“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Julie interrupted. “Like every hack that ever learned a line of shorthand, you think you can find out things no other bugger can. Me, I blame that Woodward and Bernstein. Life were simpler when Deep Throat were just a bluey.” The ghost of a smile crept across her eyes.

Lindsay shrugged. “I have been doing a bit of poking around, I don’t deny it.”

Julie looked as if someone had cracked a rotten egg under her nose. “And you came out here because somebody told you the Jacks lived in high style.”

Lindsay was genuinely surprised. “No, not at all,” she stammered.

Julie shook her head skeptically. “Oh, bugger it, you might as well come in,” she said, unexpectedly swinging the door open and heading down the hall.

Lindsay and Sophie followed, not too intent on pursuing their hostess to appreciate the professional footballer/Northern comedian school of decor taken to an extreme rarely seen, even in sitcoms. Dazzled by gilt cherubs, silver photo frames, onyx and marble, they followed Julie through the spacious hall into a kitchen that could comfortably have contained the entire Sheffield United first team squad. As they entered, they were swamped with what felt like dozens of furry balls, equipped with more than the normal allotment of teeth and claws.

“Down, you buggers,” Julie roared and four black-and-tan Yorkshire terriers dropped to the floor and scuttled obediently to a large dog basket by the Aga.

Lindsay mustered what dignity she could and moved away from the wall she’d spread-eagled against during the onslaught. “Still breeding them, then?” she asked.

“Keeps me occupied while Tom’s away,” Julie said absently, spooning instant coffee into bone china beakers. Then reality crept up on her again, as it would continue to do until Tom’s death became as mundane a part of her daily round as his life had been. Her head dropped, and she rubbed her eyes with one hand. “He loved t’dogs,” she whispered. “I sometimes thought it were t’dogs he come home for, not me.”

“I’m really sorry, Julie. I won’t pretend we didn’t have our differences, me and Tom, but he didn’t deserve what he got,” Lindsay said.

“No, and I’ll not have people blacken his name now he’s dead. You want to know how we afforded all this?” She swept an arm round, embracing the gleaming kitchen with its array of state-of-the-art appliances, mahogany units and Italian tiles. “I’ll tell you how.” She thrust a beaker of coffee at each of them. “Betting, that’s how.”

Lindsay looked at Sophie, relieved to see her partner looked as bemused as she felt. “Betting?” she tentatively repeated.