Lawrence smiled. ‘I’m not paid to think, sweetheart, I’m paid for forensic evidence. I only deal with the crime scene, so I’m not privy to all the evidence, and I can’t make a proper judgement about her involvement. What about you?’

‘I think if she did kill Foxley, she didn’t do it alone.’

DCI Tyler opened his office door and gestured for Lawrence to join him. He turned to Jane.

‘Just had a bloody complaint from a neighbor at the victim’s Barnes property. Apparently the Jack Russell is causing havoc in her pigeon coop.’

*

Spencer reckoned the three-story property in Hampstead was worth quite a few million. When he rang the doorbell, a young Chinese man opened it and asked to see his identification. He was polite, asking Spencer to wait and not closing the front door again, but nevertheless leaving him on the step. He returned within a couple of minutes, ushering Spencer along the polished pine floor of a corridor lined with modern art. He opened a double door at the end of the hall, gesturing for Spencer to follow him inside. It was an astonishingly beautiful, light, airy room with floor-to-ceiling sashed windows overlooking a manicured garden. Beyond the garden lay Hampstead Heath.

The room was sparsely furnished with a soft six-seater leather sofa and two matching armchairs. There was a block wood coffee table with the obligatory array of expensive design books and a large bricked fireplace with logs stacked on either side. There were steel-rimmed bookcases on every wall. Spencer was offered a drink and accepted a glass of chilled water, being told that Mr. Francis would join him shortly.

Left alone, Spencer moved from one bookcase to another, skimming through the titles until Mr. Francis entered the room. He was very handsome, and at six foot, as tall as Spencer, wearing a pristine white linen shirt with pale green corduroy trousers and leather slip-on sandals.

‘Do sit down, detective . . . ’ He hesitated, putting his hand out as if he could not remember Spencer’s name.

‘Detective Sergeant Gibbs, sir.’

‘Yes, of course. And you’re here in connection with the awful murder of Charles Foxley. I don’t think anyone has really come to terms with how this will affect not only their careers, but their lives. He was such a genuine and well-liked man.’

Spencer took a sip of the chilled water and then, unsure if he should place it on the table, held onto it awkwardly.

‘Perhaps not by everyone, though. Do you know anyone who had a grievance against Mr. Foxley?’

Francis crossed his legs, leaning back against the leather armchair. ‘Well, obviously in our business there will be people who have petty grievances, some more than others, but I am not aware of anyone wanting to harm him. He could be a pain in the arse, but there weren’t many people better than him at packaging.’