The Rapunzel Act E-Book

Abi Silver

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

CAN YOU FIND JUSTICE… WHEN THE WORLD IS WATCHING? When breakfast TV host and nation's darling, Rosie Harper, is found brutally murdered at home, suspicion falls on her spouse, formerly international football star, Danny 'walks on water' Mallard, now living out of the public eye as trans woman, Debbie. Not only must Debbie challenge the hard evidence against her, including her blood-drenched glove at the scene of the crime, she must also contend with the nation's prejudices, as the trial is broadcast live, turning it into a public spectacle. For someone trying to live their life without judgment, it might just be too much to bear. Legal duo Judith Burton and Constance Lamb are subjected to unyielding scrutiny as they strive to defend their most famous client yet. Another thought-provoking courtroom drama from the acclaimed author of the Burton & Lamb series.

Leseprobe

Published in 2021

by Lightning Books Ltd

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785632266

Copyright © Abi Silver 2021

Cover by Nell Wood

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For Noah, Nathan and Aron

‘Meanwhile, sitting in the sky boxes, running the concessions, selling hot dogs to the crowd, are the lawyers, politicians, racism-mongers, white and black, opportunists of every variety. The rest of us watch while the wrestlers sweat and thunder. We watch, thanks to the biggest casher-in of all, the huge, dish-linked, lap-topped, ad-powered, fame-fueled, deadline-tooled media luring us so far into the myths, the dream, the beastliness, the spectacle, that we hardly notice the fact that we’ve become the spectacle ourselves’

Henry Allen, ‘One Nation Under OJ’s Spell,’ Washington Post: 26 September 1994

‘The liberated man is not one who is freed in his ideal reality, his inner truth or his transparency; he is the man who changes spaces, who circulates, who changes sex, clothes and habits according to fashion, rather than morality, and who change opinions not as his conscience dictates but in response to opinion polls’

Jean Baudrillard, America: 1986 and 2010

Contents

LONDON, JUNE 2019

PROLOGUE:THE CHASE

PART ONE

LONDON, JUNE 2019 (SAME DAY)

1

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3

4

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9

10

11

12

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14

15

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17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

PART TWO

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 2019

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26

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29

30

31

32

33

34

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36

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49

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LONDON, JUNE 2019

PROLOGUE:THE CHASE

The sun was sinking behind Shoreditch Park’s granite monolith, casting its long shadow across the grass. The air was alive with the sounds of an English summer evening; voices raised in animated conversation, the pounding footsteps of transient joggers, the grinding rattle of skateboards on asphalt, the music blaring out from the nearby pub and the low hum of rush-hour traffic, two streets removed. It had been another glorious June day, the kind that makes tourists, boating on the Serpentine or picnicking on Parliament Hill, declare London the best city in the world and locals proclaim their love for their hometown. The thermometer hovered around 22 degrees Celsius.

Debbie was reaching the penultimate part of her training session. Sometimes, at this stage, she moved the team to penalties, sometimes to set piece corners. Today, she had asked them to push on for the ‘golden goal’. It was their first practice since they had taken a break, a month earlier, and they were noticeably tired.

She was occupied trying to watch all the players, making a mental note of what to say to each one in her debrief at the end. Debbie always tried to make her feedback meaningful – try moving forward earlier, mark more closely, own the ball – and to give plenty of praise. After all, the team was young and inexperienced, and she would always remember the coaches who had taken time with her.

She checked her watch: 6.48pm. Later on in the season, she would push the girls harder, finish the session with them breathless and cursing. But not today. So, at first, she didn’t see the couple striding towards her across the fields. Older man, tight-fitting raincoat, a bulge just below his left armpit; younger woman, hair cut short, razored at the sides, trailing behind. A warning shout and she noticed them crossing the pitch, their expressions grave, their attention fixed on her. The man waited to speak till he was very close. ‘We’re looking for Debbie Mallard?’ he said, clearing his throat.

Debbie’s first thought was that they might be scouts from Arsenal Ladies or West Ham. She had lost two of her best players to their under-21 squad last year. Two talented girls, full of energy and determination; a striker and a left back. She had gritted her teeth and wished them the best of. She wouldn’t stand in the way of progression for any of the girls, whatever the personal impact. Hackney South was never going to win the FA Cup. But the man’s solemn air was more akin to a politician about to deliver bad news, albeit with the usual spin. God knows there had been enough of them on TV over the past few months.

‘Yes.’ She flung the word out over their heads, simultaneously waving the girls to play on.

The man hesitated and opened the button on his jacket and it gaped tantalisingly. His face was flushed from the walk.

‘I’m Chief Inspector Dawson. This is PC Thomas.’

Debbie had not identified the couple as police and it bothered her, too, that neither officer was in uniform. That suggested some need for secrecy, and now the intruders’ identities were revealed, Debbie chastised herself for not considering the possibility earlier. At least they weren’t journalists.

‘If this is about my moped, your men found it,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘returned it in one piece, and with petrol in the tank.’

‘It’s not about a moped.’ Chief Inspector Dawson dug the toe of his shoe into the grass and ran the tip of his index finger around the inside of his frayed collar.

‘Girls, move to penalty shoot-out. Siobhan, you go in goal first and rotate as usual,’ Debbie shouted, circling her hands around each other. She took a few steps back, standing just outside the makeshift touch line, and the police officers followed suit. She waited until the first penalty was taken: a barnstorming shot straight into the top left corner. No one, not even Jordan Pickford, would have reached that one. She clapped her hands loudly and the hollow sound bounced off the high wall dividing them from the kids’ adventure playground. ‘Fantastic penalty, Judy,’ she called, the grin spreading across her face. ‘Let’s see more like that one.’

She turned her head towards the police officers.

‘What is it you want?’ she said. ‘I’m Debbie Mallard.’

Dawson forced a lukewarm smile and his eyebrows raised. PC Thomas coughed into her hand. Debbie folded her arms.

‘It’s…this is a very public place to talk,’ Dawson stammered. And, right on cue, the arm of a giant, eavesdropping crane, overhanging the neighbouring building site, swung towards them with a creak and a groan.

‘We don’t have an office or a changing room,’ Debbie said. ‘I’m working on it. The girls shower at home. Welcome to the world of fourth division amateur women’s football. Can it wait ten minutes? We’re nearly done.’

She glanced from Dawson to PC Thomas and, this time, both remained silent. ‘What is it? You’re making me nervous,’ she said.

‘Send the girls home early,’ Dawson said, touching Debbie’s arm fleetingly. ‘They look all done in, anyway.’

‘I’ll decide when they’re “done in”. Maybe you should tell me what’s going on?’ Debbie drew herself up to her full height and flicked at her long blond ponytail. A sudden gust of wind and Dawson’s coat blew apart, revealing his holster and gun. ‘It’s your wife,’ he said, fastening his buttons and motioning to PC Thomas to move in closer.

‘My wife? You mean Rosie, my ex-wife?’

‘Miss Rosie Harper. I’m so sorry to have to bring you such bad news. Miss Harper is dead.’

Debbie’s body crumpled sideways without warning and she might have fallen, if Dawson had not grabbed her and guided her, gently, to her knees on the grass.

‘I don’t understand. I just saw her,’ she said. ‘How can she be dead? Was she in an accident?’

‘You saw Rosie today?’

‘A few hours ago. She was fine. Are you sure it’s Rosie?’

‘I’m afraid so. She was murdered.’

‘No!’ Debbie wailed.

One of the girls came rushing forward, but PC Thomas waved her and the others away, flashing her badge defensively.

‘This afternoon. They found her about an hour ago,’ Dawson said.

Debbie lifted her head and stared at Dawson. Then she hugged her chest and began to sway and choking sounds came from the back of her throat.

‘Air, I need some air,’ she said, struggling to her feet, her arms flailing to capture the elusive air.

She staggered across the pitch and over to the toilet block, tucked underneath the trees. Dawson tried to follow her inside.

‘I just need a minute… to wash my face,’ Debbie said, spinning around suddenly and filling the doorway with her imposing frame.

Dawson and PC Thomas exchanged glances. Dawson sniffed the air and withdrew with a nod. How are the mighty fallen he mused, as he sank down onto the remains of a nearby bench. Who would’ve thought it? Danny Mallard, hero of Euro ’96, now ‘Debbie’. That much he had read, but coaching an amateur team of schoolgirls? Danny Mallard! He allowed the name to circle around his head again. The goal volleyed in from 30 metres in the quarter final, the header, finding the most acute of angles in the semis, the run from the far end of the pitch and the sublime nutmeg of the keeper to score the winner in the final.

And then he’d married Rosie Harper, the BBC’s pin-up girl, and they became the “golden couple”, gracing the covers of many a glossy magazine. The perfect match: that had been the cheesy headline, when they exchanged their marriage vows at a remote Scottish castle, later that year.

Dawson’s eyes narrowed, as he tried to superimpose the face of the middle-aged Debbie over the youthful image of Danny he recalled. Not just his consummate skill but his presence; Danny striking the ball with a confidence belying his years, Danny taunting his opponents as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and Danny’s fist-pumping, supercilious strut of celebration, when the ball hit the back of the net, sealing the match and the title.

The girls had packed their stuff up now, one of them scowling at Dawson, before collecting the bag of balls and hauling them into her car.

‘Make a note of everything she said,’ Dawson snapped, checking his watch. ‘That she saw her a few hours ago, that she particularly said “ex-wife”.’

PC Thomas nodded. Dawson kicked at the grass again. His stomach grumbled and he tapped at it smartly, as if he was switching off an alarm. He checked his phone. His wife was away this week, which meant no evening meal unless he made it himself. His teenage daughters were unlikely to have considered his needs, even if they were home. No messages.

Who’d have thought it? He said the words aloud this time and PC Thomas frowned.

He worried, suddenly, how she would sell this back at the station. Would she try to imitate him, his mouth hanging open, his face flushing crimson as he tried to pretend this was a normal situation, well as ‘normal’ as any other day in his turbulent life. She’d laugh, that was certain, as would all the others. But he thought he’d handled it pretty well, given the circumstances. The diversity training the Met had insisted they all undergo had clearly done the trick; a whole series of previously standard, universally understood, derogatory words, now consigned to the dustbin of unacceptability. Of course, it was harder to wash away the underlying sentiments, but you had to start somewhere.

Another two minutes passed and the field was empty, apart from a water bottle slung in the nearest goal, rocking backwards and forwards in the wind. PC Thomas had completed her notes and returned her book to her pocket. Dawson gestured towards the toilet block.

‘You want me to go in?’ she asked.

‘It is the ladies.’

‘On my own?’

‘I don’t think you’re in any danger,’ Dawson said, ‘but I’ll be right behind.’

PC Thomas rose, straightened her shirt, prodded tentatively at the toilet door, then went inside. She returned almost immediately.

‘She’s gone,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘She’s gone. Must have slipped out when we were talking.’

‘You’re joking.’

Dawson slammed the flat of his hand against the door and rushed at the chilly bathroom. The two cubicles and outer washroom were glaringly empty. He rubbed his smarting palm across his forehead. He’d been too slow, too trusting. He should have sent Thomas in with her.

He ran out of the building and around the back and followed the winding path left to the main road. Debbie Mallard was nowhere to be seen. As his stomach erupted for a second time, Dawson shouted at no one in particular, then, seeing PC Thomas approach, he closed his mouth tight, to ensure that none of those now forbidden words he was struggling to restrain came spewing out. Instead, he stamped his foot twice, the second time more forcefully than the first, before heading off towards his car at speed, with PC Thomas close behind.

* * *

Inspector Dawson knocked at the door of Debbie Mallard’s rented ground-floor flat, half a mile away. No reply. He surveyed the narrow street, keen to spot any sign of movement, but all was surprisingly still. A black cat padded its way along the pavement, darting into a garden fifty metres away. Dawson’s gaze returned to PC Thomas, who was leaning against the police car with her arms crossed, squinting into the sun.

He bent down and squinted through the letterbox. A shooting pain across his back caused him to grunt, then stiffen and shift his position. He was just straightening up, when he thought he saw something inside the property, less an object and more a change in the light, as if someone or something had cast an abrupt shadow across the hallway.

Dawson rolled back his shoulders, as his absent wife had suggested (he had refused, despite entreaties from her to see either a doctor or a physiotherapist – ‘just a twinge’ he had told her), pressed a thumb into the aching spot and clenched his teeth, in order to stifle the inevitable moaning the action would normally produce. Now he leaned in close and placed his ear against the door. He heard nothing for a few seconds and then the tiniest click, like the sound of the arms of a mechanical clock shifting forward or a key turning in a lock. All his senses were at attention. He held his breath and dropped to his knees on the cold, concrete step, to peer through the letterbox once more. This time nothing.

He stared over his shoulder again at PC Thomas. Her eyebrows were raised expectantly in his direction. He shifted his weight back and rocked on his heels, preparing to rise in the manner which, he gauged, would cause least discomfort, when he heard the sound of an engine starting up nearby. Craning his neck to the right, he spotted a moped pulling out of the street next to them.

Dawson stumbled to his feet, cursing as another wave of pain radiated across his lower back and, as he reached the gate, he could see the tall, helmeted figure astride the bike, her long blond tresses poking out and flapping behind her.

For a second, both he and PC Thomas were rooted to the spot, then he battered his way through the low metal gate towards his car.

‘That was her…wasn’t it?’

‘Yes guv. Shall we?’

‘Follow her?’ He stamped his foot in annoyance. ‘Damn right we follow her. Did you get the number plate?’

‘Yes. Should I…?’

‘Get in. I’ll drive. You call it in.’

* * *

Debbie kept her head down at first. Zigzagging around vehicles, even though the traffic was slow-moving, required all her concentration. The bus lanes were the worst. You would cut inside the stationary traffic only to be trailed by a black cab, or worse, a bus barrelling disinterestedly along. True, the cyclists often came up fast, silent apart from a low whistle, as the wind caught their spokes, but they were unlikely to cause as much damage as an 11-tonne vehicle.

Debbie had heard the two police officers arrive outside her flat, the sound of the engine dying, the car door being closed with suspicious care, the surreptitious opening of her garden gate, before she caught the older one, Dawson, invading her hallway with his piercing, pillar-box stare. Well, if they really wanted her, they were going to have to catch her and she was confident that she had the upper hand, in the evening crush.

As she swerved to avoid a broken bottle in the gutter, she tried to calm herself. She needed to be focused and keep her cool. This was no different from situations she had encountered numerous times on the pitch, throughout her career. Granted, most often she’d rehearsed her moves over and over, those set pieces she’d used to devastating effect to win the league three times, but she was also adept at taking her chances, trusting her instinct to take over and guide her on.

A police siren sounded close behind her. Debbie darted into a one-way street and halted in a dank and smelly doorway, her heart thumping inside her chest. She steadied herself with one hand pressed against the brickwork, and then a sudden lurch from her stomach and she vomited into the gutter. The whine of the siren, gradually increasing in volume then joined by a second and a third, their timing slightly out of synch and creating a weird, discordant rhythmic lament, accompanied her retching.

Debbie wiped her mouth, put her moped in gear and shot out of the alleyway onto Hackney Road. She had no game plan, no strategy. Rosie was dead. All was lost.

PART ONE

LONDON, JUNE 2019 (SAME DAY)

1

Constance Lamb was sitting under the arbour in Haggerston Park, reading through some notes. A newly planted honeysuckle wound its way around the overhead wooden slats, filling the air with its sweet, intoxicating scent. Constance sometimes came here on a summer’s afternoon, to sit in the shade on the low benches, as a break from work or, like today, to wind down in the evening, before heading home. An oasis, a little patch of green, amid the grey and brown of the nearby, abundant housing estates.

The park was divided in two by a red brick wall, partly covered by creepers and trailing plants. The lower southern part of the park, with its entrance on Hackney Road and quick access to the shops and stalls of Columbia Road, housed the tennis courts and football pitch and the downtrodden children’s farm. This end of the park was less structured, essentially a large playing field, bisected by a walking path, although there were some log piles along its northernmost end – an attempt to encourage wildlife to linger – and the construction of the gazebo where she was now seated, a couple of years back, had added an air of gentility.

In the distance Constance could see the City – the Gherkin, the Shard and the Cheese Grater all rising high into the sky, their occupants seemingly far removed from the people living around the park where she sat.

Two girls played catch with their older brother; their ball had now rolled twice against Constance’s feet and the youngest girl had collected it from her, wearing the widest grin. Constance wanted to tell the girl that she had played here too, at around the same age, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she read her notes over and looked, periodically, out across the grass.

And then, a troop of brownies appeared through the gap in the wall, led by a woman whose body jerked from side to side, walking slowly along the path in Constance’s direction, their bright yellow t-shirts giving them away, even from this distance. Constance should have been a brownie, she thought, but it hadn’t featured in her childhood agenda. Schoolwork and self-preservation had taken precedence over formal leisure activities.

The girl at the front held a rounders bat, her friend was tossing the ball from hand to hand, and they were chattering as they snaked along. Constance closed her tablet. There was no point pretending she was working. She might as well take a real break, enjoy the entertainment and resume work later, at home. She extracted a cereal bar from her pocket and snapped it in half.

The tranquil idyll was suddenly shattered. A flock of starlings sped by overhead, calling loudly, the ground beneath Constance’s feet began to vibrate and she heard an engine roaring. She squinted out towards the lower part of the park. A moped appeared, driven at considerable speed along the narrow path. Its helmeted driver, head down, blond hair streaming out behind her, was heading straight for the brownie caravan.

‘Watch out!’ Constance called, but the young ears of the girls had picked up the danger signs even before she had and they were already scattering, with high-pitched squeals of fear and excitement filling the air.

Constance marched forwards. She was unsure what her plan was, but it involved either ensuring the children were removed from the path of the rampaging moped or somehow diverting it instead. She waved her arms above her head. Then she shouted again, but the moped sped on, swerving around the shrieking girls and quickly disappearing behind her.

‘Are you all right?’ Constance asked two of the girls, who had strayed over in her direction.

They shrugged, as if it was an everyday occurrence to be almost bowled over by a speeding moped, and retreated to join the rounders game. Their leader was already creating makeshift bases, with a collection of discarded jumpers.

Constance ate the second half of her cereal bar. She tucked the wrapper back in her pocket, dropped her tablet into her bag and began to walk home. As she crossed Whiston Road, a police motorcycle exited the park, just behind her, then three police cars came screeching around the corner and streaked past in close succession. Maybe if she caught the local news, she would find out what was causing all the excitement.

2

Judith Burton was at home, selecting which balsamic vinegar to drizzle on her avocado salad, when her phone rang. She had built up quite a collection and, if time permitted, she preferred to match each one to her meal, the way some people might choose a suitable wine. The one with a hint of pomegranate would do the trick, but the pesky bottle was continuing to elude her.

She had spent the morning in a leisurely fashion. First she had walked to the ponds on Hampstead Heath for a quick dip. She had swum regularly for years, but had avoided the well-known, natural swimming location till now, through a mixture of prudery (they said some of the women swam naked) and concern about how clean the water was. Then she had read an article about the number of bacteria sharing the average, man-made, public pool, and its growing resistance to chlorine, and she’d decided to have a go.

She’d found the experience particularly liberating, even wearing a costume. True, the water was chilly, despite the warm weather, but it was also immensely calming to glide along, with the sun overhead and the birds swooping low, dipping the tips of their wings in the water and chirping from the branches overhead. There had been one scary moment when a duck had landed close by, but, after the initial splash and element of surprise, Judith found she liked watching it dabbling and grooming itself, before it paddled away to the reeds at the side of the pond.

She had dried off on the grass, read a book for half an hour and then sauntered home, feeling restored and invigorated, picking up the ripe avocado and fresh leafy ingredients on her way. That was the nice thing about living alone and not having any regular employment. When the fair weather arrived, you could take full advantage.

‘Not interrupting your lunch, am I?’ Constance asked from the other end of the phone line, checking her watch.

‘One second and I’ll put you on speaker,’ Judith plucked a piece of grass from her hair and continued her perusal of her kitchen cupboard.

‘I can call back if you’re busy?’

‘No, go on. I am listening, just wrestling with a difficult legal problem, that’s all. But I always have time for you.’ Judith stood on tiptoes and peered into the depths of her food cupboard.

‘OK. I’m advising Debbie Mallard,’ Constance said.

‘No, doesn’t ring any immediate bells. Should it?’

‘Do you have your laptop there?’

‘That question tells me that it’s a while since we worked together.’ Judith tried a different approach to seek out the most suitable vinegar, shifting a couple of bottles around on the shelf, taking care that they didn’t clang together and give her away.

‘You did mention a “legal problem”. It wasn’t too much of a leap to think that you might be online.’

‘I lied.’

‘What?’

‘About the legal problem. I am actually searching for suitable condiments to accompany my lunch.’ Judith gave up on her tentative rummaging and banged the cupboard door shut.

‘The footballer, was married to Rosie Harper,’ Constance said crisply.

‘Rosie Harper. The darling of the Beeb! Why didn’t you say so? I saw the footage of the chase on the News last night. Someone filmed it on their phone, I think. Enormously exciting and so very incriminating. Fleeing the scene on a moped. Not the best look for a grieving spouse.’

‘I’ll call another time, when you’re not eating.’

‘No, now is perfect…really. Has she been arrested?’

‘They questioned her and let her go home. She’s arranged to see me this afternoon. I…I thought you might be interested in coming along. I know it’s short notice. I did try your mobile three times.’

Judith wrestled with her handbag before locating her mobile at the very bottom, tangled up in her swimming goggles. She swiped the screen with a tea towel and Constance’s missed calls miraculously appeared.

‘What time?’ she asked.

‘I said 2.30. If it’s not…’

‘I’ll be there,’ Judith said.

‘Are you sure? I could always fill you in, afterwards.’

‘Oh no. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

Judith exited the kitchen with her plate in her hand and without the vinegar, instead searching ‘Rosie Harper murder’ on her PC, blowing up the text to 175% and scrolling down to see what was on offer. Top of the list was a video extract from yesterday morning’s BBC Breakfast: ‘Rosie’s last broadcast’. There was a well-groomed, fresh-faced Rosie Harper, seated next to co-presenter Jason Fenwick, interviewing a young girl who was campaigning for CBD oil to be available for her epileptic brother. Rosie was a real beauty, Judith thought, without and within. She appeared solid, serious and totally credible, but with her heart firmly fixed on her sleeve. Judith watched her for some minutes. She could have easily watched for longer.

With a sniff to acknowledge the horror of someone so full of life being struck down so brutally, Judith moved on to the online newspaper sources from earlier in the day.

The Telegraph majored on the risk to life posed by the high-speed pursuit, at great expense, in a busy area in the rush hour. Who would pay to clean up the damage to the park? a local councillor asked. The Times focused on Rosie herself, her background and family and last programme. Judith couldn’t resist a quick peak at the Sun, when it popped up on her screen. It put Rosie’s dog centre-stage, recounting how the five-year-old collie, Belle, had alerted neighbour Lynn Harris by barking loudly. And last was the Guardian’s piece about the chase, which she almost ignored; she had watched it on the news, so there seemed little point reading an account of it, but then the photographs drew her in and she found her way to the last paragraph.

Ms Debbie Mallard was eventually apprehended at her mother’s house in Bow. She made no comment when she left, accompanied by the Metropolitan Police. Officers had found Debbie on the touchline, in the middle of a coaching session with Hackney South ladies, a fourth-division amateur team. Debbie has been living quietly, out of the public gaze, since her transition from superstar international footballer Danny to Debbie in 2017. A police source refused to comment on whether Debbie was a suspect.

Judith sat down in her armchair and lay her plate down on the armrest. Refused to comment, she murmured. Then she rose and collected her mobile from the kitchen, placing it face up next to her, while she ate her lunch, so that she would be sure to reach it quickly if Constance called again.

3

Andy Chambers was enjoying a soak in the bath, having dispatched his daughter, Mia, to the park with a friend and her au pair, when his phone rang. He wasn’t often at home during the week, but a trial had run two days short and, for once, he had decided to gift himself a day off. He listened to the ringtone once, twice, three times before he decided to grab it – one of the occupational hazards of being a criminal lawyer was fearing the worst whenever the phone rang – sloshing soapy suds onto the floor and leaving wet patches on the landing carpet, as he hurried to his room.

‘Hello?’ The call ended just as he picked it up and he cursed himself for his earlier indecision. He who hesitates, he declared to his phone and then, as he turned to return to his water therapy, he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror. He straightened up, drawing his shoulders back and puffing out his chest. He didn’t look bad for thirty-three years old, he thought, probably not much different from his wedding day eight years ago.

Halfway back to the bathroom he paused. All was quiet in the house. Still with his towel clutched around his nether regions, he tiptoed to the door of Mia’s room and pushed it open. The room was tidy, the bedclothes neat, some clothes folded on the chair, ready for someone to return them to their rightful place, a pile of colourful picture books stacked from largest to smallest in the centre of the floor. When he saw the room like this, it was hard to believe that his life was anything other than peaceful and harmonious. The truth was that Mia, his whirlwind of a daughter, following close on the heels of her twin brothers, had almost beaten him into total submission. He had often appeared in court short on sleep or ill-prepared, because of his lively offspring. He and Clare, his wife, had hung on in there these last five years and were, finally, poised on the threshold of Mia starting full-time school in September, clinging desperately to the prospect of some modicum of normality returning to their lives.

As he smiled to himself and padded back to enjoy at least another ten minutes of unadulterated pampering in the bathroom, his phone went again. This time he grabbed it on the second ring.

‘Andy Chambers,’ he announced in a deep baritone, to compensate for the fact he was almost naked and dripping. Instinctively, he grabbed a jumper from the nearby chair and held it up to cover his chest.

‘Andy, my name’s Phil Ash,’ said the caller. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m assistant to Graham Hendricks. You know who Graham is?’

Andy sat down heavily on the bed. Graham was CEO of Horizon, one of the largest independent broadcasting companies in the world and a personal friend of Nick Major, his head of chambers. Andy had been introduced to Graham only a few days before at a garden party, held to celebrate the retirement of one of their most senior barristers.

‘Yes, of course,’ he stammered. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Graham wants to see you about something. Are you free to come over to his office this afternoon?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ Andy lied. He had arranged to meet a friend for a squash game, yet another neglected hobby of his, but a meeting with Graham Hendricks could not be passed up. ‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ he asked, partly from curiosity and partly to assist him when he tried to extricate himself, with as little grovelling as possible, from his prior arrangement. ‘Is there anything I should read in advance?’

‘No. He’ll tell you when you arrive. I’ll send you the office location. Come at three. Oh and don’t tell anyone you’re coming.’

4

Judith stood outside Constance’s office later that afternoon, knocking and then pushing the door open without waiting for a response. She was dressed in navy, wide-leg trousers, teamed with a cream blouse, her outfit completed by a swirling silk scarf. It was one of her ‘throwback’ outfits, purchased in her previous life, the one she had retired from seven years ago, before making her comeback with Constance at her side, but if you kept clothes for long enough, she found, they invariably came back into fashion.

It wasn’t that Judith was thrifty; quite the reverse. It was more that she felt a connection with one or two items worn for memorable occasions, her mawkish attachment to pieces of fabric not usually extending to the majority of people around her.

‘Hello,’ Constance glanced up from her work.

‘I’m now up to speed with who Rosie Harper is or was,’ Judith announced, as she swept into the room, ‘the highs and lows of Danny Mallard, including a potted version of his biography – I’ve ordered the official full version from Amazon – and the already leaky walls of Hackney police station are giving away a few early morsels. I am slightly less au fait with Debbie Mallard, though, our new-born outlaw. What can you tell me about her?’

Constance saved her work but kept her laptop open. Then she shrugged and waved at the empty seat opposite.

‘OK. So, 43 years old, white, London-born, only child. Played most of her career, as Danny, for Arsenal, but also played for England, moved to manage West Ham in 2010. On the personal side, as you know, she transitioned from Danny to Debbie in 2017. What else? Divorced around the same time from Rosie, lived separately in a flat not far away. Nothing fancy, so I’m not sure where all her money’s gone. They have two children; Laura is 21 and Ben is 16. That’s what I have so far.’

‘That’s a good start. And the day of the murder?’

‘She’d been at the house in the afternoon. Claims she left at 2. Rosie was found around 5. She’ll be here in five minutes. Like I said, if you stay, you can ask her anything else yourself… Oh…and just in case you think it’s important, I saw her.’

‘You saw her?’

‘I didn’t know it was her, Debbie, at the time. I was in my local park, when this moped came speeding through and then all these police cars followed. It’s not a problem, is it, that I saw her?’

‘I don’t see why. She must have passed numerous people on her way to, what was it, her mother’s house? Unless you interacted with her?’

‘There wasn’t really any time for that.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Was she angry, frightened?’

‘She just drove pretty fast down the path. It was quite a sight.’

‘A sight?’

‘She’s quite tall, and she was travelling pretty fast.’

‘OK. It’s right you told me, but I can’t see any problem. It’s not often we have first-hand verification of our client’s evidence. I have to say, given everything I have read, I am quite intrigued by the prospect of meeting her.’

* * *

Debbie arrived at her appointed time. She sat herself down, removed an enormous wide-brimmed hat and smoothed her hair; a few stray strands had stuck to her pink lipstick and she prised them off. She grunted at Judith, pointed at the jug of water and Constance poured her a glass. She downed it in one.

‘Is it hot outside?’ Constance asked, gesturing at the hat.

‘Not really, but I had a new fan club surrounding my flat and I thought it might help. I think one or two of them followed me here. Is there anything I can do to get rid of them?’

‘Reporters?’ Judith asked.

Debbie nodded. ‘With cameras and mikes. Knocking on my door and up and down the street. One of them was there all night, slept in his car underneath my window.’

Constance made a mental note of Debbie’s appearance; turquoise three-quarter-length trousers, set off with a pink t-shirt, face evenly coated in a neutral foundation, lashes curled and dark and tiny gold hoops in each ear. But there were purple shadows beneath each eye and grey patches above her top lip, which confirmed her story of an interrupted night’s sleep.

‘If you don’t speak to them, they’ll gradually lose interest,’ Judith said.

‘I hope so. Have the police said anything, about any suspects?’ Debbie’s hands enveloped her glass.

‘Nothing yet,’ Constance replied, ‘but I’m keeping in close contact. I do need to ask you a few questions, if that’s OK, and they’re things the police might ask too.’

‘Why did you run from the police?’ Judith interrupted, before Debbie had a chance to respond.

Debbie’s jaw tightened. ‘Everyone’s interested in me,’ she said. ‘I want to know what happened to Rosie.’

‘That’s understandable, but, because you ran, the police suspect you. And you admit that you were there, at Rosie’s house, earlier in the day.’

‘I thought it was some kind of sick joke, at first,’ Debbie said. ‘When I was at West Ham, the lads used to do all kinds of stupid things, to wind each other up. Pranked you they would say, as if that made it fine to scare the living daylights out of you. Then I saw the guy’s gun and the police car parked up.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘At first I just knew I had to get away. Then I thought I would go to Rosie’s, just in case they’d got it wrong – mistaken identity maybe. I got halfway there and then I couldn’t go on. I didn’t want to see Rosie dead in the house. So I went home.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I heard sirens coming at me from all directions. I just bolted. I had no idea where I was going. But once I hit Broadway Market, I wasn’t too far from my mum’s house. I don’t know how I got there, really. The bike pretty much took me there on its own. I wanted to stop. I really did. But they were behind me all the way, shouting stuff.’

A tear had slowly bisected Debbie’s cheek, leaving a pale streak in its wake.

‘You went to your mother’s house?’ Judith took over again.

‘Yes.’

‘What did you tell her when you arrived?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Debbie reached for the water jug, her hands trembling so much she gave up. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said.

‘Then the police came?’

‘They took me to the police station and then, later on, to see Rosie.’

‘I’m sorry. It must have been very difficult for you,’ Constance said, as she refilled Debbie’s glass.

‘It’s funny. It didn’t really look like Rosie. I’m not religious – never have been. But they say, don’t they, that your soul leaves your body when you die. That’s what it was like. She was always so full of life. It wasn’t Rosie lying there on that table. That’s what I told Ben and Laura too.’

‘Your children?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were at the house in the afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘We had things to talk about.’

‘Was anyone else home?’

‘No.’

‘Where did you go next?’

‘Home. Then I headed to my training session. I coach a ladies’ team. I was there a few minutes early, maybe around 5.45.’

‘Did Rosie seem worried about anything when you were together?’

‘Nothing unusual. She didn’t say.’

‘Did she have any enemies?’

‘I don’t think so, but I wasn’t living there any more and we didn’t really chat. It was more stuff about the kids – Ben, mostly. She tried to include me in that.’

‘You were divorced?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘Did she have a new partner?’

‘If she did, she didn’t say,’ Debbie said, ‘but I wasn’t top of her list to tell.’

‘What about family?’

‘Rosie? Her father died last year. Her mother, Elaine, lives in Essex. She’s a witch. And she has one brother, Ellis – a total wanker.’

Debbie’s voice had descended at least an octave and her face was a contorted mass of bitterness. Constance waited, a trick she had learned from Judith, and this time Judith remained silent too. Debbie unfolded her legs and then re-crossed them.

‘Ellis is a waster, lives here and there. Claims he’s got this successful interior-design business, but just sponges off Rosie and Elaine. He’s here, already. I got the police to drop me at Laura’s flat. And there he was, “Uncle Ellis”, feet under the table, drinking tea and pretending to feel sorry for me. He gave me this bear hug. If the kids hadn’t been there, I’d have punched his lights out.’

‘And you went home last night, eventually, to your own apartment?’

‘I needed some time to think straight. Not that anything makes any more sense today.’

‘Who were Rosie’s friends?’

‘You think it was one of them?’

‘We want to talk to them.’

‘TV people. I was never too interested. You could start with Jason Fenwick.’

‘From Breakfast Time?’

‘Yeah. They go back a long way. If I were you, I’d start with Jason, if you can find a slot in his diary.’

* * *

‘First impressions?’ Judith was sitting back, eyes half-closed, delivering her question with her usual aplomb, after Debbie’s departure.

‘I expected someone more sporty-looking,’ Constance said, ‘but she seems genuine.’

‘Hm. If you look really hard, you can see Danny the footballer, underneath.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I wasn’t being facetious.’ Judith leaned forwards onto the table. ‘I mean, that was quite an act!’

‘You didn’t believe her?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. But the drama, the pathos! We had the wilting rose in the sun hat and “I couldn’t go on” regarding the chase and Rosie’s spirit leaving her body and the vitriol directed towards her wicked in-laws.’

‘She’s probably still in shock.’

‘Then I would have expected wooden grief, not a BAFTA-winning performance… You know, maybe you’re right and I’m being unfair. It’s not even twenty-four hours. But, even so, I do find her behaviour strange. No one would list “maternal” as one of my attributes, but if your spouse had been murdered and you had children, wouldn’t you go to them first? Instead, what? She runs to her mother and leaves the kids to find out for themselves? And, you heard. She didn’t stay with her kids last night either. She went home to her own flat. Wouldn’t you have thought they would want to be together, to console each other, after such a terrible thing has happened?’

‘She might have needed some time alone, even if it was just to cry, and she didn’t want the kids to see her like that.’

‘Perhaps. How was it left with the police?’

‘If I don’t hear from Dawson by tomorrow lunchtime, I’m to contact him, find out what’s going on. But I thought I would also go and visit the house – Rosie’s house, have a look around the area.’

‘Good idea. Take some photos too and send me them.’

‘Sure.’

Judith tapped her fingers on the table, squeezed a smile at Constance and then sat back in her chair again, to think some more.

5

Andy sat in the reception of Horizon’s London headquarters, in Canary Wharf. He knew some people would be impressed, all that sparkling glass and shiny chrome, air conditioning and white noise. But far more, he imagined, would balk at the lack of fresh air and natural light which accompanied any journey out to this hub of finance, nestling in the dog-leg of the River Thames.

The underground had led Andy straight into a subterranean tunnel, flanked by fast food outlets from every corner of the globe, with neat signposting to Horizon’s offices, negating any need for him to pop his head above ground or check out Google Maps. Their clinical and well-flagged location had immediately made him homesick for the crumbling brickwork of Monument and the sensation of rain on his face.

‘Mr Hendricks will see you now,’ the receptionist called out, pointing a perfectly manicured finger along the glossy corridor. ‘Number six. Turn left at the end and it’s on your right.’

Andy felt himself propelled along by some higher force, past an eclectic collection of artworks; a giant, green, enamel shell on a raised pedestal, a man, hand raised in welcome, made entirely from coloured string, some black and white photographs of trees, or was it the same tree, through the seasons.

‘Ah, Andy. How nice to see you. Come in and sit by me. Coffee?’

Graham Hendricks was of medium height and build, with greying hair and a genial manner, but Andy knew that behind the mask of conviviality lurked a will of steel. Graham’s reputation as a self-made, rock-hard man of business preceded him. He had set up his first company aged 11, achieved his first CEO position at 21, and had taken Horizon into the big league five years ago.

Andy shook Graham by the hand and accepted the cup he was offered, seating himself to Graham’s left. Almost immediately, as he eased himself into the ergonomic chair, replete with moulded back and tilting mechanism, he felt a rush of blood to his head, as the view from the 20th floor assaulted his senses.

‘Ha!’ Graham noticed his discomfort and, grinning, he leaned over and, with one flick of the finger, dropped the blinds. ‘You’re not the first one to get a little vertigo up here,’ he chortled, ‘and I’m sure you won’t be the last.’

Andy took a deep breath. Beads of sweat had burst through his skin and he dabbed at his forehead, with a conveniently placed paper napkin.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you up, out of the blue, like this?’

Andy wasn’t sure if Graham expected a response, but his professionalism carried him through his temporary, adrenaline-fuelled crisis.

‘I was curious, I have to admit,’ he managed, taking a slurp of coffee and feeling his pulse leap even higher.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ Graham continued. ‘You’re a good-looking man, some experience of life, not too young, not too old.’ Graham laughed when he saw Andy’s baffled expression. ‘Oh your face!’ he said. ‘It’s definitely a business proposition, don’t look so worried.’

‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ Andy said, his body finally starting to adjust to the altitude.

‘It’s confidential, though, at least for now. If I tell you, it stays with you. You don’t share it even with your wife or your clerk or your closest friend. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Now Andy really was intrigued and more than a little flattered.

‘Horizon is going to take a leap into programming in a new area and I’m recruiting people to front it. For reasons which will become clear in a moment, I need someone with a legal background and a reasonable knowledge of the criminal law and process.’

‘Sounds like you have come to the right person, then?’ Andy had now recovered sufficiently to treat Graham to his broadest smile. Graham’s eyes flitted over Andy’s face. Andy remembered being told Graham had a photographic memory and he sensed Graham processing and storing each and every detail of his anatomy.

‘Do you have experience then, in front of the cameras?’ Graham said.

‘Well, I…not TV cameras, no. But, I mean, it’s just an extension of what I do every day, isn’t it? I’m used to being in front of an audience, a live audience in fact, and one which often answers back. TV must be easy in comparison.’

‘Not easy, no. But we’ll give you some opportunity to acclimatise. It will mean taking at least three months out of your practice, though, and giving this job your full attention. Is that something you could readily contemplate?’

Andy was certainly not against a change from his daily grind, but he still wasn’t sure what was on the table.

‘You’ll be well remunerated of course, a daily rate plus a bonus if our viewing figures are good enough.’

‘You are offering me a position on one of your shows, as a presenter?’ he asked.

‘That’s exactly it. Now, assuming you’re OK with the confidentiality aspect, let me tell you a little bit more about what we’re proposing. I think you’ll like it…a lot.’

6

Constance wasn’t certain she would be able to distinguish Rosie’s house from the other almost-identical town houses as she walked along East Road, but there was no doubt which it was. Not only was there a policeman standing on the front steps, but there were piles of flowers knee-deep on the pavement outside.

There would have been plenty of opportunities for the assassin to have been seen, she thought, all those windows overlooking the street, a busy thoroughfare linking the station, the nearby public gardens and local shops. She would need to check with Dawson if his officers had gone house to house, asked for sightings, although it never ceased to amaze Constance how unreliable eye witness evidence usually was. Either people saw nothing – Mr Moses, her senior partner, often told a story about how, when he was a boy, an entire troupe of elephants from the local circus were paraded through his town, albeit in the early hours of the morning, and no one noticed – or they totally misremembered what they had seen, substituting a familiar or desirable image for the real one.

She remembered a line from a film – or was it a book? – where a murder had taken place on a busy street like this and everyone was stumped; something about how the killer must have blended in, so he could lurk unnoticed. In the end, in that story, it had been the milkman, or someone dressed up as the milkman; she wasn’t sure which.

A better ending might have been the opposite: someone so out of place, so noticeable, that connecting him with the murder was totally absurd – so no one did. In fact, maybe that was the answer to Mr Moses’ elephant conundrum; people did see them trumpeting along the pedestrianised precinct, but couldn’t quite believe what they saw, so they just blanked it out or thought they’d imagined it.

Over the years, Constance had learned how important photographs were to the investigative side of her work. Not only did they jog your memory, they often highlighted things you had never seen or noticed yourself. So she took out her phone and snapped some photographs, from different angles, in both directions along the street, before slowly approaching the house and crouching down among the floral tributes.

One of the pictures she had seen, from her recent perusal of all things Rosie-related, was of Rosie at an upstairs window of this house, her face pinched and gaunt. It had coincided with breaking news of Debbie’s transition. She imagined Rosie mouthing something unintelligible from behind the glass to the unwelcome reporters below and tugging the curtains across. Today, when Constance looked up, the house was quiet and empty.

Lower down, Constance noticed a security camera directly above Rosie’s front door, the smart brass door knocker, the wide letter box, the trough overflowing with purple blooms on the front window ledge. The messages accompanying the flowers were simple and heartfelt: ‘rest in peace Rosie’, ‘we miss you’ and ‘one more angel in heaven’. Several well-wishers had printed off images of Rosie and tucked them into their bouquets.

As Constance reflected on who might have bought the blooms, the faces to match the many names, a man came hurrying down the street, mid thirties, sandy-brown hair, wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt, espadrilles, no socks. He marched straight up to the policeman.

‘I’m hoping you can help,’ he said, without looking at Constance, who continued her perusal of the flowers. ‘I’m Ellis Harper, Rosie’s brother. Is there any chance I could come inside?’

Constance was careful not to show any obvious interest in Ellis, but she was keen to take in everything she could from her stooped position. The policeman raised one hand towards Ellis’ chest and spread his frame out to block the entrance.

‘I’m sorry, sir, no one can come in. Not even family. Can I help you with something?’

‘It’s for Ben, Rosie’s son. He’s running out of clothes. I said I’d ask.’

‘If you’d like to leave your number, I’ll ask Chief Inspector Dawson to call you. He’s in charge. He won’t be releasing any clothes now, but maybe in a few days.’

‘No, that’s fine. I’ll pick up some things for Ben from the shops then, and I’ll come back during the week. Any idea how long you’ll be here?’

‘I think we’re nearly done.’

Ellis stood gazing up at the house’s façade before casting a glance in Constance’s direction again and striding back the way he had come. Constance rose and stretched out her legs, nodded to the policeman and then hurried off after Ellis, taking care to stay a fair distance behind.

* * *

Ellis walked purposefully along the street, sidestepping a pile of beer cans lined up in a row, then re-tracing his steps and kicking at them, so that they ricocheted off each other and rolled into the gutter. Then he stopped, drew back into a doorway and checked the messages on his phone before continuing on his way.

Constance wasn’t in the habit of undertaking gumshoe surveillance, but Ellis intrigued her – ‘waster’, ‘bear hugger’, ‘gofer’ – and she had the time to spare. Rosie’s house wasn’t going anywhere fast. She followed him all the way to Upper Street, where he entered one boutique and then another, exiting with purchases each time. Then he treated himself to an espresso and a chocolate twist, in a café, before riding the underground to Old Street and taking the short walk to Hoxton Square. Constance watched him enter a property on the west side and take the stairs to the first floor, where he disappeared from view, only to reappear briefly at a window.

Constance took more photographs; the square, the first-floor apartment, the view towards the east side, and revisited some she had taken earlier of Ellis perusing t-shirts in the shops. She wondered if Ben, the nephew, Rosie’s son, would appreciate his uncle’s fashion choices. But, maybe, probably, if your mother had just been murdered, you weren’t too bothered about what you wore.

7

‘Hello Debbie, Constance. Thank you for coming in so promptly.’ Inspector Dawson entered the interview room at Hackney police station, late, at 6.15pm the following day, PC Thomas in tow. Constance noticed his crumpled, short-sleeved shirt, tucked into his trousers on one side only, and his tousled hair completed the picture of a man who had wrestled with sleep.

In contrast, Debbie appeared well-groomed. Her hair was drawn back into a taut ponytail with an olive-green cat hair clip, her flowery blouse softened her features and her nails were painted today, in a subtle shade of ivory. Constance thought her dressed for a Saturday magazine ‘what to wear’ photoshoot feature, rather than an interview with the local constabulary.

‘Do you have any leads yet?’ Debbie said.

Constance marvelled at Debbie’s poise in the circumstances, especially after her theatricality at their last encounter. Instead, today, she seemed composed and solid.

Inspector Dawson took a seat at the table, placing a large, brown envelope upon it, face down. PC Thomas slid in next to him.

‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘and I can deal with things quite quickly, I believe. There’s been a development. Two actually…or it might even be three.’

Debbie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell us, please,’ she said, resting her elbows on the table.

‘First of all, we’ve found the murder weapon.’

Constance held her breath.

‘And what is it?’ Debbie asked.

‘I can show you a photo if you like.’

Both Debbie and Constance leaned forward, as Dawson’s fingers probed the depths of the envelope and pulled out a pile of photographs. He selected one and thrust it in Debbie’s direction.

‘But that’s…Rosie’s,’ Debbie said.

‘Yes.’

‘What is it Inspector, please? I can’t see,’ Constance asked.

Dawson nudged the photograph in Constance’s direction. ‘It’s a trophy, made of some kind of resin, a bit damaged around one of the edges. It was found in a dustbin a few doors from the house. You’re confirming that this award belongs to Rosie Harper?’

‘Of course I am. It has her name on it.’

‘And where was it kept, do you know?’

‘I last remember it on the mantelpiece, right in the centre. Rosie had loads of trophies, but this one was always her favourite.’

‘Was anyone seen dumping it?’ Constance asked.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Dawson said.

‘But you have a suspect?’ Debbie stared hard at Dawson, her mouth hanging open.

Constance removed her jacket and draped it on the back of her chair. Then she unscrewed the cap of her bottle and sipped at her water. Debbie was asking all the right questions, Constance thought.

Dawson nodded. ‘That’s my second piece of good news.’

PC Thomas, silent and impassive, handed him a bag, from which he extracted a sealed transparent package. Inside it there was a large, black, padded leather glove.

‘Is this yours?’ he asked Debbie.

‘Can I pick it up?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said.

Debbie lifted the package, squeezed it and held it close to her face, then turned it over. After a few seconds she said, ‘It could be.’ She passed it to Constance.

‘Is there any way of confirming that it’s yours?’ Dawson said.

‘If I had the left hand and it matched. But it’s a very ordinary glove. I have at least two pairs like this.’

‘It’s a make commonly bought for use on a motorbike…or moped, I understand,’ Dawson said.

‘A bestseller. That’s why I bought it.’

‘It was found at the scene, close to your wife’s body.’

‘You think the suspect left it behind?’

‘Oh come on, Debbie, drop the act. It’s fairly obvious that it’s your glove and it puts you squarely in the frame.’

‘Did you find the other one, of the pair?’

‘No. But we’ve tested this one, for DNA. We’ll have the results soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘A few days.’

‘Can’t you do it any quicker?’ Constance chipped in.

‘That’s how long it takes.’ Dawson stared pointedly at Constance and she looked away.

‘Is that it, then?’ Debbie sat back, and snatched a look at Constance too.

‘I haven’t got to development number three.’ Dawson held out his hand and PC Thomas deposited an iPad in it. Dawson fiddled with it for a few seconds, then laid it down on the table.