‘A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ she said when Jeremy told her the old woman was dead. ‘ She made all those threats and now she can’t do anything about them. Very convenient for your old man.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Jeremy said. ‘Not even as a joke. Someone will hear.’ He turned to her angrily. ‘I mean it. It’s not funny.’

‘Have the police been to see your father about it yet?’

‘No. Of course not. Why should they?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘ Why should they? They’re not going to know the details of Mrs Ottway’s allegations on Friday night unless someone tells them. And everyone who was at the Cadver on Friday was family. They wouldn’t tell. Except me, of course. I’m not family.’

She spoke in the hard, joking voice that always confused him. He could never tell exactly what she was thinking.

‘Someone did contact the police,’ Jeremy said uncertainly. ‘Dad thinks it must have been Ursula. They came to the house on Saturday lunchtime. It was routine, they said. They had to follow it up. Dad convinced them there was no need for any more action.’

Eve smiled and he wondered if she knew more than she was telling.

‘But they didn’t know then,’ she said, ‘that the old lady was dead.’

‘Do you really think that makes any difference?’

‘It depends,’ she said, ‘how she died.’

‘You must be mad,’ he said, ‘to talk like that.’ But she seemed not to realise how upset he was and only smiled. They sat without speaking over their drinks, staring at the cold, hard sunlight reflected on the reservoir.

‘Jeremy,’ she said at last, ‘there’s something I want to ask –’ But the loud Wolverhampton voice of the landlord was suddenly raised to interrupt her and like all the other customers in the bar they turned to watch.

‘You’ve had enough,’ the landlord said. ‘I can’t serve you with any more today. Go home and sleep it off.’

The man to whom he was speaking could hardly stand. He was tall, dark. From where she sat Eve could see little more than greasy hair, unfashionably long, curling over the collar of a green camouflage jacket. He was slouched against the bar, one hand around a small glass. Perhaps he slipped or tensed involuntarily because the glass suddenly shattered and there were shards of glass on the bar and the floor. The man’s hand was bleeding but he seemed hardly to notice.

‘That’s it!’ the landlord shouted. ‘Get out! You’re banned.’

He leaned across the bar and fished in the breast pocket of the camouflage jacket for a set of keys. ‘You can walk,’ he said. ‘The fresh air will do you good. Besides, if I let you drive you’ll finish up in the lake.’