‘Yes, you do. When did I leave? When was the last time I saw her? You think the police haven’t asked me the same questions over and over again? Everyone thinks I killed her, the one woman who actually made me happy, and that’s what they’re going to think for the rest of my life. My daughter is going to grow up wondering if her daddy killed her mummy and I’m never going to be able to explain … ’

He got unsteadily to his feet and I was shocked to see tears streaming down his cheeks.

‘You have no right,’ he continued hoarsely. ‘You have no right at all. I don’t mind getting it from the police. That’s their job. But who are you? You’re the one who caused all the trouble in the first place. You were the one who published the book – turning what happened here into some sort of entertainment. And now you come here like Sherlock Holmes or Atticus fucking Pünd asking me questions that have got nothing to do with you. If you can find something in the book, then get on with it. Do what you’ve been paid to do. But from now on, leave me alone!’

He left. I watched him weave his way out of the room. Behind me, Lars brought a metal shutter rattling down and crashing against the bar. Suddenly I was on my own.

Framlingham

I felt sorry for Aiden and worried that I’d gone too far. But that didn’t stop me checking out his story the next day.

It was strange being back in Framlingham, the market town that Alan Conway had chosen as his home and where I had spent so much time immediately following his death. I parked on the main square opposite the Crown, where I had stayed and where I had enjoyed a remarkably drunken meal with James Taylor, Alan’s partner. It reminded me that I still hadn’t heard back from him and I wondered if he had received my email. I wanted to stretch my legs so I walked up the High Street, past the cemetery where Alan was buried. I thought about visiting his grave – I could see it between two yew trees – but decided against it. We’d always had a difficult, edgy relationship and if I’d gone to have a quiet chat at the gravestone there was every chance it would have turned into a quarrel.

Framlingham seemed quieter than ever. Despite its wonderful castle and surrounding countryside, it suffers from a strange midweek emptiness. It’s hard to tell if the shops are open and frankly, it’s hard to care. There’s a country market every weekend but otherwise the main square is little more than a car park. The supermarket that Aiden had visited is right in the middle but hides away as if it knows how ugly it is and feels ashamed to be there.

The EACH charity shop was at the bottom end of the town, just along the road from an estate agent. It was quite small, occupying what must once have been a cottage, one of four identical buildings in a little terrace, but someone had imposed four large, modern windows in the front, completely divorcing it from its neighbours. I’m afraid I find charity shops quite dispiriting. There are so many of them and at the end of the day, each one is a reminder of a failed business and the general collapse of the High Street. But this one had a cheerful volunteer called Stavia, lots of books and toys and three racks of surprisingly high-end clothes. There was no one else in there apart from the two of us and Stavia was keen to talk. In fact, once she’d started, it was hard to get her to stop.

‘Aiden MacNeil? Yes, of course I remember him. I was here when he came in and afterwards I had to speak to the police. Isn’t it awful, what’s happened! You don’t usually get that sort of thing in Suffolk, although there was that business in Earl Soham all those years ago and the death of that writer. Yes, Mr MacNeil came in that Wednesday afternoon. I saw him park his car on the other side of the road – just over there.

‘He brought in four or five dresses, some jerseys, shirts. Some of them were quite old but there was a Burberry dress that had never been worn. It still had the label. We sold it almost at once for a hundred pounds, which is a lot more than we usually get for anything off the rail. The police wanted to know who bought it but I couldn’t help them because they’d paid cash. They took her other clothes away – the ones we hadn’t sold – and we never saw them again, which I think is a little unfair, although I suppose I can’t complain, given the circumstances. Oh – and there were some men’s clothes too. A jacket, some ties, an old shirt and a very nice waistcoat.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes. We did have a chat. He was a very nice man, very friendly. He told me he was going to pick up a chair. He’d had it resprung or something. He said that his wife was a big supporter of EACH and had donated quite a bit of money to our Treehouse Appeal. I can’t believe he had anything to do with her disappearance. I mean, he couldn’t have just stood here and chatted if he had, could he?’

‘Do you remember what time he was here?’

‘It was four o’clock. I know because I remember thinking that I only had half an hour until we closed and that was when he walked in. Why are you so interested in all this, by the way? Are you a journalist? I hope I’m not going to get into any trouble talking about it all … ’

I managed to reassure her and, partly out of guilt, spent five pounds on a Mexican pot with a cactus that turned out to be fake. I donated it to another charity shop on the way back to the car.

After that, I walked back up to the street with the mustard yellow building that housed Wesley & Khan Solicitors. It was two years since I had been there and I had a strange sense of déjà vu coming off the main road into what must have once been a private house. In fact, I was quite sure that it was the same bored girl sitting behind the reception desk: not only that, she might have been reading the same magazine. It was as if time had stood still. The potted plants were still half-dead. The atmosphere was as vacant as I remembered.

I had actually phoned ahead for an appointment this time and I was shown upstairs the moment I arrived, the uneven floorboards creaking under my feet. It struck me that there were two mysteries attached to the practice of Wesley & Khan. Who was Mr Wesley? Did he even exist? And how had a man like Khan, of proudly Indian ethnicity, managed to end up in a place like Framlingham? Suffolk is not racist. But it is fairly white.

Sajid Khan was exactly how I remembered him, dark and ebullient, with heavy eyebrows that almost met in the middle of his forehead, leaping up from behind his impressively large desk – fake antique – and bounding across the room to take my one proffered hand in both of his.

‘My dear Ms Ryeland, what a pleasure to see you again! And staying at Branlow Hall, I understand! How very much like you to get yourself involved once again in Suffolk skulduggery.’ He led me to a chair. ‘Will you have some tea?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘I insist.’ He pressed a key on his telephone. ‘Tina, could you bring up tea for two?’ He beamed at me. ‘How is Crete?’

‘It’s lovely, thank you.’

‘I have never been there. We normally go to Portugal for the summer. But if you’re running a hotel, maybe we should give you a try.’

He sat down behind the desk. The photograph frame was still there, the one with the digital pictures sliding across the screen. I wondered if he had added new ones in the two years since I had been here. Looking at them, they seemed the same. His wife, his children, his wife and his children, him and his wife … an endless merry-go-round of memories.

‘That was an extraordinary business with Alan Conway,’ he continued, more serious now. ‘I never actually learned what happened, but I was led to believe that you were almost killed.’ He raised an eyebrow and the other one went with it. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

‘I haven’t heard from the young man who was his partner for a while. James Taylor. He ended up with all the money, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you. The last I heard, he was in London, spending his way through his inheritance as fast as he could.’ He smiled. ‘So how can I help you this time round? You mentioned Cecily MacNeil on the telephone.’

It was the first time I had heard her called that. To everyone else she was Cecily Treherne, as if the marriage had never happened.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Her parents came to see me in Crete. Strangely enough, Alan may be involved again. You know that he wrote a book partly based on what happened at Branlow Hall?’

‘I know. I read it. And I may be completely obtuse but I never actually got the connection. It never occurred to me that he was writing about Branlow Hall. The book wasn’t set in Suffolk, of course, and there wasn’t any wedding or anything like that. It was somewhere in Devon.’

‘Tawleigh-on-the-Water.’

‘That’s right. Nobody was mentioned in it by name.’

‘He always changed the names. I think he was probably afraid of being sued.’ It was time to get to the point. I was planning to drive to London and I wanted to be on my way. ‘Lawrence and Pauline Treherne think that Cecily noticed something in the book and that it may be connected to her disappearance. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

He spread his hands. ‘Please fire away. I’m afraid I didn’t help you very much last time. Perhaps this time I can do better.’