Spencer was standing behind Miller, so couldn’t see his expression when a middle-aged man dressed in fishnet tights, a maid’s outfit and a cheap nylon wig opened the door.

‘I’m DI Miller and this is DS Gibbs,’ Miller said curtly.

The man nodded. ‘Miss Pilkington is waiting for you in the parlor,’ he said in a tremulous voice.

Nothing in the hall gave any indication of the services being provided. There were some framed pictures of tourist attractions such as the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle. On a small side table was a display of plastic flowers.

The man dressed as a maid knocked on the door and in the same quivery voice announced them. The room wouldn’t have looked out of place in any other house on the street: a shag-pile carpet in fawn, two matching sofas, a standard lamp and a brick fireplace with an electric coal fire. Above the fireplace was a large fake Constable painting in a heavy gold frame.

It was only Mandy Pilkington herself who made it extraordinary.

She sat on one of the sofas, virtually taking up the entire length of it. She had severely bloated legs that contrasted with her tiny feet, which were encased in red patent-leather shoes. Her kaftan-style floral dress was frilled around the neck and she had four strings of different-colored pearls around her neck. She had clearly once been very pretty, but she now seemed to have a tiny face almost swamped by an enormous head of dyed blonde hair. Her small hands were full of sparkling rings, with bright crimson nails that matched her crimson lipstick. There was nothing doll-like about her eyes, however. Although large, there was a hawk-like gaze in them as she waved her tiny hand for them both to be seated.

Spencer perched on the arm of the opposite sofa as Miller put his briefcase down on the glass-topped coffee table. He handed over the warrant and waited as Mandy skim-read it and handed it back.

‘You are most welcome to peruse every room at my home for as long as you like. You may take anything that you want or feel might be necessary. I give you carte blanche.’

She had no trace of an accent; in fact, if anything, she sounded well-educated. She then folded her tiny hands over her bulging stomach as Miller opened his briefcase.

‘Would you mind me taping the interview?’

‘You can do whatever you like, dear,’ she said.

Miller clicked on the recorder. He spoke quietly, saying his rank, the date, time and location, and that he was accompanied by DS Spencer Gibbs. He then pressed rewind and listened to make sure the machine was recording, before continuing.

‘Miss Pilkington, I am aware that you have already been interviewed in connection with the murder of Charles Foxley, but I would now like to ask you specifically about his payments as one of your clients.’