‘I inferred it, built a picture, if you like. You don’t need too many clues. No one drinks own-brand coffee, buys white sliced bread, gets by without a mobile, not if they can help it. As it happened, I doubt whether any of this much bothered them, especially when she was healthy, but that’s a different story.’ I pause. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Ms Beaucarne had a bank account. We’ve accessed the details. Someone paid a sizeable sum of money into that account only a couple of weeks ago.’

‘How much?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Thousands?’

‘Go on.’

‘Tens of thousands?’

Brett nods. Bill Penny, I think. He loved them both. He wanted to help them out. His first offer went to McFaul. When he said no, he must have turned to Christianne. But the story, it seems, doesn’t end there.

‘The money stayed in her account for three working days. Then she wrote a cheque.’

‘To whom?’

‘McFaul. He cashes it, and a week or so later he tells us she’s disappeared. I know you think we always assume the worst of people, but …’ He shrugs and tosses his pen on to the desk. ‘Have we got this wrong? Isn’t there just a tiny possibility there might be more to this story than meets the eye?’

It’s my turn to shrug. I have nothing to say, and it’s certainly not my part to bring Sir William into this squalid little fantasy.

‘Well?’ Brett insists. ‘Don’t you agree?’

I shake my head. I tell him none of us have the right, or even the imagination, to understand what it must be like to live with something as grotesque as MND.

‘I assume you’ve talked to her GP?’ I say.

‘Of course.’

‘And they confirmed the diagnosis?’

‘She did, yes.’

‘And what else did she say? About Christianne’s state of mind?’

Brett gazes at me, and when he shakes his head the implication is all too clear. Do I really expect him to share a conversation like that?

‘OK,’ I say. ‘If you want me to go through the whole thing again, I will, though an hour or so with McFaul should make your boss a wiser man. He knows a great deal about MND and I’m sure he’ll love to share it.’

Brett reaches for the pen again. He wants to change the subject.

‘This friend of yours.’ He glances down at his pad. ‘Ms Warlock.’

‘Evelyn,’ I say. ‘I call her Evelyn.’

‘Our control centre took a 101 from her nearly a month ago, August twenty-third to be exact, three minutes past midnight. I gather she’d only moved in a matter of weeks before.’

‘And?’ 101 is the non-emergency number.