* * *

  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.