Inspector Ford was in no mood to be fobbed off, and anyway I was too scared for fobbing. He was polite, sympathetic even, but across Nick’s kitchen table the penetrating stare was boring into me.

‘Do you have any idea who attacked you, Miss Browne?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I responded, more or less truthfully. I didn’t know who it was. I knew who it wasn’t. It wasn’t Vlad because Vlad would have killed me. The only other possible suspect was Richard searching for the rings, and I didn’t believe he’d be barmy enough to try that again. But I thought I’d better mention him, and Tamara. I threw in Verbena Clarke for good measure.

‘You should have told me about Mr and Mrs Nickolai and these rings at the time,’ he admonished me sternly. Next to him Detective Constable DeVille tried to look equally severe but could hardly keep the smirk off her nasty little mouth.

‘So, just to be clear,’ he went on, ‘you are now telling me that it was Mr and Mrs Nickolai who broke into your flat and coshed you with a torch?’

‘Well, it was only Tamara – Mrs Nickolai, but I think it was Richard’s idea.’

He sighed heavily. ‘And you didn’t see fit to inform us?’

‘I didn’t want to press charges,’ I admitted unhappily.

‘Breaking and entering and assault are serious offences,’ Constable DeVille informed me smugly, ‘it wasn’t up to you.’

‘It certainly wasn’t Tamara who attacked me this morning,’ I added.

‘Possibly not, but if the recovery of those rings is so important,’ the inspector went on, ‘then the Nickolais may have employed the services of someone less queasy about using violence. In any event, Mr Nickolai has lied to the police − he said he hadn’t seen his father in years.’

‘You don’t think Richard murdered his father, do you?’

‘He has an alibi for the time of the murder, which puts him in the clear. So does Mrs Burgoyne. But if either of them is responsible for this latest piece of mischief they are going to find themselves in serious trouble.’ He stopped and for a moment a faint suggestion of a smile crossed his lips. ‘Incidentally, they do have their own theory about who murdered their father.’

‘They do?’

‘You.’ It was Constable DeVille who spoke, only one word but she managed to fit an arpeggio of malice into it.

I flopped back in my chair. ‘You’re joking?’

‘His altering the will in your favour would naturally make you a suspect, Miss Browne,’ the inspector said lightly, ‘in their eyes.’

‘Actually, there are a few people in Ashburton who think …’ Ricky’s voice trailed off as the inspector turned his gaze upon him.