‘I think she provided it, but I wouldn’t advise going there. Once she knows who you are, she won’t let you go. She hounded Rosie – endless emails. Then she started with Rosie’s personal mobile; texts and WhatsApp – we don’t know how she got the number – and then on Twitter too. Rosie blocked her in the end.’

  ‘And you say this started two years ago. Was it still going on?’

  ‘A few weeks back, Rosie told me that Nicki knew where she lived. Nicki was standing on the corner of Rosie’s street when Rosie arrived home. When Rosie made it clear she’d seen her, Nicki just walked away.’

  ‘Did she tell the police?’

  ‘They said Nicki hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe it was a coincidence she was on Rosie’s street, but to keep a note if she saw her again.’

  ‘Do you think she was involved in Rosie’s murder?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘I just know what I told you, and I told it to the police.’

  ‘The emails, text messages from Nicki, do you have any of them?’

  ‘I think they all went to Rosie.’

  ‘Can you check?’

  ‘You think there might be something there?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you, especially when you are so busy. Is there anything else we should know about?’ Constance asked.

  ‘I just wondered, did no one see anything? It’s a great, big long road, where she lives…lived. I mean, my money’s on Danny, but I’m trying to keep an open mind, here. Didn’t the neighbours see anything?’

  ‘We’re not able to tell you that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. What about the dog?’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘I just meant what’s going to happen to the dog, Rosie’s dog? She was so fond of it.’

  Judith shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought. I’m sure someone is looking after it. We could find out for you. Were you offering?’

  Jason’s expression epitomised horror, mixed with shame in equal measure. ‘Nn…no,’ he stammered. ‘I mean, I love dogs, but Rochelle. She’s very house-proud. Can you imagine what it would do to our carpets?’

  Judith stifled a smile.

  ‘How did you know Rosie was dead?’ Constance asked, as they stood up to leave.

  ‘I had a call, from the police. They told me the awful news. I was devastated. I shut myself away in my bedroom, had quite a migraine. Rochelle will tell you. I was inconsolable.’

  Constance nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it must have been awful for you,’ she said.

  * * *

  Nicki Smith sat in her darkened flat, overlooking Broadway Market, her eyes closed, elbows tucked in tight to her waist, the tips of her fingers meeting, wigwam fashion. The headphones enveloping her ears were sending soothing noises through. She was testing out a new mindfulness podcast, the calming words slowly seeping into her head, her breathing steady – ‘In through the nose, out through the mouth,’ – count down from ten, her chest rising and falling.

  She always made time, every day, for these relaxation exercises. Before that, she had been prone to angry outbursts and the slightest perceived injustice could set her off. But a chance encounter with an altruistic probation officer had changed her life. She’d listened to the CD he gave her all the way through and been surprised how calm she felt afterwards. She had replayed it from the beginning and listened again. In fact, she had listened to it twelve times that night they took her in for something – she couldn’t even remember now what it was, it was so long ago. She had been released early the next morning. That, she did remember. And so the CD, and the slow breathing exercises, became her lucky charm, her rabbit’s foot.

  Nicki wasn’t to know that the probation officer had tried the programme himself and found it irritating, making it an easy giveaway, and that the later charges against her had been dropped because of a technicality. One thing she did know, when she left the custody of HM Prisons at the tender age of 21, was that there was no way she was ever going back inside.

  The podcast finished, Nicki exhaled loudly, removed her headphones and stared out across the room. She reached for her mobile phone, scrolling through a series of messages and then making her first call.

  ‘I only switched off for twenty minutes,’ she said, in response to some remonstration at the other end of the line.

  ‘It’s all arranged, don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘I’ll be there and I have a whole team on hand.

  ‘…If you want fifty, you can have fifty, 500 you can have 500.

  ‘…And what kind of people?

  ‘…What do you think I mean? I mean usually it’s a mix, but sometimes it looks better to have a few oldies or some people with disabilities. Plus the wheelchairs make more problems for the police.

  ‘…No. It’s all down to how we advertise.

  ‘…You want us there by 10?

  ‘…No problem.

  ‘…Anything for a good cause and you know how much I believe in this one.

  ‘…We’ll show them this time. We need to keep going to build up traction.

  ‘…See you tomorrow.’

  Nicki drew back the curtains and flung open her window, allowing the bustle of the fruit market to overspill her space. Some people found it too loud and invasive. They double-glazed their windows and kept their blinds down. Nicki loved it; life was made for interaction and confrontation. Otherwise, how would you ever know you were alive?

  She crossed the room to the hallway and the mirror next to her front door. She stood for a few moments, side on, admiring her reflection; a flawless complexion, wide mouth, high cheekbones, full brows and a head of thick, mahogany, cork-screw curls. Then she turned her left side towards the mirror and the image changed. A long, jagged scar splayed out across her left cheek, extending from just below her eye to her jawline. She ran her finger along its length, first down and then back up. But it remained just as present and distinct after her touch as before. With a slight twitch of her lips she grabbed her phone from her bag and returned to her chair, connecting it to her laptop and entering a series of passwords.

  Now she could see, clearly, what she had filmed an hour earlier; two women, one older and white, a walking advertisement for Selfridges, one younger and black, sporting a mixture of what looked, to her trained eye, to be Zara and Mango, entering Jason Fenwick’s mansion. ‘Interesting,’ she muttered. She watched them sit down in his living room and engage in animated conversation. She highlighted each of their faces in turn, and searched them against her database; no matches. Then, following a hunch, she googled ‘Rosie Harper’ and ‘lawyer’; nothing. Tutting at herself, she replaced the search with ‘Debbie Mallard’ and ‘lawyer’. And, there it was, in The Sun. ‘Debbie Mallard appoints local solicitor Constance Lamb to defend her.’

  Nicki wouldn’t normally spend her afternoon staking out celebrity’s properties, especially those she disliked. But, given Rosie’s death and the interview she had granted the police recently – there hadn’t been much choice, but they had kept it short and civil – she saw this as a necessary precaution.

  ‘Constance Lamb, let’s take a look at you, then.’ She opened Constance’s contact page on the Taylor Moses website. ‘Ah, there you are.’

  It didn’t take long for her to track the list of Constance’s most high-profile cases, and find Judith too.

  ‘So, I wonder what Jason’s been telling you two. I think I can probably guess.’

  * * *

  ‘Why does everyone insist on talking about the dog?’ Judith asked Constance, as they marched away from Hanover Terrace, skimming Regents Park, on their way to the underground station.

  ‘He just said Rosie loved her dog.’

  ‘He didn’t ask how Debbie was or the children, just the dog.’

  ‘People love their pets. If I died, would you look after my dog?’ Constance said.

  ‘You don’t have a dog. Do you know that one of the papers, the Mail I think, published a letter from a reader asking whether the dog would have been traumatised by seeing Rosie’s dead body. Really. The dog!’

  ‘And what was the answer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was so astounded at the question, I didn’t read on.’

  Constance tutted. ‘Animals are sensitive you know. I bet she knew something was wrong.’

  ‘Forget the dog. I think Mr Fenwick hasn’t told us quite everything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was hesitant more than once. That tends to mean some economy with the truth. Not always, and I’m not sure if it’s anything important. Either he is being loyal to Rosie and doesn’t want to break confidences or he’s hiding something.’

  ‘He was happy to take credit for her success, wasn’t he? And he said she didn’t take the job at first, because of her kids. Laura obviously didn’t know that. She just complained about her absent mother.’

  ‘Not that surprising, is it? Children often focus on the deficiencies of their parents, rather than their self-sacrifice…so I’m told. And you saw Ben Mallard. How was he?’

  ‘Desperate, sad, lonely. Angry at his mother for pushing his father away.’

  ‘How angry?’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t think that angry.’

  ‘Who knows? We have experience of what adolescent boys can do, when they’re all fired up.’

  Constance knew that Judith was referring to the first case they had worked on together, involving a murder in a boys’ school, where they had successfully defended one of the pupils. They had both been surprised by the depth of feeling of some of the boys they encountered there.

  ‘And I met the uncle, Ellis, still only briefly, after spying on him the other day. No chance to ask him very much,’ she said.

  ‘Hm. How did you find him?’

  ‘Friendly but a bit…assertive; the kind of man who’s confident he’s right all the time.’

  ‘I thought they all were.’

  ‘He asked us not to call them as witnesses, both of them, Ben and Laura. Said they’d been through enough, hinted that Ben has a history of mental instability. He asked if we’d have to disclose it.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That we would consider everything before reaching a decision. And I know Debbie said she doesn’t like him, but he seems to be keeping a close eye on Ben, cooking for him, just being around, which I’m sure Ben needs, at the moment.’

  ‘That’s good. I might go and see Uncle Ellis myself then. He’s already met you and he may well have quizzed Ben on what you were interested in. I could try a new angle. I’ll put my thinking cap on. Anyone else in the family we should talk to?’

  ‘The mothers; Rosie’s and Debbie’s. And I’ll see who else might be connected. Do you want me to talk to him again? Jason, that is.’

  ‘Maybe. Why don’t you do some digging around first, including a few minutes on this Nicki Smith. Sounds like it will be easy to find her in the news, if she’s a serial protester, like Jason says.’

  * * *

  ‘This anti-Heathrow stuff is really complicated.’ Constance was skimming through pages on her laptop, once they were safely ensconced in her office. ‘I mean, loads of environmental groups are involved. I didn’t realise. They say it breaches climate-change agreements, as well as causing noise pollution and traffic congestion. And with the stats about air quality, I don’t understand why people don’t just travel less. Especially now it’s getting warmer. Do we really need to fly halfway across the world to fry on a beach and risk skin cancer? We always complain about the hotel and the weather and the delay. Maybe we should all just stay at home.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Watch out! You’re beginning to sound like me!’ she said. ‘Although I heard a rumour the younger generation were more switched on to environmental issues. My lot were always too preoccupied with securing equality between humans to think about the planet. What about travel as a means of broadening horizons? If Marco Polo had felt like that, we would never have discovered China, although some people these days might think that preferable.’

  ‘But it’s costing £14bn. I never realised. You could fund a lot of hospitals with £14bn.’

  ‘So you think Nicki Smith has a point. Fair enough. Is there anything in there about her?’

  ‘Yes. A lot, all toxic.’

  ‘How “toxic”?’ Judith asked.

  ‘She’s leader of this group called Dead Earth. They’re supposed to be environmentalists, but they’re more extreme than most. Greenpeace has distanced itself from them. Same message, but they use graphic images and threats. I can see them tweeting at politicians. And Jason was right that she’s been involved in lots of other pressure groups – too many to count – but the common theme is anti-government policy. I could spend a couple of hours and then give you a summary.’

  ‘Ask Dawson first. You need to follow up the DNA evidence with him anyway, don’t you? The glove, the murder weapon. And has Jason found any of those messages she sent to Rosie?’

  ‘Not yet…’

  ‘Dawson ought to have them anyway, if they were sent to Rosie’s laptop. That will be quite enough to do, so I can’t spare you to sit trawling the internet all day. Given what Jason said, Dawson should, at least, have interviewed Nicki to see if she has an alibi. If he hasn’t, he isn’t the police officer I thought he was.’

  14

  ‘I see the Rosie Harper case has been keeping you busy.’ Greg lifted his first piece of sashimi expertly up to his mouth, while Constance sipped her miso soup from a bamboo spoon. A rendez-vous in Itsu, close to her office, was all Constance would accept when Greg asked her to meet for lunch. This time he was wearing shorts and, although it was a hot day and she was the one who was clearly overdressed, Constance couldn’t decide if he looked good in them or not. It must be difficult when you got older, she thought, deciding how to dress. That conflict between desperately hanging onto your youth and ageing gracefully. Greg must be at least forty-five, she supposed. Would she still wear shorts at forty-five? And would he have worn shorts to meet Judith?

  ‘How do you know that?’ she said.

  ‘It was in the papers. There was a photo of you…going into Hackney police station.’

  Greg offered her some fish, but she shook her head.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ he asked.

  ‘The case isn’t the problem. The media interest is a nightmare; newspapers and social media and maybe even TV now.’

  ‘It has all the ingredients.’

  ‘And the press seems to know stuff before we do. But we don’t want to complain that it’s prejudicial, because some of it might help Debbie in the long run, except we don’t know that yet and we don’t want to draw attention to the stuff which won’t. There’s a leak from somewhere though. Judith said she spoke to Charlie – Inspector Dawson – about it and he said he would make sure it hadn’t come from his team.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s what he said. I know Judith rated his father, not sure what she thinks of the son. You mentioned TV?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to interfere, but I know the man who’s funding the new TV channel, “Court TV”. He also backed my Trixter app.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You know they’re not just doing a live screening, don’t you?’

  ‘What else are they planning?’

  ‘All sorts of things. He was full of it, when I saw him yesterday. The hearing will be live during the day and, in the evenings, there’ll be a two- or three-hour session, with experts coming in to talk about the case. And, in between, lots of advertisements; that’s mainly how they make their money, but he said it’s going to be “interactive” with the public. He didn’t elaborate, but I can guess what that means.’

  This information was not music to Constance’s ears. It suggested lots of discussion of the case, with the obvious possibility of people having opinions on what they had seen, which was always dangerous to allow while the case was in progress.

  ‘Judith thinks we should ignore it and carry on,’ she said, which was not an entirely truthful precis of Judith’s position.

  Greg finished his mouthful and laid his chopsticks down on his tray. ‘They’re predicting at least one million viewers for the opening,’ he said. ‘And a big campaign is starting tomorrow, posters on the underground, ads on local radio and in all the major newspapers. I’m telling you, the man is slick, he knows what he’s doing and he’s putting together a huge research team. He doesn’t do anything by halves. He wants a noisy, booming, record-breaking debut. You can’t ignore it. Judith is wrong on this one.’

  Constance pushed her lunch away. Now she wished she hadn’t chosen Itsu. Greg had squeezed himself in, wedged between the window and the low, round table, their knees were almost touching and she would have to push past him to leave. ‘Eat beautiful’ it said on her napkin. She liked the strapline. Judith would hate it, would point out that it wasn’t grammatically correct, would think, and might even say, that it was a shame no one had advised the Japanese owners of their mistake, before they daubed it liberally through their marketing material and wrote it above every outlet. Constance would think, but not say, that the ‘beautiful’ was deliberately addressed to the customer. That it was sublime marketing. ‘Eat this and you become beautiful.’ That’s what it said to her. She dabbed at her mouth.

  ‘You need to plan for this; the impact on you, Judith, Debbie Mallard, the witnesses and maybe even the jury of having all these people watching – and not just watching: analysing, commenting, criticising, sharing.’

  ‘They won’t be allowed to do all that; there are still rules.’ Constance clung to her previously held positive views of the scheme, despite Greg’s revelations.

  ‘This guy will sail close to the wind and worry about the repercussions later, I’m telling you. You need to be prepared.’