‘They investigate deaths like that pretty thoroughly,’ I said. ‘Especially when they produce young, rich widows.’

‘Of course. But on the surface of it everything appeared straightforward. Dad drank a bit at night and slept heavily. The old joint was full of stuff just waiting to give off toxic fumes-laminex, lino, vinyl, you name it. The wiring was ancient.’

I shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘Not to him. He knew houses, he’d bought and sold them all his life. He was careful. He disconnected everything before he went to bed. Turned everything off and slept with a hot water bottle.’

‘What about the hot water service?’

‘Chip heater. He blew out the pilot light. Always.’

‘You told this to the police?’

‘Yes, but they took no notice. I think as soon as they saw the scotch bottles, the old two bar radiators and the chip heater they made up their minds. They said a radiator had been left on and a curtain had blown close to it and… whoosh. But it’s not possible.’

‘What about the hot water bottle?’

‘Ah. Right question. They didn’t find one. I don’t know how hard they looked. It wouldn’t have survived the fire, but no one believed me when I said he used one. I ranted on about it and Tilly…Matilda said she’d persuaded him not to use it, that it was a fogey thing. She’s lying. He loved his hottie.’

I liked her, I liked her honesty and the homey touches, but it sounded very thin. ‘How much money are we talking about? I mean, that your father’s wife inherited.’

‘Oh, the house in Wahroonga, the shares, the other bits and pieces, probably close to five million. I got the Wombarra place which I’d always loved, and some shares and things like my mother’s jewellery and some money she had. About three-quarters of a million.’