Fergus stays silent. A smell of something delicious is emanating from the inside of the house. It gives off an air of cosiness; of comfort. The carpet is loud and trodden almost flat and the little of the hallway that he can see is papered in woodchip. And yet Baroness Cordelia Hemlock is standing in the doorway.

‘You’ll be coming in,’ she says, stepping back. ‘She’ll offer you the sofa to sleep on but you’ll say no. I’ve booked you in at the pub in the town centre. Better for you, better for her. She’ll talk and you’ll listen. I’ve written my stuff out for you and you can have a look when you’re good and ready to properly understand. She’ll downplay her own part in it and no doubt I’ve made myself sound like a right bloody halfwit, but the whole thing was such a mess from start to finish that nobody came out of it with any credit.’

Paolo raises his hands, trying to bat away the barrage of information. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not really sure what …’

‘You want the story,’ explains Cordelia. ‘What happened. The Angels. Bloody Kaibiles running around with guns in Gilsland. My house. Walt. Cyanide pills and listening devices and Felicity Bloody Goose crawling around in the rafters like a commando in a cardigan. That’s what you want, yes? Jesus, when I told Erskine to call you I thought you’d have the brains to keep up. That story of yours – Belize. It wasn’t half bad. You seemed like you could write a bit. Did I make a mistake? Did Clive do his Scottish accent? God, he’s a ham actor at heart.’

Paolo feels dizzy; feels as though the ground beneath his feet is giving way. ‘You asked Erskine to call me? But I called you …’

Cordelia closes her eyes. Shakes her head. ‘Feckless,’ she mutters and leads him into the warm, low-ceiling little kitchen at the back of the house. In the high-backed chair, wrapped in a blanket and looking jolly excited to have guests, is a very elderly woman. She grins, hugely, as Paolo enters the room.

‘By heck, he’s the size of a hoos-end!’

‘This is what I’m dealing with,’ says Cordelia, with an indulgent little roll of her eyes. She crosses to the big old Rayburn in the corner and starts moving the kettle around on the hotplate.

‘Go on then, Flick,’ she prompts. ‘Introduce yourself. Make the nice man feel at home.’

‘Take no notice,’ says Flick. ‘She’s not really the way she is, if you follow me. Sweet as sugar underneath. My John always said she has a heart of gold, God rest him. Though of course, he went doolally at the end and thought she was the district nurse, so maybe he’s not the best judge. Now, tea? Apple cake? Or shall we get down to it?’