‘Well?’ he asked, after a while. ‘What do you think?’

She let the silence stretch a moment, then dropped her arms and turned around slowly. Her eyes did look moist with tears. ‘What do I think?’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I think that maybe if you’d reported the gun stolen the police would have searched for it and my husband wouldn’t have been murdered.’

‘But I would have been charged, disbarred.’

‘Mr Mitchell, surely that’s a small price to pay for someone’s life? I’m sorry. I think you’d better go. I can’t think straight right now.’

‘But I-’

‘Please, Mr Mitchell. Leave.’ She turned back to the window again and folded her arms, shaking.

Mitch got up off the sofa and headed for the door. He felt defeated, as if he had left something important unfinished, but there was nothing he could do about it. Only slink off with his tail between his legs feeling worse than when he had come. Why hadn’t he just told her he was after handling McVie’s estate. Money, pure and simple. Self-interest like that she would have understood.

Two days later, and still no developments reported in the McVie investigation, Laura phoned.

‘Mr Mitchell?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry about my behaviour the other day. I was upset, as you can imagine.’

‘I can understand that,’ Mitch said. ‘I don’t blame you. I don’t even know why I told you.’

‘I’m glad you did. I’ve had time to think about it since then, and I’m beginning to realize how terrible you must feel. I want you to understand that I don’t blame you. It’s not the gun that commits the crime, after all, is it? It’s the person who pulls the trigger. I’m sure if the burglar hadn’t got that one, he’d have got one somewhere else. Look, this is very awkward over the telephone, do you think you could come to the house?’

‘When?’

‘How about this evening. For dinner?’

‘Fine,’ said Mitch. ‘I’m really glad you can find it in your heart to forgive me.’

‘Eight o’clock?’

‘Eight it is.’

When he put down the phone, Mitch jumped to his feet, punched the air, shouted, ‘Yes!’

‘Dinner’ was catered by a local Italian restaurant, Laura McVie not being, in her own words, ‘much of a cook’. Two waiters delivered the food, served it discreetly, and took away the dirty dishes.

Mostly, Mitch and Laura made small talk in the candlelight over the pasta and wine, and it wasn’t until the waiters had left and they were alone, relaxing on the sofa, each cradling a snifter of Courvoisier XO cognac, with mellow jazz playing in the background, that the conversation became more intimate.

Laura was still funereally clad, but tonight her dress, made of semi-transparent layers of black chiffon – more than enough for decency – fell well below knee height. There was still no disguising the curves, and the rustling sounds as she crossed her legs made Mitch more than a little hot under the collar.

Laura puckered her lips to light a cigarette. When she had blown the smoke out, she asked, ‘Are you married?’

Mitch shook his head.

‘Ever been?’

‘Nope.’

‘Just didn’t meet the right girl, is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re not gay are you?’

He laughed. ‘What on earth made you think that?’

She rested her free hand on his and smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing made me think it. Nothing in particular. Just checking, that’s all.’

‘No,’ Mitch said. ‘I’m not gay.’

‘More cognac?’

‘Sure.’ Mitch was already feeling a little tipsy, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood.

She fetched the bottle and poured them each a generous measure. ‘I didn’t really love Charles, you know,’ she said when she had settled down and smoothed her dress again. ‘I mean, I respected him, I even liked him, I just didn’t love him.’

‘Why did you marry him?’

Laura shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. He asked me. He was rich and seemed to live an exciting life. Travel. Parties. I got to meet all kinds of celebrities. We’d only been married two years, you know. And we’d only known one another a few weeks before we got married. We hadn’t even… you know. Anyway, I’m sorry he’s dead… in a way.’

‘What do you mean?’

Laura leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette. Then she brushed back a long blonde tress and took another sip of cognac before answering. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘now that he’s dead, it’s all mine, isn’t it? I’d be a hypocrite and a fool if I said that didn’t appeal to me. All this wealth and no strings attached. No responsibilities.’

‘What responsibilities were there before?’

The left corner of her lips twitched in a smile. ‘Oh, you know. The usual wifely kind. Charles was never, well… let’s say he wasn’t a very passionate lover. He wanted me more as a showpiece than anything else. A trophy. Something to hang on his arm that looked good. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind. It was a small price to pay. And then we were forever having to entertain the most boring people. Business acquaintances. You know the sort of thing. Well, now that Charles is gone, I won’t have to do that any more, will I? I’ll be able to do what I want. Exactly what I want.’

Almost without Mitch knowing it, Laura had edged nearer towards him as she was speaking, and now she was so close he could smell the warm, acrid smoke and the cognac on her breath. He found it curiously intoxicating. Soon she was close enough to kiss.

She took hold of his hand and rested it on her breast. ‘It’s been a week since the funeral,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time I took off my widow’s weeds?’

When Mitch left Laura McVie’s house the following morning, he was beginning to think he might be on to a good thing. Why stop at being estate executor? he asked himself. He already knew that, under the terms of the will, Laura got everything – McVie had no children or other living relatives – and everything was somewhere in the region of five million dollars.

Even if he didn’t love her – and how could you tell if you loved someone after just one night? – he certainly felt passionately drawn to her. They got on well together, thought alike, and she was a wonderful lover. Mitch was no slouch, either. He could certainly make up for her late husband in that department.

He mustn’t rush it, though. Take things easy, see what develops… Maybe they could go away together for a while. Somewhere warm. And then… well… five million dollars.

Such were his thoughts as he turned the corner, just before the heavy hand settled on his shoulder and a deep voice whispered in his ear, ‘Detective Greg Hollins, Mr Mitchell. Homicide. I think it’s about time you and I had a long talk.’

Relieved to be let off with little more than a warning in exchange for cooperating with the police, Mitch turned up at Laura’s the next evening as arranged. This time they skipped the dinner and drinks preliminaries and headed straight for her bedroom.

Afterwards she lay with her head resting on his shoulder, smoking a cigarette.

‘My God,’ she said. ‘I missed this when I was married to Charles.’

‘Didn’t you have any lovers?’ Mitch asked.

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Oh, come on. I won’t be jealous. I promise. Tell me.’

She jerked away, stubbed out the cigarette on the bedside ashtray, and said, ‘You’re just like the police. Do you know that? You’ve got a filthy mind.’

‘Hey,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s me. Mitch. OK?’

‘Still… They think I did it, you know.’

‘Did what?’