‘We’re stuck there,’ Tibbot sighed. ‘Unless we can get into this book of hers, we’re blind.’

I had a thought. ‘There was something else I found,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

‘Stay here.’ I went to my room and fetched the photograph of Nick, Lorelei and the dark-haired woman. I had put it from my mind because the book had seemed far more important.

‘The car isn’t theirs, I think, so it’s probably that woman’s,’ I said, handing the photograph to him.

‘Probably,’ Tibbot said. ‘But I can’t see that it means anything.’

‘But it’s how I found it – it was hidden at the bottom of a drawer, covered in a sheet of paper.’ I was trying to convince myself as much as him.

‘So? I’ve got photographs in my desk under paper. It protects them from dust.’

‘Well, yes, but I thought,’ I hesitated, not wanting to tell a police detective his job. ‘It’s Nick and Lorelei together. How many men keep photographs of them with their ex-wives? It’s strange.’ And at the back of my mind was the thought that it was also disturbing – was it something that I wouldn’t want to know? ‘And she’s written on it, “To a brighter future!” That must mean something, mustn’t it? It’s something we can try.’

He looked unconvinced. ‘Jane, it’s something to look into, but please don’t get your hopes up. Most of these kinds of … odd things, turn out to be nothing to do with what you’re investigating; they’re just a distraction. The truth is, nine times out of ten, it’s just a nasty little domestic incident. No big crime.’ He sat back in his chair and pointed to a badge on the car’s front grille. ‘Nice machine. Sunbeam. I remember them.’ He closely examined the woman in the driver’s seat holding a glass of wine. ‘So who is she?’

At least he was taking an interest. ‘I don’t know. Hazel says she recognizes her a little but doesn’t know who she is.’

‘Is there anyone else who might know? Someone you can trust to keep all this to themselves – you understand?’

‘Yes. I suppose I could try Charles. I’m not sure it will help, though.’

‘Give it a go.’

I knew he was right. I went to the telephone. My call was answered as immediately and efficiently as I had come to expect.

‘The consulting rooms of Nicholas Cawson, Charles O’Shea speaking.’

‘Charles, it’s Jane Cawson.’

‘Oh, Mrs Cawson. Has Dr Cawson been released?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said.

‘Could you do something for me?’

‘I will try.’

‘Could you come here? There’s something I want you to look at.’

‘Mrs Cawson, I am at work, running the surgery.’ He sounded irritated.