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But whoever had shot at Lars had tried to kill Toby too, and if that was Justin then the police needed to find the proof and lock him up.

It was clear from Creswell’s questions that Justin was already partially in the frame and Toby had just nudged him further in. Creswell asked detailed questions about Justin, and about his whereabouts over the previous three days, questions that Toby answered truthfully but unhelpfully. He couldn’t add much that they didn’t know already.

But their next question surprised him. ‘Can you tell us something about the relationship between Justin and your wife?’

‘What relationship?’ he blurted out.

Creswell raised her eyebrows. ‘What relationship do you think we are asking about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Was there an intimate relationship between Justin and your wife?’

Toby thought the inspector was just guessing. For a moment, his mind followed hers. Was there? Then he told himself to get a grip.

‘No,’ he said. He didn’t say ‘not that I’m aware of’. He said ‘No’.

‘No?’

‘No. Justin is Alice’s brother-in-law. I believe that Justin used to stay with the Guth family when they were all kids, but then they lost touch until Brooke met him in Chicago.’

‘I see. So has Alice seen him much since then?’

‘No. Just family get-togethers, when we are all there. Like this Thanksgiving. Christmas, although last year Justin and Brooke went to his mother’s place.’

‘So your wife and Justin never met alone, as far as you are aware?’

Toby didn’t like that last bit. ‘No.’ Then he thought of something.

‘Toby?’

Toby decided he should never take up poker. ‘A couple of months ago it turned out they were both scheduled to go to San Francisco on business at the same time. They went out to dinner together; Alice told me all about it.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘That’s it. Look, I trust Alice. I know she wouldn’t cheat on me, just like I wouldn’t cheat on her.’

‘Of course,’ said Creswell, with a seen-it-all-before smile.

Toby was angry and she could see it. He did trust Alice and he was glad he hadn’t told her or Prestwitch about Pat Greenwald, just as Alice had asked him.

‘How is the investigation going?’ Toby asked.

‘A man was seen walking rapidly through the pine woods right after the shooting. Similarly vague description to the one you gave: above-average height, woolly hat, rucksack, which was probably carrying the weapon. We think he may have been driving the silver car you saw in the car park. Otherwise, nothing.’

She paused. ‘Nothing beyond the Guth family, that is.’ She leaned forward. ‘I know that you were the one who was shot at. We don’t know who did this, but there has to be a chance it was one of the family.’

‘Justin?’

‘Too early to say. But yes, maybe. Keep your eyes and ears open, and let us know if you learn anything else that might be helpful.’

‘You know Alice isn’t responsible for Sam Bowen’s death now, right?’

DI Creswell just shrugged.

Alice set to work on the kitchen. With so many people in the house, it needed cleaning. And rearranging.

Megan was helping. Megan rarely helped, which irritated Alice minorly, but it turned out that it was much worse when Megan helped properly. She wasn’t great at the cleaning, but that didn’t matter too much — Tara from the village would go over everything again when she came for her regular visit.

The real problem was that Megan didn’t understand how important it was that everything be put back in exactly its proper place. Seven years on, and the kitchen, Mom’s kitchen, was still exactly as she had left it. Soon after her mother’s death Alice had noticed how her father, who previously couldn’t care where anything was kept, now quietly ensured everything was where it should be. They had never discussed it, but Alice had been happy to go along with it, and in a ridiculous way she was proud that between the two of them they had managed to preserve her mother’s order for so many years.

Of course Megan knew nothing of this, and Alice wasn’t about to tell her. Megan’s view on cupboards was: if it fits, shove it in.

‘So who do you think killed Sam?’ said Megan as she pushed the flour jar back on the wrong side of the toaster. She tried to make it sound casual, but Alice recognized the tension in her sister’s voice.

‘I have no idea,’ said Alice, as she sorted the spice jars.

‘Do you think it’s connected to Lars’s death?’

‘I said, I have no idea.’

‘But you must have been thinking about it,’ Megan protested. ‘In jail.’

Alice wanted to scream at her sister. But she didn’t. She turned to face her. ‘Megan. Can you leave the rest to me? Please.’

Alice was ready for a barbed comment, or even a hurled insult. But Megan just looked hurt.

‘OK,’ she said, and she was gone.

As Alice rearranged the flour jar and the toaster, she felt guilty. She knew she was being unfair: for once, Megan was genuinely trying to help her. She was pulling her weight, and Alice knew she should appreciate it.

But it worried her. Megan was smart. The brain that had been able to untangle fiendishly complicated math problems may well be capable of figuring out what was happening at Barnholt.

Toby was smart too, and, unlike Megan, he understood people. He understood her . The two of them made a dangerous combination.

Alice stood by the sink staring out at the naked pear tree and the brown and orange saltmarsh beyond. She could feel the pressure building up on her shoulders to the point where it was almost more than she could bear.

She buckled. She lowered her head and sobbed, tears dropping into the kitchen sink.

But then she straightened up. Wiped her eyes. Sniffed. Tried and succeeded to pull herself together.

With her slippery solicitor’s help she had handled the police. She had handled her father. She had done her best, her very best, to hold her family together.

And now her sister and her husband were threatening to undermine it all.

Maybe she should trust them. She could sense the change in Megan, habitually her most untrustworthy sister. And Toby?

She had always relied on Toby. She had begged him not to ask her questions and, by and large, he had obliged. But she knew he was asking other people.

Toby was trustworthy. He was absolutely honest. He could always be relied on to do the right thing.

But could he be relied on to do the wrong thing?

It was lunchtime when Toby returned to Barnholt.

Alice was waiting for him in the hall. ‘Well?’

‘I didn’t say anything about Pat Greenwald.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

‘But now they seem to think you are having an affair with Justin.’

‘Justin?’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, great.’

‘Yep. I think they still think you killed Sam Bowen, and Justin killed Lars.’

Alice shook her head. ‘Wonderful.’

Toby put his arm round her. ‘We’ll figure it out.’

Alice made everyone a lunch of cold turkey sandwiches, everyone being Toby, Bill and Megan.

The Guth family’s response to the pressure of the weekend’s events was to revert to type. Despite his suspicion of his daughter, Bill was perfectly polite to her, solicitous even. He offered to help with the sandwiches, and Alice let him. But she was in charge.

Megan was surly. And Toby? He had no idea how to behave. He was on Alice’s side, that was all he knew. He retreated to politeness.

They all sat down. In that stilted, artificial atmosphere, it was Megan’s role to ask the direct questions.