‘Of course,’ I say. ‘And the second interview?’

‘That could be trickier.’

‘No clues?’

‘Not yet, alas. There are still disclosure issues to resolve.’

‘You mean they think I’ve done something else?’

‘That’s the impression I’m getting.’

I shake my head in disbelief. The last few hours have turned my life inside out and I very badly want this man’s support.

‘Am I wasting your time?’ I ask. ‘Be honest.’

‘Christ, no, my darling. I’d have preferred a meet in a decent pub, but just now we don’t have the choice.’ He gets to his feet and checks the time. ‘Allons-y?’ he queries.

I gaze up at him. Gorgeous suit. Such a subtle stripe. And that familiar tang of the cheroots I know he smokes.

‘My pleasure.’ I try to summon a smile, joining him at the door.

The first interview is led by Bullivant. Brett Atkinson, for the most part, takes notes. What they want is a full account of my movements since the weekend, with supporting names and contact numbers where appropriate. I walk them through my lunch with Rosa, my return to Holland Park, and then my date with Malo at Avventura. Brett’s biro is racing from line to line.

‘Malo?’ Bullivant asks. His dead eyes have been locked on mine.

‘He’s my son,’ I say. ‘We talk from time to time. It’s a kind of family thing.’

The sarcasm, way too heavy, is wasted on Bullivant. When he asks when I last saw McFaul, I describe our brief encounter at the front door of his bungalow.

‘What was that about?’

‘I came to say goodbye. And good luck.’

‘Good luck how?’

‘Good luck coping.’

‘With what?’

I hold the stoniness of his gaze and resist the temptation to say ‘you’. Instead I give him a prim little sermonette on the trauma of losing someone you love very much.

‘You find yourself suddenly alone,’ I point out. ‘The person you love has gone forever and the bungalow is empty, barely a stick of furniture. Can’t you imagine that? Can’t you understand how that must feel?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not for me to answer. The absence of furniture, to be frank, is troubling. And all the deep-cleaning he’s been doing also gives us pause for thought.’

‘And is that why you took the chaise longue?’ I’m aware of the pressure of Tony’s foot on mine under the table but I can’t help myself.

‘McFaul told you about that?’ Bullivant is beginning to look animated.

‘Absolutely not. I watched you carrying it out the other night. Is that working for you? Have you found the missing clue?’

‘To what, Ms Andressen?’

‘To whatever brought you to my door at half six in the morning. Nothing better to do?’