But what had any of this got to do with the death of Harriet Throsby? Hawthorne had suggested that the reason for Harriet’s death might be found in Moxham Heath, but unless John Lamprey or the major’s wife had travelled to London to take revenge (which seemed unlikely), it felt like a complete waste of time.

Adrian Wells was retired now and wanted the whole world to know it. He was sitting with his arms folded across his substantial belly, wearing an almost shapeless cardigan and slippers. His silver hair was long and tangled and he hadn’t shaved. He was living alone in a flat carved out of a converted church in Clifton. Some of the stained-glass windows had been left behind and they suited him. He looked like a debauched saint.

‘Of course I remember Harriet,’ he was telling us. ‘A frightful woman. Good writer, though. She never let the facts get in the way of a good story.’ He laughed at his own cliché.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘She didn’t lie, but she embroidered the truth. She saw things a certain way and she made sure her articles reflected her own point of view – she didn’t care if the entire world believed otherwise. So if she liked someone, she’d make them appear sympathetic, even if they’d hacked up their wife and stored the pieces in a freezer … which was actually one of the stories she covered.’

‘Did she like the company of criminals?’

‘That’s a good question.’ Wells laughed a second time. ‘She certainly had a way of ingratiating herself with them – and, for that matter, with their wives, their husbands, their neighbours or their victims! That’s how she was able to get so many of her insights. She went places other journalists never dared. I don’t suppose the name Robert Thirkell means anything to you?’

‘She wrote a book about him.’

‘That’s the one. He was a doctor who polished off half a dozen old ladies in various care homes. Well, he was under suspicion for two or three months before he was arrested and in that time she became good chums with him. I think there was a part of her that was attracted to people who kill.’

‘She admired them?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but she was certainly fascinated by them.’

‘She told me she found criminals dull,’ I interjected. That was what Harriet had said during the brief exchange we’d had at the party. Once again, I reflected how strange it was that just a short while ago she had been standing there with a drink in her hand, alive.

‘Harriet found everyone dull in the end. Her friends, her colleagues, her husband … me! That was because she had such a high opinion of herself.’

‘Arthur Throsby also worked on the paper.’

‘That’s right. I was at their wedding. Since you mention it, I was surprised their marriage lasted as long as it did. A single man would never have been enough to satisfy Harriet and I’m sure Arthur knew she was playing the field.’