“Just be grateful she’s not a Geordie. Wall-to-wall Dire Straits and Jimmy Nail,” Sophie said with a shudder. She searched her backpack for diversions, and produced the Pocket Scrabble she’d bought to keep Lindsay amused on their transatlantic flight. By two o’clock, Lindsay’s stomach was rumbling. At her insistence, Sophie drove off to buy sandwiches, leaving Lindsay leaning on the gate like a refugee from The Archers.

Their vigil was finally rewarded just before four, when a newlooking Land Rover Discovery passed them and swung between the gryphon-topped pillars of Union Jack’s drive. They could see it was driven by a woman with long blonde hair, with no passengers. “That’s the grieving widow, right enough,” Lindsay said. “I met her once at an office thrash in the good old Daily Nation days. Let’s give her a few minutes to get the kettle on.”

“You didn’t say you knew her,” Sophie complained. “What’s she like?”

“I don’t know her. We met; I was pissed. My overwhelming impression sounds like a cultural stereotype—she was bouncy, a bit brassy, she drank brandy and Babycham, she had terrible dress sense, her voice was too loud and her husband was mildly embarrassed by her.”

“Why?”

“The old story. When they tied the knot, he was a lowly reporter on the Sheffield Star. He climbed up the greasy pole, while she essentially remained a working-class lass from Sheffield who steadfastly refused to move to London when his career took him south. I was always mildly surprised that the marriage survived, but it seemed to. Union Jack was always keen to get home at the weekends. They’ve no kids, by the way. She breeds dogs. Yorkies, I think. Right, let’s go. I can hear that kettle whistling from here.”

The Julie Jack who opened the door to the sound of distant yelps was a very different proposition from the lip-glossed loudmouth who had hung on Tom Jack’s arm though not his every word. Her eyes were puffy and dark-ringed, her blotchy complexion undisguised with foundation and blusher. Her graying blonde hair was loosely tied back in a pony-tail. Instead of an evening dress which had somehow contrived to look both over the top and cheap at the same time, she wore a baggy Aran sweater over a pair of jodhpur-style leggings. She had aged more than the ten years since they had last met, Lindsay thought. And it couldn’t all be laid at the door of bereavement. The disapproving lines round the mouth went too deep for that. She looked the pair of them up and down and said, “I’ve got nowt more to say to the press.” She began to close the door.

“I’m not press, Julie. Not any more,” Lindsay said. “Remember me? Lindsay Gordon? We met years ago, when Tom was still at the Nation.”