‘But I didn’t know that when my father died. Back in 1988. Which is why I got him to value Father’s paintings. And he did a good job, or so it seemed to me at the time. But he said that one of Father’s pictures was a fake, bought it for a pittance from me, and then, much later, got it reassigned as a Rothko. Which hurt, I can tell you. Rothko’s always been my specialism. I mean, look at my paintings. All these years later and I’m still obsessed with him.’

‘Then why have you set them on fire?’

‘I always destroy my work. After a time.’

‘Why?’

Elliot stared into the dying embers rather than answer.

‘Why do you burn your paintings?’ Tanika asked again.

‘Because I’m no good,’ he said, and Elliot seemed to be talking more to the fire than to her.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My work is worthless.’

He said the words so quietly, Tanika wasn’t sure she’d heard them correctly.

‘You went to art college.’

‘Anyone can go to art college. You only need ability for that. And I always had ability. But I didn’t have “it”. The gift. That thing that says you’re different. Special. That you have something to say.’

Tanika remembered how Judith had told her that Elliot had been awarded a place at art school when he was much younger, but his father had forbidden him from attending.

‘What about when you were younger? The first time you got into art college? Was your work special then?’

Elliot finally looked up from the fire.

‘I’ll never know, will I?’

For the first time, Tanika felt as though she were talking to the ‘real’ Elliot Howard. Not pompous, not superior at all in fact, he was more a little boy lost. Although, Tanika knew, ‘little boy losts’ were still capable of committing murder. And it was surely suspicious that he’d be painting and then burning Rothko-styled paintings after there’d been a Rothko-related theft from Stefan’s house, even if it was just the frame that had been taken.

‘Did you break into Stefan’s house after your argument with him at Henley?’ she asked.

‘No. What are you talking about?’

‘Then was it you who broke into his house last week?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about. What break-in?’

‘Did you steal the frame from Mr Dunwoody’s Rothko?’

‘Seriously, this is the first I’ve heard of any of this. What frame?’

Tanika could see that Elliot was apparently sincere in his answers. But if he hadn’t broken in and stolen the frame, then who had? And why was the frame so important in the first place?

Daisy headed over, a phone in her hand.

‘Detective Sergeant?’ she called out, and Elliot and Tanika turned around. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

‘What’s that, darling?’ Elliot asked.