They’d discussed the garrulous David’s testimony on the (thankfully) incident-free drive to the famous artist’s Oxford residence, and had come to no set opinions on his reliability. But they had both agreed that if Terrence Parker had left the party with a passenger, then that passenger needed to be found and asked to account for their actions that night. As Clement had pointed out, it was perfectly possible that Terry had given someone a lift home and then gone on and had the accident when he was alone. But if so, why had no one answered the newspaper’s appeal for information?

Trudy had instantly responded to this by pointing out that no matter what the cocky Duncan Gillingham thought, not everyone read the Oxford Tribune, or hung on his every word even if they did! Perhaps the possible passenger had not seen the appeal for information?

Now, as they sat outside a street that consisted mostly of elegant terraced Georgian houses that had long since been converted into spacious flats, she listened as the coroner gave her a brief history on the artistic credentials of their next witness.

‘She was influenced by Laura Knight in her early works, but then became more surrealist,’ he began, leaving her no further forward, although she nodded wisely. ‘She made her name early and was a bit of a “wild child” in London in her twenties and thirties. Had affairs with revolutionaries in Mexico and that sort of thing,’ he added casually.

Trudy, sitting in a fast-freezing car in a quiet street in Oxford, thought about hot-blooded rebellious men and tequilas and baking desert temperatures, and blinked. ‘Oh,’ she managed.

‘Then she married some upper-class twit named Fairweather with a receding chin but a large bank balance, had a child, and then divorced him. She kept using her maiden name for her career, obviously, so she’s always been known simply as Katherine Morton. After ditching the spouse, she moved here and began painting her more “clever” stuff,’ he swept on.

Trudy sighed heavily. She knew what that meant. ‘I’m not going to understand her stuff then,’ she predicted tiredly. She liked a tree to look like a tree.

‘She’d probably be disappointed if you did. The Americans currently love her and pay silly money for her canvases, but she’s on record as saying that no American ever had a true artistic taste.’

‘She sounds like a “character” all right,’ Trudy agreed without enthusiasm. She could tell that the coroner was looking forward to meeting her, however, and she only hoped the woman met his expectations.

‘Hmmm.’ Clement made a non-committal sound and reached out to open the car door. ‘Let’s just hope she’s a good witness,’ he said prosaically. ‘Artists are supposed to be observant; now we’ll see if they actually are.’

He didn’t, to Trudy’s mind, sound particularly optimistic though.