‘What about you?’ Arthur looked puzzled, so Hawthorne went on. ‘You said you were a journalist. Now you’re a teacher.’

‘Oh. Well … Harriet always said I was wasting my time, and perhaps she was right. There wasn’t a lot happening in Bristol and she used to say my stuff was boring. Council elections. The new one-way system. The annual Ofsted reports. We had a nice little house down there – a view of the docks – but I didn’t mind selling it, I suppose. When we came up here, I fished around for a bit, but then I got fed up with it and trained as a teacher. I’d written about education, so it seemed a natural move.’

‘You’ll forgive me for saying this, Mr Throsby …’ I always knew when Hawthorne was going to turn on someone. He could be friendly one moment, ferocious the next. ‘But you don’t seem too put out by the death of your wife.’

‘You can think that if you like, Mr Hawthorne. But you don’t know me and you never met Harriet, as far as I’m aware. She wasn’t the easiest of people to get along with, but we were happy together. And just because I’m not standing here tearing out my hair or whatever it is you’d like me to do, it doesn’t mean I’m not deeply upset.’

He didn’t sound deeply upset.

‘Harriet wasn’t perfect, but I never wished her any harm and what happened to her is horrible. I’m not going to put on a show for you and your friend and if you haven’t got any more questions, I’d like to be left on my own.’

In his own quiet way, Arthur was angry and I was thinking it was probably time for us to make an exit when the door opened and Olivia came in. She was dressed to go out – in a glittery jacket and T-shirt, carrying a leather bag on a chain. Her hair was still damp from the shower. ‘Dad, I’m on my way—’ she began, then stopped when she saw me and Hawthorne. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘These are police officers,’ her father told her.

Olivia looked at me petulantly. ‘No, he’s not,’ she replied. ‘He wrote the play. The one that I went to with Mum.’

‘What?’ Arthur turned on me. ‘You told me—’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ I said.

‘I’m a private detective,’ Hawthorne cut in. He was addressing Olivia and just for once he seemed to be on my side. ‘I sometimes help the police and that’s why I’m here. Tony works with me – and if you’ll give us a few minutes of your time, maybe the two of us can find out who killed your mother.’

‘I don’t care who killed her,’ Olivia said.

‘Olivia!’ Either Arthur was a brilliant actor or he was genuinely shocked by his daughter’s attitude.

‘Oh, come on, Dad,’ Olivia insisted. ‘What difference does it make? Knowing who killed her won’t bring her back, and don’t pretend you’re going to miss her. You know what she was like.’