“What do you want?” Henshaw said, not rudely, but making it clear he was not afraid of any policeman. “Someone came this morning to take a statement.”

“A few questions,” Ramsay said easily, carefully wiping his shoes on a mat just inside the door. A strip of transparent plastic matting led up the long hall. Mrs. Henshaw was obviously a house-proud woman and it would not do to antagonise her.

Without speaking, Henshaw led him through to the living room. Ramsay had expected Mrs. Henshaw to be there, but the room was empty. All of the large pieces of furniture had been pushed to the edge of the room against the walls, and the expanse of carpet, brightly patterned in swirling blues and greens, was broken only by several small coffee tables. At the time Ramsay thought the room had been arranged that way to accommodate the people the Henshaws were expecting, but when he visited again the room was just the same. It gave Ramsay the sense of a public building rather than a private home. It might have been the lounge of a smart, rather tasteless hotel.

The whole house was very hot. Along the wall was a stone fireplace and there was a gas fire, which simulated real flames. On the walls were several prints, chosen, it seemed, because their subjects were blue and green rather than because the Henshaws found them attractive. It was the sort of room Diana would have hated.

Again Ramsay was aware that he would have to conduct the interview with care. The fact that Henshaw owned the land behind his cottage coloured his attitude to the man. It was hard to remain objective.

“It’s my wife’s birthday,” Henshaw said suddenly. “We’re expecting guests. I’m going to have another drink. Would you like one?”

Ramsay shook his head. “This won’t take long,” he said. “The policeman who came this morning told you that Alice Parry was murdered last light.”

“Aye,” Henshaw said, then added reluctantly, “They’ll miss her in the village.”

He might have said more, but they were interrupted by Mrs. Henshaw, who stood for a moment in the doorway to be admired. Ramsay guessed she must have disappeared when she heard the doorbell to put on makeup, because her face had a waxy, coloured glow. She wore a suit in blue silk with a bow at the neck and frills at the sleeves, and her fat, fleshy feet were squeezed into high-heeled blue shoes. She smiled kindly and walked forward, arms outstretched.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met. You must be one of Colin’s friends.”

She had been told, Ramsay thought, to be on her best behaviour.

“No, no, woman,” Henshaw said impatiently. “ He’s a policeman. He’s here to talk about Mrs. Parry. Though God knows what it’s got to do with us.”