‘I haven’t poured myself a drink yet.’

‘Then we’ll just wait till you do.’

There was a weariness in his tone. I felt they were playing out some marital game to which I didn’t know the rules. Whether Grace was needled by Niall’s passive-aggressive manner to her was hard to tell. Who could divine what went on behind that immaculately made-up façade? Grace Bellamy must have had a view of the recently deceased Ingrid Richards, on whom her husband had fathered a child, but I couldn’t see that ever being revealed to an outsider. Such a disclosure could shatter the carefully built-up image of domestic serenity.

Grace did not hurry getting her drink. I could see that she barely dampened the bottom of her glass with white wine and was lavish with the sparkling water. ‘I’m ready now,’ she announced calmly.

‘Right.’ Niall did not get up from the sofa as he raised his glass. ‘To Ingrid! We shall not look upon her like again.’

‘Ingrid!’ Grace and I echoed. I touched my glass to Niall’s. Grace was too far away to clink.

My first sip told me that the burgundy was of very high quality. Niall Connor as a wine snob? Yes, that would figure.

He turned his lazy, condescending eyes on me. ‘So, Ellen … you only met the red-haired temptress the once, did you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she charmed the pants off you, I dare say?’

‘I did take an instant liking to her, yes.’

‘So did everyone. So did I, come to that. I must’ve done, mustn’t I, considering the outcome? The liking didn’t last, though.’

He was looking at me, but he also knew that Grace, busying herself at the Aga, was hearing every word.

Seeming to read my thoughts, he went on, ‘So aren’t I lucky that I found a nice, cosy, biddable little wife with whom to escape the clutches of that energy vampire?’

Grace did not react, and I made no comment.

‘But the more important thing, Ellen, is not so much whether you liked Ingrid as whether you thought the Brunswick Square flat was a firetrap.’

I didn’t answer, so he nudged, ‘And what was your professional assessment?’

I gave pretty much the same answer as I had to the detective sergeant. ‘There was a lot of flammable material there, but I got the impression Ingrid was well aware of the risk.’

‘Maybe that would once have been true, but as she got older and frailer …’

‘“Frail” is the last word I would have used to describe Ingrid Richards.’

‘Hm.’ Niall had finished his wine. He reached for the bottle and topped himself up. Then he looked at me and offered it. I shook my head.

And decided it was my turn to ask some questions. ‘When did you last see Ingrid, Niall?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you suggested you knew that she was getting “older and frailer”.’

‘I didn’t have to have seen her to make that assumption. I know how old she is – was. Always eight years older than me. That’s not going to change, is it? So, at seventy-five she could well have been starting to get frail. Women tend to get brittle bones and all that, don’t they?’