‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Oh, I don’t think you even knew you were doing it. But she was there. Always there between us. After a time, I stopped worrying. Just as I stopped worrying about all your sordid little infidelities. Why should I be jealous of that line-up of tarts, because they all suffered from the same shortcoming as I did? They weren’t Ingrid Bloody Richards!

‘But I told myself, it’s all right, I can cope with this. I’ll come to terms with being second best. Lots of men fantasize about the lost love they had years before they ended up with reality, with their compromise wife. I could manage with that … until I found out that you were still seeing Ingrid!’

‘But I wasn’t still seeing—’

But Grace swept his question aside. ‘No? You’ve just admitted you were in her flat that evening.’

‘Yes, but that was the first time since—’

‘I don’t believe you. I know you were still seeing her, had been seeing her right through our marriage.’

‘I hadn’t. I just arranged to see her that evening to talk about the memoir. Like I said.’

‘That’s just not true, Niall!’ There was a light of paranoia in the beautifully made-up eyes. ‘I was certain you were up to something that evening, so I followed you down to Brighton. And, when we got Brunswick Square, I knew exactly where you were going.’

Of course. Grace had got Ingrid’s contact details when she’d been trying to set up an interview with her. She’d also had some research done on the veteran correspondent’s lifestyle. She knew about the piles of newspapers, the Gauloises, the Jameson’s. Hence the bottle that Walt had seen her carrying into the building on Brunswick Square.

Both of them looked utterly defeated. Grace Bellamy was beginning to realize the enormity of what her jealousy had led her to. And Niall Connor was taking on board what his wife had done. Out of sheer jealousy.

TWENTY-FIVE

I was technically ahead of the police, in that I spoke to Ingrid Richards’ murderer before they did. But they were way ahead of me in terms of building a case against Grace Bellamy. Of course, they had to have all their ducks in a row before they could bring charges against her.

After I left the Primrose Hill house, in a state of total exhaustion, I had been intending to ring Detective Sergeant Unwin and tell her where my research had led me. But, fortunately, when I got back to Chichester, I rang Alexandra Richards first.

Walt had persuaded her she had to come clean, tell Unwin and Gupta that she’d lied about staying in Brunswick Square all that evening. I don’t know whether she told them that she’d lied because her absentee father had asked her to. And because she’d hoped that her obeying him would lead to a closer relationship between them.

Then Walt had volunteered to the police what he had seen from his car that evening in Hove. All the stuff he’d told me. Including the incriminating sight of Grace Bellamy entering the building.