‘Approximately £187 million. And that means whichever of the Roy children produces the first boy gets a cool £56 million.’

‘My God, no wonder Prisha is desperate to get pregnant.’

‘She told you that?’

Gillard snorted. ‘This morning she as good as offered me a part in making it happen.’

Gillard was on his way home. He was feeling happier. It was half past three on a Saturday, the traffic was unusually light, and in theory didn’t have to be back on duty until Monday morning. It was a fragile optimism. He was still under the cosh to Alison Rigby, who wanted a crime scene re-enactment at Ashtead, and tomorrow might be the only day possible.

Jason Waddington remained in custody, and every day until the Thursday deadline she had set him was going to be crucial. They just didn’t have anything on him except that one dodgy DNA link. They had been through Waddington’s phone, and none of the numbers on it belonged to any of the Roy family. He hadn’t met them, they were just not in his social circle. He might be able to look after himself in a fight, but he wasn’t the kind of go-to figure that anyone wanting a hit would have chosen. Gillard still had an inkling that there was a family connection to her murder, but was struggling to find it. All of these thoughts were circulating in his head as he reversed the car up the drive.

In his rear-view mirror he saw a cat sitting on his own front door mat. He recognised the animal, Napoleon, one of four belonging to Trish, and cursed under his breath. He got out of the car and growled at the feline, which ran away.

His happy mood had vanished. Ever since the court case he had promised himself he would have nothing to do with his aunt, but it was clear she was continuing to exert a baleful influence on both him and particularly Sam. Something had to be done about it.

Gillard woke up with a start from a dream dark with foreboding. A sound outside. The green glare of the bedside clock showed 3.43 a.m. He eased himself out of bed without disturbing Sam, and pulled on a pair of shorts. He listened. Nothing but the groan of the wind, buffeting the fence. It could been a wheelie bin falling, but now he was awake he would have to check. He padded down the stairs, checking all the window locks, although he knew that Sam would have done so before bed. She was almost obsessive, given the stalker in her past.

He looked across the back garden. Everything looked in order. He moved back through the lounge, and moved the front curtains aside. There was still a light on in Trish’s bungalow. He had no idea whether that meant that she was awake or if it was merely a lamp that she like to leave on all night. He would be glad when they moved to get away from his aunt. She gave them both the creeps, and for good reason.