I asked, ‘Is that why you agreed to see me?’

‘I suppose that was part of it, yes. And particularly because you said you weren’t a journalist.’

‘Am I right in deducing you don’t like journalists?’

‘I like individual journalists. I liked Ingrid Richards. A lot. That is why I’m talking to you.’

‘But journalists as a breed?’

‘I used to like them. Used to spend a lot of time drinking with them in the watering holes of various war zones. The Commodore and the Pickwick in Beirut. But after I got injured, I lost my taste for the company of journalists.’

‘They hounded you?’

‘That’s a very well-chosen word, Ellen. “Hounded.” Yes, that’s what they did. I was in a pretty bad state emotionally. And all they wanted to talk about was the one thing I didn’t want to be reminded of.’

‘The car bomb?’

‘Exactly. God, they were persistent. I thought their interest was rather ghoulish.’

‘So, you never talked to any of them about what had happened?’

‘I talked to one. From one of the tabloids, can’t remember which. When I saw what he wrote about me, I swore I’d never talk to another journalist.’

‘Had he got the facts wrong?’

‘Not that. I wouldn’t have minded that. No, it was the way he made me come across. As pitiful. And that’s the one thing I have never wanted to be. OK, maybe life dealt me a pretty lousy hand, but the last thing I want from anyone is pity!’

The recollection had made him angry. I didn’t blame him. I’d felt the same after Oliver’s death. I didn’t mind people showing empathy. But pity? No way.

He continued, ‘Sorry, going off on one there. Let’s get back to Ingrid. That’s who you want to talk about. I want to talk about her too. We lost touch completely after … But I always thought our paths would cross again at some point. Now, of course, they won’t … and I feel … kind of … Like I say, I want to talk about her. Incidentally, that was a pretty sad way for her to die, wasn’t it? In a fire in her flat. A domestic bloody accident? The Ingrid Richards I knew may have been many things, but she was never careless about her personal safety. Still, maybe as she got older, the marbles may have got shaken about a bit and—’

‘She still had all her wits about her, Phil.’

‘Ah. So, are you implying that her death might not have been an accident?’

‘There are people of that opinion,’ I replied judiciously.

‘Really?’ He was silent for a moment as he took in the implications of that. ‘How long had you known her, Ellen?’

‘Only met her the once.’ And I gave him a quick résumé of my professional involvement through Alexandra.

‘Yes, I did hear Ingrid had a daughter.’ Phil Dickie scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘I remember being gobsmacked when I heard that. So out of character. I couldn’t see the Ingrid I knew interrupting her career to have a baby.’