‘Foreclosures, debt collectors, death threats. And that’s when I found out myself. I tell you,’ Ms Johnson added, visibly fuming, ‘it wasn’t the life I signed up for. I was working as a … a waitress at the time, and I was tricked by that fancy car of his, the suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe. He hoodwinked me, the way he’d hoodwinked people his entire life.’

Fleet registered the slight pause Ms Johnson had left before she’d described what she’d done for a living. Reading between the lines, he thought he had a fair idea of the type of establishment she might have worked in.

‘In what way did your husband hoodwink people, Ms Johnson?’ he asked.

Ms Johnson made a face. Where to begin? her expression said. ‘He started off in advertising. Made something like an honest wage, I suppose. But after that, he went into investments. Property, in theory. In reality, it was all smoke and mirrors.’

‘Your husband died of a heart attack. In …’ Nicky checked her notes. ‘2003. Is that right, Ms Johnson?’

‘Leaving me with nothing but a mortgage worth more than the house we were living in, and so many unpaid bills you could have built another house next door from just the paperwork,’ said Ben’s stepmother. ‘That’s how I ended up here. And it’s why I changed my name back to Johnson. To get away from it all. I mean, even the school started sending demands for payment. Can you believe it? After what happened to my stepson while he was there?’ She signalled her outrage by shaking her head. ‘I would have sued if I’d been able to afford a solicitor. Although …’ An idea appeared to occur to her. ‘I could still sue. Couldn’t I? If Ben’s dead and someone at the school was responsible? It’s not as though they’re short of a bob or two.’

‘We wouldn’t know about that, Ms Johnson,’ said Fleet. ‘And we don’t know who was responsible for Ben’s death. That’s why it’s so important that you tell us as much about your stepson as you can.’

Ms Johnson appeared to deflate slightly, as though the momentary optimism she’d felt had gone the way of the smoke from her cigarette. ‘Yeah, well. As I said, I can barely remember what he looked like, let alone much else. He was ten when I got together with his father, and he started going to prep school at eleven. And once he turned thirteen, he was boarding pretty much full-time.’

‘Even over weekends?’ asked Nicky.