‘We need to know where your husband stayed when he was up here. Can you tell us that, at least?’

‘Now, I thought you would ask that. Patrick always stays at the same place when he’s in Derbyshire. He says it has a nice golf course.’ She produced a card from her bag. ‘This is it.’

Fry took the card. The Birch House Country Hotel. She wasn’t familiar with the hotel, but judging from the address in Birchlow it must be practically within a golf swing of her crime scene.

‘Did you ever phone Mr Rawson while he was there?’

‘Yes, once or twice.’

‘Actually on the hotel number?’

‘No, I always call his mobile. Why go through a hotel receptionist?’

Why, indeed? Except that it would have established whether Patrick Rawson really was staying where he told his wife he’d be. A jealous or suspicious partner would have thought of that. But not Deborah Rawson, apparently. Fry wasn’t sure she believed it.

‘And the number you called would be this one, which you gave to the local police yesterday?’

‘Yes. That’s the one Patrick used for personal calls, the Sony Ericsson. He had another number for business calls, though.’

‘Oh?’

Fry felt a surge of irritation. If those West Midlands officers had discovered that fact yesterday, her team could already have been tracking down all the calls Rawson had made and received. As it was, she would be nearly a day behind on the job. It was time lost that could never be regained. And all because somebody had failed to ask the right question.

Mrs Rawson gave her the second number. ‘Pat does his business entirely by mobile phone, because he’s always on the move. He might have left the Sony Ericsson behind somewhere, but he would never have been without the iPhone. He hates the idea of missing a business call or an email, and all his contacts are on there.’

‘Thank you.’

So there were two phones missing. This was looking less and less like an accident, or even a mugging gone wrong. Fry itched to get the machinery swinging into action, but there was still no confirmation that Rawson’s death was due to murder. The postmortem would be starting right now, with the bereaved widow safely out of the way.

‘I keep saying “Pat does this” and “he hates that”,’ said Mrs Rawson. ‘I suppose I have to learn to start using the past tense, don’t I?’

‘It will take a while to come to terms with what’s happened,’ said Fry, watching carefully for an emotional outburst, which didn’t come. ‘Would you like me to send for your brother?’

‘No, I’m all right. Really.’

‘Just one more thing for now, then,’ said Fry. ‘Why did your husband attend horse sales, Mrs Rawson? Do you ride?’

‘I’m not keen myself. But we do have some stables at the house in Sutton. Patrick used to buy horses and sell them on. Quiet rides for novices. He had a good eye for that sort of thing.’