‘The what?’

‘Maharani. Royalty, effectively. Female equivalent of a maharajah.’

‘What about Morag Fairburn?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, she’s a clever one. Efficient, well-organised, ambitious but nice as pie with it. Boy, she has some kind of hold on Harry.’

‘She was his girlfriend, wasn’t she?’

‘More than that. Puppet mistress, you could say. She pulls all his strings. But I have to admit, as operations manager she’s made the whole place more shipshape.’

Claire made some notes and then asked, ‘So, as the amateur sleuth, who wanted Mrs Roy dead?’

Mrs Boswell smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me. It’s the same answer. Either Prisha or her nasty ex, Deepak.’ She lifted a finger to her lips. ‘Just between us, understand.’

‘Tell me about Deepak,’ Claire said, moving her chair a little closer.

‘Deepak Tripathi. When he married the daughter, years before I was hired, they made him the director of international sourcing, cementing him into the family. I’ve seen his expense accounts, and he treats the company like his personal piggy bank. Fortunately, he’s travelling most of the time so I rarely run into him. He bursts in here and mouths off in Gujarati at Mrs Roy, and though I don’t understand the actual words, one inevitably does get the gist. When he married Prisha, he basically expected to run the place, and after the death of Dr Roy he never quite adjusted to having a female boss. It’s annoying he’s still here, despite the divorce. He made her cry on a couple of occasions.’ Mrs Boswell leaned in closer. ‘Actually, while I’m spilling the beans, you should know he’s a dreadful womaniser. I think one of the reasons Mrs Roy hired me was because he used to try it on with some of my predecessors. You know the sort: young, pretty, curvy, no common sense. I’m pretty sure he bedded a couple. He is extremely smooth, and darkly handsome in an untrustworthy, pick-your-pocket-while-kissing-you kind of way.’

‘Classic baddie in a crime book?’

‘Absolutely. Mrs Roy sacked my immediate predecessor because she thought she was spying on her for Deepak. I’ll never forget the day he came in just after I was appointed. “Who are you? And where’s Abigail?” he demanded.’ Mrs Boswell’s face lit up. ‘I told him, “I’m the new Abigail, delighted to meet you,” and I held out my hand. He stormed out and slammed the door. When I told Mrs Roy she was thrilled.’

‘So you were plunged into office politics from day one?’

‘Yes. But, when you have spent ten years flying long haul with drunken business class lotharios, and sex-mad flight crew, you can handle anything, believe me.’

Claire laughed. ‘I take your point. By the way, I tried to get hold of Harry earlier, but he’s not answering his phone – I don’t suppose you know where he might be?’

‘Ah. Tuesday afternoon. You’ll find him down at the cricket ground.’

Littlebrook Fields cricket ground may have been, as Mrs Boswell claimed, just around the corner from the main EoS factory, but it wasn’t an easy place to find, access to it squeezed between two 1930s warehouses on a side street off Burnham Lane. There were no fields nearby. Claire had imagined a large circular ground, with velvety stripes of pristine grass, and gentle applause as men in whites cracked balls to the boundary. What she found was a rectangular area of weeds, netted up for practice, in the shadow of a motor components distributor, and behind it a modern but narrow two-storey building. Dozens of cars were parked haphazardly across the frontage. The heraldic shield above the front door, crossed bats and a pair of gloves, confirmed she was at the right place. As she passed through the sliding doors, she heard the echoes of children’s voices and saw directly ahead into a gym hall a dozen wheelchair-bound youngsters throwing basketballs to each other. She made her way along the corridor and into the hall, spotting Harry Roy in a tracksuit with a whistle in his mouth, directing activities. A number of adults, mainly but not exclusively South Asian, stood at the edge of the hall watching their children enjoying themselves.