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satisfied.”
    â€œIn that case, I suppose I must.” She looked at him with unconcealed dislike.
    Mayo thought, you’ve no option, lady, and let the look slide off him. It was his job to be suspicious, to probe, to stick his nose in where relatives – and he – would rather not, to ask awkward and impertinent questions, never mind what anybody thought.
    The first question he had to ask was when had she last seen Fleming.
    It had been on Sunday evening, and no, she couldn’t say where he had been during the time since.
    â€œWas that usual? I mean, for him to be away from home and for you not to know where he was?”
    â€œHe often had to be away when he was working on a story.”
    â€œSuppose you had to contact him in an emergency?”
    â€œWhat emergency? Look, we’re both busy people. I run my own business management consultancy, which means I’m often away too, and his movements were never very certain. Trying to give precise details in those circumstances could lead to confusion.”
    He was beginning to get a picture of their marriage. Two people, pursuing separate careers, hers the more successful of the two. In all probability with separate lifestyles, too. He hadn’t asked about children, he didn’t think he needed to. With the sort of life they led, children were unlikely to be on the agenda. He took out the photograph that had been in Rupert Fleming’s wallet and handed it, still in its protective polythene, to his wife. “Was this your husband?” She looked at it for several moments before passing it back. “Yes.”
    â€œDo you recognise the other woman?”
    Though he could hardly have phrased that less tactfully, he was sure by now that was just what the girl in the snapshot was: the other woman. For a moment he hoped for Mrs. Fleming’s sake that she might be able to say it was some mutual friend or relative, his sister perhaps, but she replied unemotionally, “I’ve never seen that person in my life.”
    â€œHave you any idea who it might be?”
    â€œNo.”
    She was lying, but any woman in similar circumstances might have done the same, and he didn’t feel he need press her at this juncture. He went back to Sunday evening. Fleming had been away during the previous week but had then appeared unexpectedly, it seemed, read the Sunday papers and then cooked a meal while she was still busy with some weekend work she’d brought home. Cooking was one of the things he’d liked to do, while she hated it, and he’d made one of his special vegetarian dishes and opened a bottle of wine to go with it.
    She hesitated as she came to the point where they’d finished the meal, colouring very slightly, and for a split second her whole taut body seemed more pliable, the poppy-red mouth soft and full. They’d made love, Mayo thought. She’d known about the woman in the photograph, even if she’d been keeping to the strict truth in saying she’d never seen her, even if she suspected that Fleming was going to her later that evening, but it hadn’t made any difference. Was this what they called an open marriage, each taking lovers as and when they fancied? It never seemed a particularly sensible way to carry on to him, seeming to deny the honesty it was meant to proclaim. Why make the commitment to marriage at all if this was how you felt? Why play with fire?
    Later, about nine o’clock she thought, he’d left. He’d told her when he arrived that he had a meeting arranged with someone unspecified.
    â€œAnd he didn’t come home afterwards?”
    â€œNo.” The curious amber eyes were wide and unblinking. She looked him straight in the eye. Nor had he said when he’d next be back. She hadn’t seen him since.
    He felt dissatisfied with the interview, but it was probably as far as he could profitably go at this point and, after extracting himself with some