They had been at different ends of the beach. Not near enough to see each other’s faces. Not near enough to see if any one of them was behaving oddly.

So…nobody had seen or heard anything except the faint slamming of a door. Inspector Blythe wondered what had made two people even mention the door. Because it had woken them? Because it denoted haste and for some reason had alerted them, that non-specific, ordinary sound?

He got on the phone again. ‘When you locate Daphne Broadbent and Mrs Christine Dury, assuming that both are alive and still have their faculties, will you make sure they see the statements they made at the time and ask them why they particularly mentioned or remembered the slamming of a door? I want to know what it sounded like. Because the doors out here are very light and made of rattan. I cannot see that the slamming of a door would wake anyone.’

‘Inspector, you’re talking about twenty-eight years ago, for God’s sake!’

‘I know I am. But would you ever forget a holiday where a small child suddenly disappeared, never to be seen or heard of again?’

There was silence and then, ‘No, Inspector. I’ll get on to it.’ Another pause. ‘A thought, Sir. Finding the child’s body has been reported in most of the papers here. Not headlines, of course, but I’m wondering if any one of those families who stayed in Port Dickson at the time will get in contact with us.’

‘Now that, DS Blake, is a very interesting thought. You might pass it on to the team. We don’t want to miss anyone who might ring in. Pin their names up in large letters on the board.’

Mohktar came into the room as Blythe replaced the phone.

‘Shall we go, Detective Sergeant?’

‘My car’s outside,’ Mohktar said. He looked at the inspector with an expression Blythe couldn’t interpret.

‘Is there a problem, Mohktar? Please don’t tell me either Miss Montrose or Mrs Campbell are unwell again or the time isn’t right. We are police officers, not the confessional.’

Mohktar didn’t rise to this. Englishmen often got irritable in the heat. ‘No problem, Inspector. No problem, indeed.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. Let’s go.’

When they were in the air-conditioned car and purring along the coast road, Mohktar said, ‘Today I have a phone call to say the body of the child can be released for burial.’

Blythe turned to look at him. Mohktar’s face remained impassive, his long, thin fingers relaxed on the wheel. Bugger it! Blythe thought. Why do I get the impression this man is censoring me gently, for being a policeman, for doing my job? He remembered his own words on the telephone: ‘Would you forget the day a young child disappeared?’

He sighed and leant back in the seat. This was not a case you could stay strictly uninvolved in. The two of them were both stuck bang in the middle of it, trying to make sense of all the implications that were surfacing, while two women were wildly treading water before struggling for some recognisable shoreline.