‘He doesn’t work for me. No, no, no. I work full-time for the agency and he works for the agency occasionally and in this instance I’m just … sort of … the intermediary.’ He was visibly tying himself in knots as he tried to explain how he came to be here.

‘Is that a job?’ I went on, glancing at the brown envelope.

‘It is.’

‘Someone’s been killed?’

‘Oh no. Nothing like that. Nothing you’d want to put in one of your books. It’s actually quite pedestrian. An errant husband. Wife thinks he’s seeing someone else … which he might be, although quite what they’re doing in Grand Cayman—’ He broke off, realising he had already said too much. ‘I really ought to be going …’ he muttered.

‘When I asked you if you were his half-brother, you didn’t seem sure.’

‘Well, I know who he is. And I know who I am. But I’m trying to think. Half-brother is when one of your parents remarries, isn’t it? That never happened.’

‘You’re not blood relatives.’ They had no physical similarity.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you have the same surname?’ In his own way, Roland was as infuriating as Hawthorne. He didn’t want to tell me anything. The only difference was, he was unable to stop himself. ‘Are you adopted?’ I asked. It was the only possible explanation.

‘I’m not! Heavens, no!’ He let out a snuffle of laughter.

‘So he is?’

Roland was immediately serious again. ‘It’s quite private, you know. He doesn’t really like to talk about it.’

‘Your parents adopted him.’

The two people in the photograph. The police constable and his formally dressed wife. It didn’t surprise me at all that Hawthorne had been adopted. It put everything I knew about him – right down to the Airfix models – in perspective. So why had he called Roland his half-brother? I suppose he didn’t want to give too much away.

‘That’s right. I don’t really think of him as an adoptive brother, though. I’d say we’re closer than that. He’s a marvellous man. We’ve known each other all our lives.’

‘What happened to his own parents?’ Roland was squirming, his coffee forgotten. I could see him eyeing the door, planning his escape. ‘I think Hawthorne mentioned they lived in Reeth?’ I was lying. Hawthorne had said nothing of the sort. I was fishing.

Roland took the bait. ‘In Yorkshire. Yes.’

‘And they died?’

‘If they hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have needed adopting.’

‘That’s true, of course. It was very sad.’

‘A terrible business.’

‘How did they die?’

It was one question too many and I’d asked it too directly. I saw his eyelids come down like shutters. ‘I really can’t talk about it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Actually, I’d best be off. A great pleasure to meet you, Anthony. Daniel’s told me a lot about you. Perhaps you can tell him I looked in.’

But there was no need. Just then the door opened and Hawthorne was there, looking suspiciously from Roland to me. Then he relaxed. ‘Roland!’ he said. He was more friendly as he greeted his adoptive brother.