Bill leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. A stout, balding man in his mid thirties, he had a humorous, likable face which to his chagrin, failed to convey anything other than a perpetual, cheerful bonhomie.

‘Am I right in thinking Jon has relieved you of most of the dosh you made with Jane?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Not in so many words, no. I guessed. I’ve known you both a long while, after all, before you even met each other. Are you completely skint or can you afford some rent?’

‘Some,’ she said guardedly. ‘But not London prices.’

‘No. Near me. In Essex. Up at Redall Bay. My neighbours have a cottage they want to rent to someone for six months. It’s a couple of miles from mine; a lot more civilised. Quiet.’ He gave a sudden laugh. ‘Quiet as the grave.’

‘Would they rent it to me?’

‘I’m sure they would. They were talking about it last time I was up there. They need the money. If I recommend you and if you can rustle up a cheque for three months’ rent in advance I’m pretty certain I can fix it for you.’ He leaned forward abruptly and pulled open a desk drawer. The sheaf of photos he threw onto the blotter in front of her were crumpled and much thumbed. ‘It’s bleak, Kate. You’d better think hard about it. You would be terribly lonely.’

She picked them up with a glance at his face. ‘I know it’s bleak. I know the coast. I’ve been up there once or twice.’

The pictures featured a series of holiday scenes: people, boats, dogs, children, sand, shingle and always the sea – a grey-green, muddy sea. In one she saw a small cottage in the distance. ‘Is that your place?’

He nodded. ‘I don’t go there much in the winter. I can’t stand the cold and the desolation.’

‘It looks lovely. But too crowded.’ She glanced up at him mischievously. ‘I want solitude. I am writing a book, don’t forget.’