‘I guess, kind of. No. We were good. We were OK.’

Karen made an effort to translate his vagueness.

‘What work did she do?’

‘My mum? She was a teaching assistant. Now she’s a social worker.’

Dufour leaned over the desk, speaking urgently. Dan pretended to be so relaxed that he wasn’t even trying to understand, and looked around the office, casually.

‘Detective Dufour says: Griff Adamson is a very rich businessman,’ said Karen. ‘How much did you know about the Adamsons, before you married Beatrice?’ She looked sympathetic, like a kindly dentist sticking a probe into his tooth.

‘I knew her family did OK,’ said Dan guardedly, and the image of Griff and the private jet popped into his head. ‘I didn’t know any details.’

Dufour said something else, quick-fire, gesturing.

‘Yes. OK, Dan,’ said Karen. ‘He says: will you explain exactly, please, what you knew about your wife’s family, and the money they have. Specifically, please.’

Luis looked up, his pencil clutched in his fist. Dan noticed he had a wrist tattoo. What a dick, he thought.

Dufour said, ‘Yes?’ in English. His eyes were glassy beneath their pale lids, Flemish-looking eyes, Dan thought, like a Dutch portrait. He’d never liked those Dutch artists. He struggled with anything pre-twentieth century. He could do the Italian Renaissance, and get into the Baroque, but those Dutch painters bored him shitless. Except Hieronymus Bosch. Bosch was cool. He took his eyes from Dufour’s pallid face, and turned to Karen. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her head was bowed, as if she would hear better if she was not looking at his face. She had lace-up shoes and ankle socks. They looked sort of sweet to him, like she had corns or something. He wondered if she had children, or grandchildren, even. She could have been anything between thirty-five and sixty. Dufour was waiting.

‘What can I tell you?’ said Dan. ‘When I met Bea, we didn’t talk about money. She didn’t earn much, and nor did I, but she was middle-class, so I guess –’

‘Wait, please,’ said Karen.

He stopped. She translated.

‘Continue,’ she said. She smiled encouragingly. He focused on her lace-up shoes and ankle socks, wondering why they reminded him of Bea – they weren’t what she’d wear. Maybe because Karen was guileless, like her.

‘I assumed her family had some money. You judge, don’t you? I mean, everyone does, right? Except Bea. She doesn’t.’

He looked up from Karen’s shoes, into her eyes.

‘She never asked me the normal questions that people do. Class, money, whatever. She’s just not like that.’

Karen kept translating, not looking at Dufour, looking straight at Dan. He could see Bea’s face in front of him while he talked, taken back to the night they met, as if under a spell.