‘That’s a pity.’ She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘I imagine never knowing your father plants a lifelong curiosity about him in your mind. But you’ll learn nothing of value from Marty. Geoff’s been dead more than thirty years. Peter and Alison more than forty. It’s all ancient history.’

‘Are you sure Peter Ellery’s dead? A hundred per cent certain?’

‘How can I be? His body was never found. But, if he didn’t drown, why did no one ever see him again?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen.’

‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? And, in the wildly improbable event he’s still alive, why should it matter to you anyway?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe Marty will tell me.’

‘He’ll tell you some kind of story, I’m sure.’ She lowered her voice as she stepped closer, inclining her head slightly, as if sharing a secret. ‘If you let him.’

It was only after he’d set off back for Greenwich that Nick realized he’d failed to ask Miranda where in Cornwall Alison Parker’s death – and presumably Peter Ellery’s as well – had occurred. There were a lot of beaches down there to choose from. He could ask Martin Caldwell, of course. And he meant to, if Caldwell didn’t volunteer the information.

As far as Nick was concerned, though, it was put-up-or-shut-up time for Caldwell. Nick was going to listen to what he had to say, about Geoff Nolan, about Peter Ellery and Alison Parker, about the Exeter household in general. He was going to listen very carefully. And if, as he expected, it all turned out to be nothing but a lonely man’s desperation to relive his youth, then that would be it. He would send Caldwell packing, then return no more calls or messages and draw a line under the whole business.

With any luck, he’d soon be able to get back to his painting. Leave ancient history behind. And re-engage with the present.

But Caldwell had a surprise in store for Nick. He didn’t turn up. Not at five o’clock. Not at six. Not at all. There was no apologetic phone call this time. And he didn’t answer when Nick phoned him or respond later to the message Nick left. As an aimless evening in front of the TV drifted by, Nick realized he’d somehow been had. What Caldwell had been trying to achieve, or whether this broken appointment was part of it, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine. And, for the moment, he couldn’t be bothered to try.

‘To hell with Martin Caldwell,’ he said as he poured himself another glass of wine.

SEVEN