Elaine laughed. ‘The truth! Who are you? Joan of Arc? The government won’t allow one of its own to be smeared; you’ll be used to bring solutions to the table, and that will be all. You must be incredibly naïve to think otherwise.’

Kelly was taken aback. And rattled.

‘If there was a crime committed here, then I need to discover the motive in order to find out who was behind it. I assumed you’d want to know the truth.’

‘This isn’t about what I want, detective. It’s about making sure whatever my husband was up to with Bart is kept to a minimum damage potential. Do you understand?’

Kelly nodded. ‘Give me your worst case scenario.’

Elaine sighed, and Kelly thought she was about to open up to her, but instinct and years of being a Whitehall wife caught up with her.

‘You strike me as the go-getter type, Joan. You figure it out.’ Elaine got up and went to the door.

She turned as she opened it. ‘For the record, I doubt it was climate protesters. In my experience they’re a bunch of halfwits who love yelling, but have no balls. You’re much more likely to find your truth if you look at Bart’s businesses. If you’ll excuse me, I have some difficult conversations to have with my children.’

‘Wait, do you know where your husband stayed on Sunday night?’ Kelly asked.

‘I thought he was in a fancy hotel, but if Bartholomew Kennedy-Craig was throwing a party, then Donald would have been at it.’

She left.

Kelly was torn between admiration for the woman, who put duty before herself, and downright disgust that she was blatantly withholding information that could potentially help her investigation.

Joan of Arc… Bitch.

Chapter 35

Fabian burst into his mother’s room, closely followed by Terrance.

‘Sorry, madam, I tried to stop him,’ Terrance whined.

‘Fuck off,’ Fabian barked, and slammed the door in his face.

‘Darling, what irks you?’ Vivienne purred.

She was sitting in bed, propped up by several pillows, her silver tea tray discarded on an occasional table, with the remnants on it of an afternoon pick-me-up. She put down her reading glasses and folded a newspaper.

‘Jesus, Mother, you’re fifty-five, not seventy-five! Why are you hiding in here?’

She cocked her head to the side and waited to find out what he really wanted to discuss.

‘I see you’ve read it, then.’ He nodded to the newspaper. ‘I’ve just spoken to Quentin. What have you got to say about that?’

‘Darling—’

‘Don’t darling me, Mother. Why the holy fuck would you approve such a thing?’ He stood at the foot of the bed and ran his hands through his thick auburn hair. He was dressed in joggers and a grey hoodie.

Vivienne smiled at him and patted the bed. ‘Come and sit down, and don’t use foul language with me.’