Nick’s surprise was heightened when he realized the man was Asian and could easily be Japanese, though unusually tall if he was. The intruder at Caldwell’s flat in Exeter had been an unusually tall Japanese man, according to the description Mrs Takenaga had given the police. Was this him again?

The man turned smartly left and walked away from Nick, but gave him a fleeting yet piercing glance over his shoulder as he did so. The effect was chilling. Nick pulled up, then started moving again, more slowly, waiting for the man to reach the end of the street and turn out of sight. It was a relief when he did.

The response to Nick’s knock on the door was much quicker than he’d anticipated. Miranda yanked the door open and glared out at him. Then her expression softened. It was obvious she hadn’t been expecting to see Nick on her doorstep. She was wearing a tracksuit and looked markedly less well groomed than when they’d met for lunch. Less relaxed, as well. Much less.

‘Nick,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Did you think he’d come back?’

‘Who?’

‘Your last visitor. I saw him leaving.’

She gazed past him and along the street. ‘You mean the Irishman.’ There was something wary but also dismissive in her tone. Nick couldn’t quite get the measure of her mood.

‘He didn’t look Irish to me.’

‘I didn’t say he was.’

‘Well, if he’s not Irish, why—’

‘Are you coming in?’

‘Can I?’

‘Of course.’ A little of her jauntiness had been restored.

She led the way along a high-ceilinged, corniced hall to the kitchen – large and well equipped in a stripped-down style. They were at the back of the house now, overlooking a well-kept garden, vibrant with spring blooms. Birdsong was audible through a half-open window, though the house itself felt silent and empty.

‘You want a cup of coffee? I just made some.’

‘Thanks. That’d be great.’

She picked up her cup and drank from it, then grabbed the cafetière and poured a cup for him. He noticed a whisky bottle standing open-topped near her cup. His guess was she’d added some to her coffee. His further guess was that this wasn’t something she generally did on a Saturday morning.

‘Sorry if I’ve, er …’

‘It doesn’t matter. What’s brought you here, Nick?’

‘My father.’

‘I think I said everything I had to say about Geoff over lunch.’

‘I’m not talking about Geoff Nolan.’

‘But you just said—’

‘Peter Ellery. My father. My real father.’

‘Ah … Right.’ She sat down at the kitchen table and waved for him to do the same. ‘So, Marty went ahead and told you.’

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘But you met him?’

‘He never showed up.’

‘Well, that’s Marty for you. One hundred per cent unreliable. So, who did tell you? Not April, surely.’

‘Barry Holgate.’

‘Who?’