Emily, dressed in an apron and protective gloves, her hair up inside a sterile hair-net, stood at a long trestle table covered in a white cloth, laying out rows and rows of glass bowls.

‘Em,’ he said, ‘where did you put the business card from that police officer, Neil Lang?’

‘Police officer?’

‘One of the two who came here last week – Wednesday night.’

She replied without looking up, ‘I don’t remember any police officers coming here last Wednesday night. What police officers?’

He stepped back, feeling giddy, suddenly. Had he imagined them, too?

Humorously, she added, ‘Were they the ones that came with the vicar I couldn’t see?’

He looked at her, feeling very strange, as if he was in some kind of altered reality. ‘You don’t remember?’

‘I think I would have remembered police officers coming here.’ She continued with her work.

‘We had a conversation about them.’

‘We did?’ She gave him a strange, blank look and shook her head.

He hurried back up to his study, sat at his desk, and dialled the non-emergency number for Sussex Police, 101.

To his amazement, it was answered after a couple of rings. ‘Sussex Police, how can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to PC Neil Lang, please.’

‘One moment, please.’

Out of the window to his right he saw the Penze-Weedells coming out their front door. Claudette held up something in her hand, and stabbed it with a gloved finger. The key fob. Seconds later, as he still waited on the line, he saw the garage door open and their little, box-shaped, purple electric car reverse out and stop, obediently, in front of them. They got in, Claudette in the driver’s seat, and a few seconds later they shot off and out of sight.

‘Hello, caller, we don’t have any record of a PC Neil Lang, I’m afraid.’

‘You don’t?’ He spelled out the name.

The operator sounded friendly. ‘Not in Sussex Police. I’ve checked the records.’

‘But he came to our house – last Wednesday, December nineteenth. He was with a colleague, PC Christina Davies.’

‘I’ll check her for you, if you can hold? May I take your name, please?

‘Sure, it’s Jason Danes.’

‘Danes.’

He spelled it out for her, phonetically. ‘Juliet Alpha Sierra Oscar November, then Delta Alpha November Echo Sierra.’

‘Mr Jason Danes?’ she replied, with no hint of recognition of his name.

‘Yes.’

‘One moment, please.’

A car coming along Lakeview Drive, going slowly as if looking for an address, caught his attention. He blinked. It was the huge red and white 1960s Cadillac he had seen before. The driver, sitting on the left, had a large cigar in his mouth; a woman sat beside him, and there were two excited-looking children in the back.

Just as he had seen before.

As they disappeared from view the operator came back. ‘I’m really sorry, we don’t have any record of a PC Christina Davies. Are you sure they are with Sussex Police, sir?’