About the Author

Born in Dublin, JENNY O’BRIEN moved to Wales and then Guernsey, where she tries to find time to both read and write in between working as a nurse and ferrying around three teenagers.

In her spare time she can be found frowning at her wonky cakes and even wonkier breads. You’ll be pleased to note she won’t be entering Bake Off. She’s also an all-year-round sea swimmer.

Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series

‘Full of twists and turns … A fabulous story till the end’

‘A clever thriller … Mind blowing’

‘Keeps you on the edge of your seat.’

‘You won’t be able to put the book down until the very satisfactory end’

‘An excellent start to a great crime procedural series!’

‘An amazing thriller from beginning to end’

‘This book has everything … Full of twists and turns’

‘Very, very clever plotting … Highly recommended’

Also by Jenny O’Brien

The Detective Gaby Darin series

Silent Cry

The Stepsister

Darkest Night
JENNY O’BRIEN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Previously published as Stabbed in Wales

Copyright © Jenny O’Brien 2020

Jenny O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008390174

Version: 2020-06-09

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series

Also by Jenny O’Brien

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: Christine

Chapter 2: Gaby

Chapter 3: Christine

Chapter 4: Paul

Chapter 5: Paul

Chapter 6: Nikki

Chapter 7: Gaby

Chapter 8: Paul

Chapter 9: Gaby

Chapter 10: Gaby

Chapter 11: Christine

Chapter 12: Nikki

Chapter 13: Christine

Chapter 14: Paul

Chapter 15: Gaby

Chapter 16: Gaby

Chapter 17: Marie

Chapter 18: Gaby

Chapter 19: Gaby

Chapter 20: Gaby

Chapter 21: Gaby

Chapter 22: Christine

Chapter 23: Gaby

Chapter 24: Gaby

Chapter 25: Marie

Chapter 26: Gaby

Chapter 27: Christine

Chapter 28: Gaby

Chapter 29: Gaby

Chapter 30: Gaby

Chapter 31: Gaby

Chapter 32: Gaby

Chapter 33: Nikki

Chapter 34: Gaby

Chapter 35: Gaby

Chapter 36: Gaby

Chapter 37: Nikki

Chapter 38: Gaby

Chapter 39: Gaby

Chapter 40: Gaby

Chapter 41: Gaby

Chapter 42: Amy

Chapter 43: Gaby

Chapter 44: Christine

Chapter 45: Amy

Chapter 46: Gaby

Chapter 47: Amy

Chapter 48: Gaby

Chapter 49: Gaby

Chapter 50: Nikki

Chapter 51: Gaby

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to all of the students at Elizabeth College, Guernsey; to their stories and to the characters they are yet to imagine, create and meet.

Jenny Palmer, Principal of Elizabeth College.

Chapter 1
Christine
Saturday 9 May, 6 a.m. Llandudno

Consciousness came upon her slowly, memories flickering through her mind – memories she was afraid to summon from the shadow of sleep.

Christine had never been any good in the mornings, usually only surfacing when the gnaw of hunger and the thirst for caffeine overrode the comfort and warmth of her bed. But this morning was different, not that she could put a finger on exactly how or why.

Reaching out, she picked up her gold-plated watch and squinted at the dial, just about managing to make out the little hand pointing at the six. She decided to ignore the box beside her bed. Without her contacts she was as blind as a bat but, with her head thumping, the thought of even lifting the lid had her resting back against the pillow. She’d need a gallon of coffee with a paracetamol chaser before she could even think about starting her day.

Friday nights usually followed a defined pattern. She finished work around five, which allowed her plenty of time to dash to Asda before returning to her top-floor flat along the West Shore to get ready for the evening ahead, not that it was usually that exciting. Since her divorce, her nightlife had contracted to meeting up with a girlfriend for a few drinks, before returning home to an oven-ready pizza, a bottle of prosecco and whichever boxset she was currently watching on Netflix. Life was predictable and, in truth, a little boring. But boring was as good as it was safe. She rarely deviated from this pattern and any time she did it was usually something she regretted in the morning. It had been a hard lesson to learn when at university that what looked hot and handsome through a cocktail-infused haze invariably turned into the proverbial frog when daylight hit. But last night had been different. There’d been more laughter and more fun than she’d had in a very long time.

Her eyes snagged on the wall of birthday cards, carefully placed on top of her tallboy. She’d been dreading turning thirty. Now the only thing she regretted was the headache from hell trying to dig its way out of her skull with the blunt end of a pickaxe. Turning her head slightly, she stared at one card in particular while she tried to piece last night together. It felt as if there was a cloud between what had happened and what she remembered. No. She frowned, her brain addled with the complexity of thinking. It was almost as if someone had sucked the centre out of her memory only to leave a pale outline. She remembered leaving work just as she remembered the pile of goodies she’d popped in the fridge for later. She even remembered the black silky top and trousers she’d flung on before rushing to leave the flat, the sound of her heels echoing on the stairs. She remembered the man.

Her thoughts collapsed in on themselves, hovering on something lurking in the distance. Turning her head, she focused on the mound buried beneath the duvet next to her, a shady memory pushing through the curtain of her mind. So, that was it; her mouth pulled into a thin smile. For the first time since the divorce she’d dragged some poor unsuspecting bloke back to the flat for a night of passion. Her smile disappeared. She couldn’t remember much, hardly anything. His cologne, something light and tangy. The force of his body driving through hers. He had no name and no face. There was nothing else apart from a lingering sense of regret and disgust that she’d sunk so low as to have sex with a stranger.

She shook her head, wondering at the direction of her thoughts. Instead of trying to work out what had happened she should be kicking the body beside her in an effort to clear both her bedroom and her life from whichever stranger she’d invited back. Her ex-husband was her worst mistake and one she was determined never to repeat. If she could get it so badly wrong the first time, there was every reason to suppose that she’d get it wrong the next.

With a sigh, she slid out of bed, careful not to shift the covers or depress the mattress. If he found her standing in the nude, he might think he was in for a repeat performance and that certainly wasn’t going to happen.

Walking across the floorboards in bare feet, she was careful not to make a sound, thankful that the door was open and her dressing gown still in its usual place – draped across the back of the button-backed chair. She slipped her arms through the sleeves and tied the belt in a secure bow before making her way into the kitchen and to the percolator that took pride of place on the worktop.

With coffee brewing, she wandered into the bathroom to get the packet of paracetamol that lived in the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Tablets in the centre of her palm, she raised her hand to her mouth only to pause at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked like shit, the bags and shadows emphasising the tiny lines that had only appeared since the divorce. But it wasn’t her looks that confused her. It was how she felt. Her head was banging but it was more than that. Her gaze followed the tremor of her hand as she popped the pills into her mouth. She’d never been one to party into the small hours but, on the odd occasion when she had, she’d never felt like this. It was probably her age; after all, she wasn’t getting any younger, she thought with a grimace as she remembered her amnesia. If she could only manage to obliterate the grinding pain in her head, she was sure her memory of last night would come racing back. It felt like an evening she probably wouldn’t want to remember but she still needed to know.

Back in the kitchen, she was relieved to note there was still no sign of activity from her room. The door to her flatmate’s bedroom also remained determinedly shut. She paused, one hand on the coffee pot, the other reaching for a mug. Nikki was usually up and about by now and, as a poor sleeper and early riser, what were the odds that she already knew about the man in her bed.

Christine scowled at any thought that centred around her increasingly unwelcome lodger. Agreeing to allow Nikki to move into the small box room, as a temporary stopgap, was all very well. But not when Nikki had made it clear from the beginning that she wasn’t going to make any effort to help around the apartment. She lived like a slob, leaving a scattering of dishes and clothes in her wake and Christine was growing increasingly sick of picking up after her. It was almost like bunking down with a teenager although, as an only child, she’d never had that pleasure. She should have sent her packing weeks ago but the truth was she felt sorry for her. More fool her. Nikki was a problem and one she didn’t know how to sort but she was determined to at least have a chat with her as soon as she’d managed to boot lover-boy from her bed.

With that thought uppermost, Christine pushed herself up from the table and reached for another mug. She had no idea if he even drank coffee but, as her mum always said, it was the thought that counted, not the action. She’d let him have his drink before showing him the door and after, she’d do what she’d been putting off for months. She’d tell Nikki that it wasn’t working and that she’d need to look for somewhere else to live. Pleased that she’d finally come to a decision, she left the kitchen and walked back into her bedroom.

‘Come on, matey,’ she said, trying to be jokey.

She grabbed the corner of the duvet, still half fearful of what he’d look like in the cold light of day. After the first sip, she’d managed to come up with a blurry image of tall and dark-haired, but his face was still a complete blank.

‘Thanks for last night and all that but I need to be somewhere. I’ve made you a cuppa—’

There was no warning of what was coming. Her memory was still as absent as it had been earlier and now other thoughts joined that big gaping hole inside her mind, her eyes riveted to the body spread across her bottom sheet – a sheet awash with blood. The pale alabaster skin. The unblinking stare. The mouth open in what appeared to be a silent scream. The cavernous hole in the white T-shirt, which confirmed what she knew already. She’d never touched a dead person before. She’d never even seen one. Her mind shifted to thoughts of her grandfather’s recent demise and her refusal to remember him as anything but how he was before dementia had taken hold of both his mind and body.

Christine dropped the mug she’d been clenching, letting it slip through her fingers only for it to bounce once before cracking in two, spewing coffee across the floor. Turning away, she just managed to reach the security of the bathroom before losing the entire contents of her stomach.

Arm stretched out against the tiled wall, she ignored the sight of last night’s supper, instead heaving in deep breaths in an attempt to settle both her stomach and her nerves. But no matter how hard she squeezed her lids, Christine couldn’t obliterate the memory of the cold foot under her fingertips, the pale pink nail varnish almost garish against the translucent white of her skin and the almost slippery dampness of her flesh. Was it worse that she recognised her as Nikki, the person she’d been planning to berate about her slovenly ways? Seeing her naked like that for the first time, her body laid wide open to prying eyes, made Christine feel embarrassed somehow. She hadn’t even thought to pull the sheet up to hide her flesh, not that it would make any difference to her – not now.

For the first time in her life Christine didn’t know what to do. She knew that she had to contact the police but that was easier said than done. What would she say and, more importantly, what would they think? She had no idea what had happened; would they believe her?

She reached for the flush before turning to the sink and washing her hands, her attention snagged by the haunted expression staring back at her in the mirror. The stark truth was that she’d gone to bed with a man only to wake up next to the body of her flatmate. Where was he? What had happened to him? But more importantly what had happened to Nikki?

Christine turned away with a sigh. The thing that scared her the most, of course, was what if she was guilty?

Chapter 2
Gaby
Saturday 9 May, 8 a.m. Rhos-on-Sea

DC Gabriella Darin was annoyed at the persistent ringing of her doorbell. She’d switched off her phone the night before and, after a long luxurious bath filled to the brim with her favourite bath oil, she’d towelled and plaited her hair before climbing into bed with her Kindle and a plate of rice cakes in preparation for the lie-in she’d planned – her first in ages. The rice cakes were the only discordant note in her ideal evening, that and the lack of a man to share both her bath and her bed. But her life was a work in progress. After being forced out of her last job for nearly causing the death of a civilian, she was determined to focus on her career before tackling any of the other issues.

Now, she placed her Kindle down on the coffee table beside her mug of tea before pushing to her feet. With this being her first weekend off since she’d moved to St Asaph Station from Swansea, over three months ago, it could only be Amy. But thumping on her door at this time of the morning wasn’t really her style … Gaby had been seeing less and less of her friend and colleague over recent weeks, conversations now starting and ending with Tim, Amy’s new boyfriend. Gaby was happy for her, more than happy, but she’d be even happier if she was able to find that special person for herself. It would certainly cure the boredom that seemed to have set in since her transfer.

North Wales was stunning with its long stretches of golden beaches, incomparable lush fields and hills coated in green. It was a place to repair her soul of the damage caused by her last case, but it was also meant to be a place to make use of the skills she’d honed after thirteen years in the force. It was just a shame that her new boss, DCI Henry Sherlock seemed to have other ideas. She headed for the hall, trying not to think about next week’s interview for the job of detective sergeant. It was difficult not the get her hopes up but, after the mess she’d made of finding Alys Grant, she was lucky to still be in the force let alone involved in the kind of cases she wanted.

The shadow through the etched glass pane in her front door wasn’t Amy. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think that it was the detective that Sherlock had buddied her up to as part of her induction, but that couldn’t be right on her weekend off …

‘You should know by now that a copper never turns their phone off – not even on their wedding night.’

‘Aw, come on, Bates. Give me a break.’

‘A break! You want me to give you a break,’ DC Owen Bates said, sending her a look before pulling out of her narrow drive. ‘At least you were only dossing about at home. I was about to leave the house for a pre-rugby match training session. You might remember that it’s meant to be my weekend off too but, with DI Tipping still off sick and half the force down with Norovirus, we had no chance. Henry did say that he’d make it up to us both but when is another thing. It’s hard enough with the cuts to manage the workload let alone try to give us time owing. Kate’s been nagging me for ages to make some plans for a weekend away but I daren’t.’

Gaby threw the bearded Welshman a quick look. Being youngish, free and single, she hadn’t spared a thought for what it must be like trying to juggle a partner and young family within the narrow confines of a career in law enforcement. The DCI was as fair a copper as you could get but he couldn’t magic staff out of thin air.

Reaching out a hand, she patted his knee briefly. ‘When this case is over, Owen, I’ll cover for you so that you can make an extra-long weekend of it.’

‘You know I’ll do the same if you ever manage to get that love life of yours sorted,’ he replied with a laugh.

‘Ha, that will be the day. So, where to next?’ she said, neatly changing the subject. The very last thing she was willing to discuss was her lack of anything bordering a romantic entanglement.

‘The West Shore, across from the play-area.’ He shot her a look. ‘Sherlock isn’t able to make it, but he asked me to pass on a message.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He wants you to head up this one, Gaby. Well done. It must be a good omen for your interview.’

She watched Owen turn left onto Gloddaeth Avenue, her eyes sliding to the distant mountains framing the West Shore. If she knew Sherlock, he’d have his reasons for choosing her over Owen but now wasn’t the time to puzzle it out. The only hope was that she was up to it. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but those few short months in Swansea had caused her to question her abilities. If she could miss most, if not all, of the clues during the previous case, wasn’t it possible that she could do the same again?

Instead of replying all she said was, ‘You were saying about the murder?’

‘Yes, looks like an open and shut case, so not something you’ll be able to sink your teeth into. The only thing we don’t appear to have is the murder weapon. The key suspect, a Christine de Bertrand, must have hidden it. Early thoughts are that it’s some kind of kitchen knife. The pathologist said he’d meet us there so we should know more shortly.’

She bit her lip hard, the taste of blood leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. ‘Make my day and tell me that Rusty Mulholland is on his hols or, even better – that he’s fallen off a cliff?’

It would be a kindness to say that Gaby had a difficult relationship with the red-haired Irish pathologist. She had no idea why he’d taken an instant dislike to her but he could barely look her in the eye without a curl of his mouth or a snarky comment from his lips.

‘Ha, no such luck, sweetheart,’ Owen said, pulling up behind the CSI van and switching off the engine. ‘I really don’t get what gives between you two?’

‘Nothing gives, Owen, and it’s not likely to. Ever. That man is a scourge and the less I see of him the better.’

Gaby compressed her lips, her attention now on the red-brick building ahead with a bright yellow door flanked by a pair of pyramid-shaped topiary bushes, not that she knew the first thing about gardening.

‘Well, there’s obviously something up, he’s as nice as pie to everyone else.’ Bates unclicked his seatbelt, urging her to hurry. ‘The sooner we can get the body bagged and tagged and the suspect interviewed, the sooner I can sign off.’

Gaby raised her eyebrows but said nothing. There was little point. With no family nearby she knew she’d be press-ganged into giving up her weekend. There was always a huge amount of extra work generated on a case like this. Interviews, witness statements, paperwork galore – the list was endless. But in this instance, she didn’t mind. As the two most senior DCs in the unit, it was always going to be either her or Owen and, as he had a toddler and another on the way, she was the obvious choice.

Walking into the middle of the scene of a crime always had her pulse racing and her heart jerking in her chest. It wasn’t that she was nervous, far from it. In a strange sort of way, it was the feeling of excitement building. They had a golden hour, that first sixty minutes, to push aside any preconceived ideas and focus on the facts. Securing the crime scene was vital but it was more than that. The first impression of the location. The first impression of the main suspects. Their first words before lawyers turned up to slam the window of opportunity in their faces.

She walked beside Bates to the police van and, reaching out a hand, took the clipboard from the officer standing watch, scrawling her name, rank, date and time in the allocated columns before handing it to Owen. ‘You said it was a cut and dried case?’

‘Yes, indeed. A modern-day love story gone wrong. All we need to do is find the murder weapon and it’s straight to court to bang her up for the twenty-first century equivalent of life – so ten years then.’

She pulled a wry smile at his joke although it was far from funny. ‘A modern-day love story? I don’t get it?’

‘You know what, Gaby, at the tender age of thirty-five I feel I’m too old for this game,’ he said, patting his pockets for his phone. ‘The world has passed me by on a steam train. Between you and me, if things don’t change, I’m going to have a serious think about leaving the force.’

‘Ha, that would be impossible, I would have thought. You love the job nearly as much as I do. It’s coppers like us, grassroot ones determined to avoid those managerial ivory towers, that keep the streets safe. Somehow, I can’t see you becoming a PI or security guard and what else are we trained for? And anyway, what would I do without my partner?’ she added, grabbing a white suit from the pile and shaking it out.

‘You’d do fine,’ he said, shoving his black lace-ups into the blue overshoes provided, before pulling up the hood to his paper suit and tying a double knot under his chin. ‘Now not a word to anyone about what I’ve said, even to Amy Potter.’

‘Okay, although as family liaison officer, Amy would be the very last person to share a confidence.’

‘Yes, well. I’m going to concentrate on solving this little puzzle before I decide. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’ He pulled on an extra-large pair of disposable gloves and adjusted his mask before following her up the short flight of steps and into the dark, narrow hall, saying a brief hello to PC Diane Carbone, who was standing guard beside the front door.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because our suspect murdered her girlfriend in cold blood.’

Gaby had a thing about bedlinen. She didn’t mind scrimping and saving on other aspects of her life, but Egyptian cotton sheets were a must. She had a neat stack of carefully ironed, pure white linen in her tiny airing cupboard at the top of the stairs and, unlike almost anyone she knew, she changed her sheets twice a week. Her mother thought it an extravagance with half the world starving and the other half happy to put up with bobbly brushed nylon, but she didn’t care. She looked forward to Mondays and Fridays for the simple pleasure of slipping into her freshly made bed.

The bed in front of her must, at one time, have resembled hers. There were still tell-tale signs in the neat hospital corners and lace-edged pillowcases. The owner had taken pride in this room, Gaby thought, her gaze now resting on the scatter cushions in tasteful shades of cranberry and sand to match the throw, which had slipped to the floor in a heap. But all resemblance ended with the sight of the dark-haired woman splayed across the sheets.

Standing at the end of the bed, her hands clasped behind her, Gaby looked down at the naked body, the skin now that distinctive waxy pallor she always thought synonymous with the dead. While part of her grieved for such a young life lost, the other part, the clinically detached one, tried to work out which major artery the blade must have nicked to produce so much blood, thankfully mainly contained within the duvet.

‘Hope you’re keeping those hands glued behind your back, Detective Darin. Don’t want to corrupt the scene now, do we?’

Turning her head, she caught the eye of the pathologist and frowned. Rusty Mulholland. It was a good job that murders in North Wales were a rarity, Gaby reminded herself, curling her fists. Over the last month or so, they’d drawn an uneasy truce mainly because she’d gone out of her way to avoid any of the places he usually hung out. It was when she bumped into him at the station that it became more difficult.

She tilted her chin to look him in the eye, something made difficult by his six-two frame.

‘As if, Rusty.’ She refused to call him anything other than the nickname the rest of the team called him in deference to his hair. ‘Anything you can tell me?’ she continued, her calm demeanour unchanged despite his narrowing gaze. She was getting used to masking her expression when he was around.

‘What, apart from the fact that we have a dead body? No, not a thing. You should know by now, Detective, that’s not how it goes, or haven’t you worked with us long enough yet?’

She ignored the sarcasm. She’d have liked to have ignored him completely but the last time she’d tried he’d been even more acerbic. Whatever she said, she couldn’t win. He didn’t like her and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.

Casting a final look at the body, she was pleased to note one of the constables taking photographs from every conceivable angle. There’d also be a rough sketch of the crime scene in addition to detailed measurements of the room. Rusty, for all his bad manners and abruptness, was good at his job. She’d already clocked that he’d bagged the woman’s hands to minimise the risk of both contamination and the loss of any forensic evidence from what was one of the most important parts of a body following a crime. The fingernails were an oasis of DNA debris and within an hour of arriving back at the lab, he’d have arranged for the victim’s to be clipped and scraped.

Wandering out of the room, she headed along the hall, flicking a curious eye at the pictures adorning the walls. Modern art wasn’t her thing, not that she had either the time or the money to fritter away on non-essentials like food. She frowned. If truth be told, modern art confused her. If she had the money, she’d like to start a collection of local scenes in and around Rhos-on-Sea, a place she was learning to call home following the recent purchase of her cottage. But that was only a pipe dream – her rundown house took most of her salary and B&Q took the rest.

A technician, dressed head to toe in white plastic overalls, diverted her attention from the walls to the kitchen and the sight of DC Bates talking to what was presumably the key suspect. She was pleased that DCI Sherlock had decided to leave it to them. While good at his job and one of the best chiefs she’d worked under, he’d be the first to admit that the day-to-day job of crime-solving was best left to his detectives. His skills lay in managing both budgets and staff.

Gaby paused on the threshold, examining the scene at her leisure. There was no hurry in the way she let her gaze roam around the room before finally landing on the woman sitting on one of the four Bentwood chairs that circled the table. First impressions were important to a copper, and she knew that she’d replay these few seconds time and again in the privacy of her mind, remembering the pale-as-milk redhead, wrapped up in what appeared to be a dressing gown and little else.

She looked somewhere in her early thirties with flowing russet curls that owed little to artifice. Apart from the hair, which was bloody amazing, she also looked ordinary. Somebody you wouldn’t throw a second glance at if you came across her in the street. But then again, murderers didn’t tend to shout out about their crimes and Gaby would bet her last pound that this suspect would be the same. No. She was innocent until proven guilty, something Gaby sometimes had difficulty remembering.

‘This interview has been suspended at 09.25,’ Owen said, interrupting her thoughts and she watched in surprise as he switched off the mini voice recorder before gesturing for her to follow him back into the hall. ‘I thought I’d do the preliminaries and read her her rights, but all she’s done for the last five minutes is stare into space. It’s as if she’s in a trance. She hasn’t even confirmed her name or demanded to speak to a solicitor.’

‘She’s probably in delayed shock. It’s a pretty gruesome scene in there.’

‘And one she’s made herself so she should be used to it by now,’ he said, with a grunt. ‘I know she’s within her rights to remain silent, but this is ridiculous.’

‘Now, now, Owen, that’s unlike you. You don’t need me to tell you that we can’t assume guilt. Don’t go making assumptions that we can’t question until Rusty has worked his special kind of magic.’

‘Ha, I didn’t know you cared,’ Rusty said, from somewhere over her left shoulder. ‘And after all this time, too.’ His sneer matched Owen’s like a couple of bookends in a bad mood. ‘While you’re here passing the time of day, I thought I’d let you know I’ve arranged to take her back to the lab. Early indications are a single stab wound to the chest with the possibility of a nicked aorta. If she hadn’t been cocooned in the duvet, I’m guessing the splatter would have hit the ceiling.’ He looked at Owen. ‘I’ll have the report on your desk first thing Monday.’

Gaby squared her shoulders, determined not to let him see how much his cavalier attitude affected her. ‘That would be on my desk, Dr Mulholland.’

‘Would it now?’ he said, opening his eyes wide. ‘They’ve decided to let you off the reins, have they? Well, good luck with that.’

Gaby pulled a face at his retreating back. She hated altercations of any sort but that didn’t mean she was going to let him continue to walk all over her. She promised herself there and then that the next time he was rude, she’d tell him exactly what she thought of him.

‘I suppose we should get Amy down here ASAP if de Bertrand isn’t prepared to talk to us.’ Gaby dragged her phone out of her pocket to search for the number of the family liaison officer only to pause at the sound of her name.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Detective Constable Darin,’ Rusty said, stomping back up the stairs. ‘I think you might need these.’ He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small velvet-covered box, laying it out in the centre of his palm.

Gaby looked from the box and back to his face, for once lost for words. On the one hand he’d told her not to touch anything and on the other … ‘I do hope you think it was worth disturbing the crime scene before we’ve lifted any fingerprints because I certainly don’t. Of all the stupid, cockamamie—’

He stiffened, his back rigid, his mouth a thin hard line of disapproval. ‘What sort of word is cockamamie? And anyway, I think you’ll find that it’s against her human rights to deny her access to them. I could be wrong, but then again I am only a doctor as well as a pathologist.’ He handed her the case before heading back the way he’d come.

‘He really doesn’t like you, does he?’ Owen said on a laugh.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a man hasn’t …’ Gaby’s voice petered out at the sight of the hearing aids nestling in the bottom of the box.

Chapter 3
Christine
Saturday 9 May, 1.10 p.m. Llandudno Police Station

They hadn’t let her out of their sight despite the clock above the door stretching past one. The male detective, whatever his name, had barely allowed her to get dressed before escorting her into the waiting car and taking her back to the station. There was lots Christine could say to him if she could be bothered. Just because she was hearing-impaired was no excuse to shout. Shouting raised decibels but distorted clarity. It also increased stress levels to the extent that all she wanted to do was shout back, something she was pretty sure wouldn’t be appreciated under current circumstances. So, she’d worked on her breathing, trying to calm down. Being angry wouldn’t help, just as aggravating the police would make it worse. Something had happened between the time she’d crawled between the sheets and climbed out of bed and she’d need all her smarts to figure out exactly what.

The room they’d taken her to was small, about half the size of her kitchen and filled with a table and stackable plastic chairs. There was nothing to focus on apart from a female police officer leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her chest and a look of boredom on her face.

Shifting slightly, Christine finally forced herself to relive the scene back in her bedroom, something she’d pushed into the corner of her mind while they’d clipped her nails and swabbed her skin. They’d even taken her dressing gown for analysis although what they thought they might find was another thing. Shuffling back in her chair, she hitched up her jeans. They’d taken her belt and her watch, although how she was expected to take her own life with her trusty Seiko was a question she was yet to ask. She’d been photographed and fingerprinted, something that had drummed home more than anything else that she was a suspect in an horrendous crime. And the awful truth? She didn’t have a clue how to make them believe that she was innocent.

As a child, she’d hated the sight of blood. When all her friends were watching Buffy, she’d be the one hurrying out of the room at the squeamish parts. So much blood in her lovely bed. It almost felt as if someone had let Jackson Pollock into her bedroom with a jumbo tin of red Dulux. All Nikki’s blood. She felt sick at the thought of what had happened to her. While not her favourite person, Christine had always felt responsible somehow for how Nikki’s life had gone pear-shaped. If it hadn’t been for Paul … No. She blinked away the thought, forcing her mind to turn back to more practical issues – the past was a place she was determined not to visit. The very first thing she was going to do when they let her go was put the apartment on the market. There was no way she could ever live there again. She’d probably have to go back at some point to collect her things but until then, she’d need to think of somewhere else to stay.

Her mind was a complete blank. She couldn’t ask her parents. They were the very last people she could ask. She could no more ask them to put her up than she could tell them that she’d been taken into custody. She grimaced, a picture of her ageing mum and dad floating before her. A shock like that had to be managed but, as an only child, there was no one she could ask to knock on their door for a cuppa and a chat before informing them that … what? Their darling daughter was currently being detained at the local nick. Oh, they hadn’t charged her or anything, far from it, but she’d watched more than her fair share of Midsomer Murders to know the score. They were waiting for a solicitor to be assigned before the interrogation began in earnest.

The question of who to tell about her situation hovered. It had to be someone she could trust and, moreover, someone who would be prepared to tell her parents. The desk sergeant had demanded the name of someone they could call on her behalf but who? Kelly, the girlfriend she’d met up with last night, was always an option but her parents had never met her … She frowned. That only left the head at the special needs school where she worked, but she liked Jessica Kinney too much to land this on her doorstep.

She sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. In fact, she couldn’t involve her at all. At the first whiff of bad news, she’d be put on suspension or maybe even sacked. The school already took a dim view of parking offences – she didn’t dare think about what their reaction would be to a murder accusation. She groaned, plucking a tissue from the new box the PC had conveniently dropped beside her elbow. The only person she could think of was probably the last person in the world she’d ever dream of phoning under normal circumstances. But being suspected of murder was far from normal.

The sight of the door opening had her uncrossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. She’d deliberately ignored the chair facing the barred window and little patch of blue sky, instead choosing the one opposite the door for obvious reasons. While profoundly deaf, she still managed to hear some sound with the assistance of her high-pitched hearing aids but that didn’t alter the fact that the click of a door being pushed open was something she probably wouldn’t hear on a good day and, as days went, she’d had better.

‘Hello again, you might remember I’m DC Gaby Darin and this is my partner, DC Owen Bates,’ the short stocky woman said, joining her at the table. ‘We’ve managed to assign a solicitor – this is Mr Andy Parrish.’ She waved a hand towards the bespectacled middle-aged man following them into the room, an old leather briefcase clutched under his arm. ‘For the record, Ms de Bertrand, the conversation with be recorded.’ She flicked a switch on the microphone set into the wall at the side of the table.

The solicitor, with a brief smile, went to take the chair beside her only to stop at the sound of her voice.

‘No. You need to sit opposite.’

‘Opposite? I don’t understand?’ he said, a puzzled expression on his face as he looked at the empty chair to her right.

Christine let out a loud sigh. ‘Mr Parrish, I suffer from a hearing impairment. So, despite the hearing aids—’ she raised her hand to her hair, pushing it behind her left ear for emphasis ‘—for me to be able to understand you, I do need to see your lips, unless any of you can sign?’ She allowed her eyes to drift to each of them in turn, the sight of their quickly lowered heads confirmation enough. ‘Just as I thought.’

She’d been taking a huge risk that none of them knew sign language. While deaf in her left ear since a riding accident when a child, her current state of near total silence was something that had crept up on her over the last couple of years. Yes, she was learning to sign but she was far from fluent. She was also only a beginner at lip-reading – but they weren’t to know that. She knew instinctively that telling them she could hear, albeit slightly, was to her advantage.

‘If you’d prefer to have a sign-language interpreter present, I’m happy to halt the interview until one can be arranged?’ Gaby said, her look frank and with no trace of the embarrassment Christine was used to.

She shook her head briefly.

‘For the record, Ms Christine de Bertrand has declined the services of an interpreter at this time.’ Gaby flipped open her notebook to a new page and jotted down the date and time. ‘Now, please can you tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened in the lead up to this morning’s—’

‘Before you start questioning the witness perhaps you should caution her in my presence,’ Mr Parrish interrupted, pointing a finger at the microphone. ‘And I’d like it noted for the record that anything Ms de Bertrand has said to you, or any of your officers, up to this point is inadmissible as evidence.’

‘Understood, loud and clear, Mr Parrish,’ Gaby said, a smile frozen on her face. ‘DC Bates, if you could do the honours, please.’

Both hands on the table, Christine glanced down at what was left of her nails and the chipped dark red nail varnish, taking little notice of the barely audible words the bearded man was reading from a piece of white card that he’d pulled out from his pocket. She’d always prided herself on her hands, and her rainbow selection of varnishes, which she renewed daily, were a source of both discussion and amusement for her pupils. She’d never wear red again. She raised her head back to Gaby.

‘Now to repeat my question,’ Gaby said, only to be interrupted.

‘Don’t bother! Which part would you like? The part where I went to bed with a bloke or the one where I discovered my flatmate dead under my duvet?’ Christine replied, staring back.

‘How about from the beginning. Let’s say, when you returned home from work. I take it you do work?’

‘Yes. I’m a teacher at St Francis’s, at least I was. Innocent until proven guilty won’t hold much water with members of the school board.’

‘Let’s skip the school part and talk about arriving home from work,’ Gaby said, rolling her pen between her thumb and forefinger.

‘I usually leave at five o’clock on a Friday and, after a quick dash to Asda, I showered and changed before heading out to meet up with a friend for a few drinks – yesterday was my birthday.’

‘Congratulations,’ DC Bates said, without even the glimmer of a smile. ‘So, your friend and the bar staff would be able to confirm that, would they?’

She shifted her head, a frown appearing. ‘Sorry, can you repeat that please? It would be helpful if I know when someone else is speaking …’ She spread her hands.

‘Of course,’ Gaby said, shooting the other officer a quelling look. ‘My colleague asked whether your friend and the bar staff would be able to confirm that?’

‘Kelly certainly could – not sure about the bar staff but probably,’ she said, swallowing hard. The problem wasn’t with their memory … She wasn’t even sure which pubs she’d been in.

Her mind seemed stuck in a loop. Over the course of the morning she’d managed to dredge up a hazy recollection of the new drinking game Kelly had started, which involved copious amounts of Mojitos. But her inability to recall most of the subsequent events, including the lead up to her one-night stand, was a first, and more than scary – bloody terrifying.

Lifting her hands, she cradled her forehead and silently condemned last night’s excesses. They were usually much more restrained in their drinking habits but celebrating her milestone birthday by getting smashed had seemed a good idea at the time.

‘You said that you went to bed with a man,’ Gaby said, flicking a look at Christine’s ring-less hands. ‘Your boyfriend, partner, husband—?’

‘I’m not married, not anymore.’ She pushed her hair away from her face, annoyed that she hadn’t had the foresight to bring a scrunchie. ‘The thing is we had too much to drink, way too much—’

‘A couple of girls out on the lash in Llandudno on a Friday night isn’t that uncommon,’ Gaby interrupted with a smile. ‘Safety in numbers and all that.’

‘Yes, but I can’t really remember much after meeting up with Kelly,’ she said, her gaze resting on her solicitor who was busy tapping away on his laptop, a sheaf of papers pushed to one side. ‘I can’t really remember much more apart from what I’ve told you already. The next thing after the drinking contest was waking up this morning.’

‘Can you at least tell us something about him?’

‘There’s nothing, no memory of what happened between us, if indeed anything did,’ she said, wiping her fingers over her face before dropping her hands back to her lap. ‘Dark hair; short, dark hair,’ she continued, almost to herself, struggling to search through her mind for even a glimmer of something else but it was useless.

Gaby lifted her head from where she’d been writing in her notebook. ‘So, fast-tracking to this morning, can you tell us exactly what happened from when you woke up?’

‘There’s not a lot to tell. I felt a bit disorientated – too much alcohol.’ She pulled a face. ‘I certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with having to face some random bloke over my bowl of cornflakes.’ She paused, trying to see it from their point of view and suddenly not liking the impression she was giving. ‘You’re probably thinking that I’m a bit of a slapper but that’s not the case. Hooking up isn’t something I do now. Yes, when I was younger, but I can’t remember when I last took a stranger home to my bed – it must be years. I felt awkward, uncomfortable even. I have a nice flat, somewhere I feel comfortable and, to be honest, when I woke up, I couldn’t believe what I’d done. He could have been anyone …’ Her voice cracked, willing them to understand. ‘I needed to get away from the reality of the situation, so I left and went into the kitchen – coffee was called for, in large amounts.’

DC Bates lifted his hand. ‘Leaving a stranger asleep in your bed? Why didn’t you wake him?’

‘I’ve told you, I wasn’t thinking straight. It was like there was a fog … Everything was hazy, and my head was banging. I put the coffee on and headed into the bathroom for a pee and paracetamol.’ She put her hand up to her hair and tugged at a corkscrew curl. ‘You think I always go about looking like someone’s plugged me into the mains? This is usually blow-dried before being ironed into submission.’

Mr Parrish gained her attention by tapping his index finger on the side of his laptop before speaking. ‘Are you sure you’re happy to continue the interview, Ms de Bertrand? If you’re not feeling up to it, we can always postpone until later.’

She managed a smile out of relief that he had a tongue in his head. She’d been starting to get seriously worried about who they’d dumped her with. ‘No, let’s carry on. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can leave.’

Christine caught the tail-end of a look passing between the three of them and felt her stomach fall to her knees. Gripping her hands together to stop them shaking, she dropped her head a moment, trying to understand what was going on. It wasn’t some awful mistake. It wasn’t some nightmare dream that she was going to wake up from with a sigh of relief. The reality was that her flatmate had been found dead in her bed and she was the number one suspect.

‘So, I take it I’m not going to be allowed home any time soon? What about bail or something?’

‘Currently, you’re helping us with our enquiries into what is a complex and very serious case, so I’m afraid bail doesn’t come into it,’ DC Darin said, glancing up from where she was busily scribbling in her notebook.

‘But I’m still a suspect, is that right? The only suspect?’ Christine said, her gaze fixed on the detective’s face. ‘So, how long are you going to keep me here – in case I need to feed my dog or something?’

‘Do you have a dog, Ms de Bertrand?’ Her voice was sharp.

‘No, not anymore but you weren’t to know that,’ she said, not quite believing how her life had derailed so quickly. Her parents had led her to believe that the good guys always came out on top – but they’d lied. She was stuck here without even a toothbrush or a clean pair of knickers for however long they decided to keep her – years if they charged her and she was found guilty. But despite all that, she was a lot better off than Nikki. Her mind, as if on a puppeteer’s string, pulled her back to the image of her death-cold body bathed in all that blood. She felt her throat tighten with the threat of tears but managed to swallow them. Now wasn’t the time for tears. Tears wouldn’t help her and they certainly wouldn’t help Nikki.

‘So, presumably, reading between the lines, I’m the main suspect in a murder and, never having been in this position before, I’d like to know what happens next?’ she asked, her arms now folded across her chest. ‘How long am I to be kept here without being formally charged?’

‘Not long. You’ll be taken into custody but, as they don’t have the facilities in the Llandudno branch, you’ll be transferred over to St Asaph’s station and to their custodial suite.’

‘But that’s miles away. How do you think—?’

‘This isn’t a holiday,’ DC Bates interrupted with a wave of his hand. ‘Someone has died in your bed and, until we can ascertain what exactly happened, we need to ensure we know where you are. Now we still have some more questions,’ he said, his look pointed. ‘You’ve told us up to leaving the stranger in your bed and going to the bathroom. What happened next?’

He was making it sound as if in some way she was at fault and, hugging her arms across her suddenly trembling body, she probably was. But if there was a rule book to follow under the current set of circumstances, she was yet to find it.

‘I went back into my room … I’d made him a coffee.’ Her words were a mere thread of sound. ‘I wanted him gone, you see, and I thought that was the best way, kinder than showing him the door. I called out something, I can’t remember what, but there was no answer. After a moment I pulled back the duvet and—’ The image of Nikki’s body seemed to have leeched from her thoughts to behind her eyes, causing her cheeks to pale. ‘There was blood everywhere, so much blood. I ran then. I had to get away. I only made it to the loo in time.’

‘And what can you tell us about your relationship with Nikki Jones?’

Christine shifted her head in the direction of the bearded detective, scowling at the way he’d clicked his fingers almost under her nose to regain her attention. ‘Not a huge amount. I knew her from university but we’d lost touch. I bumped into her again and offered to put her up for a bit. She seemed … well, she seemed to have fallen on hard times. If you want the truth, I felt sorry for her, not that I’d ever have told her. She wasn’t the type to accept charity.’

The tiny bit of energy, flowing through her veins and muscles, was fast diminishing. With her hand on her forehead, she now asked. ‘How long am I to be kept at the station?

‘A few days at most.’

Mr Parrish lifted his briefcase and popped it open, placing his laptop and papers inside. ‘The maximum length they can detain you without a formal charge is seventy-two hours.’

‘But that’s three days, what am I going to—?’ All colour drained from her face, not that there’d been much to start with. They thought she was a murderer, all three of them, even the solicitor who now couldn’t quite meet her eye. Oh God, what the hell was she going to do. She could tell the interview was over by the way they spoke directly into the microphone before switching it off and standing to their feet.

‘It shouldn’t be long, Christine, if I may call you that?’ DC Darin said, now standing by the door. ‘I’ll send an officer in with some tea while we arrange for your transfer.’

‘Wait.’ Christine hugged her arms more tightly across her chest, trying to retrieve both her courage and her pride from where they were hiding. She couldn’t do this alone, not now. She needed help but would he be the right one to ask after everything she’d done to him? She was about to find out, one way or the other.

‘You said you’d inform someone about what’s happening to me. I’d like that person to be Paul de Bertrand, my ex-husband.’

Chapter 4
Paul
Saturday 9 May, 5 p.m. St Gildas Independent Boarding School
Beddgelert

The school bell rang at the same time each evening at St Gildas, one of the oldest independent boarding schools in Great Britain. Within seconds the corridors were filled with the echo from six hundred pairs of boys’ shoes racing into the refectory in time for supper. Like most boarding schools, life at St Gildas was governed by rules and regulations and no child wanted to be late in case they missed out on the Saturday treat of toad in the hole and chips.

The teaching staff followed at a more leisurely pace, tucking a copy of the evening paper under their arms as they passed the long mahogany table that filled one corner of the Jacobean-styled main entrance. These housemasters and mistresses had every reason to feel smug at their place amongst one of the top ten boarding schools in the country. Cocooned within their ivory tower, two miles south-west of the village of Beddgelert, the outside world rarely had the audacity to interrupt their orderly existence and any unsavoury intrusions were swiftly brushed under the antique Persian rug that took pride of place in the headmaster’s office.

The headmaster, Paul de Bertrand, was a lucky and relatively recent addition to the school, an addition the board was pleased to embrace with his prior experience both as an educationalist and university lecturer. The only fly in the ointment was when his wife had upped and divorced him within months of taking up his tenure because, of course, a married headmaster was so much more desirable than a divorced one. But, over the last couple of years they’d muddled along, occasionally partnering him with a suitably well-bred woman, at one of the many dinner parties he had to attend, with a view to her slipping into his erstwhile ex-wife’s shoes. So far it hadn’t worked.

Arriving at the table at the head of the room, Paul inspected the sea of boys, a wry smile on his face. Life was as good as it could be under the circumstances – circumstances he couldn’t spend too much time thinking about or he’d go mad. The divorce rankled. He thought about Christine’s desertion first thing in the morning and last thing at night, without fail, and it was as much of a mystery then as it was now. The thing about having the ideal marriage was that he had no idea when or even how it had started to crumble. Up to the day he’d found her gone, a crappy note left propped up on the mantelpiece, he’d thought their life perfect. Now he had no expectations or ambitions. Now he had work and Ruby, their five-year-old miniature schnauzer – that was all.

He pulled the newspaper out from under his arm for something to do while he waited for his meal to be served. With a couple of staff due to go on maternity leave, there were still supply teachers to find and references to plough through. Afterwards he’d sit in his private lounge with a glass of port by his side and a book on his lap …

It took one glance at the headline glaring out from the front of the paper for him to unfold it, the cold hand of fear tracing its way up his spine.

‘It’s your favourite again, sir. These Saturdays do come around with an increasing regularity,’ Maggie, one of the dinner ladies, said before placing his plate in front of him with a smile.

He didn’t see her smile, a smile that quickly changed into a frown before she turned on her heel and made her way back to the kitchen. He didn’t see anything other than the headline laid out in front of him.

The body of a young woman has been found on The West Shore. Her flatmate is currently assisting the police with their enquiries.

‘Headmaster?’

‘What? Excuse me, sorry. I was miles away,’ he finally said, looking up into the face of Eddie Taylor, the sports master.

‘No problem. There’s a call for you, they wouldn’t leave their name.’ He handed him a piece of paper. ‘If you could phone this number – they said that it’s urgent.’

Chapter 5
Paul
Sunday 10 May, 9.25 a.m. St Asaph Police Station

‘Where is she?’

‘Good morning, sir,’ the custody sergeant said, looking up from the computer monitor perched on the desk in front of him. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’m looking for Christine de Bertrand. She was transferred here yesterday from Llandudno. You wouldn’t let me see her last night but I’m …’

‘Ah, yes,’ he interrupted, pulling a print-out towards him and running his blunt-cut nail down the list before lifting his head. ‘And you are?’

‘Paul de Bertrand, her … ex … husband.’

‘Right. Unusual name, if you don’t mind me saying. French, is it?’

‘No. It’s Chinese,’ he snapped. ‘Of course it’s bloody French.’

‘There’s no need to take that tone here, sir, or I might have to arrange for you to join us.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He placed both hands flat on the desk, staring down at the officer whose tone of voice had dropped along with his professional smile.

Of all the situations Paul had found himself in over the years, this one ranked right up there with the most difficult. But by the look on the officer’s face, if he didn’t moderate his behaviour pretty smartish, he could find himself booted out or, even worse, arrested – neither of which would help Christine’s cause.

He heaved a breath, making more of an effort than he’d made in a very long time. ‘Look, it’s been a bit of a shock, all right. I haven’t heard from her for nearly six months and to get a call like that out of the blue.’

‘Yes, sir. If you’d like to take a seat while I check in with the detective in charge of the case.’

‘I don’t want to see any detective. I want to see my ex-wife,’ he said, his voice rising.

‘All in good time, Mr de Bertrand.’ The sergeant tilted his head in the direction of the chairs lined up against the wall.

The one thing Paul de Bertrand wasn’t, was stupid. With a BA in classical civilization, an MA in late antique and early Byzantine studies and a PHD in Assyriology, he’d quickly learnt that life was a game and, as with all games, there were rules that must be followed. The only problem was he didn’t know which game he was meant to be playing. The throw of the dice. The turn of a card. The positioning of a chess piece. With twenty years’ experience in teaching, he was a dab hand at games. He won some. He lost some and learnt from the experience. This wasn’t a game he could afford to lose.

Sitting down on one of the blue plastic chairs, he scrolled through his choices only to realise that he didn’t have any. The phone call hadn’t said much, only that Christine was assisting the police with their enquiries. If it hadn’t been for the evening newspaper, picked up from the sideboard on his way into supper, he might have been tempted to leave her to her own devices. After all, she’d been the one to walk out on their marriage. No. It hadn’t been their marriage she’d walked out on – it had been him. She’d abandoned him like an old sock and the thing that hurt the most was he still had no idea why. There’d been no indication that things weren’t right between them and certainly no precipitous act like an affair. He’d never even noticed other woman and as for her … he was as sure as he could be that there wasn’t another man involved but as for another woman—?

Removing his glasses, he pressed his hand to his forehead, trying and failing to shut out the morning’s headline that had shouted out in four-inch Helvetica script.

Lesbian Bloodbath in Llandudno.

How could he have gotten it so wrong? He’d be the first to admit that he found women confusing and Christine more confusing than most. The truth was he should never have looked at her and as for marrying her … He sighed, scrubbing his hand across his jaw. It still rankled that she’d never told him her reason for walking out. One minute they were planning where they were going to spend their holiday and the next, he was staring at empty wardrobes and shoe racks. The letter she’d left had said everything and yet nothing. She’d refused to see him or even answer his calls and, to this day, he still didn’t understand.

Replacing his glasses, he found the custody sergeant focused on him, one hand gripping the phone. He would have laughed at the thought of anyone taking notice of a balding headmaster, but he didn’t find anything remotely funny about the current situation. It was beyond tragic. Ignoring him, he took off his raincoat and, folding it neatly in half, placed it on the seat beside him before glancing at his watch. As headmaster of an exclusive private secondary school, Sunday was his quietest day but he’d still be missed in the refectory at lunchtime. He sighed a second time. The deputy would be more than happy to step into his shoes. He was already nipping at his heels. This situation would only make it worse.

‘Mr de Bertrand?’

The woman standing in the doorway was short and stocky, her dark hair ruthlessly dragged back from her face and secured in a thick plait. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t her.

‘Actually, it’s Dr. I thought he was going to take me to my … to see Christine?’

‘That’s not how it works … Dr. I’m Detective Constable Gaby Darin,’ she said, her handshake firm. ‘I’ve been in to check on Christine and she’s fine but I’m afraid it’s not possible for you to see her at present.’ She gestured for him to follow. ‘If you could come this way. I have a few questions.’

The room she took him to was small and windowless with only four chairs and a table. It was bare, characterless and cold, the walls painted a dull cream, the floor covered in some wood-effect lino. He sat down on the hard chair offered and wondered about Christine. Was this the type of room they had her holed up in with no home comforts and nothing to do except think? Were they trying to break her, to force her into some kind of confession? For all their differences, he knew murder wasn’t something she’d ever be capable of, even under the most extreme of circumstances.

He shifted his head from where he’d been staring at the wall. ‘So, why can’t I see her? Surely that’s against her human rights?’ he said, leaning forward, his arms folded on top of the table, his eyes unwavering. He was used to dealing with all sorts in his job. In fact, part of his week was taken up with irate parents, underperforming teachers and recalcitrant students. Dealing with authoritarian civil servants was a sideways step as far as he was concerned.

‘No. Her human rights are being taken care of just fine by the PACE Act of 1984,’ Detective Darin said, offering him a thin smile.

‘But what possible threat could there be in my seeing her?’ he replied, tightening his jaw. ‘I wouldn’t expect to be left alone with her or anything.’ He spread his fingers. ‘It’s not as if I’m smuggling anything in. You can search me, if you like.’

‘Oh, don’t be under any illusion that we wouldn’t, Dr de Bertrand – search you, that is. No, the reason you, or indeed any of her family, friends or acquaintances, are unable to see her currently is because of the risks involved.’ She leant back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her trouser leg riding up to reveal a glimpse of calf. ‘While I’m sure you’re a law-abiding citizen, we’ve been burnt by similar law-abiding citizens in the past. You wouldn’t believe the tricks people get up to. As I’ve already said, I’ve been to check on your ex-wife and, apart from suffering from a bad case of boredom, she’s fine.’

‘Did she give you a message for me?’

She widened her gaze. ‘No, and I’m afraid even if she had, I wouldn’t pass it on in case it held some hidden message.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

‘I don’t make the rules,’ she said, lifting her palms. ‘Now, while you’re here, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may?’ She only carried on at the sight of his slight nod. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about Christine’s relationship with her flatmate?’

He shook his head briefly, curling his hands into fists. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘Nothing because you don’t want to assist us or nothing because—?’

‘Nothing because I didn’t even know she had a flatmate.’

‘But she still asked us to call you to let you know she was in custody?’ she said, her eyebrows arched.

‘Yes, but … look, Detective, Christine and I have what’s probably termed a difficult relationship. If it wasn’t for needing help with Ruby, I probably wouldn’t even have been told where she’d moved to.’

‘Ruby?’ she questioned, her pen hovering over her notebook.

‘Our miniature schnauzer,’ he said, almost laughing at the sight of her stiffened shoulders. He had enough on his plate already without having the added worry of a child. ‘We agreed during the divorce that I’d have her. She’s an anxious dog and leaving her for long periods of time while Christine went out to work wouldn’t have been an option.’

‘And when was the last time you saw your ex-wife?’

He picked his words carefully while he searched through his head for what to share of the last time he’d seen Christine. He’d run over that meeting many times because of the uneasy feeling that she hadn’t been totally honest with him. He could have sworn by the way she’d examined his face, the deep flush on her cheeks, that she’d still had feelings for him and yet her words were a continual echo of how far their relationship had veered from those dizzy early days.

He cleared his throat. ‘I had to go away to a conference in Brussels at the start of December so I dropped Ruby off for a few days. When I picked her up was the last time.’

‘Okay.’ He watched her jot something down on the corner of her pad, before lifting her head. ‘This conference – it was in relation to …?’

‘My job as headteacher of St Gildas Independent Boarding School.’

‘Right. And how did you find your wife?’

‘Pretty much the same as ever,’ he said, trying not to think about the cloud of freshly washed hair and far too thin face. He’d thought then that she looked tired, under a strain of some sort but nothing that the detective needed to worry about. ‘I didn’t stay long. She’d already brought Ruby down. I don’t know if you know much about dogs, but she was leaping all over us. Probably over-excited at having us back in the same room. The woman from the ground-floor flat came out to see what all the commotion was, and I left soon after. We haven’t been in touch since.’

‘Okay, thanks for that. We’ll catch up with the neighbour later to see if she remembers your visit. So, that was the last time you were in touch?’

‘Yes, apart from sending cards at Christmas and birthdays.’

She studied him for a moment, her face relaxing into the glimmer of a smile. ‘I know this must be difficult but if there’s anything else you can tell us about Christine that would have an impact on the investigation and perhaps help her …?’

‘There’s nothing to tell. She’s the most mild-mannered of people. I don’t understand what could have happened but I’m one hundred per cent sure she’s not guilty.’

The detective underscored something twice on her pad before continuing. ‘You’ve probably seen the newspaper headlines this morning. Care to comment?’

‘If you’re asking me if she’s gay then it’s an emphatic no.’ He pushed away from the table and stood to his feet.

‘Please sit down, Dr de Bertrand.’

‘Why? Am I under arrest or something?’

‘No, you’re free to go. But I had thought you’d like to assist us in finding the truth,’ she said, not breaking eye contact. ‘If there’s any information that you think might have an impact on our investigation, I do suggest that now’s the time to tell us.’

He sat down abruptly, brushing his hand over his head, his bright blue eyes steady. ‘I can’t even begin to guess at what happened but the one thing I do know is that Christine would never … She’s not gay, all right. We had a very healthy sex life and there was no suggestion, ever, that she didn’t enjoy being with me.’

‘What about other men?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Other men either before, during or after your relationship broke up?’

He opened his mouth to speak only to close it again but not before dragging air into his lungs from the suddenly claustrophobic room. While he could fully understand why the question needed to be asked, it was still a kick in the ribs. He wasn’t completely sure how or why their marriage had descended into the final farce of those last few weeks but those dark days, the worst days of his life, weren’t something he could discuss. One minute he’d thought himself the luckiest man alive and the next … the next he’d been deserted and facing a letter from her solicitor seeking an immediate divorce due to ‘irreconcilable differences’. He still had no idea what those differences could be but it was laughable to think that another party was involved. Surely, he’d have known. Surely, he’d have sensed some change but there’d been nothing to indicate she was anything other than blissfully happy.

‘I can’t answer about before we got together but, to the very best of my knowledge, she was faithful throughout our marriage,’ he finally replied. ‘And, before you ask—’ he removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and started to polish his glasses ‘—so was I. As to other men, after we separated and then divorced … who knows. But by then she was entitled to sleep with anyone she liked, and I certainly wouldn’t have been someone she’d have contacted with a list of her conquests. She knew how I felt and the one thing she’s not is deliberately cruel.’

‘You say you knew how she felt – how did the separation make you feel?’ she said, staring down at his hands and where he’d balled them around the arms of his glasses.

He extended his fingers before replacing his glasses on his nose and his handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘Devastated, if you must know, not that it has any bearing on anything. As far as I was aware our life was good, better than most. We both loved life at the school. There’s a great satisfaction in watching how children can blossom and grow in the correct environment.’

‘I’m sure. So your wife is a teacher too?’

‘Yes. She taught history to the senior boys before our divorce.’

‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr de Bertrand. The thing that’s puzzling me is, if your marriage was so perfect and there wasn’t another party involved, why the break-up?’

‘Sorry, your guess is as good as mine – that’s the one thing she refused to discuss.’

She settled her pen down on top of her notebook and shifted back in her chair. ‘Okay, that’ll be it for now. We’re about to release the name of the victim to the media but you’ll know it already,’ she said, standing to her feet.

‘Actually, that’s where you’re wrong, Detective. As I said earlier, I didn’t even know she had a flatmate so how on earth would I know her name? While I sent Chrissie cards, to keep the lines of communication open, she didn’t acknowledge them. She could have stuffed her flat to the brim with all and sundry and I’d have been none the wiser.’

‘No, only one. A Miss Nikki Jones,’ she said, her look intense. ‘A former student of yours, I believe, Dr?’

Chapter 6
Nikki
2008
Cambridge

Coming to Cambridge University was both the best and worst of decisions.

Nikki hoiked her rucksack up her back and straightened her shoulders, her attention on the large expanse of grass ahead. She was either brave or stupid to think she could cope with the added strain of attending such a prestigious college. But despite her misgivings and yesterday’s five-hour train journey, she’d managed to get this far.

Pulling out the slip of paper from her pocket, for what seemed like the millionth time, she read the directions to the lecture theatre. If she had the nerve, she’d ask one of the other many students bustling around – by the look of them, they all knew where they were going. Her ignorance was mainly down to her reluctance to attend Fresher’s Week. But for someone like her – with all her insecurities – that was never going to happen, her hand instinctively pulling her sleeve down over her wrist. Heaving a sigh, she peered at the red-brick building laid out in front of her before making her way back to the entrance and the porter’s lodge. It would mean she’d be late, the one thing she’d been trying to avoid, but that couldn’t be helped.

‘Hello there, you look a bit lost. Can I be of any assistance?’

She glanced up from the slip of paper into the face of the kind-looking man hovering in front of her and let out a sigh of relief even as colour stole up her cheeks. She wasn’t used to people noticing her – in fact, she went out of her way not to put herself forward in any given situation. But getting a place here was a new start. She had to draw a line under— No. She had to draw a line through the past just as she had to escape from under her mother’s clutches. This was a new beginning.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m totally lost. I’m looking for … the Classics Department.’ She stared down at the paper again, missing his look of amusement. ‘Lecture theatre three.’

‘Ah, what a coincidence. I’m heading that way. I still remember what it was like on my first day too but that daunting feeling soon passes. Give it a couple of days and you’ll be a dab hand at finding your way about. I’m Dr de Bertrand, by the way, one of the course lecturers, so you’ll be bumping into me in one way or the other over the next three years,’ he continued, raising his left eyebrow.

‘I’m Nikki, Nicola Jones.’

‘Well, Miss Jones, welcome to Cambridge University and St Augusta’s College in particular.’ He walked around the circular lawn to the side of the campus and the building straight in front of them. ‘We’re tucked out of the way here, near the library,’ he said, pushing open the door and gesturing for her to go on ahead. ‘Mostly the rest of the college leave us to our own devices – something we’re very happy with.’ He led her down a long corridor only to pause outside a pair of wide-double doors. ‘This is where I take my leave, but I’ll see you inside shortly.’ He offered her another smile before turning on his heels and moving through the next door, which had ‘Private’ etched in gold letters.

Nikki lifted her head, the round handle smooth under her fingertips, her thoughts in panic mode.

Here goes nothing. The first day of the rest of my life.

Chapter 7
Gaby
Sunday 10 May, 10 a.m. St Asaph Police Station

There was something father-like in the tall, thin man in charge of the squad room. DCI Sherlock was an old-school copper with old-fashioned values and a way about him that had all his staff jumping over more fences than the average gymkhana. Gaby would do anything for him except perhaps willingly give up her long awaited first weekend off in three months.

Despite being 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, the incident room was busy, busier than a usual weekday. Gaby settled in her chair, smiling across at her friend, Amy Potter, who’d accompanied her when she’d left her job in Swansea and joined the North Wales MIT. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of her new hairstyle. Amy changed her look almost as often as her top and today her hair – which last week had been captured back off her face in a sleek ballerina bun – flowed down her back in a slick of honey-blonde. Of Owen Bates, there was no sign, his toddler having fallen foul of the norovirus rampaging through North Wales.

‘Thank you everyone for coming in on your weekend. We’ll try and make it up to you,’ DCI Sherlock said, picking a stray bit of fluff from his trousers before placing his hands in his pockets. ‘As most of you will now be aware, following the headlines in the evening newspaper, we have a murder to solve. DC Darin will be meeting with the next-of-kin straight after this briefing for a formal identification but we’re pretty certain that it’s thirty-year-old Nikki Jones. We also have a woman being held in the custodial suite helping us with our enquiries.’ He scanned the room, his gaze landing on each of them in turn. ‘On the face of it, it looks cut and dried but, as we know from other investigations, that may not be the case. Before I hand you over to DC Darin, please remember that we need this cleared up quickly – we could very well have a murderer on the loose.’

Gaby stood and made her way to the front of the room, well aware that all eyes were following her progress. This was the first time she’d overseen a case, but she wasn’t scared, far from it. After all, this was what she’d been working towards, all those years pounding the beat in Liverpool. Even the disastrous couple of years in Cardiff and those months in Swansea hadn’t deterred her from her goal. Okay, so it didn’t look that exciting an investigation to cut her teeth on. Everyone, including her, believed the woman they were holding was as guilty as hell. But presumed guilt meant little. It was her responsibility to back up each theory with clear-cut facts and it was the responsibility of her colleagues, currently shuffling in their seats, to help.

‘Firstly, I’m well aware that this is Sunday so I’ll be brief. As you all know by now Nikki Jones was discovered dead in the bed of her flatmate, Christine de Bertrand, early yesterday. Owen and I interviewed de Bertrand in the presence of her solicitor before she transferred across to the custodial suite. She’s a thirty-year-old special needs teacher who suffers from profound hearing loss – she’s also denying all knowledge of how the victim ended up dead in her bed.’

‘It was probably a lovers’ tiff,’ DC Malachy Devine said with a sneer. ‘Not that I know anything about the inner workings of a lesbian’s mind.’

‘There’s always at least one insensitive jerk on any team – you’re it,’ interrupted DCI Sherlock, glaring at him from the other side of the room. ‘And it’s that kind of attitude that will have us up in front of the IOPC if we’re not careful. We’re going to have enough problems with the media as it is without our own work colleagues adding to the gossipmongers. You should know by now, Devine, that the sexual orientation of the parties involved is immaterial to anything except the actual investigation. Have you all got that?’ He folded his arms across his chest before firing a look at Gaby. ‘Carry on, Detective.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, her smile fading. She’d known as soon as she’d walked onto the crime scene how it looked – she was beginning to think that Sherlock hadn’t been doing her any favours in choosing her to act as lead.

‘We’re still waiting for Dr Mulholland to perform the autopsy but it looks like a single stab wound to the heart,’ she added, pressing her hand to the centre of her chest for effect. ‘De Bertrand was examined by the police doctor on arrival at the station and was found to be covered in blood from the back of her neck right down to her heels but, surprisingly, none on her front. There was also none visible on her hands, probably down to her washing them before the police were called to the scene. She even admits having done so in her statement. Either way, it’s unlikely that she’d have been able to remove all traces, if indeed there was any blood in the first place – her nail clippings will give us the definitive answer we need.’ She walked to the first in a line of whiteboards pinned to the wall, tapping the mugshot photo of Christine de Bertrand with her knuckles.

‘De Bertrand claims to have gone to bed with an unidentified man she met the night before, and that she has no idea how Nikki ended up between her sheets instead. So, on the face of it, we have a straightforward case of de Bertrand murdering her flatmate and somehow trumping up a story about a tall dark stranger. But as we all know appearances count for very little in our game. We need to dismantle her statement, lie by lie or, alternatively, find the man if he exists.’ She snapped her notebook shut before replacing it in the pocket of her jacket. ‘We have some outstanding issues, not least of which is the murder weapon: a blade of some sort. Hopefully, Dr Mulholland will be able to give us more details tomorrow so that we can narrow the search but it’s imperative that we find it. I have a couple of PCs trawling through the rubbish bins and hedges in the surrounding area as I speak. Another biggie, is the fact that Christine de Bertrand is adamant she went to bed with a man and woke up with a woman.’ She lifted her head, sliding her eyes over to DC Devine. ‘I have to say that I disbelieve her. It’s the kind of ridiculous, jumped up excuse that the guilty use to muddy the waters for us hard-working detectives. One of the first things we need to do is ascertain the truth of that statement,’ she said, keeping her expression unaltered at the sight of his fancy gold cufflinks peeking out from the sleeve of what looked to be another new suit.

She felt far from easy about the detective, mainly because of the size of his disposable income. Bent coppers were a reality and one she would not tolerate. After what had happened in Cardiff and the way she’d been drummed out of the area for flagging her concerns about a team member on the take, she was probably being oversensitive. There could be a hundred and one honest reasons for Detective Devine’s apparently healthy bank balance – something she’d best remember.

‘Mal, de Bertrand claims to have been out drinking with a Kelly James. I have the address but not her telephone number, as de Bertrand’s mobile appears to be missing, but it should be easy enough to track down.’ She tore a sheet from the back of her notebook and handed it to him before turning to the woman seated on his left.

Marie Morgan always seemed to put her at a disadvantage with her carefully styled blonde hair and model looks. Even today, on her weekend off, she’d still appeared in the office within twenty minutes of being called and without a hair out of place. It had only taken Gaby a couple of days to realise that she was also a hard-working grassroots detective willing to put in the hours that the job demanded.

‘Marie, I’d like you to chase up what the CSI team found in the flat. Both girls had laptops for a start and then there’s all those birthday cards dotted about. I want every one of them traced back to the sender. I also need you to get cracking on all the CCTV cameras from Mostyn Street to the West Shore,’ she said, handing her a small 10x10 photo of Christine. ‘We may be lucky but, you know as well as I do that a good image from any one of these is as rare as hen’s teeth. To be honest, I’m more interested in any information about the man she’s meant to have taken home, if indeed he exists. All she can remember is that he was tall and had dark hair, which is little help.’

Gaby moved back, resting her hip against the edge of the table. She’d made a comprehensive list in the front of her notebook of all the key points she wanted to say but she was determined not to refer to it for a second time. Having an orderly mind, she’d annotated each task as a numbered bullet point, and she knew which she’d yet to discuss.

She turned her stare back on DC Devine, hoping against hope that he wasn’t going to be a thorn in her side during the investigation. She’d already given him one job. Now she was interested in seeing how he’d perform under pressure – there was no room for wasters in the department. ‘In addition to interviewing the friend, Mal, I need you to interview the occupants of the two other flats in de Bertrand’s building,’ she said, before switching her attention to DC Jax Williams. Jax was the newest member of the team, his keener than keen answering grin showing none of the disillusionment that Malachy and the older members of the group displayed. ‘I do hope you have a warm coat, Williams, and a liking for all things furry?’

‘Ma’am?’

‘As we all know from the numerous complaints with regards to dog excrement, the West Shore is a haven for all things on four legs and a little birdie has tweeted in my ear that it’s the place to go for Saturday morning walkies,’ she said, struggling not to laugh at the sudden downward curve of his mouth. ‘I want it to be your number one priority to haunt that shore from 6 a.m. onwards so that we can catch up with as many of the dog owners as possible and see if they saw anything odd. Keeping on the birdie theme, we’ll be killing two of them off at once as I’m hopeful that a police presence will have a positive impact on the number of complaints.’ She picked up her mobile from where she’d placed it on the table in front of her and tucked it into her jacket pocket, her voice not showing any of the relief that was flowing through her veins.

‘We’ll reconvene here midday Monday following the autopsy.’

Chapter 8
Paul
Sunday 10 May, 11.55 a.m. Oswestry

Christine’s parents lived in Oswestry, a quaint market town on the English/Welsh border that was far enough away for the local media frenzy to pass them by but not too far for Paul to avoid breaking the news in person.

Pulling up outside their house was an exercise in restraint – restraint because of the memories that threatened to breach the defences Paul had erected since their divorce. Divorce wasn’t easy at the best of times, but he’d liked Christine’s parents, not only because they were his in-laws. Their relationship had been far deeper than the usual and one he missed to this day. By contacting him, albeit through a police officer, his ex-wife had tasked him with breaking the very worst of news.

He tried not to allow his mind to dwell on the glow of hope that burnt bright within his chest at the thought that she’d chosen him. While he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, he’d always assumed there was another man waiting in the wings ready to step into his shoes. How was he now meant to behave in the knowledge that she’d dumped him for no other reason than she could? He’d always known he was too old and stuffy for her effervescent, bubbly personality, an opinion which was shared by the boys at the school. He’d have pulled them up on their comments about how old de Bertrand has managed to pull such a dolly bird if he hadn’t believed that, on some level, they were right.

He opened the back door of the car, much to the excitement of Ruby who’d spent the last couple of hours cooped up on the back seat with only her rug for company. ‘Come on, girl, they always had a soft spot for you and hopefully it will help to break the ice somewhat.’ He ruffled her head before attaching her lead, watching in amusement as she headed for the nearest lamppost.

The gate creaked when he pushed it, the paint peeling under his hand and, stepping back, he noted the changes to the property with a frown. The outside of the pebble dash family home had a general air of neglect with crooked gutters and missing tiles. In the old days, he’d have spent a week of his summer holidays pottering about, happy for once to get his hands dirty with the type of work he rarely had a chance to immerse himself in. The school was well-maintained by a small team of handymen and gardeners and he was barely allowed to prune a rose before someone or other interfered.

The long ping of the doorbell was swiftly followed by the sound of a door closing and, after a couple of seconds, he found himself face-to-face with his ex-father-in-law for the first time in almost two years. Paul’s first thought was that he’d aged; his white wispy hair barely a memory, the skin on his face mottled and careworn. But, give him his due, Dennis, after a brief stare, recovered enough to draw him into a swift embrace.

‘Oh, my boy, it’s been too long, and Ruby,’ he said, dropping his hand for the dog to sniff. ‘Come on in, Hazel is just boiling the kettle.’ He gestured for him to follow. ‘You sit yourself down in the lounge and I’ll go and warn the missus.’ He paused on the threshold, his smile apologetic. ‘You know what she’s like – seeing you after so long, while welcome, is going to be a shock.’

The lounge was as he remembered with the same cream-striped wallpaper and large three-piece suite that Hazel and Dennis had owned for as long as he’d known them. Even the TV was the same and with what could have been the same snooker match on the screen. If it wasn’t snooker it was either football or tennis, depending on the season and whichever one of them managed to snaffle the remote first. His mouth pulled into the semblance of a smile, his attention drawn to the mantelpiece and the display of family photos lined up between a pair of silver candlesticks and an old mahogany clock that always ran ten minutes fast no matter how many times they adjusted it. But he wasn’t thinking of either clocks or candlesticks at that precise moment, his gaze flowing from one photo to the next, each one displaying Christine in a variety of poses. A little black and white snap of her lying stretched out in her pram. Her first day at school, a toothy grin displaying a distinct absence of front teeth. At her prom, her glorious hair stacked up high, dangly earrings catching the light. And finally, a photo he hadn’t expected. A photo that stopped him in his tracks, a deep sadness swamping all sense, thought and feeling. Picking up the frame, he stared down at the couple captured for all time, the sight of their laughing faces almost too much to bear. Their wedding day. A day he’d never thought would come to him. He was years older than Christine, a good ten, and completely set in his ways but one look into those electric-blue eyes and it was like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He could almost imagine himself back in the sun-drenched courtyard, dappled late afternoon light filtering though the bougainvillea-filled trellises, the only noise the chink of champagne glasses, the only smell the slight echo of her scent – a scent he couldn’t bear to smell even now. Her face. Her beautiful face, framed with fiery red hair dripping in ringlets, the colour emphasised – if that was possible – by the pure white of her gown. He could almost feel the silky tresses running across his skin.

Placing the frame down, he nudged it back in place with a fingertip, his frown reappearing. Where had that love disappeared to? It was the very last emotion radiating down his spine and causing his hands to ball into fists. Hate was the only word suitable to describe what he was feeling now. If he could, he’d wrap his hands around her lovely neck for what she’d done to him. They said that love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin …

The rattle of the inevitable tea tray dragged him back from the past, a deep blush splayed across his cheeks at the direction of his thoughts and, with a shake of his head, he strode across the room to take the tray from his ex-mother-in-law’s hands. She couldn’t quite return his smile, something that saddened him. He’d prided himself on the relationship he’d forged with her parents and, at the risk of sounding trite, he viewed them as friends more than anything – friends who now had difficulty meeting his eye.

‘Well, this is all very nice. On your way back to that school of yours?’ Dennis said with a cheerful grin. ‘We’ve missed your little visits, haven’t we, Hazel?’

Hazel remained silent, all her energy taken up with pouring out cups of tea and passing round the sugar bowl.

Paul gripped onto his drink, trying to pull his thoughts together; he’d obviously overestimated his ability to both start and end difficult conversations. As headmaster, challenging conversations were the norm and not the exception. He’d lost count of the number he’d had with both staff and parents, but it was the awkward discussions with pupils that hurt the most, especially those where the end result was always going to be either suspension or expulsion.

Clearing his throat, he rested his cup back on the coffee table and gestured for them both to take a seat. ‘Dennis, Hazel … my dears. I have something to tell you, something you’re not going to like. Something that’s so far from the realms of normal, as to be nonsensical.’ He stopped speaking, taking the cowardly way out by staring down at Ruby’s head where she was snuffling in the middle of some rabbit-filled dream or other. ‘Christine has been involved in an altercation at her flat. She’s okay but … but the police seem to think that she might have been involved in the death of her flatmate. I know it’s ridiculous but until this mess is sorted, she’s being detained at St Asaph police station.’

‘They’ve arrested her?’ Dennis interrupted, taking hold of Hazel’s hand as if his life depended on it.

He lifted his head. ‘Not exactly. More like detained her while she assists them with their enquiries,’ he said, looking at their interlaced fingers. ‘She asked me to come – to explain, but I wasn’t allowed to see her or anything.’ He lifted his cup to his lips, eyeing them both over the rim. ‘I know it’s been a shock – a shock for all of us – but there must be some simple explanation. I’ll make us another drink while we talk about it.’

One mug led to two and a gentle request to stay for lunch, something he couldn’t really spare the time for but, instead of repeating one of his standard excuses, he found himself reaching for his phone and calling Noel Barnes, his deputy. Sitting in the painfully familiar south-facing dining room, with views over the back garden, he could be forgiven for thinking that some magical force had turned back the hand of time but it only took one look at his ex-mother-in-law’s wary expression to realise that some things were impossible. He placed the fork on the centre of his plate, unable to eat another bite, determined like never before to get some answers to the questions that had been tripping him up ever since she’d walked out.

Taking a breath, he fixed on her face, his jaw clenched. ‘The one thing I can promise is Christine’s innocence. Despite everything that’s happened between us, I think you can still probably guess that my feelings haven’t changed.’ He stopped, swallowing the lump that had suddenly appeared and when he continued, his voice had fallen a key. ‘There’s no way she’d be party to any of the stuff the gutter press will probably accuse her of and I’m sticking by her until she’s freed – whether she likes it or not.’

He sat back in his chair only to lean forward again as he intercepted a look between them, a look which had him press his hands flat against the table. ‘What is it? What aren’t you telling me?’

‘We can’t … it’s not our place—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hazel, if you know of something that might help, it’s your duty to say.’

‘It’s not what you think, Paul.’

‘How the hell do you know what I’m thinking?’ He ran his hand over his head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right. I have no right … It’s—’

‘It’s just that you love her as much as we do, son.’ Dennis wrapped his arm around Hazel’s shoulder, hugging her tight. ‘This travesty has gone on for far too long, love. It’s about time he finally knew the truth.’

He couldn’t leave them straightaway. If he was being honest, he had trouble leaving them at all. They were lost, the pair of them, like he was lost.

He unlocked the car and opened the back door for Ruby before settling in his seat, a wave of tiredness enveloping him. Just when had he become the grown-up? He’d known instinctively that they’d turn to him in the same way they’d turned to him in the past but, for the first time, he had no answers to their questions. It wasn’t a case of calling out the plumber or electrician anymore. Now they were in the big league and he no more knew what to do than they did. He’d promised them that he’d keep in touch, the only positive thing that had come from the meeting.

Pressing the ignition, he started the car, his brow wrinkling. There’d been something nagging him since the divorce – something gnawing away at both his self-confidence and faith in humanity. He’d expected awkwardness in this, their first meeting. After all he had no idea what fairy-tales Christine had told about the break-up of their marriage. She could have made up all sorts of stories to disguise the truth. But the one thing he’d never felt was uncomfortable around them. He’d worked hard in the beginning to gain their acceptance. He had no illusions that they’d thought him too old and, as her tutor, probably not the most suitable of individuals for their daughter’s hand. But he’d thought all that was in the past.

Glancing over his shoulder, he checked that the road was clear before pulling out. The one thing he’d never have guessed at in a month of Sunday’s was the truth. His chest heaved at the futility of the situation because now it was immaterial. She obviously hadn’t loved him enough to trust him and, with her decision, they’d all lost. Him, Ruby and Christine.

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