'Please sit down, Mr Hardy. I've made some coffee. I'm sure you'd like some after being out in that wind.'

I thanked her and took one of the comfortably padded chairs. The walls were mostly glass and a skylight took up a good part of the roof. There were a couple of pot stands with plants sprouting, and a cabinet with some porcelain pieces displayed. The parquet floor was mostly covered by an expensive-looking rug in muted colours-Greek,

Turkish, Moroccan? I wouldn't know. The exposed parts of the floor were dust free.

She came back with the coffee things on a tray. She laid them out expertly but without fuss and sat opposite me. My cup was two-thirds full and the cream and sugar were to hand. I took a sip and it was the kind of coffee you didn't need to do anything to. She added a little cream to her cup and raised it to her full lips. Every move she made was potentially entrancing, and I had to struggle not to watch her for the sheer pleasure of it.

'I knew Frank would help me,' she said, 'so it didn't surprise me when you rang. I understand why he wants to stay… at arm's length.'

Do you? I wondered. I doubted it, but her attitude was certainly helpful at this point. I nodded and drank some more of the excellent coffee. Like a psychoanalyst, a private detective likes to hear people talk. You can learn a lot about them that way, not necessarily from what they're saying.

'I hope you're not focusing on the matter of the paternity of my son.'

'For the moment, I'm taking that as given, with reservations. What I'm most interested in is why you're so convinced that your husband wasn't guilty of arranging Dr Bellamy's death.'

'Thank God for someone with directness as well as subtlety.'

I wasn't going to let her snow me like that. 'Of course, there are lots of other questions.'

'Such as?'

'You might find some of them offensive. Let's pursue the matter I raised while we're still being polite.'