‘This gift, sir …?’

‘A sort of wooden toy.’

‘A dinosaur?’

‘Yes. I believe so.’

That detail confirmed, Fry decided to try a different tack.

‘What about a man called Simon Nichols? Did you have any dealings with him, Mr Lowther?’

‘Nichols? No, the name means nothing to me. Who is he?’

‘Somebody else Miss Shepherd was in contact with.’

Lowther screwed up his eyes thoughtfully. ‘I always had the impression she had an associate of some kind. Perhaps more than one.’

‘Did she never mention any names? What about Simcho Nikolov?’

‘No, no. She was very careful, you know.’

‘Not careful enough, in the end.’

He grimaced. ‘I think she must have lost touch during these last few months. It’s easy to lose contact with the real world when you cut yourself off like that. Poor Miss Shepherd.’

‘I don’t really understand why Brian and Lindsay were so desperate to adopt,’ said Fry.

‘As I said, Lindsay really, really wanted a girl. It was so important to her.’

‘But, still – they could have waited a bit longer, couldn’t they?’

Lowther coughed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, as I said … there was a problem. About three years ago, Brian had mumps. When you get them as an adult, it’s a very serious condition. It can cause infertility.’

‘And that’s what happened to your son-in-law?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you aware of any problems in your daughter’s marriage?’

‘Problems?’

‘Between Lindsay and Brian. Had they been having arguments recently?’

‘Most married couples do have disagreements,’ said Lowther stiffly. ‘As I said, we all went through a bad period during the adoption, which put a bit of pressure on everybody. Tensions spill over now and then. But recently …?’

He looked at his wife, who seemed even more reluctant. ‘If they had problems, then it was a personal matter between themselves. Young women don’t tell their mothers everything these days, I’m afraid.’

‘Mr and Mrs Lowther, where is your son-in-law?’

Neither of them answered her, and she began to get angry.

‘And your granddaughter? She isn’t here today. So where is she? Where are Brian and Luanne?’

The Lowthers looked at each other again.

‘We don’t know.’

Fry’s mobile rang, and she saw from the display that the call was from Gavin Murfin.

‘Excuse me a moment.’

She stepped outside on to the terrace to take the call, while the Lowthers sat and watched her.

‘Diane, you’ll want to know this straightaway,’ said Murfin. ‘I persuaded someone in West Yorkshire to make a few enquiries into John Lowther’s spell there.’

‘Well done, Gavin.’

‘Well, I didn’t have time myself. So that’s another favour I’ll have to repay.’

‘Did they turn anything up?’

‘I got a call a few minutes ago. They say John Lowther was a psychiatric patient in Leeds for three months. That’s why he had to leave his job.’

‘Did you go to Matlock to speak to him?’

‘I’m at his apartment now. But John’s not home. And the neighbours say they haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Fry. ‘The Lowthers are really, really going to love me.’

Moira Lowther was in her garden when Fry returned to the house. Perhaps she went out there to escape from the plants. When she heard what Fry wanted to talk about now, she sat down unsteadily in one of the chairs set out on the decking.

‘John is psychotic, not a psychopath,’ she said. ‘There’s a big difference.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

Her husband stepped out of the sliding doors from the conservatory, and stood next to his wife, his jaw stiff with emotion.

‘People don’t understand that they’re entirely different things,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘Psychosis isn’t characterized by a tendency to violence towards others. They’re a risk to themselves, but no one else. Psychotics aren’t manipulative either, the way psychopaths are. But how many people do you think register that difference? To them, it’s all the same.’

Her husband leaned forward to put in his own comment. ‘But then, we’re talking about the sort of person who can’t distinguish a paedophile from a paediatrician. It’s sheer ignorance. Some people wallow in it.’

Mrs Lowther looked up at Fry. ‘So our son is psychotic,’ she repeated. ‘Not a psychopath.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘Actually, yes. I do.’

Moira Lowther looked at her differently then. Letting your own emotions come through was normally a sign of weakness in this job. But Fry realized it might actually help with the Lowthers. An unrelentingly professional approach wasn’t always the best thing, after all.

‘Tell me about it, then,’ she said.

‘We will, if you like,’ said Mrs Lowther. ‘But you should talk to his specialist. Dr Sinclair can explain it a lot better than we can. You might say that we’re too biased. Too emotionally involved.’

Fry opened her mouth to comment, but changed her mind. That was another thing she didn’t like – people predicting exactly what she was going to say.

30

Fry hadn’t realized there were loft apartments in Matlock. They certainly hadn’t reached Edendale yet. But John Lowther’s home was on the fourth floor of a converted mill complex on The Cliff, high above Matlock Green, overlooking a conservation area. Lifts had been installed, and an entry system with coded access from the communal areas.

Yes, some of the original features had been retained in the conversion, but not too many. Enough to make ‘period character’ a selling point, probably. Judging by Lowther’s place, the interiors had been given a very modern feel. This was open-plan living – a walkthrough from a study hall to the kitchen under exposed roof timbers and diagonal supports. The apartment was all chrome and glass, pastel shades and a tiny dining table set for two, looking as if it ought to be standing in an intimate corner of a fashionable restaurant. One problem, though. There was a high central ceiling, but if you wanted to walk close to the walls and look out of the windows, you’d better be a midget, or not mind a few bruises. The pitch of the roof was steep. Really steep.

Fry stood in the middle of the living area and checked out the doors off the hallway. Two bedrooms, even. It was all wasted on a single man, which John Lowther plainly was. She guessed he hadn’t chosen the décor himself, either.

‘There’s nothing of immediate interest,’ said Murfin. ‘But we did find a bottle of tablets on his bedside table. Orphenadrine.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s probably not important.’

‘No …’

Fry began to move away, then stopped and came back.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Murfin.

‘That phrase – “it’s probably not important”. Those sound like famous last words to me. You’d better check it out, Gavin.’

‘OK, if you think so.’

She had a feeling about this apartment. There was something she couldn’t see. Inside any home, there were public places and private places. In the rooms where strangers might be expected to intrude, the contents were carefully chosen to present an image: highbrow books, artwork, the collection of expensive porcelain. But take a peek into the bedroom on your way to the loo, and you might find the truth behind the façade – the trashy novels, the S&M gear, the Prozac on the bedside table. Or in this case, perhaps, the Orphenadrine.

Fry wondered what lurked behind the foliage in a house full of plants, what a conservatory stuffed with fuchsias and tree ferns ought to be telling her. On the way down to Matlock, she’d phoned in and asked them to check the details of Luanne’s adoption with the authorities in Bulgaria. A link might emerge, or an inconsistency.

Cooper walked in clutching a bottle of Buxton Spring water, as if he was taking a break at home in his own sitting room.