He kissed her, feeling troubled. ‘What’s your plan for today?’

‘Full on, prepping for the anniversary dinner tomorrow, and I’ve just had a call from Louise; she’s down with flu. She’s going to stay in bed today and try to shake it off, so she can be with me tomorrow, come hell or high water. Great, eh?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘You need to get on with some more paintings for your exhibition. I’ll manage. Got the glorious task of peeling seven hundred prawns, to make eighty prawn cocktails. I took them out of the freezer and put them in the fridges overnight.’

‘I don’t remember you doing that.’

With a teasing grin, she said, ‘I don’t think you remember very much at all after leaving our sweet neighbours. Do you remember the porcelain donkey?’

‘Twenty thousand quid, on Antiques Roadshow.’

‘I’m impressed. So, you weren’t totally smashed.’

‘I’ll be working in my studio. Shout if you need anything.’

‘I’ll be OK.’

‘Adore you.’

She kissed him.

70

Thursday 27 December

Jason finished his coffee, then went for an hour-long bike ride, in bright, frosty sunshine. When he returned, he chopped up some fruit and mixed it into a bowl of cereal, fetched the papers from the hall mat, and thumbed through the Argus and the Guardian while he ate his breakfast.

Afterwards he had a thirty-minute shower. It was the longest he’d had for many days, and it surprised him, with all the stress of recent events, that he hadn’t had a relapse. He soaped and rinsed himself repeatedly, before getting dressed in jeans and a sweater and going up to his studio, looking all around for any sign of the woman before closing the door behind him.

He was finding it hard to dismiss all that had happened last night as a dream. And yet, what other possible explanation was there?

He sat at his desk and logged on, in turn, to his email and social media. All seemed normal. He replied to a few posts and then logged off again, aware that he had to knuckle down.

He placed a fresh gesso board on the easel, put on his apron and gloves and began to mix his paints. But he was too distracted, his mind somewhere else.

I did not imagine last night. I did not dream it.

He looked out of the window at the building site and scene of the accident, and realized the police hadn’t called him back yet. Wondering whether to call the PC directly rather than go through the tedium of the long wait on the 101 number, he peered closely at the box on the desk, which was where he put the business cards of everyone he had ever met, and started working through it. Looking for a name. PC Neil Lang. The officer had written his direct phone number on the card he’d left.

He couldn’t find it.

Had he left it in the kitchen somewhere?

He hurried downstairs. The integral door to the garage – commandeered by Emily and Louise as their catering kitchen – was open. He checked the refectory table and a couple of kitchen drawers, but the card wasn’t there. He hurried across and leaned through the open door to the garage.