Hobbes helped her with it. ‘It’s an old tune,’ he said. ‘My mum and dad used to dance around the living room to that one.’

‘My foster mother used to play it. It always reminds me of her.’

‘You were fostered?’

‘My parents died when I was very young, in the Blitz.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, hush now. I had a wonderful childhood, despite it all. Now …’

She offered Hobbes a seat at a table, and sat there herself. She poured out the tea and put in his milk and sugar, as he wanted. She took a sip of hers.

‘Now, what can I tell you?’

‘I mentioned the death of Nicholas Graves. Didn’t you know him? At least, you met him when you were young?’

‘Did I? I’m not sure.’ She looked puzzled.

‘He was the son of Leonard Graves. The playwright?’

Now her eyes lit up with the memory. ‘Oh dear, I haven’t thought about Mr Graves in such a long time now. Lenny Graves!’

‘You worked with him, I believe. On a play?’

‘That’s right. But I can’t imagine he’s still alive?’

‘He died recently, actually. About a week before his son.’

‘Oh, my. I’m really not keeping up with things.’

‘That’s OK.’

They drank their tea. Hobbes took a moment to study the woman. Jeannie Watts must have been striking in her youth, and he could see why Leonard Graves might have taken an interest in her. But time had played a strange trick, making her not exactly prematurely old, but twisting her face a little, as though she’d been in an accident at some point. The right side of her face sagged, and the right eye dipped at the corner. Her hair was dark, abundant, with little evidence as yet of grey. There was a slight downward tilt to her mouth, an effort involved whenever she made a smile.

Hobbes was aware, suddenly, that Jeannie was staring back at him.

And her hands came up to her face, to shield it.

He was embarrassed.

‘Are you looking at me, Inspector?’

‘Sorry. Yes.’

‘Inspecting me for flaws, perhaps?’ It was said light-heartedly. ‘The way men do.’

‘Of course not. Force of habit, that’s all.’

‘Part of the job?’

He nodded.

‘Do they give you training in such things, in studying people? I’ve always wondered, watching Columbo on the tele.’

‘It’s not really like that.’

‘No? I’m disappointed.’

‘With me, it’s just a personal trait. I can’t help it.’

‘How interesting.’

To get back on track, he said, ‘I’d like to know more about your youth, and how you met Mr Graves.’

‘Do you think this will be helpful?’

‘It might. Nicholas Graves died because of events that happened long ago, we know that now, and I think you were there at the time or, at least, were acquainted with the family.’

‘I was. But only for a brief while.’

‘Still. It might be useful.’

She nodded, and smiled at him with her usual effort. Carefully, she placed her teacup in the saucer, in a way designed to make as little noise as possible.