‘Went well, then?’ Sabih remarked. He was leaning against the house, a few yards from the porch. ‘Friendly bunch.’

‘I—’ Harri began, uncertain how to explain what she had just seen. ‘There was something weird in that house.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’d describe you as strange rather than weird.’ Sabih started down the drive. ‘Come on.’

Harri followed. ‘Very funny. I’m being serious. There was a poem in the loo. It was written for me. He confessed to watching me from Elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere?’ Sabih asked, hurrying towards the car.

‘It’s a house near the spot where David Asha jumped.’

‘And this poem was a confession that he spied on you?’ Sabih got in the passenger seat.

Harri opened the driver’s door. ‘Not as such,’ she replied, climbing in.

‘Did you get a photo?’ Sabih asked, holding up his phone.

Harri rolled her eyes in irritation, and slammed the door. How could she not have taken a photo?

‘Take it easy,’ Sabih urged. ‘This Elsewhere is famous, right?’

She started the engine. ‘I wouldn’t say famous, but the locals use the name. Its proper name is the Elsewhere House.’

‘So lots of people know what it’s called. Maybe the poem was about someone else and you’re just reading yourself into it? Maybe it was about David Asha?’

Harri nodded, but she wasn’t so sure. It was possible, because that was where David Asha had taken his own life, but she couldn’t shake the feeling the poem was about her and that she’d been meant to find it, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? She put the Volkswagen in gear and drove away from the strange cottage. A shiver ran down her spine. A release of tension? Or a premonition of things to come?

‘I’m not interested in poems, though,’ Sabih said, and Harri knew what was coming. ‘How many people know you and he dated?’

Harri kept her eyes on the road. ‘I don’t know who he told.’

‘Well he told the housekeeper at least,’ Sabih remarked. ‘We need to think about how to handle this. It won’t look good if we need to make a case. You’ll seem compromised.’

‘I’m not,’ Harri protested, perhaps a little too strongly. Her stomach churned at the thought of making a case. This was all getting too real. Could she really cast Ben as a villain?

‘I know that, but a jury won’t. You know how these things go. It’s not about truth, it’s about appearances. Got to give people the comforting illusion life’s fair.’

Harri didn’t reply. She focused on the beams of light making road from darkness. Was he warning her she’d have to withdraw from the investigation? There was something else on his mind. She could sense it in his prolonged pause.

‘Let me ask you something,’ he said at last. ‘Did you really find that message in the book?’

Harri’s mouth opened and closed in disbelief. He’d seen it. Was he accusing her of forgery?

‘Of course I did,’ she replied. ‘Do you think—’