‘It can feel like that sometimes. But people have their jobs to do.’

‘Yes, I know. But it doesn’t really make it any better. Can I ask you something now?’

‘Go ahead, sir.’

‘Do you have any idea how the fire started?’

‘Not yet. We think the seat of the fire was downstairs in the sitting room, but we need to examine the house more closely before we can be sure about anything.’

Mr Lowther’s gaze drifted away again, and Fry’s attention was caught by the traffic on the A6. It had slowed suddenly as an unexpected type of vehicle mingled with the cars and vans, displaying an entirely different pattern of movement. Even through the double glazing, Fry thought she could hear the creak and rattle. For a moment, she wondered if Pride and Prejudice was being filmed again somewhere nearby.

‘A stagecoach has just gone past on the road down there,’ she said. ‘It was being pulled by four big grey horses.’

‘Yes, they’re Dutch Gelderlanders.’

Fry turned, surprised to see Mrs Lowther standing in the doorway, her eyes dried, her voice almost steady, as if she’d made a great effort to bring herself under control.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said.

‘Right. You’ve seen them before, then?’

‘Sometimes there are two of them drawing a landau.’

Henry Lowther glanced at the window, but didn’t seem interested. ‘The fire must have been caused by faulty wiring or something, I suppose. They’ll find out what went wrong, won’t they?’

‘We don’t know yet whether it was an accident,’ said Fry.

But Lowther shook his head. ‘No, no. It can’t have been started deliberately. I might just about imagine one of the boys playing with matches. But not arson.’

‘We should know soon enough, Mr Lowther.’

‘You don’t understand. There’s no one who could have had any reason to start that fire deliberately,’ he said. ‘It just isn’t possible. Lindsay would never upset anybody. And as for Jack and Liam –’

He stopped, as if finding himself unable to express the impossibility in the case of his grandsons. His anguished expression suggested that the idea of harming them was physically beyond comprehension. His wife caught a surge of his emotion and began to cry all over again.

‘What about Brian?’

‘He wasn’t even at home,’ said Lowther.

Fry watched him, trying to detect an accusatory note in his voice. But perhaps it hadn’t occurred to the Lowthers yet that their son-in-law ought to have been at home with his family, should have been there to protect them, even if it meant he’d have died in the fire too. It would come later, that anger, the readiness to find someone to blame, if only for not being there.

‘Nevertheless, do you think there might be anybody he could have got on the wrong side of? Someone who might want to take revenge on him?’

‘You’ve met him, haven’t you?’ said Mrs Lowther, between sniffs. ‘You can see he’s harmless. What could he have done to anybody to make them commit an evil act like that, just to get back at him? It doesn’t make sense.’

Her husband nodded. ‘Besides, Brian doesn’t mix with people who’d do that sort of thing. He’s a despatch manager in a distribution centre.’

On the corner table was a set of photographs in silver frames. Smiling faces, boyish grins, a baby balanced on someone’s knee – the Lowthers’ grandchildren. Fry could see that Jack and Liam were fair-haired, with the pale look of their father. But the baby, Luanne, was much darker. The biggest frame contained an entire family group – Brian and Lindsay with all three children, their youngest child held proudly out front, taking centre stage as if it was her birthday or something.

Fry felt an urge to pick the photos up and look at them more closely, but she was afraid it would distract the Lowthers’ attention. Pictures of the fire victims had already been obtained for the case files and the media. She could look at them back at the office, more safely.

Instead, she looked down at her notebook. ‘Could we talk about the house for a few minutes? I mean, your daughter’s address in Darwin Street. I presume you know it quite well?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘We go there often. We were with them when they moved in. I helped Lindsay choose some of the furniture.’

Hearing that, Fry knew she’d have to pick her words carefully when she asked the next few questions, or she was likely to lose Moira Lowther altogether. The untreated polyurethane foam wasn’t her fault, but guilt knew no logic.

‘First of all, the smoke alarm. They had one installed in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, it was installed as soon as they moved into the house. Brian insisted on it.’

‘Who advised him where to put it?’

‘Advised him? I don’t think anyone did. The kitchen was the obvious place. It’s where accidents are most likely to happen.’

‘I see.’

Of course, in one way the kitchen was the obvious place for a smoke alarm. Every day, the fire service could be guaranteed a tea-time call-out to an overheated chip pan somewhere. But if Brian Mullen had bothered to read the manufacturer’s instructions he would have seen a different recommendation. If he’d taken any notice of it, he might have kept his family alive. But there were too many ‘ifs’ in that equation.

Nevertheless, Fry filed away the impression of Brian Mullen as the sort of man who’d toss the instructions disdainfully aside as he whipped out a screwdriver and relied on his masculine instincts to get the job done.

‘Lindsay was proud of her kitchen,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘It’s not six months since she had new units put in, and a canopy cooker hood with a double extractor. It was immaculate.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it,’ said Fry. ‘I wonder, during the past few weeks, did Lindsay or Brian mention anyone hanging around near their house, or someone suspicious coming to the door?’

‘No, not at all.’

Before much longer, Fry had exhausted her questions. To be honest, she was glad to get out of the conservatory and away from the plants.

‘What sort of business do you run, sir?’ she asked.

‘I own a very successful export company. We deal mostly in machine tools, which we sell all around the world. We’ve been planning a shift towards computer technology, but that’s not our core business right now.’

Not a wholesale florist’s, then. She’d just wondered. As they went back through the house, she saw begonias and chrysanthemums in the living room. And there were foliage plants everywhere: monstera, yucca, palms. It was like the hothouse at Kew in here.

‘Oh, you have a visitor,’ she said when they reached the door.

A man was coming up the path towards the Lowthers’ door. He was taking his time, pausing to smile sadly at the stone angel, stepping carefully on the flattened tortoises. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, smooth faced and wearing an overcoat of a kind that you didn’t see very often these days. Fry wondered if he was a journalist.

‘Oh, it’s John,’ said Mr Lowther. ‘Our son.’

‘Does he live here?’

‘No, he has his own apartment, in Matlock. Poor John, he’s very upset – he and Lindsay were so close.’

‘Is he older than your daughter?’

‘No, two years younger.’

John Lowther looked at Fry and Murfin curiously as they met on the porch step.

‘These people are the police, John,’ said his father. ‘They’re here about Lindsay and the boys.’

‘We were close. Did they tell you?’

‘Your parents? Yes, they did.’

‘I’m shut up completely.’

‘I’m sorry?’

But Lowther was looking at Gavin Murfin. ‘I like your tie.’

Murfin looked aghast at getting a compliment. ‘Er, thanks.’

‘Are you all right, Mr Lowther? I know it must be a very difficult time for you.’

His eyes travelled back towards her, but failed to focus. ‘Pardon? What did you say?’

‘Have you thought of seeing your doctor?’