Frederick Hazlett sat with the duty solicitor, Peter Faraday, by his side. He looked composed, as if having made the decision to issue a statement, he had found some inner peace with himself. He looked up as Yarrow and Harding entered before returning his gaze to his hands held in front of him.
‘Frederick,’ Yarrow said, ‘I’m sorry to advise you that Sir Malcolm Breardon died earlier this morning.’
‘Don’t be sorry on my account, he was a pompous s**t who always looked down his nose at me. Pretty much like his stuck-up niece,’ he added.
‘Miriam?’
‘Yes, my dear wife Miriam,’ he said flatly.
‘Do you want to postpone this interview for an hour or two?’ Yarrow asked. ‘Have a bit of time?’
‘No, no, let’s get to it.’
‘OK, let me remind you that you are still under caution.’
‘I know.’
‘Bef
