‘How did you know about the Zopiclone?’ Surely he wasn’t going to fall for an old crime-fiction giveaway like that?

He wasn’t. ‘Alex told me about it,’ he said. That was believable.

‘So, Ellen …’ He let the pause extend itself. ‘You’re accusing me of murdering Ingrid, aren’t you?’

‘I’d want to hear your version of events before I did that.’

‘My version of events? My account of what happened that evening in Hove. “Hove, actually.”’ He was still determined to keep the tone light. ‘Well, you and your unknown witness are correct. I did visit Ingrid Richards in her flat that evening. And yes, I did ask what she was proposing to put in her memoir about the springing of Paul McClennan in Beirut. And – surprise, surprise – she said she was going to offer an alternative view of history. I tried to dissuade her from doing so. She remained characteristically adamant that she would do what she wanted to do. Story of Ingrid Richards’ life, really.

‘I knew there was no point in arguing with her. And I comforted myself with the thought that she was really yesterday’s news. Faces often seen on television tend to be very quickly forgotten, so I don’t think a memoir of Ingrid Richards is going to sell in its millions. And, of course,’ he grinned smugly, ‘I got the story first. My book’s been out there a long time and it’s the banner headlines the public remember. No one ever reads the small print of a correction or an apology.’ Another infuriating grin. ‘So, are you still accusing me of murder, Ellen?’

‘You haven’t given me any reason not to,’ I said doggedly.

‘Ah, but there is a reason. A very compelling reason.’

‘Oh?’

‘As your mysterious witness parked in a car in Brunswick Square would be able to tell you, I left Ingrid’s flat long before the fire started.’

‘Yes. You did.’ I turned to face Grace Bellamy. ‘You didn’t, though, did you? You got there much later.’

She turned paler than her husband had done.

‘I referred Walt Rainbird to your website, so that he’d know what you looked like, and then he confirmed that you were the woman he saw enter Ingrid Richards’ building at half-past eleven. You were carrying a bottle. A bottle of Jameson’s, I would hazard a guess. Jameson’s with a little extra ingredient. Walt saw you come out just before midnight, without the bottle.’

Niall Connor was looking with horror at Grace. He had felt confident in answering me, because he knew he had nothing to do with Ingrid Richards’ death. But it had never occurred to him that his wife might have been involved.

For once, the perfect poise gave way. The finely modulated voice cracked as Grace Bellamy shouted, ‘Can you blame me, Niall? All through our marriage, you kept talking about her. You kept comparing me to her. You kept implying that the sex you had with Ingrid was better than you ever had with me!’