Moira Lowther looked at her differently then. Letting your own emotions come through was normally a sign of weakness in this job. But Fry realized it might actually help with the Lowthers. An unrelentingly professional approach wasn’t always the best thing, after all.

‘Tell me about it, then,’ she said.

‘We will, if you like,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But you should talk to his specialist. Dr Sinclair can explain it a lot better than we can. You might say that we’re too biased. Too emotionally involved.’

Fry opened her mouth to comment, but changed her mind. That was another thing she didn’t like – people predicting exactly what she was going to say.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Fry hadn’t realized there were loft apartments in Matlock. They certainly hadn’t reached Edendale yet. But John Lowther’s home was on the fourth floor of a converted mill complex on The Cliff, high above Matlock Green, overlooking a conservation area. Lifts had been installed, and an entry system with coded access from the communal areas.

Yes, some of the original features had been retained in the conversion, but not too many. Enough to make ‘period character’ a selling point, probably. Judging by Lowther’s place, the interiors had been given a very modern feel. This was open-plan living – a walkthrough from a study hall to the kitchen under exposed roof timbers and diagonal supports. The apartment was all chrome and glass, pastel shades and a tiny dining table set for two, looking as if it ought to be standing in an intimate corner of a fashionable restaurant. One problem, though. There was a high central ceiling, but if you wanted to walk close to the walls and look out of the windows, you’d better be a midget, or not mind a few bruises. The pitch of the roof was steep. Really steep.

Fry stood in the middle of the living area and checked out the doors off the hallway. Two bedrooms, even. It was all wasted on a single man, which John Lowther plainly was. She guessed he hadn’t chosen the décor himself, either.

‘There’s nothing of immediate interest,’ said Murfin. ‘But we did find a bottle of tablets on his bedside table. Orphenadrine.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s probably not important.’

‘No . . .’

Fry began to move away, then stopped and came back.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Murfin.

‘That phrase – “it’s probably not important”. Those sound like famous last words to me. You’d better check it out, Gavin.’

‘OK, if you think so.’