‘Background.’ She kept her voice light. ‘More likely just plain nosiness. Not what I’m here for. I’m here because there’s a car outside that belongs to a missing woman.’

‘Oh?’

‘Connie Masters. She lives in Mallow Cottage, just over the road from you.’

‘I’ve heard my wife speak of her, but I’ve never met the woman.’

‘So you don’t know what her Nissan Micra’s doing in your car park?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I haven’t a clue.’ He looked up at her with clear grey eyes and for once in her life she couldn’t say if he was telling the truth. She imagined him in business negotiations. Or playing poker. He’d be good. He could be bluffing, but his face would give nothing away.

She stood up and saw that Ashworth was surprised that she was prepared to leave things at that. At the door she stopped and turned back to face Eliot. ‘Was Patrick buried?’ she asked. ‘Is there a grave?’

If the question shocked him, the man gave no sign of it.

‘No. He was cremated. Veronica’s decision.’

‘And the ashes were scattered at Greenhough, her old family home.’ A statement this time, not a question.

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s why the place is so important to her?’ Vera said.

‘It’s important to us all.’

This time Vera left the room and shut the door carefully behind her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

On the short drive from the business park to Barnard Bridge, Vera didn’t open her mouth except to take one phone call. Joe Ashworth thought it was the chap in social services because Vera called him Craig, but he couldn’t tell what it was about. It was all Craig talking and Vera listening, and it lasted the whole journey. They were still using Vera’s Land Rover, which was completely against all regulations because it was about a hundred years old and likely to clap out at any time, but she’d said if there was floodwater on the road, at least they’d get through. The windows didn’t close properly and the engine was so noisy it felt as if they were riding in a tank. There was a stink of diesel fumes.

They rolled onto the gravel drive at the White House and at last she did speak. ‘You keep your mouth shut here, OK? And you take notes. Detailed notes. We’re going to need this in court.’

Veronica opened the door to them on the first knock. She looked pale and tense, and Ashworth was reminded of the photo Christopher Eliot had shown them in his office. The hardness had gone and she was a vulnerable young woman again. She was dressed in a long waxed coat and wellingtons.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I was just on my way out.’