‘Perhaps I’ll leave the three of you to get acquainted,’ said the receptionist.

Fleet nodded his thanks, and waited until she’d made herself scarce.

‘Mrs Leigh—’

‘What do you want, Detective Inspector?’

Fleet had the impression the woman had about as much time for the police as she did for members of the press. ‘I was hoping to speak with your father,’ he said. ‘But, well …’ He glanced at the man in the bed.

‘My father’s in no condition to speak to anyone,’ said Mrs Leigh. ‘As I’m sure you can see.’ The pause she left felt laden with reproach. ‘What’s this about, anyway? I swear to God, if it’s something to do with what’s going on at that school …’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ Fleet confirmed. He held up a hand, cutting off Mrs Leigh’s reply. ‘But not in the sense I’d imagine you’re thinking. No one suspects your father of being involved in a crime, Mrs Leigh. Rather, I was hoping he might help us solve one.’

There’d been a break in the weather, and Fleet suggested they talk outside. Angela Leigh led the way to the hospice’s garden. It was lush and overgrown, and a welcome contrast to the prim fastidiousness of Beaconsfield’s immaculately tended grounds. One or two patients and their carers seemed to be considering following them out, but for the time being Fleet and Richard Hewitt’s daughter had the space to themselves.

‘From what I understand,’ said Fleet, ‘your father taught drama at Beaconsfield College for fifteen years. And then he left, in March 1996, just over a year before Ben Draper went missing. It was rather an abrupt departure, I believe.’

Angela gave a sniff. ‘My father dedicated his career to that school. To those kids.’ She spoke the word with obvious bitterness. ‘And his reward was being hounded from his job. He had a stroke six months later, two more over the next ten years. For the past decade, Detective Inspector, my father has been virtually bed-bound.’

They were ambling along a path that cut diagonally across the lawn, and abruptly Angela stopped walking. ‘How old do you think my father is? If you don’t already know, have a guess.’

Fleet didn’t know, but he would have estimated from the brief time he’d spent in the same room as the man that Richard Hewitt was in his early eighties. Late seventies, at least.

‘He’s sixty-seven,’ Angela said, sparing Fleet from having to answer. She seemed to take some grim satisfaction from Fleet’s evident surprise.

‘That’s what being falsely accused does to a person,’ Hewitt’s daughter went on. ‘He never got over it. Could never comprehend why someone would make up such lies. Someone, moreover, he’d taken under his wing.’