But I couldn’t dispel the idea that maybe I’d got a hoarding problem nearer to home than I’d previously thought.

TWENTY-FOUR

I’d rung ahead, using the number on their mutual card, so I was expected in Primrose Hill. The house was Victorian and imposing, less than half the size of the Petworth one but, given London prices, worth many multiples of it. Two big-name journalists, all the columns and articles and books, plenty of money coming in.

Niall Connor opened the door to me. There was a rueful expression on his face, but also impudence. He looked at me with the assurance of a man who thought himself unfailingly magnetic to women. As he had in Petworth, he took it for granted that I was attracted to him. I couldn’t help remembering Ingrid’s comment that at his age the need for Viagra might limit the scope of a ‘predatory pouncer’.

‘Come through to the sitting room,’ he said.

It was at the front of the house. Grace Bellamy was sitting there, with elegant coffee essentials laid out on a low table in front of her. The décor was, of course, exquisite, ready to be photographed for colour supplements and design magazines. Which I’m sure it had been many times.

Grace was, once again, dressed to complement her stylish surroundings. Definitely London clothes rather than country clothes. Niall, once again, went for shabbier chic. Jeans, a mauve cashmere sweater draped with studied abandon over a subtly frayed blue and white striped Oxford shirt. Still no socks underneath his brown leather slip-ons.

‘You remember Grace?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘And you said you wanted to talk to me about Ingrid Richards’ death?’

‘Yes. You did ask me to let you know if I heard anything else of relevance to it.’

‘Absolutely, Ellen. And I’m very grateful to you for coming here to tell me.’ He brushed his forelock back with a practised, boyish air. ‘So, what have you heard?’

‘When we last met,’ I began, ‘we established that you knew Ingrid was writing a memoir.’

‘Yes. She crammed a lot into her life. But’ – he spread his hands wide in a gesture of philosophical resignation – ‘Ingrid Richards’ memoir is a work which now, sadly, the world will never see.’

‘True. And, Niall, were you worried about the possible contents of that memoir?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘You and Ingrid, as well as being close at times, were basically rivals. Together in a variety of war zones, in competition for getting the best stories.’

‘I don’t deny that. Back then, we were all in competition with each other, Ingrid and any number of other correspondents. Yes, we played many games of one-upmanship. That was part of the fun of what we were doing.’

‘And did you ever use underhand means to prevent a rival reporter from getting a story?’

‘“Underhand”? That’s a rather strange word to use in a journalistic context. Yes, of course we’d withhold our sources from other reporters. If one of us got a contact who promised to be useful, we wouldn’t tell all the others about him. We might even send a fellow correspondent in the opposite direction from where we knew the action was going to be. We were all looking for exclusives. But I’m not sure that qualifies as “underhand”. The history of journalism is full of such behaviour.’