Tennison was growing impatient. “Could we please come in?”

Moyra turned with a shrug and walked along the narrow hall. “I don’t have much option, do I? Shut the door after you.”

The flat was well decorated and exceptionally clean and tidy. The cosy sitting room contained a three-piece suite which matched the curtains and a fitted carpet.

Tennison looked around. “This is very nice!”

“What d’you expect, a dump? George works hard, be earns good money. Found his car yet, have you? It’s down to you lot, you know. This estate stinks, somebody must have seen him being taken away and nicked it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you any information on that. Really, I’m just here to have a chat with you. You see, I’m taking over the investigation. The previous Inspector died, tragically.”

“Good! Less of you bastards the better. Oi, what’s he up to? Hey, sonny! You can put that laundry back, that’s my dirty knickers! Are you some perverted crotch sniffer?”

“How do you feel about your boyfriend picking up prostitutes?”

“Wonderful, it gives me a friggin’ night off!”

“I admire you for standing by him while he was in jail.”

“That bitch asked for it! She was coming on to him, and he’d had too much to drink . . .”

“Was he drunk when he came home on Saturday night?”

“No he was not!”

“And he arrived home at what time?”

“Half past ten. We watched a video, then we went to bed.”

Tennison took a photograph from her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table, facing Moyra. “This is the girl he admitted to picking up, admitted having sex with in his car. Now look at her.”

“What am I supposed to do, have hysterics? I feel sorry for the girl, but he only fucked her! Half the bloody government’s been caught messing around at some time or other, but their wives have stuck by them. Well, I’m doing the same. Now, if you’ve finished wrecking my flat, why don’t you get out of here?”

“I haven’t finished, Moyra. Just one more question; did you know Della Mornay?”

“No, never heard of her.

“Never?”

“No.”

“And George didn’t know her, you’re sure of that?”

Moyra folded her arms. “I have never heard of her.”

Tennison put her notebook into her briefcase. “Thank you for your time, Miss Henson.”

While she waited for Burkin to finish, Tennison had a good look around the flat. There were no handkerchiefs with the initial “G” on the corner, either in the bedroom drawers or the laundry basket. Enquiries at the laundry Moyra had told them she used came to nothing.

The flat was very much Moyra’s and only her things were in evidence; pots of make-up, knickknacks, magazines. Just one small corner of the dressing table held a neat, old-fashioned set of bone-handled brushes with George’s initials in silver. Moyra, who followed them from room to room, told them they had belonged to his father.