Her father sat on the rickety chair at the end of the jetty. He appeared to have given up on the fly rod and now held a long pole in his hands. The fluorescent tip of a fishing float bobbed in the water beneath the end of the pole. As Silva placed a foot on the jetty her father spoke.

‘Stupid buggers.’ He lifted the pole, swung the float in, and examined the hook. ‘They’ve stolen the worm. I don’t know how Matthew managed to catch those trout. I get nothing or a measly gudgeon. Waste of money stocking the bloody lake.’

‘Hello, Dad.’ Silva removed her foot from the jetty and waited for her father to rise. ‘I’m back.’

‘So I see.’ Her father put the pole down and pushed himself up from the chair. Silva moved aside as he walked towards her. ‘Matthew called to let me know you’d be coming. Itchy all right?’

‘He’s fine. Richer. Then again he’s going to need the money with the kid on the way.’

‘A kid, eh? Boy or girl?’

‘Itchy wants a girl.’ Silva smiled to herself as her father frowned.

‘Right.’ They strolled up towards the terrace. The table had three glasses. Lemonade. Just like before. He gestured for Silva to sit. ‘We’ll have tea later.’

‘Will we?’

‘Yes. I’ve made some sandwiches.’

Silva pointed at the third glass. ‘Are we expecting a visitor?’

‘We are.’

‘Might I ask who it is?’

‘You’ll see presently.’

‘Aren’t you going to say anything? About what happened?’

‘There’s no need. Karen Hope is dead. It’s over. Job done.’

Job done.

She wondered if it was ‘job done’. If, now Hope was dead, she’d be able to return to some kind of normality. He father certainly seemed to have moved on. There were builders round the front of the house dealing with the damage from the fire and on the table she could see an index card with her father’s handwriting scrawled on it. ‘Housekeeper Wanted’, it said at the top. Poor Mrs Collins wasn’t long in the ground and he was already advertising for her replacement.

‘Job done and you’re home safe.’ He looked over at her for the briefest of moments and then turned away. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘Dad, I—’

‘Rebecca?’ A glass chinked and she was aware of her father pouring the lemonade. ‘Our guest is here.’

She looked up as a figure passed in front of the sun.

‘Becca?’ An American accent. A hint of Irish. Whiskey, wood smoke, coffee, peach.

‘Sean.’ Silva answered flatly as she stood.

‘I’m sorry.’ Sean gave a tentative smile, putting out feelers.

‘You told your boss about me and he shopped me to Mavers.’