All the Rage

Book 4: DI Fawley series

by Cara Hunter

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

From Cara Hunter, the New York Times bestselling author of Murder in the Family, comes the fourth novel in her DI Fawley detective series, one of Britain’s most enduringly popular and mega-selling crime series.

After being abducted and assaulted, a teenage girl somehow managed to escape from her captor. She is traumatized and needs to heal, but the police need her help to catch her assailant—information she clearly knows, but is unwilling to give. 

Without the girl’s assistance, DI Adam Fawley’s investigation is at a dead end. When another girl vanishes under the same circumstances, he recognizes a disturbing pattern—and a link to something long buried in his past. . .

Release date: February 20, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 464

Sample

Prologue

The night is so warm she has her window open; the net curtain lifts lazily in the bare breath of late-summer heat. There’s a light on inside the flat, but only in the living room: that’s how he knows she’s alone. There’s music playing too. Not loud, but he’s close enough to hear it. He used to worry about that, at the beginning—about getting too near and giving himself away. But he knows better now; even in daylight vans like this are everywhere. People don’t even see them any more. Not even observant people. Like her.

He winds down the window a little further. She must be going out, because the music is fast, energetic, upbeat; not the lazy jazzy stuff she usually prefers. He closes his eyes a moment and tries to visualize what she’s going to wear, what she’s pulling over her skin right now—skin still damp from the shower he just heard her take. Not the black dress with the beading that fits so tightly he can map her body in his mind: if it was dinner with her tosser of a boyfriend she wouldn’t be listening to crap music like that. It’s not her parents either: if they were in Oxford he’d have seen the car. No, it must be a night out with the girls. Which means she’ll go for something less suggestive—something understated that signals polite inaccessibility. The blue one, perhaps, with the wide sleeves. Tiffany blue, they call it. He never knew that before. It’s a nice dress. Neutral. And it’s one of her favorites.

She didn’t tell him any of this. He found it out. It wasn’t even that hard. All you have to do is watch. Watch and wait and deduce. Sometimes all it takes is a few days; but those are rarely the most satisfying. This one has already cost him more than three weeks, but he likes taking his time. And something tells him she’s going to be worth it. Like the ads for that shampoo she buys keep on telling her. And in any case, he’s learned to his cost that these things can’t be rushed. That’s when you make mistakes. That’s when it all goes wrong.

There’s someone coming now. He can hear the clack of shoes against the pavement. High heels. Giggling. He shifts slightly to get a better look, the plastic of the seat sticking and crackling under him. Across the road, two girls come into view. Nothing understated about that pair, that’s for sure. Sequins, red gash mouths, tottering about on their tarty shoes; the silly bitches are already half-cut. He hasn’t seen either of these two before but they must be friends of hers because they stop outside the flat and start rummaging in their handbags. One of them pulls something free with a flourish and a loud “Ta-da!” A shiny pink sash, with something written on it in glitter he can’t quite read. But he doesn’t need to. His eyes narrow; he’s seen shit like that before. It’s a hen party. A fucking hen party. Since when did she bother with crap like that? The two girls have their heads together now and something about the way they’re laughing and whispering sends a trickle of unease inching up his spine. It can’t be her party, surely. She can’t have—not without him knowing—she’s not wearing a ring—he’d have seen—

He leans forward, trying to get a better look. One of the girls is ringing the doorbell to the flat, leaning on the entryphone until the window upstairs shoots up.

“Do you really have to make quite so much noise?”

She’s trying to sound disapproving but there’s laughter in her voice. She leans out and a twist of long dark hair slips over her shoulder. It’s still wet from the shower. His throat tightens.

One of the girls looks up and lifts her arms, triumphant. She has a plastic coronet in one hand and the pink sash in the other. “Hey! Look what we got!”

The girl in the window shakes her head. “You promised, Chlo—absolutely no tat and no tiaras.”

The two below burst out laughing. “This extremely tasteful piece of decorative headware

happens to be mine, not yours,” says the second girl, her words slurring slightly. “We got this little number for you . . .”

She digs into her handbag and holds something up, and as it catches the light of the street lamp he can see it clearly: a bright-pink hairslide, with the word TAKEN spelled out in diamanté.

The girl in the window shakes her head again. “What did I do to deserve you two, eh?”

She ducks back inside and a moment later there’s the sound of the entryphone buzzing, and the two girls stumble over the step into the house, still giggling.

The man opens the glovebox. That bitch is lucky he isn’t going to do her right here and now; that’d put paid to their trashy little tart fest. But he won’t. He wants the exhilaration of waiting—still wants it, even now. The exquisite anticipation, the detail by detail: how she’ll smell, how she’ll taste, the feel of her hair. Just knowing he could have that whenever he chooses—that the only thing preventing him is his own restraint—

He sits a while, clenching and unclenching his fists, allowing his heart rate to slow. Then he puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine. 

The alarm goes at seven but Faith Appleford has already been up for an hour. Hair, clothes, shoes, makeup, it all takes time. She’s sitting at her dressing table now, putting the finishing touches to her mascara, hearin1g her mother calling up the stairs from the kitchen.

“Nadine—are you out of bed yet? If you want that lift you need to be down here in ten minutes.”

There’s a groan from next door and Faith imagines her sister turning over and pulling the pillow over her head. It’s always the same; Nadine is hopeless in the mornings. Unlike Faith. Faith is always ready in plenty of time. Always perfectly turned out. She turns back to the mirror and moves her head right and left, checking the angles, tweaking a lock of hair, straightening the neckline of her sweater. Beautiful. And it’s not just showing off. She really is. Quite beautiful.

She gets to her feet and selects a handbag from the cluster hanging on the back of the door. It’s suede. Well, not real suede but you have to get up really close to realize. The color is just right though, especially with this jacket. The perfect shade of blue.

* * *

Adam Fawley

1 April 2018

09.15

“Is that OK—not too cold?”

I felt Alex flinch as the probe touched her skin but she shakes her head quickly and smiles. “No, it’s fine.”

The nurse turns back to her monitor and taps her keyboard. Everything in the room is muted. The lights dimmed, the sound muffled, as if we’re underwater. Around us, the hospital is brisk with activity, but in here, right now, time has slowed to a heartbeat.

“Here you are,” says the nurse at last, swinging the monitor around and smiling at us. The image on the screen blooms into life. A head, a nose, a tiny fist, raised as if in celebration. Movement. Life. Alex’s hand gropes for mine but her eyes never leave her child.

“This is the first time for you, isn’t it, Mr. Fawley?” continues the nurse. “I don’t think you were here for the first scan?” She keeps her tone light but there’s judgment in there all the same.

“It was complicated,” says Alex quickly. “I was so terrified something would go wrong—I didn’t want to jinx it—”

I tighten my grip on her hand. We’ve been through this. Why she didn’t tell me, why she couldn’t even live with me until she knew for certain. Until she was sure.

“It’s fine,” I say. “All that matters is that I’m here now. And that the baby is OK.”

“Well, the heartbeat is good and strong,” the nurse says, tapping at her keyboard again. “And the baby is growing normally, exactly as it should be at twenty-two weeks. There’s nothing here that gives me any cause for concern.”

I feel myself exhale—I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing. We’re older parents, we’ve read all the leaflets, had all the tests, but still—

“You’re absolutely sure?” says Alex. “Because I really don’t want to have an amnio—”

The nurse smiles again, a deeper, warmer smile. “It’s all absolutely fine, Mrs. Fawley. You have nothing at all to worry about.”

Alex turns to me, tears in her eyes. “It’s all right,” she whispers. “It really is going to be all right.”

On the screen the baby somersaults suddenly, a tiny dolphin in the silvery darkness.

“So,” says the nurse, adjusting the probe again, “do you want to know the sex?”

* * *

Fiona Blake puts a bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter, but Sasha doesn’t appear to notice. She’s been staring at her phone ever since she came downstairs, and Fiona is fighting the urge to say something. They don’t have phones at meals in their house. Not because Fiona laid down the law about it but because

 they agreed, the two of them, that it wasn’t how they wanted to do things. She turns away to fill the teapot but when she gets back to the table Sasha is still staring at the damn screen.

“Problem?” she says, trying not to sound irritated.

Sasha looks up and shakes her head. “Sorry—it’s just Pats saying she won’t be at school today. She’s been throwing up all night.”

Fiona makes a face. “That winter vomiting thing?”

Sasha nods, then pushes the phone away. “Sounds like it. She sounds really rough.”

Fiona scrutinizes her daughter; her eyes are bright and her cheeks look a little flushed. Come to think of it, she’s been rather like that all week. “You feeling all right, Sash? You look like you might be a bit feverish yourself.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Me? I’m fine. Seriously, Mum, I’m absolutely OK. And completely starving.”

She grins at her mother and reaches across the table for a spoon.

* * *

At St. Aldate’s police station, DC Anthony Asante is trying to smile. Though the look on DS Gislingham’s face suggests he isn’t doing a very good job of it. It’s not that Asante doesn’t have a sense of humor, it’s just not the custard pie and banana skin variety. Which is why he’s struggling to find the upside-down glass of water on his desk very amusing. That and the fact that he’s furious with himself for forgetting what day it is and not being more bloody careful. He should have seen this coming a mile off: newest member of the team, graduate entry, fresh from the Met. He might as well have had “Fair Game” tattooed across his forehead. And now they’re all standing there, watching him, waiting to see if he’s a “good sport” or just “well up himself” (which judging from the smirk DC Quinn isn’t bothering to hide is clearly his opinion—though Asante’s tempted to ask if Quinn’s playing the role of pot or kettle on that one). He takes a deep breath and cranks the smile up a notch. After all, it could have been worse. One of the shits at Brixton nick left a bunch of bananas on his desk the day he first started.

“OK, guys,” he says, looking around at the room, in what he hopes is the right combination of heavy irony and seen-it-all-before, “very funny.”

Gislingham grins at him, as much relieved as anything. After all, a joke’s a joke and in this job you have to be able to take it as well as dish it out, but he’s still a bit new to the whole sergeantship thing and he doesn’t want to be seen as picking on anyone. Least of all the only non-white member of the team. He cuffs Asante lightly on the arm, saying, “Nice one, Tone,” then decides he’s probably best off leaving it at that and makes for the coffee machine.

* * *

Adam Fawley

1 April 2018

10.25

“So how’s this going to work then?”

Alex settles herself slowly into the sofa and swings her feet up. I hand her the mug and she curls her hands around it. “How’s what going to work?” she says, though she’s already looking mischievous.

“You know exactly what I mean—the small fact that I don’t know the sex, but you do.”

She blows on the tea and then looks up at me, all innocence. “Why should it be a problem?”

I shunt a cushion aside and sit down. “How are you going to keep a secret like that? You’re bound to let it slip eventually.”

She grins. “Well, as long as you don’t employ that infamous interviewing technique of yours, I think I’ll just about manage to keep it to myself.” She laughs now, seeing my face. “Look, I promise to keep thinking of two lists of names—”

“OK, but—”

“And not buy everything in blue.”

Before I can even open my mouth she grins again and prods me with her foot. “Or pink.”

I shake my head, all faux-disapproval. “I give up.”

“No, you don’t,” she says, serious now. “You never give up. Not on anything.”

And we both know she’s not just talking about my job.

I get to my feet. “Take it easy the rest of the day, all right? No heavy lifting or anything insane like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So that afternoon of lumberjacking I had planned is off, is it? Darn it.”

“And email me if you need anything from the shops.”

She gives a joke salute then prods me again. “Go. You’re late already. And I have done all this before, remember. I wallpapered Jake’s nursery when I was twice the size I am now.”

As she smiles up at me, I realize I can’t even remember the last time she talked like this. All those months after Jake died, she saw motherhood only in terms of loss. Absence. Not just the want of him but the despair of having any other child. All this time, she could only speak of our son in pain. But now, perhaps, she can reclaim the joy of him too. This baby could never be a replacement, even if we wanted it to be, but perhaps he—or she—can still be a redemption.

It’s only when I get to the door that I turn around. “What infamous interviewing technique?”

Her laughter follows me all the way down the drive.

* * *

At 10:45 Somer is still stuck in a queue on the A33. She’d meant to come back from Hampshire last night but somehow the walk along the coast had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into just one glass too many, and at half ten they’d agreed it definitely wasn’t a good idea for her to drive. So the new plan was to get up at 5:00 to beat the Monday morning rush, only somehow that didn’t happen either and it was gone 9:00 by the time she left. Not that she’s complaining. She smiles to herself; her skin is still tingling despite the hot shower and the cold car. Even though it means she has no change of clothes for the office and no time to go home and get any. Her phone pings and she glances down. It’s a text from Giles. She smiles again as she reads it, itching to reply with some arch remark about what his superintendent would say if he got sent that by mistake, but the car ahead of her is finally moving; Giles—for once—is going to have to wait.

* * *

When the minicab driver first spotted the girl, he thought she was drunk. Yet another bloody student, he thought, getting pissed on cheap cider and staggering home at all hours. She was a good hundred yards ahead of him, but he could see she was lurching unsteadily from side to side. It wasn’t till the car got closer that he realized she was actually limping. One strappy shoe was still on but the other had lost its heel. That’s what made him slow down. That and where she was. Out on the Marston Ferry Road, miles from anywhere. Or as close to it as Oxford ever gets. Though as he signaled and pulled over alongside her, he still thought she must just be drunk.

But that was before he saw her face.

* * *

The office is all but empty when the call comes through. Quinn’s AWOL somewhere, Fawley’s not due in till lunchtime and Gislingham’s off on a training course. Something to do with people management, Baxter tells Ev. Before smiling wryly and observing that he can’t see why the Sarge is bothering: there’s nothing about that particular subject Gis couldn’t learn from his own wife.

Somer has just got back with a salad and a round of coffees when the phone rings. She watches Everett pick it up and wedge the handset against her shoulder while she answers an email.

“Sorry?” she says suddenly, gripping the phone now, the email forgotten. “Can you say that again? You’re sure? And when did this happen?” She grabs a pen and scribbles something down. “Tell them we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Somer looks up; something tells her the salad is going to have to wait. Again. She doesn’t even bother buying hot lunches any more.

Everett puts the

phone down. “A girl’s been found on the Marston Ferry Road.”

“Found? What do you mean ‘found?’”

“In a state of extreme distress, and with marks on her wrists where her hands were tied.”

“Tied? She’d been tied up?”

Everett’s face is grim. “I’m afraid it sounds a lot worse than that.”

* * *

Adam Fawley

1 April 2018

12.35

I’m still on the ring road when I get the call from Everett.

“Sir? I’m with Somer on our way to the Lakes. We had a call about ten minutes ago—a girl’s been found in a distraught state on the Marston Ferry Road. It looks like she may have been attacked.”

I signal to pull over into a lay-by and pick up the phone. “Sexual assault?”

“We don’t actually know that. But to be honest, right now, we don’t know much at all.”

I can tell something’s off, just from her voice. And if there’s one thing I know about Ev, it’s that she has good antennae. Good antennae, and not enough confidence in them. Or herself. Something for Gislingham to pick up when he gets back from that HR course of his.

“There’s something bothering you, isn’t there?”

“She was found with her clothes torn and muddy and evidence that her hands had been tied—”

“Jesus—”

“I know. She was apparently in a terrible state but the point is she refused to go to either the police or the doctor. She made the minicab driver who found her take her straight home and told him she didn’t want it reported. Which, thankfully, he ignored.”

I poke about in the glovebox for some paper and ask her to repeat the address in the Lakes. And if you’re wondering how you missed all that standing water when you did the Oxford tourist tour, there isn’t anything larger than a pond for miles. The Lakes is a 1930s housing development in Marston. People call it that because there are so many roads there named after them: Derwent, Coniston, Grasmere, Rydal. I like to think some long-ago town planner was homesick for the fells, but Alex tells me I’m just being Romantic.

“Do we know the girl’s name?”

“We think it could be Faith. The cabdriver said she was wearing a necklace with that on it. Though it might just be one of those ‘Live Love Life’ sort of things. You must have seen them.” 

I have. But not on Ev, that’s for sure. As for the cabbie, it seems he wasn’t just public-spirited but observant too. Wonders will never cease.

“According to the electoral roll there’s a woman called Diane Appleford resident at the address,” she continues. “She moved there about a year ago, and there’s no criminal record, nothing flagging anywhere. But there’s no Mr. Appleford—or not one living with her, at any rate.”

“OK, I’m only about ten minutes away.”

“We’re just turning into Rydal Way now, but we’ll hold off going in till you get here.”

The Appleford home is a neat bow-fronted semi, with a paved front garden and a low wall made of those square white bricks that look like stencils. Our next-door neighbors had exactly the same when I was a kid. What with that and the frilly nets in the window the house looks landlocked in 1976.

I see Somer and Everett get out of their car and come down the road towards me. Everett is in her standard combo of white shirt, dark skirt and sensible mac, though the bright-red scarf is definitely her little rebellion. Somer, by contrast, is in black jeans, a leather jacket and high-heeled ankle boots with fringy bits around the back. She doesn’t usually dress like that at work, so I’m guessing she was at the boyfriend’s this weekend and hasn’t been home. She flushes slightly when she sees me, which makes me even more convinced I’m right. She met him when we were working on the Michael Esmond case. The boyfriend, I mean. Giles Saumarez. He’s in the job too. I can never quite decide if that’s a good thing.

“Afternoon, sir,” says Everett, hoisting her bag a bit higher on her shoulder.

I reach into my pocket for a mint. I carry handfuls of the bloody things now. Stopping smoking is a bastard, but it’s non-negotiable. And by that, I mean between me and myself; I didn’t wait for Alex to ask.

“Is that a good idea?” says Somer, eyeing the sweet. “With the teeth, I mean.”

I frown for a moment and then remember that’s where I told them I was this morning. The dentist’s. The universal white lie of choice. It’s not that the baby is a secret—people will have to know eventually. It’s just—you know—not right now.

“It was OK,” I say. “I didn’t need anything doing.”

I turn to Ev. “So anything more before we go crashing in?”

She shakes her head. “You know as much as we do.”

The woman who opens the door has dried-out blond hair, white sweatpants and a white sweatshirt with Slummy Mummy written on it. She must be mid-forties. She looks tired. Tired and immediately defensive.

“Mrs. Appleford?”

She eyes me and then the women. “Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Adam Fawley. This is DC Everett and DC Somer.”

She grips the door

a little tighter. “Faith was quite clear—she doesn’t want the police involved. You have no business—”

“Faith is your daughter?”

She hesitates a moment, as if divulging even so bare a fact is some sort of betrayal. “Yes. Faith is my daughter.”

“The passerby who found her was extremely concerned for her well-being. As, of course, are we.”

Somer touches my shoulder and gestures back behind her. I don’t even need to turn round. I can almost hear the sound of curtains twitching.

“Could we come in, Mrs. Appleford? Just for a moment? We can talk more easily inside.”

The woman glances across the road; she’s spotted the nosy neighbors too.

“OK. But only for a couple of minutes, all right?”

The sitting room is painted pale mauve, with a sofa and armchairs which are obviously supposed to match but the color’s just far enough off to mess with your head. And they’re much too big for the space. It never ceases to baffle me why people don’t measure their rooms before they buy their furniture. There’s a strong smell of artificial air freshener. Lavender. As if you had to ask.

She doesn’t invite us to sit down, so we stand awkwardly on the narrow strip of carpet between the seats and the glass-topped coffee table.

“Was your daughter here last night, Mrs. Appleford?”

She nods.

“All night?”

“Yes. She didn’t go out.”

“So you saw her at breakfast?”

Another nod.

“What time was that?” asks Somer, slipping her notebook discreetly from her jacket.

The woman wraps her arms about herself. I’m trying not to draw conclusions from her body language, but she’s not making it easy. “About 7:45, I think. I left with Nadine just before 8:00, but Faith had a later start today. She’d have left around 9:00 to get the bus.”

So she doesn’t actually know what her daughter did this morning. Just because something always happens, doesn’t mean it always will.

“Nadine’s your daughter too?” asks Somer.

The woman nods. “I drop her off at school on my way to work. I’m a receptionist at the doctor’s in Summertown.”

“And Faith?”

“She goes to the FE college in Headington. That’s why she gets the bus. It’s in the opposite direction.”

“Did you have any contact with Faith during the day today?”

“I texted her about

tennish but she didn’t reply. It was just a link to an article about Meghan Markle. You know, the wedding. The dress. Faith’s interested in all that. She’s doing Fashion. She has real talent.”

“And that was unusual—that she didn’t reply, I mean?”

The woman considers then shrugs. “I suppose so, yes.”

My turn again. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

Her eyes narrow a little. “No. Not at the moment.”

“But she would tell you—if she did?”

She gives me a sharp look. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” says Somer, placatory. “We’re just trying to work out who might have done this—if it could have been someone she knew—”

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She doesn’t want a boyfriend.”

There’s a silence.

Somer glances across at Ev. Why don’t you have a try.

“Were you here,” Ev says, “when the cabbie brought her back?”

The woman looks at her then nods. “I wouldn’t be, normally. But I’d forgotten my reading glasses so I popped back.”

Ev and Somer exchange another glance. I suspect I know what they’re thinking: if Mrs. Appleford hadn’t chanced to be at home the girl might well have tried to hide what happened from her as well. As for me, I’m more and more convinced Ev is right: there’s definitely something off here.

I take a step closer. “Do you know why Faith has decided not to talk to us, Mrs. Appleford?”

She bridles. “She doesn’t want to. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

“But if she was raped—”

“She wasn’t raped.” Her tone is unequivocal. Absolute.

“How can you be so sure?”

Her face hardens. “She told me. Faith told me. And my daughter is not a liar.”

“I’m not saying that. Not at all.” She’s not looking at me now. “Look, I know rape investigations can be traumatic—I wouldn’t blame anyone for being daunted by that prospect—but it’s not like it used to be. We have properly trained officers—DC Everett—”

“It wasn’t rape.”

“I’m very glad to hear it—but we may still be looking at a serious crime. Assault, Actual Bodily Harm—”

“How many more times? There was no crime and she is not going to press charges. So please, will you people just leave us alone?”

She looks round at us, one after the other. She wants us to start leaving, to say Faith can contact us if she changes her mind. But we don’t. I don’t.

“Your daughter was missing for over two hours,” says Ev gently. “From 9:00 to

 just after 11:00, when Mr. Mullins saw her wandering along the Marston Ferry Road in a terrible state—crying, her clothes all muddy, her shoe broken. Something must have happened.”

Mrs. Appleford flushes. “I gather it was an April Fool. Just a silly joke that got a bit out of hand.”

But no one in the room believes that. Not even her.

“If it really was just a prank,” I say eventually, “then I would like Faith herself to confirm that, please. But if it wasn’t, the person who did this to Faith may do it again. Another girl could suffer the same trauma your daughter has just been through. I can’t believe you’d want that. Either of you.”

Mrs. Appleford holds my gaze. It’s not exactly checkmate, but I want to make it damn hard for her to refuse.

“Faith is here at the moment, I assume?”

“Yes,” she says at last. “She’s out in the garden.” For fresh air? For a smoke? Just to get away from all this damn purple? Frankly, I’m with her on all three.

Mrs. Appleford takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ll go and ask if she wants to talk to you, but I’m not going to force it. If she says no, then that’s her decision.”

It’s better than nothing.

“Fair enough. We’ll wait here.”

When the door’s closed behind her I start to wander around the room. The pictures are Impressionists.” Monet mostly. Ponds, water lilies, that sort of thing. Call me a cynic, but I suspect they were probably the only ones on offer in the right shade of mauve.

“I’d love to go to that place,” says Ev, gesturing toward one of the bridge at Giverny. “It’s on the bucket list if I win the lottery. And can find someone to go with.” She makes a face. “Along with the Taj Mahal and Bora Bora, of course.”

Somer looks up and smiles; she’s by the mantelpiece, scrutinizing the family photos. “Mine too. The Bora Bora bit, anyway.”

I see Ev give Somer a meaningful look that leaves her smiling again and glancing away when she sees I’ve noticed.

Ev turns to me. “I think it might be a good idea if I went looking for the loo. If you catch my drift.”

I nod and she slips quickly out of the room, and almost at once there’s the sound of footsteps in the hall and Diane Appleford reappears.

“She’s prepared to talk—”

“Thank you.”

“But only to a woman,” she continues. “Not to you.”

I look toward Somer, who nods. “It’s fine with me, sir.”

I return to the woman and adopt my most charming “only here to serve” smile. “I quite understand, Mrs. Appleford. I’ll wait for my colleagues in the car.”

* * *

Ev pauses at the top of the stairs. To her left, the bathroom door is open. White tiles, a heavy plastic shower curtain and a strong smell of bleach. The towels, she notices (neatly folded, unlike the ones in her own

flat), are the same color as the mauve downstairs. It’s starting to become a Thing.

Facing her are three more doors, two of them open. A master bedroom with a satin bedspread (no prizes for guessing the color), and what Ev decides must be the younger daughter’s. A jumble of clothes and trainers left where they fell. A duvet carelessly dragged across, a scatter of soft toys, a makeup bag. She crosses as quietly as possible to the closed third door, giving silent thanks for the thickness of the carpet. She could never have anything like that in her flat—the cat would have it for breakfast. He loves “shreddies.”

The room that opens before her is the polar opposite of the other sister’s. Cupboards neatly closed, nothing escaping from the chests of drawers. Even the pile of Grazias is neatly stacked. ...