“Sorry.” Jack suddenly realized that he’d been staring for some time. “I’m looking for Ester Freeman.”

“And you are?”

“My name’s Jack Warr. I’m a DC with the Metropol—”

The small man’s face suddenly beamed. “Oh, come in, love. She’s in the orangery.”

Ester was lounging with a copy of Marie Claire, a cigarette and a glass of red wine. A half-empty bottle of McGuigan Classic Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the table next to her, as did a well-thumbed copy of Men’s Health. In the corner of the orangery was the box that the wine had arrived in—it was a bulk-buy deal, a dozen bottles for £49.99, delivered free to your doorstep. Jack and Maggie shopped for wine in exactly the same way. They’d sign up, get the first case at a third of the actual price, then cancel the subscription. Looking round, Jack saw Ester had clearly done this with at least four different companies. He smiled to himself. I like her!

Ester’s hair and nails were immaculate, although the tips of her fingers were stained yellow from decades of smoking. She wore a long tan-colored cardigan that, when she was standing, would come below her knees; underneath, she wore a pair of loose cotton trousers and a vest top slightly too low for her 74-year-old cleavage. The cardigan hung provocatively off one shoulder as she read. She slowly closed her magazine and looked up, silently indicating that the short man could now speak.

“DC Jack Warr from the Met, no less,” he announced. He turned to Jack. “Tea or wine?”

“I’d love a cup of tea. Thank you.”

The short man made for the door.

“Geoffrey, darling.” He paused. “Find some biscuits. No. Cake! Find some cake. And make a pot, I’ll indulge as well.”

Once Geoffrey had left, Ester focused on Jack. She looked him up and down, admiring every one of his youthful lines and curves—and she made no bones about it.

“Sit anywhere, darling.”

Jack sat directly opposite Ester in a huge, overly cushioned, wicker garden chair.

“How can I help you, Detective Constable?”

“I’d like to speak to you about your time at The Grange, if you don’t mind.”

“The time I whored young girls out to wealthy businessmen? Or the time I emptied the contents of a handgun into Dolly Rawlins? You’ll have to be more specific.”

Ester’s face remained deadly serious as she stared at Jack, but her eyes twinkled.

“1995 please, Miss Freeman.”

Jack wasn’t going to be intimidated by an old madam like her.

“You’d have been, what, ten years old? Why do you care about what happened so long ago?”

“You may have read in the news about the fire at Rose Cottage in Aylesbury?”

Ester sat forward in her seat. “I don’t read any news relating to the world outside Seaview . . . but I’m intrigued by Rose Cottage burning down. And I’m even more intrigued by why a DC from the Met has come all the way to Seaview to chat to me about it. Why not just send a local plod round?”