‘But Miss Outram told us that her father and yours were very close,’ said Fry.

‘Well, that’s true, at least. They were almost inseparable, even though Dad was a few years younger. He told me that’s how they were right back to when they were boys here in Derbyshire. I think that’s probably quite unusual for brothers, isn’t it? Normally they tend to fight a lot – well, I know my two do. But when Uncle Stuart died of pancreatic cancer last year, it broke Dad up. You could see then how close they were. It took Dad ages to get round to sorting out Uncle Stuart’s things, because he just couldn’t face the memories. He found that job very difficult, stayed shut away with his brother’s papers for hours. And this thing with the illegitimate daughter – well, I think this is Dad’s way of trying to express his feelings towards his brother. He can be so naïve about people sometimes. So easily taken in.’

‘You think Pauline Outram has conned him in some way? Do you think she’s not really who she says she is?’

‘No. I know Dad did a few checks on her.’

‘Not so naïve, then?’

‘I made him do it.’

‘Which means Pauline Outram is your cousin,’ said Fry.

‘I suppose so. But you don’t have to be tied to your cousins, do you?’

Fry sat back, feeling suddenly tired. Erin Lacey’s version of events fit quite closely with the story told by Pauline Outram earlier, though with a different spin, of course. Strange that the two women should feel so diametrically opposed to each other when their fathers had been so close. But then, perhaps that closeness was the sole reason they hated each other.

‘Before I forget, I brought these photos that you asked for, of my Dad,’ said Erin Lacey. ‘I think there’s one here of him and Uncle Stuart together. They’re so alike, Uncle Stuart was like an older version of Dad.’

‘Thank you.’

Fry looked at the photos, remembering the man she’d met earlier in the week, with the strange grey eyes and the wide jaw line. And here were the two brothers, at a much younger age. Michael had probably been in his late teens, Stuart mid-twenties. And Michael Clay did indeed look like a junior version of his brother. But there was a certain amount of contrivance about the similarity. The younger brother had tried to tease his hair into the same style, had adopted the same casual, slouching pose, hands thrust into his pockets. A hero-worshipping younger brother, if ever she saw one.

‘You know, it’s one of Deborah Rawson’s problems, too,’ said Erin.

‘What is?’

‘The fact that Dad has been sensible with his money. She and Patrick have a huge mortgage on that place out at Mere Green. It was rather out of their range when they bought it, if you ask me. They’re desperate to keep up, both of them.’

‘To keep up with the Clays?’