‘No, ma’am, I don’t think it’s about Fabian,’ Terrance said.

Vivienne knitted her brow and went into the drawing room, where the fire burned brightly, surrounded by a giant stone hearth, also decorated by Harrods for Christmas. Two uniformed officers stood by the fire, warming themselves, and stood to attention when she came in, as if she were royalty. She was used to it. Money did that to people: made them feel inferior. She went to the table beside her armchair and took the glass of fine red wine from the Bourgogne, downing its contents in one. She sat down.

‘Officers, it’s late on a Monday evening, what could you possibly want? You look very serious, if I may say so. Mince pie?’

They both declined. They introduced themselves and gave their instantly forgettable names. Vivienne waited. They were deferential and awkward in her presence, but Vivienne had that effect on people. It was as if she were some elderly matriarch when, in fact, she was only in her mid-fifties, but her lifestyle was from a different era, and means.

‘Mrs Kennedy-Craig, we have some terrible news.’

Vivienne placed her glass down and looked at Terrance, who was loitering. She didn’t need to ask him to fill her glass. It was done. She braced herself. The officers looked awkward.

‘Is this to do with my husband? He’s not here, he’s in the Lake District,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. He’s a busy man, and I don’t follow his every move.’

The officers looked at one another.

‘Your husband’s helicopter came down in bad weather over the Lake District. It crashed. We have no news on the cause as yet.’

‘What?’ Vivienne didn’t know what to say. ‘The what? What was he doing in the sodding helicopter? Terry, did you hear that?’ she laughed.

Terrance coughed.

‘Mrs Kennedy-Craig…’

‘For God’s sake, call me Vivienne!’ she snapped.

‘Vivienne, your husband didn’t survive. He’s dead. We’re so sorry.’

Vivienne didn’t know what to do. She looked at Terrance, who equally seemed lost, and he asked her whether she’d like a mince pie. Why was he asking that? She went to grab her glass but her hand knocked it and it fell to the floor, red liquid making a puddle on the fluffy cream rug, as if death itself was taunting her. Terrance, thankful for something to do, ran from the room to get cloths.

‘Have you just told me that my husband is dead?’ Vivienne asked.

‘Yes, Vivienne, that’s correct. He was in a helicopter flying over the Lake District when it crashed. He was killed. There were two pilots and a second passenger who survived; he’s in a critical condition in the local hospital close to the crash site.’

‘Another passenger? Who was he with?’