‘Off to the right somewhere,’ said Murfin.

They saw the M6 toll road in the distance and turned down a narrow lane for five hundred yards before they came to the entrance to the Rawsons’ property.

‘He did well for himself,’ said Fry, drawing the Peugeot up in front of a triple garage, built in the same style and the same warm, brown brick of the house itself. They crunched across a gravel turning circle to the liveried police car standing near the front door. Fry introduced herself and Murfin to the two West Midlands officers.

‘Good morning, Sergeant. We’ve been expecting you. How was the trip?’

‘Fine,’ said Fry.

‘We should have taken the toll road,’ suggested Murfin.

Fry sighed. ‘Is Mrs Rawson at home?’

‘Yes, we informed her you were coming.’

‘How are we going to do this?’ asked Murfin, as they walked to the door.

‘According to the book,’ said Fry. ‘With courtesy and consideration.’

‘I don’t think I know that book.’

‘They probably hadn’t published it when you were in training, Gavin.’

‘I don’t go back to the Dark Ages, you know.’

‘How come your eating habits are so medieval, then?’ said Fry, as she rang the bell.

DEBORAH RAWSON WAS sitting in a large conservatory watching a stable girl exercise a horse outside. Mrs Rawson wore a cream silk blouse that looked so expensive it was probably produced by some rare Buddhist silkworm in the foothills of the Himalayas. The atmosphere of the conservatory was thick with perfume. Mrs Rawson had prepared herself for her visitors.

‘If you’re married to a man like Patrick,’ she said, ‘you learn to expect that the worst will happen some time. Sooner or later.’

Fry’s first question had actually been a polite one – an enquiry about Mrs Rawson’s welfare. Now, as she studied the woman, she wondered whether Hitchens had been right about the effects of shock. She looked a little more upset than she had yesterday. Paler, more nervous in her gestures. Her eyes didn’t seem to be able to settle on her visitors, but constantly darted back to the girl and the horse outside.

‘Your husband had been in trouble on a few occasions, hadn’t he?’ said Fry.

Deborah lowered her head, tapping out a cigarette from a packet on the coffee table in front of her. ‘He tended to sail a bit close to the wind, I suppose. Pat was just that sort of businessman, you know. I’m sure you’ve met the type before, Sergeant. He enjoyed the challenge, the adrenalin rush. Thrived on it, in fact.’

‘The challenge of breaking the law?’

‘No, not exactly. The challenge of seeing how much he could get away with. He’s made quite a bit of money, at times.’

‘But his main business was the buying and selling of horses. Is that right?’

‘The equine trade. That’s what he liked to call it, when he was talking to his friends down at the golf club. But I wouldn’t say it was his main business. Not recently, anyway. He had a finger in lots of other pies.’