I drained my cup and she took another sip before pushing the pot towards me. 'I don't agree. Let's deal with the offensive questions first, and then see whether we can still… communicate.'

'Okay. I'm wondering why and how you keep living here. There must be six or seven bedrooms. One for every night of the week.'

It came out more rudely than I'd intended, but something about her gracious control was getting under my skin. She didn't blink an eye, or twitch or fiddle with her coffee cup.

'Did Frank have anything to say about this?'

'No. He said you had some money. He implied not a lot.'

'That's so. I struggled for twelve years to keep the house because I couldn't believe my husband was guilty and I was sure something would turn up and he'd be released. I wanted the house to be here for him. I'd done some part-time work as a photographic model before I was married and I went back to it full-time, here and overseas. I hated it, but it paid well. I was able to keep the house and educate William. Also to pay my husband's life insurance premiums. When he died there was a lot of money suddenly.'

'I see. And why stay after he died?'

She sighed. 'Laziness, inertia. The thought of moving horrifies me. And the space wasn't as wasted as you seem to think. William had a bedroom and a… study. I dabbled in photography and painting. One of the rooms is a studio and one a darkroom. Are you satisfied?'

It sounded convincing, if also a bit rehearsed. But maybe she was one of those people who run over the story of their own lives in their heads and can trot it out pat. For the moment, she'd faced me down and it was my turn to be gracious.

'I'm sorry. That's interesting and all a credit to you, I'd say.'

'Thank you.'

'Could you give me a photograph of William?'