By the time Sam arrived from Manchester, Grace had showered and dressed. She seemed composed. If the hug she gave her husband was a little tighter than was usual, or her chatter less lively, then Sam didn’t appear to notice. But Finch kept a close eye on her, his heart breaking at the struggle she must have had to live with the secret she’d chosen to keep since she was a teenager.

Later on Sunday evening, as the sun was setting, Finch changed into his running gear and set off around the harbour on his favourite loop. He had waited till this time because he knew Romy would probably have gone back to Michael by now. Michael, who had sexually assaulted his and Nell’s adored Grace. He realized he was clenching his jaw as his feet squelched through the mounds of summer seaweed on the road, his stride breaking until he was clear of the slippery mass and round the corner on the southern spur of the estuary.

He had not heard from Romy since he had stormed out – and he’d made no attempt to contact her. Using the steady pounding of his feet as a metronome for his thoughts, Finch tried to make sense of what had happened, from Romy’s point of view.

First there was the assault itself, sixteen years ago now. This was a fact, in his mind, whatever Romy chose to believe. Finch was pretty sure she hadn’t known about it at the time, but what were her options when she received the letter? Tell someone? But this, as Romy kept saying, was her husband of thirty years, his record apparently unblemished … as far as she knew, of course.

He ran on, thoughts whirring. So she shows him the letter and he pretends he doesn’t remember Grace. And, of course, Michael would only definitely remember her – given the number of work-experience girls in his chambers and the length of time involved – if he had assaulted her. When obviously he would lie.

Finch stopped and bent over, getting his breath. He’d been running for half an hour and veered away from the harbour onto the small road leading round the fields and back to the village. It was shadowy now, the sky lit to the west with a fading plum and primrose. Romy didn’t know Grace, he reminded himself. She couldn’t find out who the letter-writer was without implicating her husband – whose career at the Bar would be ruined if there were even a sniff of scandal. And she had two sons to think of. So she had no idea if Grace was telling the truth … Here, Finch’s thoughts started to run round in circles.