‘But they’re his children.’

‘If Mr Nickolai had cut them out of the will altogether, given everything to you, they, as his children, would certainly have been able to make a claim. But, in fact, in financial terms, they have been awarded the greater part of the estate.’ He smiled dryly. ‘And Harry Burgoyne is not a man to let his wife make a fool of him in court.’

I just nodded. I didn’t want to talk about it any more. Mr Young shook my hand. We could discuss things another time, he told me, whenever I felt ready. I went home, miserable, and not feeling at all like a woman who’d just been given a considerable bequest.

When I got to my flat, I phoned Paul. I just wanted someone to talk to. He wasn’t answering his mobile, so I tried his landline. Carrie answered. She knew of my existence, of course, although not what had taken place between her husband and me in their caravan. She didn’t sound pleased to hear my voice. I could hear the baby crying in the background. This was not a good time. Paul wasn’t there. What did I want? I invented some story about someone wanting some restoration work done. Nothing urgent, I told her. He could ring me back anytime. Carrie said she’d pass the message on and put the phone down.

I let out a sigh. It wasn’t fair of me to ring Paul. He was looking for a new start, a new life elsewhere. I mustn’t keep trying to drag him back to the old one.

I kicked off the high heels, massaged my tormented feet and sat with my legs up on the coffee table, wondering what to do next and feeling about as motivated as a stunned slug. I’d put myself through the ordeal of cleaning up Nick’s blood to spare his children’s feelings. I could have laughed at the irony of it. They weren’t exactly prostrate with grief. All Helena seemed to care about was her grandmother’s rings.

There was a knock on my living-room door. I opened it to Kate, who gave me a curious look and said there was someone downstairs who wanted to see me. Unwilling to put the torturing heels back on, I padded downstairs in my stockinged feet. Richard Nickolai was standing on the doorstep, hands in pockets. He smiled when he saw me. ‘Hello there!’

My response was less than friendly. ‘How did you find out where I live?’

I couldn’t believe that Mr Young would have given away my address, not after the scene he had witnessed that afternoon.