He poured the tea and handed her a cup, checked his watch. He’s going somewhere, she thought. He’s going to leave me. She could hear another car draw up in the street outside, the door slam. Voices in the hall, yes, sir. John was nodding, as if he knew, as if he was expecting someone. The door opened and an older man entered, grey hair matching his suit.

‘Detective Superintendent Fielding.’ He held out his hand to her, his face sombre, like a pallbearer. ‘I’d like to offer my condolences for your loss, Miss Fisher,’ he said. ‘It must be very hard for you. A dreadful shock.’

Betty nodded. Shock. That was the word. She fixed her eyes on the fire, the glowing red coals, the flicker of blue and orange flame drifting in and out of focus. She was cold, shivery.

‘I’m so sorry to intrude,’ he went on. ‘But your father’s death…’ He paused. ‘We have to investigate, you understand, to find out how he died.’

‘Won’t a post-mortem show that?’

‘Yes, of course,’ the DS said. ‘It’s just that your father was a rather’ – he searched for the word – ‘prominent man.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There may be some official interest. I’m afraid this means asking you some awkward questions which you may find intrusive.’

She nodded. I know.

He smiled then. ‘Do you mind if I sit?’ He looked at the fire. ‘I think this has caught now, don’t you? Shall I turn the poker off?’ He didn’t wait for her answer, reached down and turned off the gas tap.

‘Can you tell me more about him?’ he said. ‘What was he like?’

‘I don’t know what I can say,’ she said. I never really knew him, she wanted to add. ‘He was strict, liked his own way. He was a bit of a bully, to be honest, at least with me.’

‘Well, sometimes fathers can be overprotective, you know, especially with daughters.’ He smiled, I know all about this. ‘Your father’s fiancée—’

‘Fiancée?’ Betty said. ‘You mean Mrs H? She’s just the housekeeper.’

The detective shifted his position, raised an eyebrow. ‘Mrs Henderson said you and your father were estranged.’

Betty shook her head. ‘That’s none of her business.’

‘Were you? Estranged?’

‘We had a disagreement, yes.’

‘How long ago?’

‘In the summer. July, I think.’

‘May I ask what it was about?’

‘Politics,’ she said.

The detective nodded, scribbled in shorthand. ‘Anything in particular?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Betty said. ‘It’s not important, not now. It’s too complicated.’ It was about politics, but it was about denial, too, and how could she explain that to this detective?

‘Why did you come back?’