Then he explained: “I’ve had no pleasure going there—not for months now. It’s a family home. And my family aren’t at home anymore—except my poor father.” When he looked up at her, his face clean-shaven and his hair perfectly trimmed, he looked younger than she’d ever seen him. His usual calm authority was absent. “I think I’d be happy if you came there with me. Dad will be at work in Winchester, but I’ll leave him a note.”

Lucy took control and said freely: “Yes, please, Alex: you must take me.” The awkwardness passed.

Thick clumps of snowdrops laced the border along the path, and winter jasmine over the porch struggled against the elements. Lucy’s first impression was of the garden: someone had taken a lot of trouble over it. The house was large rather than grand—possibly of Tudor origin, she thought; and the thatch was herringboned with little details that would reveal the identity of the thatcher to the cognoscenti.

It was warm inside as they entered, and she was immediately in thrall. A fireplace large enough to sit in; a baby grand piano in front of French windows that looked out into the garden; an air of peace. “My mother would have had flowers everywhere—even in winter.” Alex was apologetic for its present lack of coziness, though this was softened by a comfortable old sofa with a chintz cover and creamy throws and other soft furnishings. The feeling of a strong female anima was tangible in the room above the more masculine items of a pair of soft leather slippers and the folded newspapers.

Alex leaned against a table. “Shall I make you some tea? I think you prefer it to coffee.”

“Please.” She started looking around. “Is it all right if I explore…?”

“That’s why we came.” He walked through to the kitchen and put a kettle on the Rayburn, then noticed a package on the oak worktop. While Lucy peeked in a study-cum-library and a dining room, Alex fumbled with some cardboard packing and bubble wrap. He took in the contents, then picked up the telephone on the wall and dialed a number.

“Dad, you’re not in court. I’m at the house. I brought a friend down for her birthday, for lunch in the pub. Is everything all right? I’ve just seen the package from the police. What’s the story?”

Lucy heard Alex’s voice sounding agitated, and perched on the arm of a generous chair while he talked.

“And that’s it? They don’t know any more? Nothing else returned?”

Lucy listened as he closed the conversation: the weather was bad, they’d be setting off soon, but he’d see him again with Max at the weekend. He put the phone down and looked at Lucy. “Come and see this.”