‘No, not that. But he treated the family as a drama of his own making.’

Hobbes could sense that Nicholas was relaxing a little. He said, ‘I saw a small theatre stage in one of the rooms of the house. Did your father build that?’

Nicholas nodded, but would offer no further information. The furrows appeared once more in his brow.

‘Are you working at the moment?’ Hobbes asked.

‘I have had numerous careers, most of them artistic in some way. And most of them failures.’ He laughed a little. ‘At the moment I’m working in journalism, for the Telegraph.’

‘I see.’

‘In three years I reach retirement age.’

‘So you’re, what, sixty-two now?’

He nodded.

Hobbes drew a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Your father left a suicide note, a message to a loved one.’

Nicholas stared at the piece of paper without speaking. Then he picked it up and read it to himself, his lips moving with each word.

Hobbes asked, ‘Do you know who Adeline is?’

‘No.’

Latimer came in: ‘Not one of your sisters’ middle names? Or some other relative?’

‘I’ve never heard the name said before, in the household, as far as I can recall.’

‘Your father’s mistress, perhaps?’

Graves looked up at the inspector. The pain had burned clean away from the man’s face, leaving only coldness in his eyes. ‘It might well be that. He was a randy sod.’

There wasn’t an ounce of humour in the remark. An entire family history was contained within that one line: loneliness, despair, anger, a marriage breaking down, the young kids clinging together for comfort and security – sister, brother, sister.

Hobbes cut to the heart: ‘What we’d like to do is dig up the floor of the cellar.’

Graves stared at him. His eyes never wavered.

Hobbes was about to repeat his words, but the other man cut in: ‘I don’t understand you, Inspector. Why on earth would you—’

‘I believe,’ Hobbes explained, ‘that somebody is buried under there. A woman called Adeline.’

The staring match continued.

Latimer watched from the side, letting them play it out.

Without even glancing her way, Hobbes said, ‘Detective Sergeant Latimer, would you explain the procedure to Mr Graves? Thank you.’

‘I can do that.’ She leaned over the table. ‘It would entail the police employing a contractor, a trusted firm. They would drill into the floor, one section only, and take up the concrete. Afterwards, everything would be put back in place, probably even better than it now looks. There is no expense on your part.’

Nicholas Graves laughed. ‘You think I’m concerned about the cost?’

‘I’m simply explaining—’

‘Do you have a search warrant?’

Hobbes answered this one: ‘No. And I very much doubt that I would get one, not on the evidence as it stands.’

‘The evidence? You mean some items of clothing left on the floor?’

Hobbes played his last card: ‘And the words “R.I.P. Adeline” scrawled on the wall.’