You are going to read an extract from a novel in which a retired policeman talks about his holiday in Italy. Choose the answer which you think fits best according to the text.

Harry Lockhart stood in front of the green gates for a moment, not sure if he was ready for what he might find on the other side. Ten years, he thought. Where did the time go? It didn’t seem like anything here had changed. He had changed, that was for sure. He’d aged at least.

He took the key and unlocked the big metal gate, pushed it back and left it open. This had been part of his morning routine, he remembered, going down to the garden before breakfast. Ten lengths of crawl, followed by ten lengths of breaststroke, backstroke and butterfly. He might not get further than the ten lengths of crawl if he tried that today. Back then of course he’d just left the force after thirty five years of loyal service, he had still been in pretty good shape. Ten years of retirement took their toll.

He made his way down the garden, saw the swimming pool, still there but with a new patio built around it with lights and a parasol. The water was clear and the pump at the bottom was working, recycling and filtering the water. The grass had been mowed short in the garden, the dense trees at the bottom had been cut back providing a clear view of the olive grove that he knew was also part of the property. It looked well taken care of, he thought. They had obviously been there recently.

He passed the swimming pool and walked down the slope to the bottom. The garden was, of course really a field. This was rural Italy. To his right was Filippo and Consuelo’s farm except that Filippo was now dead and Consuelo had moved away. The chickens were still there but the vineyard had been ripped out and replaced by olive trees. In the distance he could see a carefully harvested field scattered with bales of hay. It was peaceful.

He reached the bottom and took the makeshift bridge over the ditch into the olive grove. The trees were in neat lines full of plump, nearly ripe green fruit. There were a fair few litres of olive oil in those trees, he thought. He wondered if that was what they did with them. He carried on to the next field which was more unkempt, a few vines hanging off some big concrete posts and not much else. He wasn’t sure who this belonged to. Just another piece of land. Someone would probably come along one day and build a block of flats on it or a supermarket. Well, they might if this place wasn’t so secluded.

He circumnavigated the field and came to the dirt track. He could have come directly to the track instead of crossing the garden, of course. But he’d only taken this case because of what happened last time he’d been here. It had only been a two week holiday, with barely a week of it spent in the downstairs flat but it left a deep imprint on his mind and there was something strangely therapeutic about being back here again. No, he had just had to see the garden first.

He carried walking up past the large house with its strange shrine outside. He remembered that from his afternoon walks when he had first arrived. A strange little box on a post with some flowers and painted cards inside. Who or what it was commemorating was not clear but it must have been important for someone to have it out here in view of passersby instead inside the house. Not that there were many passersby of course.

The dirt track had disappeared by now. He was crossing a field where the grass had been trampled down by the locals, a rutted track that was easy to follow. Ahead he could see the group of officers standing around. A police car parked on the grass. There was a strange sense of inevitability about this. He felt a sadness, despite not even knowing the Epsteins.