“But this looks like a hotel catering oven,” Gavin protested, regarding a shiny monster, all knobs and lights.

“It is. She got it because the animals need so much food. She used to do huge batches of cooking and store it in the freezer.”

“Liz cooked for animals?”

He thought of the elegant, sophisticated woman who’d once been his wife, thought of the Cordon Bleu dishes that had been her expression of artistry. But “they” had got to her. She’d fallen into the clutches of Tony Ackroyd and his daughter, and this was the result.

Norah put on the coffee, then turned her attention to a small hedgehog in a box in a corner. “She let you keep animals in her kitchen?” Gavin asked.

“It was Liz who brought Bert in here,” Norah said, setting down a saucer of milk for the hedgehog. “He’s very frail and he needs warmth. She loves-loved-the animals as much as Dad and me.”

“Hmm. I doubt that. She wasn’t exactly an ‘animal’ sort of person.”

“What sort of person was she, then?” Norah looked at him curiously, and he scented a trap.

“It hardly matters now, does it?” he said.

“No,” she whispered.

She turned away from him with her head bent and her shoulders shaking. But almost at once she straightened up. He thought he saw her wipe a hand over her eyes and when she next spoke her voice sounded a little muffled, but she’d recovered her composure. “How did you hear about their deaths?” she asked.

“On the television news. I came straight here.”

“And you’ve driven through the night? You must be tired. I’ll fix you a room.”

“I’d rather see my son as soon as possible.”

“Of course. But don’t wake him now. Let the poor, little soul have a good sleep.”

She poured him and herself some coffee. As they drank they each felt a constraint fall over them. In the surprise of seeing each other they’d behaved naturally, but now it seemed strange that they should be sitting here talking together. “What actually happened?” Gavin asked at last. “I didn’t gather much from the news.”