Finch didn’t reply for a moment and Romy felt his change of mood as he said, with clear reluctance, ‘The Painswick Valley, an old stone cottage miles from anywhere. My dear old ma was paranoid about the outside world. Xenophobic, even … probably bordering on survivalist.’ He paused, as if deciding whether or not to go on. ‘The basement was crammed with hundreds of cans of food. She owned three shotguns and a rifle. I could shoot and skin a rabbit by the time I was eight.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘She absolutely hated any kind of authority, which was why she wouldn’t send me to school. She considered all teachers lefty tyrannical morons.’

‘And your father?’ Romy felt almost rude asking, sensing a palpable reticence from the man on the bed next to her.

Finch shrugged. ‘Married man. I only knew him by sight – a local landowner with a large family. He’s dead now, but he never acknowledged me.’ A wry smile formed on his lips. ‘Probably suspected Ma just wanted his sperm – which might have been true, knowing my mother – and didn’t want me getting my mitts on his estate.’ For a moment he seemed miles away. Then he added, ‘She was an extraordinary woman, but perhaps not the easiest of mothers.’

Romy was amazed. Robert Fincham seemed the epitome of middle-class conservatism. She had assumed he came from some tidy family in the Home Counties, with two nice parents – father a dentist or in insurance, perhaps – a handful of siblings, two golden retrievers, a Rover on the gravel drive, maybe even a horse in some nearby field. We might have more in common than I thought, she decided. ‘Why on earth the army?’

He laughed. ‘I know, sounds like an improbable choice of career for someone with my background. Nearly gave Ma a heart attack when I told her.’ He hesitated and she noticed him wringing his hands together in his lap. ‘Being used to guns, I suppose, being part of something … And I think I wanted to prove I wasn’t a mummy’s boy … which was what the boys at school called me, of course, when I eventually got there.’

Romy realized she needed to have a major rethink about Robert Fincham. He hadn’t told her a single thing about his childhood before, always brushing off any tentative enquiries she’d made. Talking now, he seemed almost apologetic – embarrassed even – about his upbringing, yet she’d always had the sense that this was a man enviably at ease with himself.

‘So,’ she said brightly, feeling the atmosphere was getting way too thick with Finch’s past and anxious not to start focusing on her own, ‘I suppose we should get some sleep.’

Neither of them moved. ‘I’m sorry, Romy,’ Finch said. ‘I wanted this to be a perfect evening, and it seems to have gone a bit pear-shaped.’