An earlier message told her that Cooper had already spoken to McGowan, but not to Vernon Slack, who’d called in sick. Fry frowned at that. Cooper recommended bringing McGowan in for formal interview. She scrawled a big tick and ‘OK’ on the note, and looked around the office.

‘Gavin,’ she said, ‘set this up, will you?’

Then there was Professor Freddy Robertson. He’d been responsible for carrying out an inventory of the bones in the crypt at Alder Hall. That probably meant nothing, but Fry still had a bad feeling about him. A gut instinct, perhaps, and no more. She shouldn’t let it influence her judgement.

‘By the way,’ said Murfin, ‘there’s a lady here who says she wants to talk to someone. A Mrs Somerville.’

‘Never heard of her. What does she want? Can’t you deal with her, Gavin?’

‘Well, I thought you might be interested in talking to her yourself, like. She says she’s Professor Robertson’s daughter.’

Anne Jarvis lay on a sofa in the sitting room. Only her head and arms protruded from the quilt that had been used to cover her, and one hand hung limply towards the floor. The room was very warm, and somewhere a fly buzzed against a window pane.

Cooper halted in the doorway of the room, taking in his surroundings. Almost the first thing he noticed was the quilt’s pink floral pattern. It was the worst possible thing for showing up the dog hairs. The atmosphere was stuffy, and the smell reminded him of his visits to the hospital. Where Mrs Jarvis’s skin showed, it was white and almost translucent, the light from a standard lamp above the sofa shining through to the veins, as if her body was held together by tissue paper.

With an effort, she turned her head on a pillow and looked at him. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Another visitor. I am honoured.’

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ said Cooper. ‘I didn’t realize …’

‘That it was a sick room? Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Her voice was frail, but still lively. She moved her right hand, but didn’t quite complete the intended gesture. ‘Don’t be shy, whoever you are – sit down and have a cup of tea.’

‘I really can’t stop, Mrs Jarvis. I just came in to say hello.’

‘This is the policeman I told you about, Annie,’ said Jarvis, bending over her to lift her trailing hand back on to the quilt. ‘The detective.’

‘Oh, does he have a name?’

‘I’m DC Cooper, Mrs Jarvis.’

‘Cooper? I think I knew another policeman by that name once, but I forget what he did. I forget a lot of things.’

Cooper fidgeted uncertainly. He had no idea what was wrong with Mrs Jarvis, and there was no way he could come straight out and ask. It just wasn’t done to be so direct. The dog that had followed him into the room sidled towards the sofa and settled itself into position against the edge of the quilt. Feckless, Pointless or Aimless, he couldn’t tell. But the animal remained quite still as Mrs Jarvis’s hand slipped slowly down and came to rest on top of its broad head.