‘No? You had lunch with her yesterday.’

‘True. That still doesn’t mean I know her.’

‘No.’ A silence. ‘Pity her parents got all the looks in the family, wasn’t it?’

This remark seemed so gratuitously unpleasant that I made no comment.

‘When you had lunch,’ Niall went on, ‘did Alex mention the memoir Ingrid was writing?’

‘No. Ingrid herself had mentioned it to me.’

‘Mm. Alex didn’t mention helping Ingrid with her research in any way, did she?’

‘No. But that would have been very unlikely to have happened, wouldn’t it? Given the way Alexandra described her relationship with her mother to me.’

‘I suppose it would, yes.’ But this was a bone he had to keep chewing. ‘I wonder if Alex took any documentation from Brunswick Square …?’

‘If she did, she certainly didn’t mention it to me. Not that there’s any reason why she should have done. Most likely any documentation there was around went up in flames along with the flat.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ I couldn’t tell whether he looked relieved or regretful. ‘Anyway, Ellen, one thing we can guarantee … in a few months’ time there’ll be one hell of a big memorial service for Ingrid.’

‘I’m sure there will.’

‘The question is: who will organize the thing? The BBC’ll have something to do with it, obviously …’ He seemed to be talking to himself rather than me.

‘And presumably Alexandra will be involved?’

‘I suppose she’ll have to be there,’ he said grudgingly.

‘I meant involved in the organization.’

‘God, no. She’d make a right pig’s breakfast of it. No, we’ll probably have to sort it out.’

‘We?’

‘Grace and I. By which I mean Grace. She’s much better at that organizational stuff than I am.’

I didn’t doubt it. But there still seemed something odd about the idea of Grace Bellamy organizing a memorial service for the mother of her husband’s illegitimate child.

‘Look,’ said Niall, ‘let me give you a card. All our contacts, you know, if you do … if you hear anything …’

I didn’t look at the card in detail then – I did later – but I was struck by the fact that it was for both of them – ‘Niall Connor and Grace Bellamy’. I thought that was odd. They were both still working, they must have had individual business cards. But this one, presumably to be given to new private acquaintances like me, seemed like it was asserting the strength of their marriage.

Given what Ingrid Richards had said about Niall’s habitual womanizing, I wondered how faithful he had been to Grace.

Tucking the card in my pocket, I said, ‘Sorry, I must go, thanks so much for the lunch. And do thank Grace again.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said distractedly. And then, ‘God, I’m going to miss Ingrid.’

I looked up at him and saw, to my surprise, that there were tears in Niall Connor’s eyes.

TWELVE

My encounter with Niall and Grace had left me unsettled, wondering why they had actually wanted to see me. I say ‘they’, but I really mean ‘he’. I don’t think Grace did particularly want to see me, but her professionally civilized manner would never allow her to show it.