‘Some might say cowardly. But it worked. Over the years, Thursday nights, like last night, became his work late night. To this day, to this hour, I honestly don’t know whether it really was work that he stayed for or the physical needs he may have had.’

‘I take it you don’t want the police to know of this,’ said Sara.

‘That’s something I need to think about. And whether the girls should know too.’

Sara studied the woman just an arm’s length from her, hair scraped back into a simple bun. Agony was now etched in the creases of her skin. If it helped to explain the circumstances of her husband’s death, Sara should try to persuade her to tell the police. But her own powerful instinct was that it did not; if so, there was nothing to be gained by making a public confession of it. Whether or not she told their children could only be a matter for her.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Sara. ‘I understand how difficult it must be.’

‘Yes.’ It was no more than a murmur. There was something further this woman wanted to share, Sara was sure of it. Another long-buried secret. Iona raised herself, walked over to a window, peered out as if she was checking for some observer, and turned. ‘There was an added element to his resignation.’ She paused, still hesitant. ‘Francis was visited by two gentlemen, from what it soon became clear were the intelligence services. They had detailed knowledge of his proclivities and relationships. They said that, if he wished to stay in office, they could protect him from any form of public exposure. But…’

‘There was a but…’

‘Yes, they would like to have occasional meetings and briefings with him about the political world he inhabited. About individuals. About their private discussions, their private habits.’

‘Bastards,’ said Sara with quiet fury.

‘Yes,’ said Iona, resuming her seat. ‘Bastards.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He declined their offer, to put it that way. He told me it was a slippery slope; he’d prefer to resign and return to the law. Which he did. They never contacted him again. Even though he rose high in that world, I suppose you could say they had the decency to leave him alone.’

Sara perceived more sharply than ever that what she’d become embroiled in was far more than an investigation of the past; it was a collision of past and present that had turned toxic. ‘I don’t think decency applies,’ she said. ‘Then or now. I was with your husband just an hour or two before he died. He was excited, yes, but not about some sexual encounter he had in store. I’m sure of it. The excitement was in what he was reading.’

‘The files?’

‘Yes. And no doubt other material he was matching it with. Understanding where the trail might lead.’