Kiara showed them into a large lounge, dominated by an enormous marble fireplace and three gigantic gold­brocaded sofas. A wood burner was roaring away in the fireplace.

‘Is your brother here?’ Gillard asked.

She shook her head. ‘Harry called to let me know he was running a bit late. He’s in an awful state. He’s taken it very hard. Prisha isn’t going to be here for an hour either, I’m afraid. You must just excuse me.’ She hurried out to the hallway where a telephone was softly trilling.

‘I know her,’ Gabby said. ‘I’ve definitely seen her before. Can’t think where.’

‘On the front cover of Vogue maybe?’

Gabby shook her head. ‘No, face-to-face.’

They stopped talking as a very dark-skinned middle-aged Asian lady in a sari appeared. She was carrying a tray containing an ornate teapot and three old-fashioned, blue and white, hooped mugs. ‘Orange pekoe and Darjeeling okay?’ She set out the crockery and a small jug of milk, then disappeared for a minute before returning with a two-tier cake stand decked with thick slices of Victoria sponge, chocolate gateau and coffee and walnut cake. Once she had exited, Gillard turned to Gabby. ‘The gloves were weird. But she seems very composed.’

‘Shock,’ Gabby said. ‘I’ve seen it a hundred times. There is probably so much to do that she is not allowing herself to think about—’

The silent return of their hostess caught them by surprise. ‘Don’t stop talking on my account,’ Kiara said, padding in on bare feet.

‘We were just saying that you’ve probably got a lot to do, given what’s happened,’ Gillard said hurriedly.

Kiara poured out three mugs of tea and handed one to each officer. ‘I’ve done nothing yet but fend off press queries and answer phone calls. Harry is supposed to be appointing a family spokesman to deal with the press and speak to the lawyers. To be honest, I’ve only got the haziest idea what actually happened to my mother. I was hoping you could—’ Her voice broke up on the final words and she hid her face behind an enormous woollen sleeve. She sniffed deeply a few times, and when her shapely puckish face re-emerged Gillard could see the reflection of the window in her big brown eyes. They were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

‘Are you here, Kiki?’ It was a man’s voice.

‘Oh Harry!’ Kiara fled the room, and the two detectives could hear a noisy and tearful embrace outside in the hall. It took a moment for them to realise that the sobs were from him, and the shushing and the ‘there-there’s from her. It must have been five minutes before the wailing stopped and he was composed enough to enter the lounge. Harshil Roy was tall and smartly dressed, with a boyish face and oval metal­framed spectacles that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. His hair was dishevelled at the back, as if the comb never got that far. He blew his nose noisily on an enormous, red cotton handkerchief, before wiping his eyes and greeting the two detectives. His handshake was firm but he didn’t make eye contact.