‘You looking for someone?’ he asked in a voice that was not exactly friendly.

Hawthorne was not intimidated. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m John Lamprey. I look after the house and the grounds for Mr Golinishchev.’

‘He’s the owner?’

‘Yes. You’re on private land.’

‘Is Mr Golinishchev at home?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not able to give you that information.’

‘It doesn’t look like it. But it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re interested in Trevor Longhurst and his family.’

Lamprey sniffed at that. ‘What are you? Tourists? Or newspapermen? If so, you’re a bit late. That all happened years ago and they’re no longer in the area.’

‘I’m a detective. I’m investigating the death of Harriet Throsby. You may have read about it in the newspapers.’

For the first time, Lamprey looked interested.

‘Yes. I saw that someone had put a knife into her. You got ID?’

‘Do I really need it?’ Hawthorne had a way of judging people and there was something about his response that amused the other man.

‘Maybe not,’ he said.

‘Did you talk to her?’

‘Harriet Throsby? Yes, I met her. Although I wish I hadn’t.’

‘Then you may be able to help us … if you’ll give us ten minutes of your time.’

Lamprey took a few moments to examine us both, then nodded his head slowly. ‘All right. I don’t see why not. You can come inside if you like.’ He opened the front door, which hadn’t actually been locked.

‘So where are the Golinishchevs, then?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘They’re only here three or four weeks a year,’ Lamprey replied. ‘They usually come in the shooting season … October, November. You think Miss Throsby might have been done in because of that book of hers?’

‘It’s one theory.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Everything she wrote was a pack of lies.’

He took us in through the front door, into a hall with gilt mirrors, a modern steel and glass chandelier, Persian rugs … all of them as soulless as the showrooms from which they had come. Too much money had been spent on the house, making it too perfect. The paintings were not just abstract. They were indecipherable. None of the furniture quite matched. Lamprey led us into a kitchen that reminded me of Hawthorne’s except that it was three times bigger. It was too clean and strangely uncomfortable. There was a fireplace, but no evidence that it had ever been used for a fire. If it hadn’t been for the lawns visible on the other side of the windows, we could have been in Belgravia. We could have been anywhere.

‘You live here?’ Hawthorne asked. Perhaps he was thinking the same as me.

‘I have a room in the annexe. There’s a separate kitchen there too, but I thought I’d spare you the walk.’

‘And you worked for the Longhursts.’

Lamprey nodded. ‘I was one of the gardeners back then. After they left, I stayed on to look after the place. It was empty for three years. After that, it was owned by a local family, but it was too big for them and eventually they moved on. Then the Russians came. They completely renovated the house … put all this stuff inside. Spent a fortune! If they didn’t like it, back it went again. Staircases, bathrooms, the lot! And now it is how it is.’ He had made his judgement. There was nothing more to add.