They heard the sound of dogs barking for a few moments before the door was opened by George Henson, who was dressed casually in corduroy trousers, T-shirt and cashmere cardigan, still with the monogrammed slippers.

‘If you’d like to go straight into the drawing room, I will inform Miss Harris that you’re here. She’s just putting the dogs out into the back garden. Unfortunately, we’re having to care for three of them now.’

Henson opened the door and stood back while they passed him to go into the drawing room.

‘Do you need a coffee, tea or anything?’ he asked.

Jane immediately thought a strong black coffee was just what she needed.

‘No, we’re fine,’ Miller said, walking into the room.

Henson paused in the doorway. ‘I believe you have a warrant, is that right? Does that mean you wish to search the house?’

Miller nodded. ‘In time, yes.’

‘Oh, well, I won’t be a minute.’ Henson shut the door on them.

Jane looked around at the large, comfortable drawing room. It had highly polished parquet flooring and an expensive-looking oriental carpet. Two well-worn four-seater sofas faced each other, with a low, glass-topped coffee table between them, stacked with numerous magazines, journals and art books. There was an ornate marble fireplace with logs neatly piled either side, and the embers of a previously lit fire in the grate, and a grand piano positioned in front of the bay windows. There appeared to be silver-framed photographs on every available surface.

Jane sat anxiously on the edge of the sofa while Miller moved around the room, looking at each photograph in turn. There were wedding photographs alongside christening photographs, as well as various pictures of the couple at premieres, Foxley dressed in black tie with Justine looking glamorous on his arm. There were also photographs of her in various plays, framed posters from her film and TV work, and in a small glass-fronted cabinet were a number of BAFTA awards. Jane couldn’t help thinking how different it all seemed from the austerity of Foxley’s flat.

Miller stood admiring the piano. ‘If I’m not wrong, this is a Steinway.’

At that moment the door opened and Justine Harris walked in holding a mug of coffee. She was wearing a pair of old, worn jeans, flat ballet shoes and an open-necked man’s shirt. She wore no jewelry or make-up, and her long hair was caught up in a large clip. She had the most beautiful bone structure, but she was exceptionally pale. Jane had the same feeling she had had the first time she had seen her, that there was a vacant look in her eyes. It made her wonder if she was using tranquilizers.