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It wasn’t surprising that the police had arrested Alice. She was the last person to see Sam alive and she had hidden the fact she had gone to meet him at the pub from her family.

But Lisa believed the police would need more than that to charge her. Forensics were not helping them. Alice’s fingerprints were present in Sam’s bedroom. But the police hadn’t found a murder weapon. And, most significantly, they hadn’t found any of Sam’s blood on the clothes Alice was wearing that night. There was quite a lot of blood on Sam and on the floor of his bedroom. Lisa would argue that there should be quite a lot of blood on Sam’s murderer. Who therefore could not be Alice.

The police were also struggling with motive. They had no real idea why Alice might have killed Sam. They had guesses but, according to Lisa, the less they knew, the less they could guess. One such theory was that Alice and Sam knew each other already, which was ridiculous. Another was that there was something suspicious about Craig Naylor’s death on the submarine. If the police were on the wrong track, Lisa urged Alice to leave them there, wasting time.

The implication was that if they were on the right track, Alice should leave them there too.

Lisa insisted that Alice tell the police the bare minimum, a strategy that Alice was happy to follow. It made the interviews with the police easier, once she had got over the awkwardness of refusing to answer their perfectly reasonable questions. It meant she didn’t have to worry about keeping her story straight, about avoiding lies.

She could do this.

But after hours of questioning both by the police and by her own solicitor, she was tired and it was a relief to be allowed back into her police cell. And to have time alone to think.

She thought of Toby. He would be worried about her, she knew that. He would be figuring out ways to help her.

But would he believe in her innocence?

Of course, he would deny that he suspected her. He would claim that he didn’t believe a word of the police’s suspicions, that he was certain it was all some terrible mistake.

But would he doubt her? And if he did doubt her, would he abandon her?

If Toby abandoned her, it would all be over. She would crumble inside. And outside.

She couldn’t believe Toby would abandon her. She couldn’t allow herself to believe that.

She thought about her mother and her father and how she always seemed to be looking after them both. Even though her mother was dead seven years. Even though her father seemed competent and solidly reliable. More than that: businessmen paid Bill Guth good money to fix things, and he fixed them.

Alice remembered the night about a month after her mother’s death and a week before she was due to return to the States to take her bar exam. Her father had been devastated, but he seemed to be handling it well; with help from Alice.

Bill had spent the day in Paris on business. Maya was seventeen, still at school and living at home at the Kensington flat. She had asked Alice to join her at a party, as long as Alice promised to leave early. Which she had done: having a procession of young English eighteen-year-olds hitting on her was just embarrassing. She was old enough to be their elder sister, for God’s sakes!

Maya was having fun, though, when Alice left.

Alice had arrived home at about ten to find her father in the living room working his way through a bottle of Templeton rye whiskey, and listening to the Eurythmics. Alice knew the bottle had been nearly full that morning; now it was two-thirds empty.

‘How are you, Alice?’ Bill asked from his slumped position on the sofa. He was careful not to slur his words. Very careful.

Alice told him briefly about the party that Maya had invited her to, and he nodded in slightly the wrong places.

Alice had seen her dad slightly drunk once or twice. But never like this.

But if his seventeen-year-old daughter was allowed to get drunk, why shouldn’t he?

She was about to withdraw and put herself to bed, when she hesitated. This was wrong.

‘What happened in Paris, Dad?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Bill said. ‘My meeting only took an hour, so I had most of the afternoon to kill. I wandered around. Sat in a cafe with a glass of wine. Caught the flight home.’

‘What happened, Dad?’ said Alice, sitting next to him.

Bill put down his glass of whiskey and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked straight at Alice. ‘I thought I saw her,’ he said. ‘In the Jardin du Luxembourg. There was this woman with long honey-coloured hair talking to an older lady. I couldn’t see her face, but from the back she looked just like Donna. Not Donna now, but Donna when we were young. When we listened to this,’ he waved vaguely towards the speaker.

‘I called out to her — “Donna!”. I knew when I was doing it it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. Just in case. It wasn’t her, of course. But it stabbed me. Right here.’ He jabbed his chest. ‘I hadn’t thought of her all day; it must have been the first day since she died I haven’t thought of her. And then I did. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her, how I would never see her again.’ A tear ran down his cheek, then another. For a few seconds he fought it, and then he began to sob.

‘Sorry, Alice. I’m sorry. It must be the whiskey.’

‘It’s OK, Dad. It’s OK. Really. We all cry all the time. Why shouldn’t you?’

Alice reached out and squeezed his hand. She hadn’t yet gone a day without thinking about her mother. She couldn’t imagine ever doing that.

‘It’s just as bad for you, isn’t it, honey?’ said Bill.

‘It’s just bad, Dad. It’s just bad. For all of us.’

‘Yeah.’ Her father took another swig of whiskey.

‘But what’s with the booze? I get that you are sad. But I haven’t seen you drinking up till now?’

‘That’s because I haven’t. I’ve been trying to hold it all together. But, you know, sometimes, I just don’t care. I want to feel numb. I want to feel wasted. I even want to feel wrecked tomorrow morning.’

‘I see,’ said Alice.

She left him to the whiskey and went up to bed.

But early the next evening, when her father produced another bottle, Scotch this time, Alice talked to him. Quietly. Gently. A bit like the way she knew her mother would have talked to him. Sure he had the right to get himself wasted every night, and in fact a lot of people would completely understand if he did. Alice wasn’t going to stop him. But was he sure that was what he really wanted to do?

And was he sure that was what Donna wanted him to do?

He drank no more than a couple of glasses that night, and just a couple of beers or glasses of wine each evening until Alice left. Once she got back to New York, she spoke to him every day, and she was pretty sure he hadn’t relapsed, or at least if he had it was only once or twice.

Bill Guth had held together. Thanks to Alice.

As Toby and Lars got back to Pear Tree Cottage, Maya was just shutting the boot of her small rental car. She was wearing her flight attendant’s uniform.

‘I’m glad I saw you before I left,’ she said, giving Toby a hug. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll let Alice go. Daddy’s got some honcho with him now. Bye, Lars. See you soon.’

And she was gone.

Toby and Lars went into the kitchen where Megan was waiting for them. She pointed to the living room and made a face.

‘The admiral?’ Toby asked.

She nodded. ‘And another one. A Brit. I think he’s a spook.’

They heard footsteps in the hallway, and then Bill appeared followed by two men.

‘You’re back!’ he said. ‘Toby. Let me introduce Admiral Robinson and Dominic Prestwitch, who works for the British government.’