I put on the new cocktail dress and a pair of simple silver earrings I’d bought myself in Crete. A final dash of perfume on each wrist and I went downstairs.

‘You look great.’ Craig flicked off the kettle as I came into the kitchen and poured boiling water into a glass teapot with big, authentic-looking leaves. He had also changed into a long-sleeved shirt. And he had socks as well as shoes. ‘It’s white tea from Sri Lanka,’ he continued. ‘I was at the Galle festival last February.’

‘How was it?’

‘Wonderful. Except that any writers who upset them, they tend to throw in jail. I shouldn’t have gone.’ He brought two cups and saucers over to the table. ‘And on the subject of jail, did you write to Stefan Codrescu?’

‘I’m still waiting to hear from him.’

‘So what’s that about?’

I told him about the book that Alan had written, about Lawrence and Pauline Treherne and their visit to Crete, about Cecily’s disappearance. I did my best to make it sound less like an adventure with me as the plucky heroine on the trail of a killer. Maybe I was thinking of what Richard Locke had said to me in Martlesham Heath. Cecily Treherne, a mother with a young child, could have been murdered while she was out walking her dog. There was no doubt that Frank Parris had been beaten to death eight years before. It was all too easy to trivialise these two events, to make them sound merely entertaining. That wasn’t why I was here. I wasn’t Atticus Pünd. My job, I explained, was to read the book and to see if I could find in it anything that might help.

‘How well did you know Alan Conway?’ Craig asked.

‘Well, I published his first novel, the same as yours,’ I said. ‘You were a lot nicer, though.’

Craig smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘I mean it. In the end I worked on nine of his novels and I loved them … at least until I got to the end.’

‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

I had no choice. After all, I had accepted his hospitality. I told him everything, aware of the passing of time only from the fact that at some stage we moved on from white tea to white wine.

‘That’s an extraordinary story,’ he said, when I had finally finished. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You nearly got yourself killed while you were investigating. And now you’re doing it a second time? You’re suggesting that someone may have murdered Cecily because of what she knew. Couldn’t the same thing happen to you?’

Katie had said exactly the same thing and I gave him the same reply. ‘I’m being careful.’

But was it true? I’d had meetings with Aiden MacNeil, with Derek Endicott, with Lisa Treherne and with Martin and Joanne Williams. I’d been on my own with them and any one of them could have been lying to me. Any one of them could have beaten a man to death with a hammer. The nanny was creepy and even the detective was vaguely threatening. These certainly weren’t the sort of people I should be mixing with, but how could I get anything out of them without trusting them, at least to some extent? Maybe I was putting myself in danger after all.

‘Have you reread the book?’ Craig asked.

‘Atticus Pünd Takes the Case? Not yet. I thought I’d start it on Monday.’

‘Here – you can have my copy if you like.’ He went over to a bookshelf and returned with the new edition in his hand. ‘Someone bought it for me, but I’ve still got the old edition upstairs. Unless you’ve already got one …?’

‘No. I was going to buy it.’

‘Then that’ll save you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I may not see you later. The play doesn’t finish until half ten.’

‘Why don’t you let me buy you dinner tomorrow night? I haven’t asked you anything about your writing or your new publishers and all the rest of it. I take it you’re not married or anything?’

‘Good God, no!’

‘Then let’s go somewhere local. If you don’t mind me staying a second night.’

‘Not at all. I’d like that.’

He left ahead of me and it was only after he had gone that I realised what should have been obvious from the start. With his neat beard, his dark skin and his brown eyes, Craig reminded me very much of Andreas, several years younger and wealthier – in every respect in better shape. The thought was an unworthy one but it was true. I’ve always been attracted to a certain type of man and it occurred to me that if Andreas was the reality, Craig was the ideal.

But I was with Andreas.

I took an Uber into town. There would have been nowhere to park my MG so I’d left it in a car park near Ladbroke Grove station. It took me half an hour to get to Le Caprice.

And all the way I thought of Craig.

Le Caprice, London

The last time I’d had dinner with James Taylor, the two of us had got very drunk together and I was determined it wasn’t going to happen again – certainly not at the sorts of prices you pay at Le Caprice. I’d only ever been there once – Charles Clover, my boss, took me for my birthday and that wasn’t a relationship that had ended well. The food was great, but what I remember was everyone staring at me as I crossed the room. It’s impossible to reach your table without being seen, which may be the point for half the people who eat there but it doesn’t work for me. I prefer places that are more anonymous, where I don’t feel I have to be on my best behaviour. I wondered why James had chosen it. It was certainly a step up from the Crown in Framlingham.

He was ten minutes late and I was beginning to think he was going to stand me up when he came bounding in, shown to our table by a waiter who seemed to know him well. It was two years since I had seen him and as he crossed the room I thought he looked exactly the same. The long hair, the baby face with its contradictory stubble, the eyes full of enjoyment and enthusiasm, though with just a hint of something sly around the corner … I had taken an immediate liking to him when we’d first met at Abbey Grange and hoped I would feel the same now.

But as he sat down, apologising about the traffic, I saw that something wasn’t quite right, that he looked tired, strained. He had been partying too late, drinking too much and possibly taking too many drugs – he had the classic looks of a sybarite, and if there was something Byronesque about him, I had to remind myself that Lord Byron was dead, killed by sepsis, at just thirty-six. He was dressed in the same black leather jacket and T-shirt that he had always favoured, although the brands were more expensive. As he raised a hand to order champagne, I noticed a gold bracelet and two rings that hadn’t been there before.

‘Susan, it was such a surprise to hear from you! Dinner’s on me and I won’t hear of any argument. How are you? I heard you got hurt when you were trying to find out who killed Alan. That’s awful! It’s hard to believe that he was actually murdered. I wonder what he would have thought of that! It probably helped sell the books.’

I relaxed. His appearance might have changed but James was still very much his old self. ‘I don’t think he’d have been too impressed,’ I said. ‘He didn’t much like murder stories.’

‘He’d have liked being in the newspapers. We often used to talk about how many inches he’d get. In his obituary, I mean!’ He hooted with laughter, then grabbed the menu. ‘I’m going to have scallops and steak and chips. I love the food here. And I want to hear everything that happened. Why was Alan killed, exactly? Who had he upset? And how did you get involved?’

‘I’ll tell you everything,’ I said, thinking that I’d already gone through it all with Craig and was beginning to feel fed up with the whole thing. ‘But first I want to hear about you and how you’ve been getting on. Are you acting in anything? The last time we met, you said you were going back to drama school.’

‘I did apply to RADA and Central but they weren’t interested in me. I’m probably too old and debauched. Anyway, my heart isn’t really in it and I’ve got so much money now I don’t need to work. Did you know that we sold Abbey Grange for two million quid? I don’t know who’d pay that much to sit in a field in the middle of sodding Suffolk, but I’m not complaining. Alan’s books are still selling and they keep sending me royalty cheques. It’s like winning the lottery except it happens every six months.’