He snapped his mouth shut and stepped back under his umbrella. We stared at each other.

“I liked her a lot,” I said at last. “I felt very guilty that I deceived her.”

“Her, me, Johnny, everyone.”

I walked all the way home in the rain, barely noticing the Christmas lights, the festive shops billowing out warmth through their open doors, the brass band on Camden High Street playing carols and collecting for the blind. Cars and vans thundered past, spraying water from puddles all over me. David must have arranged to see me because he wanted to prod me, taunt me, play with me, scare me. Had it just been sadistic revenge or something else?

I SAT IN the living room and stared at the empty grate. Greg used to love making fires. He was very good at it, very methodical. He would never use fire-lighters, saying they were a cheat, but started instead with twisted pieces of paper, then kindling. I remembered how he would kneel and blow on the embers, coaxing them into flames. I hadn’t lit the fire since he died and I thought about doing so now, but it seemed too much effort.

Out of the blue a thought occurred to me that was both trivial and irritating. I tried to brush it away, because I was done with my botched attempts at amateur sleuthing, but it clung like a cobweb in my mind: why hadn’t Greg written down his appointment with Mrs. Sutton, the old lady I had met on the day of his funeral? I was sure she had told me she’d arranged to see him on the day after his death, but it hadn’t been in his diary.

I told myself it didn’t matter, it was meaningless. I made myself a cup of tea and drank it slowly, sip by sip, then rang the office.

“Can I speak to Joe?” I asked.

“I’m afraid Mr. Foreman isn’t here.”

“Tania, then?”

“Putting you through.”

After a few seconds, Tania was on the line.

“Tania? It’s me, Ellie.”

“Ellie,” she said. “How are you?”

“Fine. Listen, Tania, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course!”

“I need the number of one of Greg’s clients.”

“Oh,” she said doubtfully.

“I met her at the funeral. A Mrs. Sutton, I think—I don’t know her first name. She was very nice about Greg and there was something I wanted to ask her.”

“All right.” There was a pause and then her voice again: “It’s Marjorie Sutton and she lives in Hertfordshire. Have you got a pen handy?”

“HELLO?” Her voice was crisp and clear.

“Is that Marjorie Sutton?”

“It is. Who am I speaking to?”

“This is Ellie Falkner, Greg Manning’s widow.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

“I know this sounds peculiar, but I was tying up loose ends and there was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?”