George adjusted his stance, shoulders back, chest out, chin up, making himself look as threatening as possible. Jack returned his eyes to Sally for a second and smiled, as if to say, ‘Pardon me one moment whilst I put your dickhead of a husband back in his box.’ Jack had seen this kind of hollow bravado a thousand times before. Barrowman was a bully, and because his bullying worked with Gifford, he assumed it’d work with Jack.

‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said, right in Jack’s face, ‘but, my God, you’re about to find out.’

Jack waited for a moment then said, ‘George Barrowman, 56, ex-Corporal in the Coldstream Guards, wealth management advisor for high net-worth individuals, your speciality being the global gold market. Net worth, including assets, close to the fifteen-million-pound mark. You were investigated back in ’07 for tax fraud, but the case was dropped due to lack of evidence.’

Whilst Jack was speaking, George’s shoulders dropped, his chest deflated, and his chin dipped without him being aware of it. ‘Sir, I can waste time explaining to you why your wealth gives you no special privileges in this investigation, or I can interview your wife before the details of last night fade from her memory. Which would you like me to do?’

Seconds passed as George tried to figure out how to respond. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.

Jack and Sally sat at the heavy walnut kitchen table, making their way through a pot of tea and a plate of assorted shortbread biscuits. Up close, he could see she had delicate features which made him think of Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, which he used to watch with his mum and dad. As she explained about the standoff between Mathew and the police in the middle of the road, Jack began to understand why she was with George. She clearly loved looking after people – a husband, a son – and George, although a hard-working businessman, probably wouldn’t know how to turn on a toaster. They seemed to be perfectly suited.

Sally went on to explain what jewellery was missing from the safe. ‘A diamond tiara bought for my niece’s wedding; some gold bars, three, I think; cash, you’ll have to check with George how much, and an emerald necklace once owned by the infamous Barbara Hutton, the poor little rich girl, who had everything except happiness. She was married seven times, you know. When she died of a broken heart, her jewels were auctioned at Sotheby’s and . . . I got the necklace for my fortieth. It gets talked about a lot at parties, but I’ve never actually worn it outside of the house. Far too valuable.’