She lit the cigarette from a gold lighter. Smoke drifted up into the glass roof, and hung there, swirling slowly.

‘I suppose you might say he was a born salesman,’ said Deborah. ‘Patrick had the charm to sell anything to anybody. Snow to Eskimos, isn’t that the saying?’

‘Something like that,’ said Fry.

‘He was selling cars when I first met him. Down in Digbeth, that was. A snappy suit and a dodgy hair cut.’ Deborah laughed. ‘But it was his smile that reeled me in. That, and the commission he told me he was earning.’

Yes, Fry could see Patrick Rawson as a used-car salesman. She reminded herself not to be taken in by a salesman’s smile when she went to buy herself a new car. As if that was likely.

‘What about the horses? Where did they come in?’ she asked.

‘From his father, Owen Rawson. It was in the family.’

Fry followed Mrs Rawson’s gaze and watched the horse being trotted across the paddock. She had no idea what kind of horse it was. A brown one, that was all she could say. But even she could tell that it moved with eye-catching grace, muscles sliding smoothly over its shoulders, feet lifting high off the ground. For a large animal, its step was dainty, as if it was afraid of damaging the grass.

‘I don’t know a great deal about horses,’ she said. ‘But is there really much money to be made?’

‘It’s like anything else, Detective Sergeant. It depends whether you know what you’re doing.’

‘And your husband did?’

‘Certainly. Patrick always knew what he was doing.’

Murfin had been gazing out of the conservatory windows, leaning to see the stable block to one side of the paddock. Fry wasn’t sure he’d even been listening, but he threw her a glance, raised an eyebrow, and she nodded.

‘And has business been good recently, Mrs Rawson?’ he asked.

Deborah took the cigarette out of her mouth and looked at him, surprised. Until now, she had barely acknowledged him, probably regarded him as no more important than the stable girl, there only to rub down the horse when it got too sweaty. She seemed to have to think about his question.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said at last.

‘It’s just that I notice the stables seem to be mostly empty.’

‘Horses come and go. I couldn’t even tell you what there is out there, without Patrick being here. The girl might know, I suppose.’

‘You don’t even know how many horses there are?’

‘As I told you yesterday, I’ve never had anything to do with the business. You’ll have to talk to Michael Clay.’

‘You told us your husband went up to Derbyshire for the horse sale. And you were right, there is one scheduled for this Saturday. But would he also have called on private individuals? Private sellers?’

‘I suppose so, if it was worth his while. I think he had some regular dealings with stables and riding schools.’