“Making a bet, Chief Inspector?” I asked with a smile, looking down at him from my lofty position.

He didn’t appear amused. “We need to talk,” he said. “Now.”

“Can’t it wait?” I said. “I’m busy.”

“No,” he said crossly. “I need to ask you some more questions, now.” He emphasized the final word so sharply that Betsy looked questioningly at me.

I smiled at her. “Can you hold the fort for five minutes?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said.

I stepped down and moved away with the policemen to a quieter spot on the grass.

“Now, what’s so bloody urgent?” I said, deciding not to go on the defensive. “I’ve got a business to manage.”

“And I’ve got a murder investigation to run,” he replied unapologetically. “May I remind you, Mr. Talbot, that you remain under caution and that anything you say will be recorded.”

“Where’s your machine, then?” I asked.

“DC Walton will write down what is said.”

DC Walton was already writing.

“If you prefer,” he said, knowing I wouldn’t,“you can accompany us to the police station and be formally interviewed there.”

“Here is fine,” I said.

“I thought so,” he said almost smugly. “Now, Mr. Talbot, have you anything to add to your account of the incident in the parking lot last evening that resulted in the death of a man?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t.”

“And you still believe that the man killed was your father?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

“It seems you may be right,” he said slowly. “The DNA analysis appears to suggest that you and the deceased were closely related. It’s by no means a hundred percent certain, but it would be more than enough to settle a paternity case.”

So at least my father had been truthful about that.

“However,” he said,“the DNA results have thrown up something else.” He paused for effect. “Your father was still wanted for murder, from thirty-six years ago.”

“What?” I said, unable to properly take it in. “Are you sure?”

“Completely sure,” he said. “The DNA match is one hundred percent.”

“But who did he murder?” I asked, almost as if in a trance.

“Patricia Jane Talbot. His wife.”

My mother.

Sophie was still cross when I went to see her, but at least she was speaking to me, albeit with thinly disguised anger.

It was after eight by the time I made it to the hospital near Hemel Hempstead.

“I thought you weren’t coming again,” she said with a degree of accusation.

“I said I would come,” I said, smiling at her and trying to lighten the atmosphere. “And here I am, my darling.”

“What have you done to your eye?” she demanded.

“Silly, really,” I said. “I caught it on the corner of the kitchen cupboard, you know, the one by the fridge.” We had both done it before, often, though neither of us had actually cut ourselves in the process.

“Were you drunk?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I was not. I was making tea. To be precise, I was getting the milk out.”

I leaned down to give her a kiss, and she made a point of smelling my breath. Finding no trace of the demon drink, she relaxed somewhat and even smiled at me.

“You should be more careful,” she said.

“I’ll try,” I replied, smiling back at her.

“Have you had a good day?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Particularly good. All six favorites lost, and we recouped the entire amount of yesterday’s losses and then some.” I decided against mentioning anything about my visit from a detective chief inspector of police or the discovery that my father had murdered my mother.

“Good,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased.

We sat together in armchairs in front of the television in what might have been a normal domestic situation if not for the multiadjustable hospital bed in the corner of the room and the white-smock-uniformed male nurse who brought us in a tray of coffee, together with Sophie’s medication.

“Good evening, Mr. Talbot,” the nurse said to me. “Glad you could make it tonight.” He smiled. “Your wife was so disappointed yesterday, as were we all.”

He gave the impression that I was being officially told off, which I probably was. Sophie’s treatment relied heavily on having a steady routine with no surprises.

“Good evening, Jason,” I said to the nurse, smiling back and resisting the temptation to make excuses. Now was neither the time nor the place.

“My, what have you done to yourself?” he said, looking at my face.

“Head-butted our kitchen cabinet,” I said.

Jason raised his eyebrows in a questioning Oh yes, pull the other one fashion.

“We do it all the time,” said Sophie, coming to my aid. “We ought to get that cupboard moved.”

Jason relaxed and seemed satisfied that my black eye was accidental.

“The guest suite is available if you want to stay,” he said with a smile, his admonishment for yesterday’s absence clearly over.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I can’t. I need to go home and change.” I also decided against explaining that I had worn exactly the same clothes for two days running and why. “But I can stay for a while longer.”

Sophie and I watched the television news together before I departed into the night and the road to Kenilworth, and home.

Our house was a 1950s-built, three-bedroom semidetached in what was still called Station Road, although the railway station to which it referred had closed down in the 1960s. The previous owners had transformed the postage-stamp-sized front garden into an off-road parking space, and I gratefully pulled my Volvo into it at ten minutes to midnight.

As usual, the house was cold and lonely. Even on a midsummer’s day it rarely could be described as warm or cozy. It was as if, somehow, the very bricks and mortar were aware of the daily sadness and despair experienced by the occupants within.

Sophie and I had moved here from a rented one-bedroom over-shop flat soon after our wedding. Her parents hadn’t approved of the union. They were God-fearing Methodists who believed that bookmakers were agents of the Devil. So it felt as if we were both orphans, but we didn’t care. We were in love and we only needed each other.

The house in Station Road was the first home we had owned and we knew it would be a struggle. The mortgage company loan had been to their utmost limit, and, at first, Sophie had worked in the evenings behind the bar at the local pub in order to help meet the repayments. I had toiled six days a week on the Midlands racetracks, and, quite quickly, we were able to pay down the mortgage to a more manageable level where we could spend more time together at home.

I had always wanted children, and I soon made mental plans to turn the smallest bedroom into a nursery. Perhaps it was the pain of having endured a largely abandoned and unhappy childhood that had made me so keen to nurture the next generation. Not that my grandparents hadn’t been loving and caring. They had. But they had also been somewhat distant and secretive. Now I knew why.

“How could God have taken Mummy and Daddy to heaven?” I had constantly asked my grandmother, who, of course, had no answer to give me. Now I discovered that it had been my father, not God, who had been responsible for my mother’s death, and he, far from going to heaven, had gone to Australia. The car crash story had been as convenient as it was untrue.

In spite of her longing for a child, Sophie’s illness had soon put our family plans on hold.

All had seemed fine until, one night, I woke to find her side of our bed empty. It was half past three in the morning, and I could hear her somewhere downstairs, singing loudly, so I went to investigate.

She was in the kitchen and had clearly been there for quite a while. Every shelf and cupboard had been emptied, their contents stacked both on the kitchen table and on the floor, and she had been cleaning.