with Caldwell.

‘Where did you say your wife’s gone?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Tuscany.’

‘Are you going to join her there?’

‘It’s girls only.’