She stared at him with the intensity of a hawk. ‘When this murder happened is no accident, believe me. The timing is very significant.’

‘What do you mean?’

Prisha sighed and let her hands fall to the table, as if having second thoughts. When she looked up her face was softer and more reflective. ‘When I was a little girl, my father gave me a doll. She was white, as you couldn’t get Asian-featured dolls in Britain at that time. I painted her face brown to match my own, and made her a sari from scraps of material. And then I made her jewellery from cooking foil, and some of my grandmother’s old beads.’ Now her eyes focused on him. ‘I believe in shaping my own destiny. Our family’s destiny. But someone is trying to destroy us, to change and ultimately control our wonderful company.’

‘Who controls your company isn’t my concern. It’s only my concern if this same person could have been involved in the death of your mother.’

She leaned forward. ‘But I think there is a link. I don’t want to name names, but you’re a detective, you can find out.’

Gillard leaned back in the chair and spread his arms. ‘Actually I do want you to name names, and to offer me some evidence if you have any.’

‘Oh, there’s no real evidence. She’s too clever for that.’

‘Do you mean the operations manager? Morag Fairburn?’

Prisha inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘So you do have a nose for the criminal element.’

‘I’m aware that she mentioned continued hostility from you, that’s all.’

‘I’m the eldest. I have to look after our family, particularly now. Did you know that my grandmother predicted exactly when her daughter – my mother – would die?’

‘How?’

‘It was in her star chart.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never believed in astrology.’

Prisha gave a look of amused indulgence. ‘That’s a typical Aries thing to say.’

Gillard laughed and so did she, but her next utterance was a bombshell: ‘Craig Michael Gillard. Date of birth 18^th April 1967, in Croydon. Rising sign Sagittarius, cusp of Leo. It seems you had a very bad year in 1986 that nearly destroyed you, it’s as bold as brass on your birth sign. But next year will be even worse.’

He was stunned because it was true. As an innocent eighteen-year-old he had fallen head over heels in love with a brilliant and charismatic girl, one completely out of his league. Liz had dumped him when she went off to Cambridge, leaving him in pieces. He had even considered suicide. It took him years to get over her, if he ever had. But how could Prisha possibly know this?

The detective fixed her with his steeliest gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’m not impressed.’ He was lying. He still didn’t believe in astrology. But Prisha was right. He was impressed. And worried.

‘I didn’t mean to worry you, detective chief inspector. Casting horoscopes is just a little hobby of mine.’