‘So she’s trying to throw Barbara Cottrell under the bus,’ John says.

‘For her part, the older woman is denying the sale of any fraudulent artworks. In fact, she said,’ he flips another page and reads from his notes, ‘Alex Clayton is an ungrateful and vindictive little bitch. If I wanted to sell fake paintings, I’d at least make it something worthwhile, like a van Gogh or a Rembrandt.’ His lips twitch as he looks at me. ‘I gather you’re the Alex Clayton she’s referring to?’

I nod. ‘Bitchy as charged. But she’s full of crap. A van Gogh or Rembrandt would be much harder to fake. You have to use the right materials for the period as well as a canvas and wooden stretchers of the right age, and then you’d have to figure out how to make the painting look realistically old. Whereas when you fake a Whiteley, a bit of surface dirt makes it look thirty or forty years old and there’s no way to distinguish the materials of an original from something painted yesterday.’

The detective makes a small note in his book.

‘You may need to consult an expert on Whiteley’s style. Probably his widow, Wendy, would be your best bet.’

Another note. ‘We’re going through Cottrell’s office now. and there’s a BMW in the carpark that’s registered in her name. We’ll tow that if necessary.’

‘A dark blue BMW?’ I ask, looking at John.

‘That’s correct,’ he replies, regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes.

‘It may have been involved in a hit-run.’ I gesture toward John and both detectives turn to him.

John bats his hand in the air, waving their unspoken query away. ‘We can deal with that tomorrow. What about Meredith’s death?’ he asks, and I feel a flush of shame. I’m so fixated on nailing Barbara Cottrell that I’d forgotten about the most important thing in all of this.

‘Mr Swindon has given us a statement regarding what was overheard in the Great Hall, but the young woman has refused to answer questions relating to that. Needless to say we will be informing the officers in charge of the Buchanan case and the investigation will be reopened as part of our inquiries.’

We exchange a few more words, give our contact details and promise to report at ten a.m. the next day, and then the detectives are gone. There is a minute or so of numb silence, before John stirs.

‘How did the Alizarin Crimson end up everywhere? Why did Meredith even have it?’ John asks without directing his words to anyone in particular.

‘She had the photo and knew Fiona had been using that paint. Maybe Meredith was going to confront Fiona about the Whiteley, or maybe she was going to talk to Giles, or to you, Robert.’ I turn to Swindon.