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me.’
    â€˜I will,’ Mac had promised her. Then, immediately regretting the certainty of that, he had amended it. ‘I’ll do all I can.’
    But he had found her. Trouble was, he had been too late.
    Officers had begun to wander in. Some talking, laughing, catching up on the day. All glanced in Mac’s direction. Some nodding, newer officers looking askance at this stranger. A few coming over to say a word or two, clasp his arm, a quick pat on the back. Mac responded, smiled, returned the greetings, but none of it felt real. It was as though he stood a foot or so to one side of himself, watching, observing, hearing and feeling, but not fully there. He could feel Alec’s scrutiny, his anxiety, and when someone handed him a copy of the current case file, he did his best to look casual and competent, perching against the edge of one of the side tables and flicking through a file he could not seem to see, his eyes refusing to focus, mind refusing to make sense of the words.
    I shouldn’t have come back, he thought. I should have swallowed my pride and told Alec I couldn’t deal with this. I should have let well alone.
    But it was too late for that. His decision had been made, and already others had built their plans upon the foundations of his return.

FIVE
    A lec had arranged accommodation for Mac: one of the holiday lets that, in season, would have been occupied by families so determinedly set on enjoyment that they would have taken little notice of their surroundings.
    â€˜It’s only temporary,’ Alec said as he led Mac inside. ‘We’ll fix up something better.’ He hesitated. ‘I remembered you didn’t like hotels . . .’ He trailed off and Mac nodded. Alec had obviously sorted this out in a hurry, further proof he had not been expected.
    â€˜It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
    Alec left, having arranged to collect Mac the following morning and checking he knew where to find the local shops. Being Alec, he had brought essential supplies: bread, milk, tea, a couple of ready meals and a handful of leaflets advertising the local takeaways. Mac was grateful and almost overwhelmingly homesick. He tried to call Miriam, but got no answer on the boathouse phone. He tried her mobile, got the voicemail, guessed she’d be out on a job. He thought about trying her work mobile, but abandoned the idea almost immediately. If she was out working, then the last thing she’d need at a crime scene was him phoning her just to have a good whinge, especially, as had happened several times lately, she’d been appointed lead CSI.
    Mac sighed, flopped down on the saggy couch and took a look around the open-plan living, dining, kitchen that made up the main area of the holiday flat. It reminded him of the place he had rented for his first month or so in Frantham. That too had been an apartment resting during the winter off-season and it had been very similar in layout to this, though that one had a better view, directly out over the ocean. Getting up, he twitched the curtain aside, confirming his suspicion that the only thing to be seen here was a row of slightly rundown shops.
    He checked out the bedrooms: bunk beds in one, a double bed in the next. Sheets, blankets and a duvet had been left folded on top of the bare mattress. He dumped his bag on a chair set beside yet another uninspiring window and noted that, thankfully, everything at least looked clean.
    Back in the main room, he tried Miriam’s phone again and again got the voicemail. He missed her. Missed the little hideaway above the boathouse that Rina had found for him. True, it was tiny, but it was neat and clean and full of his own belongings and, more often than not, Miriam was there.
    Desperate now to hear a friendly voice, he found Rina’s number and called Peverill Lodge, glancing at the clock and hoping he would catch her just after their evening meal. She picked