“Murder,” he said.

“You investigated murders?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I did.” He looked back at the fire.

“That must have been…difficult. Disheartening.”

“Seeing man’s inhumanity? It is.”

“Is that why you quit? I’m sorry. I’m being intrusive. But…Had you had enough trials on your heart?”

He didn’t reply.

The front door opened with a thud, and Daidre felt the wind gust into the room. Collins came out of the kitchen with his cup of tea as Detective Inspector Hannaford returned to them. She carried a white boiler suit over her arm. This she thrust at Lynley.

“Trousers, boots, and jacket,” she said. It was clearly an order. And to Daidre, “Where’re yours, then?”

Daidre indicated the carrier bag into which she’d deposited her outer clothing when she’d changed into blue jeans and a yellow jumper. She said, “But he’ll have no shoes.”

“It’s all right,” Lynley said.

“It isn’t. You can’t go round-”

“I’ll get another pair.”

“He won’t need them just yet anyway,” Hannaford said. “Where can he change?”

“My bedroom. Or the bathroom.”

“See to it, then.”

Lynley had already risen when the DI joined them. Less anticipation, this seemed, than years of breeding and good manners. The DI was a woman. One rose politely when a woman came into the room.

“SOCO’s arrived?” Lynley said to her.

“And the pathologist. We’ve a photo of the dead boy as well. He’s called Alexander Kerne. A local boy from Casvelyn. D’you know him?” She was speaking to Daidre. Sergeant Collins hovered in the kitchen doorway as if not quite sure he was meant to be having tea while on duty.

“Kerne? The name’s familiar, but I can’t say why. I don’t think I know him.”

“Have a vast acquaintance round here, do you?”

“What d’you mean?” Daidre was pressing her fingernails into her palms, and she made herself stop. She knew the detective was attempting to read her.

“You say you don’t think you know him. It’s a strange way of putting it. Seems to me, you either know him or you don’t. Are you getting changed?” This last to Lynley, an abrupt shift that was as disconcerting as her steady and inquisitive gaze.

He cast a quick look at Daidre and then away. He said, “Yes. Of course,” and ducked through the low doorway that separated the sitting room from a passage created by the depth of the fireplace. Beyond it lay a tiny bathroom and a bedroom big enough for a bed and a wardrobe and nothing else. The cottage was small and safe and snug. It was exactly the way Daidre wanted it.

She said to the detective, “I believe one can know someone by sight-actually have a conversation with him, if it comes down to it-without ever knowing that person’s identity. Their name, their details, anything. I expect your sergeant here can say the same and he’s a local man.”

Collins was caught, teacup halfway to his mouth. He shrugged. Agreeing or discounting. It was impossible to tell.

“Takes a bit of exertion, that, wouldn’t you say?” Hannaford asked Daidre shrewdly.

“I’ve found the exertion worth it.”

“So you knew Alexander Kerne by sight?”

“I may have done. But as I said earlier and as I’ve told the other policeman, Sergeant Collins here, and you as well, I didn’t get a good look at the boy when I first saw the body.”

Thomas Lynley returned to them then, sparing Daidre any further questions as well as any further exposure to DI Hannaford’s penetrating stare. He handed over the clothing the DI had asked for. It was absurd, Dairdre thought. He was going to catch his death if he wandered round like that: no jacket, no shoes, and just a thin white boiler suit of the type worn at crime scenes to ensure that the official investigators did not leave trace evidence behind. It was ridiculous.

DI Hannaford spoke to him. “I’m going to want to see your identification as well, Mr. Lynley. It’s form, and I’m sorry, but there’s no way round it. Can you get your hands on it?”

He nodded. “I’ll phone-”

“Good. Have it sent. You’re not going anywhere for a few days, anyway. This looks like a straightforward accident, but till we know for certain…Well, I expect you know the drill. I’ll want you where I can find you.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll need clothing.”

“Yes.” He sounded as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He was something windblown, not flesh, bone, and determination, but rather an insubstantial substance, desiccated and helpless against the forces of nature.

The detective looked round the cottage sitting room, as if assessing its potential to produce a set of clothes for the man as well as to house him. Daidre said hastily, “He’ll be able to get clothing in Casvelyn. Not tonight, of course. Everything’ll be closed. But tomorrow. He can stay there as well. Or at the Salthouse Inn. They’ve rooms. Not many. Nothing special. But they’re adequate. And it’s closer than Casvelyn.”

“Good,” Hannaford said. And to Lynley, “I’ll want you there at the inn, then. I’ll have more questions. Sergeant Collins can drive you.”

“I’ll drive him,” Daidre said. “I expect you’ll want everyone you can get your hands on to do whatever it is you do at the scene when someone dies. I know where the Salthouse Inn is, and if they’ve no rooms, he’ll need to be taken to Casvelyn.”

“Don’t trouble-” Lynley began.

“It’s no trouble,” Daidre said. What it was was a need to get Sergeant Collins and DI Hannaford out of her cottage, something that she could effect only if she had a reason to get out of the cottage herself.

After a pause, DI Hannaford said, “Fine,” and handing over her card to Lynley, “Phone me when you’re established somewhere. I’ll want to know where to find you, and I’ll be along directly we have matters sorted out here. It’ll be some time.”

“I know,” he said.

“Yes. I expect you do.” She nodded and left them, taking with her their clothing stuffed into bags. Sergeant Collins followed her. Police cars were blocking Daidre’s access to her own Vauxhall. They would have to be moved if she was to be able to get Thomas Lynley to the Salthouse Inn.

Silence swept into the cottage with the departure of the police. Daidre could feel Thomas Lynley looking at her, but she was finished with being looked at. She went from the sitting room into the entry, saying over her shoulder, “You can’t go out in your stocking feet like that. I have wellies out here.”

“I doubt they’ll fit,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll take the socks off for now. Put them back on when I get to the inn.”

She stopped. “That’s sensible of you. I hadn’t thought of it. If you’re ready, then, we can go. Unless you’d like something…? A sandwich? Soup? Brian does meals at the inn, but if you’d rather not have to eat in the dining area…” She didn’t want to make the man a meal, but it seemed the proper thing to do. They were somehow bound together in this matter: partners in suspicion, perhaps. It felt that way to her, because she had secrets and he certainly seemed to have them, too.

“I expect I can have something sent up to my room,” Lynley said, “providing they have rooms available tonight.”

“Let’s be off then,” Daidre said.

They made their second drive to the Salthouse Inn more slowly as there was no rush, and they encountered two more police vehicles and an ambulance on the way. They didn’t speak and when Daidre glanced over at her companion, she saw that his eyes were closed and his hands rested easily on his thighs. He looked asleep, and she didn’t doubt that he was. He’d seemed exhausted. She wondered how long he’d been hiking along the coastal path.

At the Salthouse Inn, she stopped the Vauxhall in the car park, but Lynley didn’t move. She touched him gently on the shoulder.

He opened his eyes and blinked slowly, as if clearing his head of a dream. He said, “Thank you. It was kind-”

“I didn’t want to leave you in the clutches of the police,” she cut in. Then, “Sorry. I forget you’re one of them.”