A silence fell between us. For some reason it wasn’t a very comfortable one.

‘Did you tell Sajid Khan where to find me?’ I’m not sure why I blurted the question out just then but it had been in the back of my mind ever since Lawrence and Pauline Treherne had turned up at the hotel. How had they found me? They had said that Khan had given them my address, but he didn’t have it. Only Katie did.

‘Sajid Khan? The solicitor?’ I could see I had thrown her. ‘He helped us when we had that unfair-dismissal thing at the garden centre and I see him now and then. But I don’t think I said anything. Was he the one who got you into all this?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, I hope you’re not blaming me. Maybe it was Gordon. He can’t keep anything secret.’

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a motorbike pulling up. ‘That’s Jack,’ Katie said. She sounded relieved.

A few moments later, Jack came through the garden gate, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a helmet. It was two years since I had seen him and I was a little thrown by his appearance. His hair was long and quite skanky. He hadn’t shaved and the stubble didn’t suit him. He came over and kissed me on both cheeks and I smelled alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath. I was hardly in any position to judge him, but I was still surprised. He had never smoked in his teens. Looking at him, I thought a light had been switched off in his eyes. He seemed almost nervous, as if he hadn’t expected to find me there.

‘Hi, Susan,’ he said.

‘Hi, Jack. How are you?’

‘I’m good. How’s Crete?’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Mum. Is there anything in the fridge?’

‘There’s some chicken. And you can finish the pasta if you like.’

‘Thanks.’ He half smiled at me. ‘It’s great to see you, Susan.’

And then he was gone, shuffling off towards the kitchen. I watched him leave, remembering the ten-year-old discovering The Lord of the Rings, the twelve-year-old shouting and laughing in the back of my new MG, the fifteen-year-old sweating over his GCSEs. Was this just part of the natural process of growing up or was I missing something?

Katie must have seen what I was thinking. ‘It’s all been a bit much for him, his first year at uni,’ she said. ‘When he comes home, all he wants is food, laundry and bed. But he’ll be all right in a couple of weeks. He just needs a bit of TLC.’

‘I’m surprised you let him buy a motorbike.’ It was none of my business but I knew how much Katie must have hated the idea. She’d always worried – almost obsessively – about either of her children getting hurt.

She made a helpless gesture. ‘He’s twenty-one. He saved up for it himself. How was I going to stop him?’ She put down her drink, somehow signalling that the evening was over. ‘I’m sorry, Susan. I ought to go in and look after him.’

‘That’s OK. I’m going to London tomorrow. I’ve got an early start. Thanks for dinner.’

‘It’s been lovely to see you – but please think about what I said. Honestly, I don’t think you’re going to find Cecily Treherne. Maybe nobody will. And Frank Parris was killed a long time ago. You’re better off out of it.’

We kissed and went our separate ways.

It was only as I drove away that I realised that the whole evening had been out of kilter, almost from the start. Katie had been trying too hard. It was as if the chicken tagine, the pink wine, the paper napkins and all the rest of it had been set out deliberately to distract me, that they were somehow fake … like the three chimneys on the roof.

I thought about the dead bush – the broom or the briar or whatever it was – sitting there untended in the middle of the lawn. And then I remembered the email she had sent me with no fewer than three typos. Godron not here, I’m afraid. Well, anyone can make mistakes. She had probably been in a hurry. But that wasn’t Katie. She was always so precise.

Maybe I’d spent too much time playing detective, talking to people who seemed polite and pleasant on the face of it but who might turn out to be cold-blooded killers. But I couldn’t help myself. I was sure Katie was hiding something. She wasn’t telling me the truth.

Nightcaps

It was late when I got back to the hotel and I’d intended to go straight to bed, but coming in through the entrance hall, I noticed Aiden MacNeil, sitting on his own in the bar, and it was too good an opportunity to miss. I went in.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

I’d already sat down before he could answer but in fact he was pleased to see me. ‘I’d be glad of the company,’ he said.

The bar had the feel of a gentleman’s club but a very empty one: we were the only guests, sitting there surrounded by leather armchairs, occasional tables, rugs and lots of wood panelling. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner, sonorously reminding us that it was twenty past ten. Aiden was wearing a cashmere jumper and jeans, moccasins but no socks. He had been cradling a tumbler of some colourless liquid that certainly wasn’t water. I also noticed a paperback book, which he had turned face down. It was the copy of Atticus Pünd Takes the Case that he’d shown me earlier.

‘What are you drinking?’ I asked.

‘Vodka.’

Lars was behind the bar. He and Inga seemed to be all over the hotel, like extras from The Midwich Cuckoos. ‘I’ll have a double whisky and another vodka for Mr MacNeil,’ I said. I glanced at the book. ‘Are you reading it?’

‘Rereading it. For about the tenth time. I keep thinking that if Cecily found something in it then maybe I can find it too.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. I don’t usually read murder mysteries and I still think Alan Conway was a complete bastard, but I have to admit he knew how to tell a story. I like stories set in little communities where no one tells the truth. And it has some great twists – the ending has a real sucker punch … at least it did the first time I read it. What I don’t understand is why he had to be so fucking spiteful.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen to this.’ He had folded down the corner of one of the pages. He opened it and began to read. ‘“For all his faults, Algernon was well spoken. He had been educated at a small private school in West Kensington and he could be charming and witty when he wanted to be. With his fair hair cut short and his matinée-idol good looks, he was naturally attractive, particularly to older women who took him at face value and didn’t make too many enquiries about his past. He still remembered buying his first suit on Savile Row. It had cost him much more than he could afford, but, like the car, it made a statement. When he walked into a room, people noticed him. When he talked, they listened.”’

He put the book down.

‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Algernon Marsh.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘He works as an estate agent. So did I. He looks like me. He’s even got my initials. I don’t know why he’s got such a stupid name, though.’

He had a point. During the editing process I had urged Alan to change the name of Algernon, which I’d said sounded like something out of a No?l Coward play. ‘Even Agatha Christie didn’t have a character called Algernon,’ I’d told him, but he hadn’t listened, of course.

‘Alan had a strange sense of humour,’ I said. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I turned up in one of his books too.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Sarah Lamb in Gin & Cyanide. Ryeland is a breed of sheep, apparently. She’s a complete monster and she gets murdered near the end.’ The drinks arrived. Aiden finished the one in front of him and went on to the next. ‘Did you spend much time with Alan when he came here?’

‘No.’ Aiden shook his head. ‘I met him twice: once when I helped sort out his new room and then again for about five minutes. I didn’t terribly like him. He said he was a friend of Frank Parris and that he just wanted to know what had happened, but he was asking all these questions and right from the start I got the feeling he had another agenda. He spent more time with Lawrence and Pauline. And with Cecily. They were stupid to trust him because he went away and wrote a book about us.’ He paused. ‘How well did you know him?’

‘I was his editor – but we were never close.’

‘Are all writers like that? Stealing things from the world around them?’