Dress functional: trousers, shirt, a jacket, all dark, muted.

No jewellery, not even a ring.

What was she? Mid to late fifties? This was a face that had held time at bay, quite naturally. Very few lines, brow clear, a wrinkle at the neck when she bent forward.

A fingernail scratching at the tabletop.

It’s time. Time to tell the truth. Wasn’t that what she’d said to Fairfax?

Well, then, let’s see. Let’s test her.

Latimer came into the room and stood at Hobbes’s side.

‘Are we ready?’

‘I hope so.’

Together they entered the interview room. Hobbes dismissed the constable, thanking her. He clicked on the tape recorder and sat down, Latimer next to him.

Hobbes placed a hardback book on the table, its front cover uppermost, but turned away from Camilla Graves. She didn’t even look at it.

For a moment no one spoke.

Then: ‘Your name?’

‘Camilla Graves. Although …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not known by that, these days.’

‘You’re married?’

‘I used to be. But I’m still using his name.’

‘Which is?’

‘Is this important?’

‘Everything’s important.’

She swore under her breath, then gave her answer: ‘Camilla Greene.’

Hobbes stared at her. ‘You’re very secretive.’

‘I like to hide myself away, that’s true.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want my brother and sister bothering me. So I never gave them my address.’

Latimer asked, ‘You don’t like them?’

‘They don’t like me.’

‘This is why you didn’t turn up at your father’s funeral? To avoid them?’

Camilla nodded.

‘Why don’t they like you?’

‘Because of what I know, the things I saw, the things they did. That we all did.’

‘Which is what? What did you do?’

But there was no direct answer this time, only: ‘I imagine they hate me.’

And then silence.

Latimer asked, ‘Did you know your father left everything to you, in his will?’

She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

‘He says that you should, quote, do with it as you see fit.’

‘I’ll follow his instructions.’ Then she laughed to herself. ‘I would love to have seen Rosamund’s face, when she found out.’

Hobbes took over. ‘How old are you?’

‘Fifty-five.’

‘And you’re working as …’

‘I run a guesthouse, in Southend.’

‘Children?’

‘No. I’m alone in life.’ Her eyes closed momentarily, the lids flickering.

‘Mrs Greene?’

‘There’s no one.’ It was said quietly, as though to herself.

Hobbes nodded. He was keeping this straight, professional, as cold as Camilla was, in return. But he knew there would be gaps, where the truth might be hiding, the real truth, beyond what she might offer.

He said, ‘If I asked where you were on the night your brother Nicholas was killed, how would you answer?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Is there proof of this?’

‘Well, I have no guests at this time of year, with this weather we’ve been having.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you?’

Her eyes locked on his. ‘I can vouch for myself.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

‘I didn’t kill Nicholas.’