Three days passed without a surname.
There were no letters from Bernard among Bull's papers, no entry in his telephone and no photograph Margaret could identify. The police had a British first name, a connection to Hong Kong and an accident that might have happened sometime in the eighties.
Eleanor kept returning to the diary. Each time, it gave her the same two letters.
On the third day Relf stopped answering her messages.
She sent one in the morning, another after lunch, then left him alone until six, when she found him in the bar of an old hotel in Rye.
He was sitting over half a pint of bitter with a man considerably older than himself. Papers lay between their glasses.
"There you are," Eleanor said.
Relf looked up.
"I was going to telephone."
"You could have answered."
"I wanted something worth telling you."
The older man moved his glass to make room.
"Sit down. I'm Tom Weller."
"Eleanor Harcourt."
"Tom used to be in Customs," Relf said.
"Retired twenty-one years," Weller added. "Arthur still finds things for me to do."
Eleanor sat. Weller pushed a photograph towards her.
About twenty men and women stood outside a building. An official group photograph, with the names printed beneath it. The caption identified a joint customs and shipping conference in Hong Kong in 1981.
One name had been underlined.
Bernard Hatherley.
She found the corresponding face.
"Where is he now?"
"Near here," Weller said.
"Doing what?"
"Retired solicitor. Maritime law."
Eleanor looked at Relf.
"How did you find him?"
"Tom knew people worth asking."
Weller took the photograph back and checked the names, although he seemed to know where Hatherley stood without looking.
"He was out there from 1979 to 1988."
"And the accident?"
"Car accident in Kowloon. 1986. His right leg was badly injured."
Eleanor leaned closer to the photograph. Hatherley was dark-haired, formally dressed and looking directly at the camera. Margaret's description could fit him, but it could have fitted several men in the group.
"How old is he?"
"Sixty-eight," Relf said.
"Have you found anything about ringing?"
"No. He went to Cambridge, but that's all we have on that so far."
She sat back.
A name, at last. An address nearby. An injury to the right leg.
"Does Margaret know the surname?"
"We'll ask her," Relf said.
"And the car?"
"That needs checking too."
Weller gathered the papers into a folder.
"He may be your Bernard. I can't tell you whether he's the man who went round the churches."
Relf finished his beer.
"We'll ask him."
Bernard Hatherley's house overlooked the Marsh.
It was an old building, well maintained, with clean windows and a gravel drive. Eleanor looked for a car as they approached but saw none.
Relf rang the bell.
They heard someone coming along the hall. The steps were slow and uneven.
Hatherley opened the door himself.
He was tall, grey-haired and neatly dressed. A wooden stick stood against his right foot, his hand resting on its curved handle.
"Mr Hatherley?" Relf asked.
"Yes?"
"Detective Inspector Relf."
He showed his identification.
Hatherley read it, then looked at Eleanor before returning his attention to Relf.
"How can I help?"
"We'd like to ask you about Adrian Bull."
Eleanor saw his fingers tighten around the handle of the stick.