ALAN:It still seems quite a strange thing to do.

CECILY:I don’t think there was any reason for it. I just think he enjoyed being superior. Maybe it was because he was gay and we were straight. Is that a bad thing to say? He’d lived in London and we were stuck out in the country. He was the guest and we were just the staff. I don’t know. When he said goodbye to us, he had this weird handshake. He sort of took Aiden’s hand in both of his like he was the president or something and didn’t want to let him go. And then he gave me a kiss, which I didn’t think was at all appropriate, and at the same time he had his hand very low on my back. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. All I’m saying is, he was playing with us. I only met him for a few minutes and you knew him a lot better than me, but I didn’t think he was a nice man. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.

ALAN:Did you see him again?

CECILY:No. I had the party on Friday night and I didn’t even think about him. The hotel was full anyway, so there were plenty of other guests to worry about. I went to bed early with a sleeping pill and of course the next day was my wedding.

ALAN:Did you see Stefan Codrescu at the party?

CECILY:Yes. He was there.

ALAN:How was he?

CECILY:Well, obviously Lisa had just fired him so he wasn’t very happy. In fact, he hardly said anything. Aiden said he’d had too much to drink. He left quite early. I think Lionel took him back to his room.

ALAN:But a few hours later he was up again. According to the police that’s when he went back into the hotel, into room twelve.

CECILY:That’s what they said.

ALAN:Derek saw him.

CECILY:He might have been wrong.

ALAN:You think so?

CECILY:I don’t know. I can’t talk to you about all that. Actually, if you haven’t got any other questions, I think I’ve told you everything I know.

ALAN:You’ve been very helpful, Cecily. And that is a great tan. How are you enjoying married life?

CECILY:(Laughs.) Well, it’s early days. But we had a wonderful time in Antigua and now I’m glad to be back. We’re very happy in Branlow Cottage and I just want to put everything behind us and get on with it.

ALAN:Thank you very much.

CECILY:Thank you.

The recording ended and there was something quite oppressive about the silence that followed. It reminded me that she was still missing after ten days and I wondered if anyone would ever hear her voice again.

There was another interview on the memory stick. Aiden had told me that he had met Alan briefly. I had to play it a couple of times before I realised that this must have happened before Alan spoke to Cecily. The two men were introduced by Pauline Treherne and Alan was already recording.

PAULINE:I’m sorry. I don’t really want to be recorded.

ALAN:It’s just for my private use. Easier than taking notes.

PAULINE:Even so, I don’t feel comfortable about what happened. You’re sure you’re not going to write about it?

ALAN:No, no. My new book doesn’t even take place in Suffolk.

PAULINE:Do you have a title for it?

ALAN:Not yet.

Aiden arrives.

PAULINE:This is Aiden MacNeil. My son-in-law.

ALAN:We’ve already met, I think.

AIDEN:Yes. I was in reception when you arrived. I helped you change rooms. I hope you’re more comfortable now.

ALAN:It’s fine, thank you very much.

AIDEN:Excuse me, are you recording this?

ALAN:Yes, I am. Do you mind?

AIDEN:As a matter of fact, I do.

PAULINE:Mr Conway is asking questions about the murder.

AIDEN:Well, I’d prefer not to talk about it.

ALAN:I’m sorry …?

AIDEN:Forgive me, Mr Conway. My whole job here is to look after the interests of the hotel. This business with Stefan Codrescu has been nothing but trouble for us and I really don’t think we need any more publicity.

ALAN:I’m not going to share these tapes with anyone.

AIDEN:Even so. We told the police everything that happened that day. We didn’t hide anything. And if you’re going to suggest that the hotel was in some way responsible …

ALAN:That isn’t my intention.

AIDEN:We can’t be sure of that.

PAULINE:Aiden … !

AIDEN:I’m sorry, Pauline. I already told Lawrence that I think this is a bad idea. I’m sure Mr Conway is a very respected writer—

ALAN:Please, call me Alan …

AIDEN:I’m not playing this game. I’m sorry. Do you mind turning that off?

ALAN:If you insist.

AIDEN:I do.

And that was the end of it.

It was obvious that Aiden had disliked Alan Conway from the moment they met – and I could understand that. Should I read something into the fact that he had refused to be interviewed? No. As Aiden had clearly said, he was only doing his job.

It was after midnight and I had an early start, but the last thing I did before I went to bed was go to Apple Music and download The Marriage of Figaro. I would listen to it the next day.

Lionel Corby (Breakfast)

I was tired the next morning. I hadn’t slept well and I left the house at first light, before Craig had even got up. I had to cross the whole of London for my 7 a.m. meeting with Lionel Corby, the spa manager who had been working at Branlow Hall at the time of the murder, and I sat bleary-eyed on the Tube for what felt like an eternity, glancing through a free newspaper that only had enough material for two or three stops.

My first impression of Lionel Corby wasn’t a very favourable one. He came weaving through the traffic on one of those very expensive bikes with ultra-thin wheels, wearing Lycra that stopped halfway down his thigh and which had clearly been designed to show off his perfect musculature and, for that matter, his well-formed genitalia. I like to think the best of people, a trait not entirely helpful when investigating a murder perhaps, but there was something about him that instantly struck me as … well, cocky. Yes, he worked in a gym. He had to advertise his physique, but did he have to do it so loudly? As we shook hands, his eyes travelled over me and I felt positively dowdy. By contrast, he crooned over the bicycle as he chained it to the rack.

‘So, Susan, are you going to have some breakfast?’ He had one of those exaggerated, sing-song Australian accents. ‘They’ve got a decent café and I get a discount.’

We went inside. Virgin Active occupied a concrete bunker on a busy main road. Curiously, Atticus Pünd had lived in a flat just round the corner … which is to say, Alan Conway had used the building as his inspiration. The café had only just opened and there was no one else there. The air conditioning had already turned it into a refrigerator. Lionel ordered himself a power drink of some sort: any number of health-giving fruits and vegetables compounded into an unappealing green slime. I noticed that he had pulled on a knitted beanie as he sat down. He had luxurious hair but it was thinning on top and he was probably self-conscious. I was longing for scrambled eggs, but the nearest they had was poached eggs on smashed avocado with sourdough toast, none of which had the slightest appeal. I settled for a cappuccino.

We took a table by the window.

‘I’m afraid I’ve only got half an hour,’ Lionel said.

‘It’s very kind of you to see me.’

‘Not at all, Sue. It’s so awful about Cess.’ He sounded almost too genuine to be genuine. ‘Is there any news?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s terrible. And how are you involved in all this? Are you a friend of the family?’

‘Not exactly. Lawrence Treherne asked me to help.’ I didn’t want to go into all that again and Lionel had already said we only had half an hour so I moved on swiftly, explaining how Cecily’s disappearance might be connected to Frank Parris’s murder eight years before.

‘Frank Parris!’ He let out a low whistle. ‘When I got your text, I wondered how I could help. I haven’t been back to Branlow Hall since I left. I’ll be straight up with you, Sue. I couldn’t stand the place! I was glad to get out.’

‘But you were there for quite a while, Lionel. Four years.’

He smiled at that. ‘You’ve done your homework. Actually, it was three years and nine months. I took over the new spa once it was finished and that was cool. State-of-the-art equipment, everything brand new, great pool. I had some decent clients, too … especially the ones from outside. But the pay was lousy and although I was doing personal training the Trehernes only paid me twenty-five per cent of the fee. They were shit employers. And let me tell you, sometimes the whole place was more like a madhouse than a smart hotel. Stefan was OK. And I got on with some of the kitchen staff. But I couldn’t stand the rest of them.’