‘How’s the hotel?’

‘The hotel … is the hotel! It’s still here.’

Andreas’s face lit up my screen – and I mean that in every sense. His dark skin and thick black hair emphasised the dazzling white of his teeth and I could actually see the sparkle in his eyes. He was an incredibly handsome man and looking at him in front of me, I felt a longing to climb through that rectangular window and throw myself into his arms. I hadn’t left him. That was what I told myself. I had just gone away for a week. I would go back to Crete when this was all over, ten thousand pounds richer. In the end, the whole experience would bring us closer together.

‘Where are you now?’ Andreas asked.

‘At the hotel. Branlow Hall.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘It’s barking mad. There are oil paintings on the walls and stained-glass windows. Some of the rooms have four-poster beds. You’d love it.’

‘Who are you sharing yours with?’

‘Stop it!’

‘I miss having you in mine. It’s not the same here without you. Lots of the regulars have complained.’

The mood had changed and we were serious. I realised now that I had left Crete without even thinking about the immediate consequences. There had been no discussion between us, no attempt to iron out the difficulties that had insinuated themselves into our relationship. Our last conversation had been acrimonious. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he had said. But I had gone anyway. I wondered now if I had behaved badly and, worse still, if I had broken something that was precious to me.

‘How are Panos and Vangelis?’ I asked.

‘They’re fine.’

‘Don’t they miss me?’

‘Of course they miss you.’ He spread his hands so that they disappeared on either side of the screen. ‘But we get by.’

I scowled. ‘You mean, you can manage without me.’

‘We need the money! Have you got it yet?’

In fact, Lawrence hadn’t paid me anything so far. ‘I’m chasing it,’ I said.

‘If it hadn’t been for the money, I wouldn’t have let you go.’

He sounded so Greek when he said that. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

‘So tell me about the murder,’ he went on. ‘Do you know who did it?’

‘I don’t know anything yet.’

‘It was the husband.’

‘What?’

‘The woman who disappeared. Of course he did it. It’s always the husband.’

‘I haven’t even spoken to him yet. And it’s more complicated than that. This is all about something that happened eight years ago. If someone has killed Cecily, it was because of that.’

Andreas pointed at the screen. His finger loomed towards me, out of perspective. ‘Just you take care of yourself. Remember, if you get into trouble, I won’t be there to help you.’

‘Why don’t you get on a plane?’ I said, wanting him beside me.

‘The Polydorus can manage without you. But it can’t manage without both of us.’

I heard shouting. It was coming from underneath the terrace, I think, but it was impossible to tell who it was. Andreas listened, then shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of regret. ‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘If it’s the microwave, just turn it off and then on again.’

‘That’s true of everything in the hotel. In the whole country!’ He leaned forward. ‘I miss you, Susan. And I worry about you. Don’t put yourself in any danger.’

‘I won’t.’

The shouting continued, louder.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you.’

Two thousand miles apart, we reached towards each other. Our fingers found the cursor at the same moment. We pressed. The screen went blank.

Heath House, Westleton

The next morning began with an unpleasant surprise.

I’d had breakfast in my room and was just on my way downstairs when a man in a suit appeared, walking briskly from the front of the hotel towards reception. I recognised him at once: those angry eyes, his black skin, his muscular neck and shoulders, even the way he walked – as if searching for a wall to bulldoze his way through. With or without his promotion, there could be no mistaking Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Locke and I briefly considered turning round and going back to my room as if I had forgotten something rather than risk running into him a second time. He had been angry enough when I had involved myself in his last investigation.

But I was already committed. I couldn’t avoid him. So I kept my head down and hurried forward, pretending not to notice him, as if lost in my own thoughts. We passed within inches of each other at the foot of the stairs and although he must have seen me, he didn’t actually recognise me, which I couldn’t help feeling showed a distinct lack of observational skills in someone who called himself a detective. To be fair, his mind must have been on other things. I heard him ask for Aiden MacNeil and realised he had come to report on the search for his wife and, presumably, his lack of progress. I was glad that Locke hadn’t seen me. It was a distraction that neither of us needed.

It also gave me an excuse to postpone seeing Aiden myself, which was a meeting I was still dreading. I didn’t agree with what Andreas had said. Just because Aiden was married to Cecily, it didn’t make him the prime suspect in her disappearance. On the contrary, and ignoring what Lisa had said, all the evidence suggested that the two of them had been happy together. They also had a child. Surely that made it less likely that he would want to do her harm?

It was a relief to climb into my dear old MG Roadster and to feel the rush as it carried me away from the hotel. It was a beautiful day but I wanted to get on the road as quickly as possible and waited until I got to the end of the drive before stopping and folding down the roof. After that, I continued on my way, pushing against the speed limit, feeling the wind streaming over my shoulders and tangling my hair. I spun through green leaves and woodland until I reached the A12, then headed north to Westleton. Frank Parris had visited somewhere called Heath House on the day he was killed. I wondered if this was where his relatives had lived and, more to the point, if they were still there.

Westleton is a funny village in that it isn’t really a village at all, more a confluence of roads. There’s the Yoxford Road to Yoxford, the Dunwich Road to Dunwich and the Blythburgh Road to Blythburgh, but there doesn’t seem to be a Westleton Road to Westleton. It’s as if someone is trying to tell you that there’s no particular reason to visit the place where you actually are. It has an old-fashioned garage, a pub that’s signposted but nowhere to be seen, a second-hand bookshop and not much else. That said, it’s on the edge of a superb nature reserve and you can walk to the sea. I’m sure it’s a lovely place to live.

Heath House wasn’t easy to find, especially in an old car without satnav. I had printed up a map at the hotel but drove in circles until I came across a farmer hosing down a tractor: he directed me to a narrow lane I hadn’t noticed, mainly because it had no name. The lane led me away from the centre of the village and into the nature reserve itself, finally petering out on a stretch of grassland with a timber-frame farmhouse on the other side. This was Heath House. The name was written on an American-style mailbox beside the gate.

It was the sort of home designed to be seen on a summer morning with the lawns freshly mown, the flowers in full bloom, the hammock swaying beneath the trees and so on. It must have been a hundred years old and even without going in I knew there would be exposed beams and open fireplaces, comfy nooks and ceilings where you would have to be careful not to bang your head. It wasn’t particularly beautiful: the roof had been badly repaired with tiles that changed colour halfway across, and an ugly modern conservatory had been added to one side. But it was a house that was completely comfortable with itself. It must have had five or six bedrooms, two of them tucked up in the eaves. A set of wind chimes hung from a tree, tinkling meditatively in the breeze.

I parked the car and got out. There was no need to lock it or to close the roof. As I opened the gate, I noticed a man in dark blue overalls painting a window frame. He was short and thin, quite pale, with close-cropped hair and round glasses. Did he own the house? Or did he work for the man who owned the house? It was hard to be sure.

‘Hello,’ he said. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. He was smiling.

‘Do you live here?’ I asked.

‘Yes. How can I help you?’

I hadn’t been prepared for such conviviality and I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself. ‘I’m very sorry to bust in on you like this,’ I said, ‘but I wondered if I could have a word.’ He waited for more. ‘It’s about Branlow Hall.’

At once he was interested. ‘Oh yes?’

‘I’m staying there.’

‘Lucky you. It’s a nice hotel.’