‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Zac.’

‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘I don’t blame you. But there’s just something I really need to ask.’

She had expected him to slam the door in her face, but he held his temper. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Would you mind if I came in?’

He stepped back to allow her inside. He ducked his head into the kitchen to explain to his family that he would be a few moments and led her through to his study at the back of the house.

It was a wood and glass addition, which stretched out into the garden. It might have been bleak and dark on that gloomy, rainy night, but it had been decorated with the same refined but austere flair as the rest of the house. Kate took in the photographs of their ideal family, which appeared to cover every tiny scrap of available space. There were no photographs of his dead boyfriend.

Zac closed the door and sat opposite. A picture of his wife in a swimsuit in what looked like the South of France loomed over his shoulder. He did not seem to be conscious of the incongruity. ‘What do you want?’ He had long, feminine eyelashes and brooding dark brown eyes. But petulance didn’t suit him.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said again.

‘You can’t ever be sorry enough.’

There were so many things Kate could have replied to this, not least that no one had forced Zac to return to his wife and shatter her old friend. But what was the point? ‘I’ll make this quick,’ she said.

‘Good.’

‘We’re still looking into various issues relating to Rav’s death.’

‘Like what?’

Kate was trying not to be put off her stride by his hostility. ‘He was murdered, as you know.’

‘The coroner found no evidence of that.’

‘The fact that there was no evidence doesn’t change the reality that it is the most likely explanation for his death.’ Zac breathed in deeply. ‘He may have been upset with you,’ she went on, ‘and me, for that matter, since I should never have told him you’d been staying back here with your wife. But that wasn’t why he died. He did not kill himself. Rav would never have done that.’

Zac shook his head. ‘I’ve been through this with the police, with MI5, with your people. And I’m sick of it. He’s dead. He’s still dead. And the hows and the whys just don’t matter to me any more. I’m trying to move on.’

‘I understand that. I have only one question. What was he doing on the Saturday before he died? His phone was off all day.’

‘I told the police that.’

‘Would you mind explaining it to me, too, and then I can leave you in peace?’