Andrew Buckley continues to prey on my mind. I know the power that people like him have to maintain control, force silence, hide the truth about themselves. I arrange to visit him at his home. In the light of what James Hampton has told us and what I know about Doctor Buckley’s personal life, I’m curious to hear what he has to say.

As I drive towards the village, the countryside bears long-awaited signs that winter is ending. Grass verges show new signs of growth and tree branches bear the faintest tinge of green. After the wettest few months I can remember, they’re signs of hope that the worst is over, that spring isn’t far away.

In the Buckleys’ garden, the shelter afforded by the tall stone walls that surround it mean that the seasons have already moved on. Trees bear pale pink blossoms and clumps of primroses and bluebells are interspersed with verdant shoots of what’s to follow. I linger, taking it in, unaware of Andrew Buckley watching me until I glance towards the house and see his face at a window. When I reach the door, he opens it before I knock.

‘Come in, Detective Sergeant. I’m afraid my wife’s at work. I hope that isn’t going to inconvenience you?’ His manner is smooth, with an authority he obviously doesn’t expect to be questioned.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s by accident or design that he’s arranged to meet me when he’s alone here. ‘Not at all. I just have a few questions for you. It shouldn’t take long.’

His face is impassive. ‘Absolutely. Would you like to come through?’

Instead of the kitchen, where I’ve spoken to Elise and Niamh, he shows me through to a large sitting room, extravagantly furnished with tall sash windows looking out onto the garden.

He gestures towards one of the large sofas. ‘Do have a seat.’

Getting an impression of how it is to be one of his patients, I sit down, glancing around the room. It’s deliberately imposing rather than comfortable, with a couple of large modern prints on one of the walls and an enormous elaborate mirror resting on the mantelpiece.

He waits a few seconds before sitting opposite me. ‘So, how can I help?’

His deliberate affability isn’t lost on me. Starting up my notebook, I take a deep breath. ‘You’re aware we’re holding James Hampton?’

He nods, his face sober. ‘I had heard. May I ask why?’

‘Do you know a Philip Mason, Doctor Buckley?’ Ignoring his question, I study his face for a tell-tale giveaway sign as I mention Mason’s name, but there’s nothing.

‘I have a drink with him now and then. He lives in the village but he’s away a lot on business.’