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Then DC Atkinson put down his pen and looked Toby straight in the eye.

‘Did your wife tell you she had just been to see Sam Bowen?’

Toby hesitated. His instinct was to say ‘what?’, but he held back, overwhelmed by a competing instinct to protect Alice.

From what?

Atkinson was watching him. Toby realized his hesitation and obvious surprise had given the policeman his answer anyway.

‘No, she didn’t,’ he admitted.

‘Do you know why she might have wanted to see him?’

‘Er. No,’ said Toby. ‘Perhaps she was trying to find out more about the events on the submarine?’

‘Did she indicate she had more questions for Sam?’

‘No,’ said Toby.

‘So that’s just a guess?’

‘Yes,’ said Toby, deciding to do no more guessing. ‘How do you know she met him?’

‘She was seen by the landlord’s wife at the pub,’ said the policeman. ‘And Alice confirmed it to us herself just now.’

‘Oh.’

‘But she didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I have no bloody idea , thought Toby. ‘I don’t know.’

His instinct was to cover for his wife. Rationality told him there was nothing to cover for. There must be a perfectly good reason. It wasn’t just that Alice was his wife; she just didn’t do bad things.

‘One last question. Had Alice ever mentioned Sam Bowen before today?’

‘No,’ said Toby, more forcefully. ‘Never.’

Alice was in the kitchen, with everyone else. She looked tense.

DC Atkinson followed Toby and asked for Megan.

‘Is she the last?’ said Maya.

‘I think so,’ said Bill. ‘Are you two still leaving today?’ he asked Alice.

Alice didn’t answer. She was staring out of the window at the bare dripping branches of the pear tree in the garden and the soggy marsh beyond. A mist was retreating across the reeds back towards the sea from whence it had come.

‘Alice?’

‘What? Oh, yeah. We have to go this evening.’

‘Alice? Can I have a word with you for a second?’ Toby asked. He meant it to sound casual, but Alice’s glare told him it didn’t sound casual to her.

‘What about?’

‘You know what about.’

The others were listening and pretending not to.

She shrugged. ‘OK. Let’s go upstairs.’

They went up to their bedroom. Alice sat on the bed and stared at an old print on the far wall: logs floating down a broad American river. She avoided Toby’s eye.

‘The police said you saw Sam last night.’

‘The police are correct.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t have to tell you where I’m going.’

Toby sat on the bed next to her. ‘Oh come on, Alice. You told me you were going to Tesco’s. You went to see a guy who got himself murdered last night. You were hiding it from me.’

Alice was still staring at the print.

‘Why?’

Alice shrugged.

‘What did you talk to him about? I saw you speaking to Sam at dinner; you looked worried. Did your dad know you were seeing him? Was Sam OK when you met him?’

‘Please don’t ask me these questions, Toby,’ Alice muttered.

‘Hey, look, these are fair questions!’ Toby said. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’

Alice looked up at Toby. A tear was running down her cheek. Alice rarely cried.

‘No, Toby. I’m begging you. Please don’t ask any more questions. I’ve had enough of that from the police. And I’m going to have to talk to Dad. But not you. Please, not you.’

She looked miserable. A sob escaped from her chest, and then another. Toby put his arm around her and pulled her to him. ‘Toby just... please just... just stick with me, OK? Don’t ask questions, just be on my side.’

‘All right,’ Toby said, stroking her hair. ‘It’s all OK, Alice.’

But Toby was pretty sure it was not OK.

Toby needed to get out of the house. The police had gone. Alice was cooped up in their bedroom, trying to control her deal from afar via her iPad. Although neither of them said it, they both knew it was unlikely the police would let her go back to London that evening.

He took Rickover with him, breaking out a Polo mint for him as soon as he had shut the front door. On a previous visit Alice had told Toby Rickover loved Polos, although the vet had said they were bad for him and had banned them. Toby liked to sneak him one every now and then in a shameless bid to win the dog’s affections. Which frankly wasn’t that difficult.

‘Hey, Toby! Mind if I join you?’

It was Lars. He looked haggard, the two creases slicing his cheeks had deepened and his yellowish moustache pointed downwards. But he managed a smile.

‘Sure.’

Lars took out a cigarette and lit up. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘I was thinking of going down to the sea.’ There was a raised path along a dyke that ran half a mile through the marsh to the dunes and the beach beyond.

‘Want to check out the pub?’

‘All right.’

The King William was set back from the coast road on a small green, in the middle of which stood a grey stone obelisk bearing worn ancient carvings. Pre-Christian, apparently. The pub didn’t look much from the outside, a rectangular red-brick building, but inside the wood fire, the thick beams and the array of old fishing trinkets dangling from the wall created a pocket of warmth against the wind and damp of the Norfolk coast outside. Toby had been to Barnholt with Alice to visit his father-in-law a few times, and usually managed to sneak out to the pub by himself for a quick pint of Wherry. The food was pretty good too: they would all go there for a meal occasionally when no one wanted to cook.

But half the tiny green was now cordoned off with police tape. Two officers in uniform were guarding the crime scene from a TV crew who were packing equipment into a van having taken their shots of the pub, and a couple of local women who were chatting and pointing. More uniformed police officers and crime-scene technicians in forensics overalls streamed in and out of the building from an assortment of police vehicles parked by the green.

‘Do you know anything more about how he was killed?’ Toby asked Lars.

‘I asked the detective who interviewed me. All he said was he was found dead in his room this morning. Someone had stabbed him.’

‘And they have no idea who?’

‘I asked that too. They said it was too early to say.’

Rickover darted out under the tape, but Toby successfully called him back, helped with the bribe of another Polo.

One of the police officers moved his gaze from the women to Toby and Lars and the dog. It made Toby feel guilty, which was ridiculous. Lars, too, seemed uncomfortable. ‘Let’s go down to the sea,’ Toby said.

So they turned back down the lane and followed the raised path towards the sea. Moist green fields bordered by ditches and wire fences lay on one side of the dyke, while on the other a wide stretch of brown and orange saltmarsh was bisected by a winding creek of mud and grey tidal water. Ahead stretched a wall of grass-covered humps of sand. The fields were empty of animals at this time of year, save for a powerful red bull and his black-and-white consort, chewing cud amicably side by side.

Lars seemed tense and uncommunicative, but he also appeared glad of Toby’s company.

‘Do you think the murder had anything to do with what Sam was working on?’ Toby asked.

‘You mean the Hamilton ? No,’ said Lars. ‘Definitely not.’

It struck Toby that that was wishful thinking. ‘Are you sure? It seems a bit of a coincidence. He comes here asking questions about something that’s been hushed up for thirty-five years and then he is killed?’

‘That’s just what it is,’ said Lars. ‘A coincidence. Maybe it was a jealous husband? Or his girlfriend? He mentioned a girlfriend. Maybe she just discovered something.’