As Dalgliesh didn’t reply, she went on. “He is, as he’s fond of proclaiming, Marcus’s and my first cousin. His mother, Sophie, was our father’s only sister. For at least the past two generations the Westhall men have undervalued and occasionally despised their daughters. The birth of a son was a cause for celebration, the birth of a daughter a misfortune. This prejudice isn’t totally uncommon even today, but with my father and grandfather it amounted almost to a family obsession. I’m not saying there was any physical neglect or cruelty. There wasn’t. But I’ve no doubt Robin’s mother suffered emotional neglect and acquired a weight of inferiority and self-distrust. She wasn’t clever or pretty, or indeed particularly likable, and was, not unnaturally, something of a problem from childhood. She left home as soon as she could and had some satisfaction in disobliging her parents by living a fairly rackety life in the hectic world on the fringes of the pop-music scene. She was just twenty-one when she married Keith Boyton, and she could hardly have made a worse choice. I only met him once, but I found him repellent. She was pregnant when they married, but that was hardly an excuse and I’m surprised she went ahead with the pregnancy. Motherhood was a new sensation, I suppose. Keith had a certain superficial charm but I have never met anyone more obviously on the make. He was a designer, or claimed to be, and found work occasionally. In between he did odd jobs to bring in some income, at one time, I believe, selling double glazing by telephone. Nothing lasted. My aunt, who worked as a secretary, was the main wage-earner. Somehow the marriage survived, largely because he depended on her. Maybe she loved him. Anyway, according to Robin, she died of cancer when he was seven, and Keith found himself another woman and emigrated to Australia. No one has heard from him since.”

Dalgliesh asked, “When did Robin Boyton make regular contact with you?”