Passing the Manor, Benton saw that the security team’s caravan and cars were no longer parked outside. The windows blazed with light as if for a celebration. It was not a word any of the household would have used but Benton knew that a great weight had been lifted from all of them, a final loosening of fear, suspicion and the deepening anxiety that the truth might never be known. The arrest of one of them would have been preferable to that, but an arrest would have meant prolonging the suspense, the prospect of a national trial, the public show of the witness box, the damaging publicity. A confession followed by suicide was the rational and—they would be able to tell themselves—the most merciful solution for Candace. It was not a thought they would voice, but Benton, when he returned to the Manor with Marcus, had seen it in their faces. Now they would be able to wake in the morning without the descending cloud of fear of what that day might bring, could sleep behind unlocked bedroom doors, need not measure their words. Tomorrow or the day after, they would see the end of the police presence. They would know that Dalgliesh and his team would have to return to Dorset for the inquest, but that there was nothing left for the team to do now at the Manor. They would not be missed.

Three copies of the suicide tape had been made and authenticated and the original was in the custody of the Dorset police to be submitted as an exhibit at the inquest. Now they would listen again as a team.

It was apparent to Kate that Dalgliesh had not slept. The fire had been stacked with logs, the flames leaping, and as usual there was a smell of burning wood and freshly made coffee, but no wine. They sat at the table and he placed the tape in the machine and turned it on. Candace Westhall’s voice was expected, but it was so clear and confident that for a moment Kate could believe she was in the room with them.