‘The Foreign Office archived my father’s papers,’ said Vivienne. ‘He was never interested in writing his memoirs, or anything like that. And I am sure he would never have written down anything about this.’ Her face crumpled for a second. ‘He would have been so ashamed.’

‘He just wanted to live a quiet life,’ said Casey.

‘I don’t know what we will do with that house now,’ said Vivienne, almost to herself. ‘I am sure the children would love it so much when they are a bit older. It is so very beautiful.’

‘It is stunning,’ agreed Casey, without thinking.

There was a pause.

‘Did you go there?’ Vivienne’s words came slowly. ‘Before he died? Out to the house on Paxos?’

Casey hesitated a long moment. But there was no way of lying: ‘Yes. Yes, I went out there.’

‘When?’

‘Not long ago.’

Vivienne was watching her face. ‘You were there’ – there was an eruption of rage – ‘when my father died. You were there!’

Casey looked across the room at Vivienne. Upstairs, the baby started to cry again. The awareness was growing, creeping across Vivienne’s face.

‘You went to my father, with all your accusations. With all your threats and menaces. You . . .’

‘It wasn’t—’

‘Get the hell out of here,’ said Vivienne. ‘Get away from me.’

She spun away from them, out into the hall, and paused for just a second. ‘You killed my father,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘You can leave the rest of my family alone.’

15

15

‘You think he jumped, don’t you?’ Miranda was climbing into her car. They had left it, parked neatly in the village, beside the thatch of a Ring of Bells.

‘Of course he jumped.’ Casey was staring at an old tree. It had grown so slowly around a barbed-wire fence that the steel was completely embedded in the wood. Like a flawed relationship, Casey thought. Digging in so gently that nobody noticed.

‘She’s wrong, though, you know,’ said Miranda.

‘Is she?’

‘If anything’ – Miranda was firm – ‘she destroyed her own father. She knew what she was doing, when she asked for his help.’

‘She didn’t know the consequences.’ Casey watched the hedgerows slide past.

‘No one ever does.’

By the time they got back to the office, Hessa had pulled together a package of research on Dr Greystone.

‘A Dr Greystone operates out of one of the big Georgian houses on Harley Street. The building itself is owned by a company in the British Virgin Islands.’ Hessa was reading from her notes. ‘Aceso Limited. There are several doctors operating from different sets of rooms in the building, which is quite usual in these properties. Greystone is the only fertility specialist in that building. I’ve found a house, wife and kids in Hampstead. Huge place, must have cost a fortune. There is a website for Greystone’s clinic, pretty standard stuff. Bouncing babies and big smiles, and however-can-I-thank-yous?’

‘Heartwarming. He’s British?’ asked Miranda.