Henson plugged in a fancy-looking coffee percolator. ‘Black or white?’

‘Black, please,’ Jane answered.

She watched as Henson opened a cupboard, took out two mugs and a sugar bowl, and then went to the fridge to get some milk. He was very obviously at home in the kitchen. The dogs were huddled in their various baskets and there was a pungent smell rising from the filthy whippet cross, Stick.

‘Can I ask, do you live here with Ms. Harris?’

He glanced towards her and gave her a half smile. ‘You have to understand that I’ve known Justine for twenty-five years, ever since I first employed her when she was a young actress. I rent a bedroom here and use a small box room in the eaves as my office. I actually have a cottage in Kent and an apartment in Manhattan, and my two boys – well, they’re twenty-four and twenty-two now – live with their mother in Los Angeles. I work from here when I have an edit in the West End, but I made sure I was never present when Justine’s ex-husband appeared.’

He poured two coffees, placing one in front of Jane and then perched on a stool beside her.

‘I am always here until Abby, Justine’s cleaner, arrives. I don’t want her to be left on her own.’

Jane took a sip of her coffee. ‘Did Mr. Foxley stay here frequently?’ she asked, trying to appear casual.

He shrugged. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, I would say he spent more time here than he did in his own flat. Even though I loathed him, I didn’t think it was my business. I just made sure that when he was here, I was not.’

‘Were you ever represented by Mr. Foxley?’ Jane asked.

Henson shrugged his shoulders again. ‘It was a very long time ago, but that’s when my dislike for him began. He was representing me in a big deal with a Hollywood studio who were very keen for me to write the script. Foxley made all sorts of promises, and then suddenly told me there was no deal, even though I’d written a script. Then two years later a film came out based on my script. We had a very unpleasant argument with a two-faced bastard at the studio who denied ever receiving my original draft. In those days, to even launch a plagiarism legal action would have cost around a quarter of a million. One lone writer could not take on a major studio. So I left Foxley, but I remained friends with Justine. I could tell you about numerous other writers whose careers have been screwed by Foxley working hand-in-glove with Hollywood studios. They call it the white envelope, where scripts are passed on without writers’ names attached.’