‘Inspector, don’t you think I’ve asked myself every single day of my life why I drank that lunchtime? How I could have taken painkillers on top of drink and slept the sleep of the dead and put my children in danger?’

Suddenly, from nowhere a great protective anger took hold of Blythe. He stared at this small woman who had carried her guilt like a stranglehold round her neck for twenty-eight years.

‘Mrs Campbell, you are not a bad mother. Nor are you responsible for the death of your child, although I doubt anyone can make you believe it. You did not go to sleep in a dangerous place where harm could come to children. You were staying in a sleepy little Malaysian rest house, surrounded by other Europeans and locals who would not harm a fly.

‘You had watched your husband die in a horrific accident. You were still grieving and exhausted. You wanted to sleep, you craved oblivion, you had a drink and you took painkillers, but you also took your children into your own room so that they were near you and asked the amah to stay in the house knowing you needed to sleep. These are not the actions of a bad mother, but of someone nearing the end of their endurance.

‘It was unfortunate your parents had to leave you. You might ask them if they have blamed themselves for the rest of their lives. It was unfortunate that the amah slept, but it is the man who killed your child, either by accident or design, that is responsible for the death of your daughter. Not you. Not your parents. Not Nikki who stayed behind with you. A person, as yet unknown, killed your child randomly and wantonly while you rested. That does not make you a bad mother…or culpable…’

He took a deep breath. ‘This is the real world and parents aren’t perfect, just human. We make mistakes, but we do our best, Mrs Campbell, we do our best for our children and that’s all we can do. We can’t foresee what’s coming. We can’t protect them from a chain of events that together produce a tragedy. All we have is the knowledge of hindsight…’

Blythe petered out, astounded at himself. His wife would have been even more astounded as he was a man not prone to vocalising his feelings.

Surprised, Fleur could not trust herself to speak. Her emotions were so near the surface that she had to rein them in tight; unexpected kindness threatened to tip her over the edge. She was aware that Blythe was not a man given to outbursts and she was touched.

She got up and went to the fridge and got out a beer for him. It was nearly lunchtime and she guessed he could do with one.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said as she put the glass down beside him.

He looked up, slightly embarrassed, and said, quickly, while he had the courage, ‘My eldest son was killed in a motorbike accident. My wife hadn’t wanted him to have one. I said he could. He tried to race a mate to Cornwall for a dare. He killed himself and a young girl in a car. For a while I blamed myself…my wife did too. If I’d said no, he would still be alive.’