Since I spoke to Marsh, I’ve been obsessing about Devon. I want to see the place where Anna’s little sister died. The more I learn about what happened, the more I’m certain that the waves caused by that summer have followed Nick down through the years. My gut tells me those waves broke on the day he left this house to buy a pint of milk and ran into Anna Foreman. I have nothing against coincidence, but there are far too many for credibility here. Nick and Anna were estranged childhood friends who happened to wash up in the same corner of suburban London. Anna’s brother happened to contact Nick the day after she spoke to him. I don’t think so.

I sit cross-legged on the sofa, cradling a cup of mint tea, thinking about the logistics. I don’t want to stay overnight, not when things are on such a knife-edge here. I’ll do the drive there and back in a day. It’ll be exhausting but even if I’m not back in time to see Lottie before she goes to sleep, I want to be there in the morning when she wakes up.

The only obstacle is that I’ll need permission and that means getting in touch with Angus Moody. I bite my lip. I don’t want to ask him if I can have a snoop round his house and land; he could react badly.

Anna, I think suddenly. She can get me in, and she can guide me; she can help me picture what happened to her sister and she can explain the relationships between the various family members. I put my drink down and reach for my mobile. Is this wise? Do I really want to share my intentions with a woman I don’t entirely trust? I hold the phone in the palm of my hand. Time might be running out for Nick. I have no choice. It’s Anna or nothing.

‘But why are you going at all?’ Anna says when I explain what I want from her.

‘Because it was a significant event in Nick’s life that I didn’t know about, and I have this gut feeling. I need to see it, to smell it.’

There’s a long silence and when she does speak, she sounds as though she might be wavering. ‘I haven’t seen the Moodys in years. And anyway, they probably won’t be there, they’re in London or abroad most of the time. It was only ever a summer holiday home.’

‘There must be some local person who looks after the place.’

She sighs. ‘Well, there’s Mrs Burrows. Unless she’s retired. Someone in the village will know; everyone knows everyone’s business down there.’

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Can you be ready to leave by seven?’