Mrs Collins, her dad’s long-suffering housekeeper, showed her in and through to the back where her father sat in a chair on the terrace. Next to him there was a glass-topped metal table on which stood a jug of cloudy lemonade and three glasses. The ice cubes in the jug had sharp edges and the surface of the jug was beginning to mist with condensation.

‘Rebecca,’ her father said as she walked over and bent to kiss him. He sat still while she did so and then brushed her away. ‘You’re late.’

Silva glanced at her watch. One minute past eleven. ‘One hundred and fifty miles and I’m sixty seconds late. I’d say that was pretty good.’

‘Pretty good, yes.’ Her father watched her as she sat down. ‘But not perfect.’

Silva wasn’t surprised by her father’s opprobrium. As a child she’d had to live up to his exacting standards, all too often failing to meet them. He’d treated her mother the same way until she’d grown tired of having the minutiae of her life controlled and micro-managed. When Silva was ten, her mother had upped and left, taking Silva with her. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, Silva wondered if her father’s nature could have been altered by his experiences in the Gulf. PTSD affected people in different ways, and his desire to control everything might have been a response to the stress he’d faced in the deserts of southern Iraq. Then again, it might not.

‘You look fine,’ Silva said, trying not to rise to the bait. ‘I thought you might be poorly.’

‘I told you I wasn’t ill on the phone. Didn’t you believe me?’

‘There are times when people don’t like to admit something’s wrong with them.’

‘Not me.’ Her father paused and then knocked the table with his right fist. ‘You got the keys and the documents I forwarded from the solicitor?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll go there on your way back to Plymouth? Check the house is OK?’

‘Sure,’ Silva agreed without much enthusiasm. She changed the subject and gestured at the three glasses on the table. ‘Are we expecting a guest? Or are you going ask your servant to join us?’

‘Don’t wind me up, Rebecca. Mrs Collins isn’t my servant.’

‘Lover?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Well, this is nice.’ Silva leaned back in her chair. Below the terrace a large area of lawn led down to the lake. There was a boathouse at one end and a small island in the centre. ‘Just think, I could have been delivering the mail to the good people of Plymouth instead of sitting here getting bored.’

‘When were you last up?’

‘Must be a year ago. You’ve repaired the boathouse, I see.’

‘Repaired the boathouse, dredged and restocked the lake. A lot’s been done in the house too. You’ll see later.’

‘Later?’

‘You’re staying over.’