‘And he didn’t use a fax machine or a courier because…?’

‘They were sensitive documents.’

‘Alison,’ said Strike, enjoying her agitation, ‘we both know that’s balls. Cyprian thought Tony had sloped off somewhere with Ursula for the day, didn’t he?’

‘He didn’t! He hadn’t!’

Up at the bar, Aunt Winifred was waving her arms, windmill-like, at Bristow and Robin, who were wearing frozen smiles.

‘You found him in Oxford, did you?’

‘No, because—’

‘What time did you get there?’

‘About eleven, but he’d—’

‘Cyprian must’ve sent you out the moment you got to work, did he?’

‘The documents were urgent.’

‘But you didn’t find Tony at his hotel or in the conference centre?’

‘I missed him,’ she said, in furious desperation, ‘because he’d gone back to London to visit Lady Bristow.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Right. Bit odd that he didn’t let you or Cyprian know that he was going back to London, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ she said, with a valiant attempt at regaining her vanished superiority. ‘He was contactable. He was still on his mobile. It didn’t matter.’

‘Did you call his mobile?’

She did not answer.

‘Did you call it, and not get an answer?’

She sipped her port in simmering silence.

‘In fairness, it would break the mood, taking a call from your secretary while you’re on the job.’

He thought that she would find this offensive, and was not disappointed.

‘You’re disgusting. You’re really disgusting,’ she said thickly, her cheeks a dull dark red with the prudishness she tried to disguise under a show of superiority.

‘Do you live alone?’ he asked her.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she asked, completely off-balance now.

‘Just wondered. So you don’t see anything odd in Tony booking into an Oxford hotel for the night, driving back to London the following morning, then returning to Oxford again, in time to check out of his hotel the next day?’

‘He went back to Oxford so that he could attend the conference in the afternoon,’ she said doggedly.

‘Oh, really? Did you hang around and meet him there?’

‘He was there,’ she said evasively.

‘You’ve got proof, have you?’

She said nothing.

‘Tell me,’ said Strike, ‘would you rather think that Tony was in bed with Ursula May all day, or having some kind of confrontation with his niece?’

Over at the bar, Aunt Winifred was straightening her knitted hat and retying her belt. She seemed to be preparing to leave.

For several seconds Alison fought herself, and then, with an air of unleashing something long suppressed, she said in a ferocious whisper:

‘They aren’t having an affair. I know they aren’t. It wouldn’t happen. Ursula only cares about money; it’s all that matters to her, and Tony’s got less than Cyprian. Ursula wouldn’t want Tony. She wouldn’t.’