The coroner had taken his time but had returned an open verdict, which was odd given the cyanide, then she’d spotted a piece in the Manchester Guardian reporting the expulsion of a Soviet diplomat engaged in active espionage. It didn’t mention Vasily by name, but the coroner’s verdict made a kind of sense. The doors to the garden had been open after all, the handles wiped clean of fingerprints.

John had come to her father’s funeral, stood at the back in a dark suit and black tie. She’d wanted to be angry, but his presence had touched her. He hadn’t come to pay respects for her father. His respects were for her. He’d acknowledged her with the smallest nod and the hint of a smile, left at the end of the service, without a word.

Vanished from her life.

She’d sold her father’s house, cleared out the furniture, every damn pleated cushion and Toby jug, and bought an apartment in West Hampstead. The hell with Mrs H. She had a fat pension to live off. Betty had had a new bed and sofa delivered yesterday when she’d moved in, and Nick had helped her transport her stuff from Dee’s, her books and clothes, her clock, and odd bits that she’d accumulated for the move, a dustpan and brush, a Ewbank, a kettle, coffee mugs.

She needed other basics, a table and chairs, bedroom furniture, rugs. There was an auction house on the New King’s Road and Dee had taken the afternoon off to go with her. ‘Leave the bidding to me,’ she’d said, pulling her face into a knowing wink. ‘I’m a past master at it.’ Nick said he could get hold of a van if she needed to shift anything.

Betty drained her mug and went back into the kitchen, picking up the post as she went. The flat needed decorating. She’d watched Barry Bucknell on Dee’s television, DIY every Tuesday evening. Painting, papering. It looked simple enough.

She tucked the letters into her dressing gown pocket and wandered back into the sitting room. It faced south-east, caught the morning sun, was bright and airy. It could take a bold colour. There was a fireplace in the corner with an old-fashioned mantelpiece which she’d rip out in due course, put in something sleek and modern. She put the clock on it for the moment. It still kept perfect time. It wasn’t much, but it was a link. Blue. Perhaps the sitting room could be painted blue, to show off the chrome frame and smoked glass of the clock’s face.