‘I’m asking questions about something that happened quite a long time ago. Did you by any chance know a man called Frank Parris?’

‘Yes. I knew Frank.’ He noticed he was still holding the paintbrush and put it down. ‘Why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’

It baffled me that he was so amiable. He seemed not just willing but eager to talk to me. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I held out a hand. ‘I’m Susan Ryeland.’

He examined his own hand, which was smudged with white paint. ‘Martin Williams. Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. Come this way … ’

He led me round the side and in through a sliding door. The interior of the house was exactly as I had imagined it. The kitchen was large and homely, with an Aga, an island for food preparation, pots hanging from the rafters and a pine kitchen table with eight chairs. It had modern windows looking out onto the garden and an archway leading into a hallway with red-brick walls, a round, antique table and a staircase leading up. The family did its shopping at Waitrose. There were two Bags for Life on the floor next to a row of wellington boots, a cat’s litter tray, an ironing board, tennis rackets, a laundry basket and a bicycle pump. The house wasn’t untidy so much as lived in. Everything was where it was meant to be. Ordnance Survey maps and birdwatching books lay spread out on the table, along with a copy of the Guardian. There were framed photographs everywhere – two girls from infancy to their early twenties.

‘Builder’s or peppermint?’ Martin asked, flicking on the kettle.

But before I could answer, a woman came into the room. She was a little shorter than him, about the same age – as a couple, they were in perfect proportion. She reminded me a little of Lisa Treherne: she had that same angry quality. The difference was that she was more defensive. This was her territory and she didn’t want me here.

‘This is Joanne,’ Martin said. He turned to her. ‘And this is Susan. She’s come over from Branlow Hall.’

‘Branlow Hall?’

‘Yes. She wants to know about Frank.’

Joanne’s face changed when she heard that. She had been vaguely unwelcoming a minute or so ago but now she looked offended. She might even have been afraid.

‘It’s quite difficult to explain … ’ I began, trying to put her at ease.

Next to the Aga, the electric kettle began to hiss. ‘I was just making Susan some tea,’ Martin said. ‘What will it be?’

‘Builder’s would be fine,’ I said.

‘I’ll do it.’ Joanne reached for mugs and tea bags.

‘No, no, darling. You sit down and look after our guest.’ He smiled at me. ‘We don’t get many visitors out this way. It’s always nice to have company.’

Why did I get the impression that the two of them were playing some sort of game? They reminded me of the husband and wife in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, the ones who invite a young couple into their home only to rip them apart.

Joanne and I sat down at the table and I asked her about Westleton while Martin made the tea. I forget what she told me. I just remember the way she stared at me, so combative and intense. I was glad when Martin joined us. Unlike her, he was completely relaxed. He’d even brought a plate of biscuits.

‘So why are you interested in Frank?’ he asked.

‘Were you related to him?’ I asked him back.

‘Yes.’ Martin was completely unfazed. ‘He was my brother-in-law. Joanne’s his sister.’

‘And he’d come to Suffolk to see you.’

‘Forgive me, Susan, but you haven’t answered my original question.’ He smiled at me. ‘Why are you asking questions about him?’

I nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that Cecily Treherne has disappeared. Her parents own the hotel.’

‘Yes. We read about that in the papers.’

‘They asked me to help them because they think that her disappearance may be connected to Frank’s death.’

‘What are you? A clairvoyant or something?’

‘No. I used to work in publishing. One of my authors wrote about what happened and they think there may be a connection.’ It was too difficult to explain everything so I dived straight in. ‘Did you see Frank the weekend he died?’

For a moment, I thought they might deny it. Joanne seemed to flinch but Martin didn’t even hesitate. ‘Oh yes. He came round here the same day it happened. He was killed on a Friday night if I remember correctly. And he came here that same morning, just after breakfast. What time was it, darling?’

‘About ten o’clock,’ Joanne answered, still staring at me.

‘Can you tell me why?’

‘He’d just come back from Australia. He wanted to see us.’

‘He didn’t stay with you.’

‘No. We’d have been happy to have put him up but he didn’t even let us know he was in the country until he called from the hotel. That was Frank for you. He was full of surprises.’

I didn’t believe a single word he was saying to me and the strange thing was, I don’t think he wanted me to. Everything he said, even that playful smile of his … it was all a performance. He was like a magician daring me to pick a card in the certain knowledge that in two seconds’ time it would have changed into a different one. It was a very strange way to behave considering I was talking about a man, a family member, who had been brutally killed.

I turned to Joanne. I thought it might be easier getting through to her. ‘Look, I hate intruding,’ I said. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but as I explained, I’m just trying to find Cecily and anything you can tell me about what happened that weekend might help.’

‘I don’t think we have anything to say—’ Joanne began.

‘You can ask anything you like,’ Martin cut in. ‘We’ve got nothing to hide.’

In Alan Conway’s novels, people only said that when they most definitely did have something to hide.

I looked around me. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked. I was deliberately changing the subject, coming in from a different angle.

‘We moved in around … ’ Martin counted it out on his fingers. ‘Well, it must have been seven years before Frank went to Australia – 1998. It was the year Joanne’s mother died.’

‘This was her house?’

‘Yes. We were living in London before that. I was working for an insurance broker in the city. Guest Krieger … I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of them. They specialise in art.’

‘I don’t have any art.’

‘Well, fortunately there are plenty of wealthy clients who do.’ He flashed that strange smile of his. It was beginning to annoy me. ‘Joanne had always wanted to move out of London and as it happens, most of my work is done over the telephone. It doesn’t matter where I am. Our girls were just about to start school when this house became available and so we moved in.’

‘Where were your girls at school?’ I asked.

‘Woodbridge School.’

‘My sister sent her children there,’ I told them. ‘My partner used to teach there.’

‘It did very well for them,’ Joanne said, loosening just a little. ‘They’re at university now.’

‘They must have been pleased to see their uncle.’

‘They didn’t see him. They weren’t at home when he visited.’

‘And he didn’t want to meet them? After he’d come all the way from Australia?’

‘Frank was here on business,’ Martin said, allowing just a little impatience to creep into his voice. He had been holding a biscuit and now he snapped it in half and laid both pieces down. ‘It’s very sad but he’d lost a lot of money setting up his Australian business. He came back to England with almost nothing. He had this idea of starting another agency and he wanted us to invest.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it was out of the question. I work for myself now and I do well enough out of it, but there was no way I was going into business with him. It wouldn’t have worked.’

‘Because …?’

‘Because I didn’t like him. Neither of us did.’

And there it was, suddenly out there. An admission of sorts. But where exactly did it lead?

Joanne set down her cup and saucer, the one rattling against the other. ‘It wasn’t really a question of liking him or disliking him,’ she said. ‘Frank and I had very little in common. To start with, there was the age difference. But we’d also made some very different life choices. When I was in London, I worked as a payment administrator with the NHS. I had Martin and the children. I’m not saying I disapproved, but Frank had a lifestyle that was completely alien to me.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, there was his sexuality, of course. He was gay and I’ve got nothing against that. But why did he have to shove it in your face? There were always parties and drugs and those clothes he used to wear and so many young men—’

‘Steady on!’ Martin seemed amused by his wife’s indignation. He tapped her gently on the arm. ‘Better watch out for the PC brigade!’

‘You know what I thought of him, Martin. I just thought it was disgusting, that’s all.’

‘Frank liked to show off,’ Martin said. ‘That’s all.’