‘As you can see, Mr. Foxley was withdrawing large cash sums almost every week. Two to three thousand pounds every time. I made a list of the fees that Mandy Pilkington could have charged him. But even if he was also buying a substantial amount of drugs, there’s about twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds in cash I can’t account for. I even costed the dog walker, and also double-checked the gambling debts. Foxley used his credit card with the bookies and the costs of the social events, lunches and dinners are on his business card, so obviously he was not using this cash for those things either.’

Tyler frowned, running his finger down the columns of figures. ‘Maybe blackmail?’

‘Yes, sir, that could be possible. The most obvious person would be Mandy Pilkington.’

Tyler passed the list back. ‘Well, we’ll need to check this out on Monday. I want you and Spencer back at the agency to question Emma Ransom about her drug use, to follow up Daniel Bergman’s tip-off she used cocaine. We need to know how heavily involved Foxley was in drugs and specifically who his dealer was. We will also need to have one or two of us visible at the funeral on Monday.’

He picked up the envelope that Justine Harris had given Jane. It was torn and had stains on both sides. He carefully withdrew the photographs.

‘Did she explain anything about these?’

Jane shook her head.

The first photograph was of a young, blond boy wearing a yellow sweater, knickerbockers and long socks. Jane presumed the photograph was Foxley as a child. There was a black and white photograph of a young teenage boy, equally blond, and behind him was a poster of Junior Wimbledon league tables. He was wearing white shorts and holding a tennis racquet. Another photograph showed what appeared to be the same boy, aged about fifteen, in a rowing team. Lastly there was a black and white photograph of a plump woman with a lot of make-up and what looked like bleached-blonde hair, wearing a frilly blouse with a large pearl necklace and drop earrings. Her wide eyes looked distinctly angry.

Jane could sense Tyler’s tiredness and exasperation that the photographs were not moving the investigation forward.

‘I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at,’ he said finally, pushing the photographs to one side.

*

Spencer was sitting in Marcus Welby’s comfortable home, enjoying a very nice cup of espresso coffee. Welby was a good-looking man in his late thirties. He had seemed genuinely distressed about the death of Charles Foxley and told Spencer that Foxley had engineered his career after meeting him at a performance of a Noël Coward play at the National.