Brody didn’t look remotely surprised. ‘Ah. I’m too late, then. Pancreatic cancer is a bugger. One in four people die within a month of diagnosis, making it the deadliest of the common cancers. It’s what killed Alan Rickman, Aretha Franklin, Luciano Pavarotti, Patrick Swayze, Steve Jobs . . . If a scan shows cancerous cells in the pancreas, it’s not unusual to be sent straight to palliative care without further investigation.’

‘I’m sorry, Brody – I haven’t had much sleep. What are you saying, exactly?’

‘Well, the cancer diagnosis, as I’m sure you know by now, was actually meant for your mother. Ruth Ryan and Ruby Ryan. Same initials. Easy mix-up.’

‘What?’

‘Your family doctor is Zahra Hanbury, right?’

My breath seemed too loud, as though I were scuba diving and running out of oxygen. ‘My mother had terminal pancreatic cancer?’

‘Yes. Oh, shit. You still didn’t know? I did a little light sleuthing over a bottle of red one night. Your mother made Zahra promise not to tell the rest of her family. Patient confidentiality and all that. Zahra only confirmed it to me when we were six cab savs to the wind. I’m so sorry for your loss, Ruby,’ he said, kindly. ‘When did she die?’

‘Last night. I found her body this morning.’

Sympathy pooled in his beautiful eyes. ‘Oh, god. Clearly you’ve had a pretty quiet Christmas, then.’

‘Ah, yes . . . you could say that.’ Little black dots danced in front of my face, and I felt sweat prickling on my upper lip. I was on the verge of flying apart like an exploding supernova.

Brody put his arm out to steady me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘No, not really. Our mother didn’t do big, warm-hearted, positive, life-enhancing emotional displays. She did sarcasm, sulking and revenge. Which is why she chose Christmas Day to reveal that my husband, Harry, who loves to eat, had a fling with my chef sister, Amber, because I’m a terrible cook. Which is undeniably true. Everything I make ends up tasting like linoleum, with the texture of paving stones. Only now Amber’s come out as lesbian, which means I’m supposed to forgive her, as apparently the affair was just a stepping stone on her sensual journey of self-discovery. Meanwhile, my other sister, Emerald, who is sexually malnourished because her husband Alessandro’s as limp as William Shatner’s toupee, made out with Amber’s cuckolded husband, Scott. So, in short, all our marriages and friendships fell apart simultaneously, and then our mother died. Apart from that, everything’s just fine. Fab! Tickety-boo. Except, oh yes, now Detective Tyson suspects foul play.’

‘Foul play? Jesus, Ruby. I’m pretty sure you have the killer instinct of a Chihuahua.’