‘What about tonight? Am I banished to my flat or can I come home and sleep in my own bed?’

‘I’ll call you later.’

‘All right.’ He kissed her on the top of her head. ‘Any problems, ring me. I’ll keep my mobile on all day.’

‘I’m fine. David is locked up in a cell, so you don’t have to worry about him either.’

Julian walked towards the door, stopped and turned round. ‘I nearly forgot. I’ve just had an email from my secretary. I have a client who can only see me at seven this evening, so whatever, I’m going to be late. Bye, darling, take care.’

He blew her a kiss, and left by the kitchen door.

At eleven, Angelina opened the door to Inspector Hunter.

‘Come in,’ she said wearily.

‘Thank you.’

Angelina led Jazz into the sitting room and ushered her to a sofa.

‘How’s Rory this morning?’ Jazz asked.

‘He only woke up twenty minutes ago. I took him breakfast in bed and he’s just having a bath. He’s quiet, but he seems unharmed.’

‘He hasn’t said anything about his father confessing to the murder of Charlie Cavendish, then?’

‘No, nothing. And I haven’t pushed it. I was just glad to get him home. He’s going to have to deal with all that soon enough.’ Angelina shook her head. ‘This is a nightmare. And I feel responsible. If only I hadn’t left David, had stood by him, then maybe none of this would have happened.’

‘You do what you think is best at the time, Mrs Millar. You weren’t to know what would happen.’

‘David losing his job wasn’t my fault, or his drinking problem, but my behaviour . . . Anyway, what’s done is done. All I can do now is try and help Rory through the best I can.’

‘I need to see him, Mrs Millar. Before we can proceed against your ex-husband, there are a few questions that we need Rory to answer.’

‘Does it have to be now? Poor lamb, he’s been through so much.’

‘I’m afraid so. I’ll be gentle, don’t worry.’

Angelina’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’ll go and see if he’s out of the bath.’ She stood up and left the room.

When Rory Millar walked in, his mother’s protective hands on his shoulders, Jazz was once more struck by the likeness to the young man in Hugh Daneman’s photograph. Both of them had the same aesthetic, feminine looks; Rory was yet to reach the stage of puberty that would rob him for a few years of his cherubic beauty. His pale skin was unmarked by acne, his ice-blue eyes dominated his face and his girlish, cupid-bow lips were still untouched by the kiss of a woman. His hair hung in still-damp golden curls, reaching almost to his shoulders.

He was taller than she’d imagined, thin of frame and narrow of hip. She could see a little of David in him, but nothing of his mother.

‘Rory, this is Inspector Hunter. She’s come to ask you a few questions. She knows you’re very tired, so I’m sure she’ll keep this short.’