‘It’s a Monday, the market is open, can’t we just sell the shares now?’

‘No, didn’t you hear him say? The shares can’t be traded. They are suspended pending the news. It’s too late, Morag.’

Chapter 15

Rain was lashing down throughout Gillard’s drive from Mount Browne into south-west London. Finally emerging from heavy traffic, he approached the imposing, wrought iron gates of the Roy home, which opened without him having to leave the vehicle. He was able to squeeze his unmarked Vauxhall into the last possible space, a tight fit between Prisha Roy’s black Porsche Cayenne and Harry’s silver Mercedes S class. Donning his raincoat, and easing out sideways without scratching Prisha’s motor, he made his way across the gravel and up the marble stairs into the portico. He rang the bell, and while he waited for someone to answer, turned to survey the nine assembled vehicles crammed into the parking area.

One vehicle stood out like a sore thumb. Its presence triggered a small gasp from the detective, who had not expected to see it here.

He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open, and it was only when he heard a woman’s voice that he turned around. The housekeeper led him in, and asked for his coat. As he slid off the damp garment, he could hear raised voices beyond. The housekeeper returned and led him towards a very large dining room. The moment he was shown in, the furious Gujarati argument ceased and more restrained English began.

‘Ah, detective chief inspector,’ Harry said. ‘I think you know most people here.’ Around the table he spotted Prisha, looking very angry, and a rather doleful Kiara, her head resting in cupped hands, elbows on the table. At the back of the room Philippa Boswell was handing out coffee, aided by Morag Fairburn. There was no sign of Deepak Tripathi, but there were two other men. ‘This is trust member Mr L. P. Gosht, and our chairman and company legal counsel Vikram Vaj, who is my cousin.’ The first was an elderly Indian with a white beard and wearing an Astrakhan hat. Vaj was a younger man in a dark suit, with a fat briefcase open on the table.

‘Glad to meet you all,’ Gillard said. ‘First off, can I ask who owns the white Toyota Avensis?’

‘Oh, am I in the way?’ asked Philippa Boswell, putting down the coffee pot. ‘I’ll just come and move it.’

Gillard waited until she was out in the hall, leading the way to the front door, before he put her in the picture. ‘Your car is not in the way, Mrs Boswell. There is no need to move it.’ She turned a puzzled glance to him as he said: ‘A very similar vehicle, an estate car with alloy wheels, was parked near Ashtead Common on the morning of Mrs Roy’s death.’

‘Well, I didn’t even have it then. I only got it last Wednesday.’ Her face relaxed into its characteristic smile. ‘I’m only borrowing it while mine is being repaired. I reversed into a bollard at Waitrose, silly me.’