But, before she had time to dial the number, the phone in her hand rang.

She answered it and a slightly accented voice said, ‘Good morning. This is Malee Shefford.’

The house in which Bill Shefford had lived with two wives was not on one of Fethering’s most highly prized roads, nor did it have period charm on its side, but it was far enough from the Downside Estate to be deemed respectable. In the front room, Carole was struck again by Malee’s beauty. It was not like the glossy allure of a model photographed in a magazine, but something deeper: an iconic face that seemed to symbolize generations of femininity. Seeing her close to, it was more difficult to judge the woman’s age. She could have been anything between twenty and fifty.

The room was meticulously clean and tidy but showed little sign of Malee’s influence. It had a slightly old-fashioned air, as though nothing had been changed since the death of Bill’s first wife Valerie some eight years before. But on the top of a glass-doored cupboard was a photograph of him. In front was a low vase of flowers. Lit candles in short ceramic holders stood either side. Carole did not know whether the shrine was a reflection of Malee’s religion or a personal tribute.

She had been offered tea but refused. She wasn’t sure what kind of tea someone from Thailand would drink, and didn’t want to risk embarrassment if she didn’t like it. Typical Carole.

When they were seated opposite each other, she asked, ‘Why did you agree to see me?’

‘Because you asked to see me,’ Malee replied with disarming simplicity. Her English was very good, with only a hint of an accent.

‘Has nobody else asked?’

‘Nobody outside Bill’s family, no.’

Carole realized this was probably true and considered the implications. While Fethering had been abuzz with speculation and accusation ever since Bill Shefford’s death, nobody had directly confronted the main suspect. Despite feeling a thrill at being the first one to make the breakthrough, Carole could not suppress a sense of collective guilt that the woman had been so isolated by the village. And that guilt was increased by the knowledge that race had played its part.

‘Well, first,’ she announced, with awkward formality, ‘I’d like to say how sorry I am for your loss.’

Equally formal, Malee bowed her head and said, ‘Thank you. It is not the tradition in my country to show outward signs of grief, but that does not mean the pain is not there.’

‘As you can imagine,’ Carole continued cautiously, ‘there has been a lot of talk in Fethering about your husband’s death.’

‘I can imagine that. I have not heard much of it, but I can also imagine the kind of things that have been said.’