Cat And Mouse

by M.J. Arlidge

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

WHEN YOU THINK YOU'RE SAFE,
WHEN YOU THINK YOU'RE ALL ALONE,
THAT'S WHEN HE'LL COME FOR YOU...

A silent killer stalks the city, targeting those home alone at night, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse with the victims.

As panic spreads, Detective Inspector Helen Grace leads the investigation, but is herself a hunted woman, her every step shadowed by a ruthless psychopath bent on revenge.

As she tracks the murderer, Grace begins to suspect there is a truly shocking home truth that connects these brutal crimes. But what she will find is something more twisted than she could ever suspect...

Check the windows, lock the doors - this is a twisted page-turner that will prey on your darkest fears, in the way only M.J. Arlidge can.

_____________________

PRAISE FOR MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER M.J. ARLIDGE

'Helen Grace is one of the greatest heroes to come along in years' JEFFERY DEAVER
'The new Jo Nesbo' JUDY FINNIGAN
'A genuinely fresh heroine ... M.J. Arlidge weaves together a tapestry that chills to the bone' DAILY MAIL

Release date: June 9, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 400

Sample

Martha White stirred, rolling onto her side and clutching her pillow. She’d been caught in a strange netherworld between sleep and wakefulness, her uneasy rest punctured by nightmares of missed connections and lost children, but a noise downstairs had brought her back to reality. Often she was aggravated by Greg’s return – trainers tossed off noisily in the hall, fridge door slammed shut – but tonight she was glad of the disturbance. She always slept better when she knew her husband was home.

Settling back down, Martha buried her face in the soft cotton, breathing in the washing powder scent, praying that sleep – proper sleep – would claim her. She was bone-tired, the customary round of chores and childcare having sapped her last vestiges of energy. Given the chance now she would sleep for a thousand years, happily embracing the oblivion of the night, waking refreshed and revitalized, ready to be the mum she always hoped she could be. But this was not an option, of course. She would be up at the crack of dawn, so the best she could hope for was a few hours of decent rest before duty called.

Happily, Greg was not lingering tonight. Sometimes when he returned from training, adrenaline coursing through him, he’d loiter downstairs, snacking, watching TV, catching up on emails. But already she could hear him locking the front door and switching off the hall lights, a sound that always reduced Martha’s anxiety levels, signalling the true beginning of the night. Grateful, Martha felt a pulse of love surge through her. Despite their occasional differences, she and Greg were a good team – kind, caring and always thoughtful towards one another. She knew they were lucky to have found each other, luckier still to have been blessed with a happy, healthy child. There was so much misery, disappointment and anger out there in the world – they were the fortunate ones.

Sleep was fast claiming Martha and it was with a lazy tug that she hauled over Greg’s side of the duvet, revealing a welcoming patch of pressed white sheet. How nice it would be to drift off in his arms. How nice to be at peace, if only for a few precious hours. Martha’s body felt heavy, her consciousness dimmed, barely registering the gentle closing of the bedroom door, then Greg’s measured tread towards the bed. But she felt the mattress sag as he climbed in beside her and she gently slid her bottom towards him, waiting for his bulk to envelop her. Did life get any better than this?

To her surprise, however, nothing happened. Martha was so nearly asleep now, lost to all-consuming fatigue, yet still she registered the lack of contact, the absence of Greg’s muscular body next to hers. Why was he holding off? What was he doing? And now through her groggy confusion, Martha realized something. The mattress was sagging more than usual tonight, an unexpectedly heavy weight pushing down on it, her body sliding inexorably towards her companion. And, even as confusion consumed her, Martha noticed something else – a smell. An unfamiliar aroma, musky and intense, like a man’s aftershave …

Martha’s eyes snapped open, her heart pounding. Panicking, she tried to turn, to cry out. But before she could so, a hand clamped down forcefully over her lips, stifling her scream.

A piercing shriek rent the air, then rubber bit tarmac and the bike sprang forwards, roaring away from the scene of the crime. Within seconds, the impounded boat was just a speck in Detective Inspector Helen Grace’s mirrors, her Kawasaki Ninja propelling her away from Southampton Docks. It had been a successful night, but now she wanted to be away.

It was a bitterly cold January night and fog shrouded Millbrook Road, as Helen powered along the dual carriageway. Within seconds, she found herself at the Teboura Way roundabout and, swinging right, she changed direction, doubling back on herself and heading fast towards the city centre through the suffocating mist. In one sense, these conditions were comforting – in the fog you could be anonymous, secretive, concealed. But in another way, they were alarming, as it was impossible to tell who might be lurking within the dank, cloying shroud.

Helen kept low over her handlebars, her eyes searching for – anticipating – danger. She made it to Winchester Road without incident and before long was bearing down on the heart of this complex, damaged city. Now a number of options opened up to her, an assortment of routes back to her flat, the selection of which seemed fraught with peril. Helen always chose at random, having only one rule – that she never used the same route on successive days. Perhaps she was being overcautious, but she was not prepared to take any chances – not when she had a death sentence hanging over her.

Helen was celebrated at Southampton Central for bringing her cases to a successful conclusion, but her last investigation had ended badly. Yes, she had brought a killing spree to an end, unravelling the mystery that lay behind a series of baffling murders, but the perpetrator had escaped, vowing to revenge himself on Helen by sending an anonymous killer her way at a moment of his choosing. It had been four months since Alex Blythe’s chilling threat, four months during which Helen had hardly slept.

Helen knew that she was running scared, jumping at shadows, but it was impossible not to be fearful when you considered how far Blythe’s reach extended. A psychiatrist and addiction counsellor, Blythe had compromising material on scores of local people – husbands, wives, mothers, fathers who had confessed all to him, believing that their sins, their obsessions, their addictions would remain confidential. Blythe had chosen to use this information against them, coercing his patients into killing for his pleasure and, though his reign of terror was at an end, there was one more murder he intended to execute.

Keeping alert for fellow bikers, for vehicles pulling alongside her, Helen swung suddenly across the traffic, nipping ahead of a dawdling car to dart down Bentham Street. Her journey home was always like this – fitful, erratic, improvised. If she couldn’t predict her route home, then hopefully neither could a potential assassin. It was exhausting, living one’s life in permanent expectation of violent death, but Helen could see no other way. For even if her logical self urged her not to see phantoms in the shadows, her animal side remained forever alert, regarding even the narcotics officers at tonight’s port raid with suspicion, anyone she couldn’t personally vouch for now a source of concern. Given Helen’s chequered past, the list of bona fide allies was very short, hence her constant state of alert.

She was now on Firth Street, bearing down on her flat. Part of her longed to be back there, within those familiar walls, but another part of her was tempted to keep going – to drive along the coastal road or even north to the M25, where she could weave in and out of the traffic, forever one step ahead of her destiny. It was foolish, but these days she never felt safer than when she was roaring along the open road. It was, she reasoned, harder to hit a moving target.

One day perhaps it would be over. Maybe the National Crime Agency or Interpol would get a fix on Blythe, finally bringing her persecutor to book. But in the meantime, her paranoia, her suspicion, continued to run rampant, her nightmare seemingly without end.

Martha kept her eyes shut, praying for her ordeal to be over.

Her attacker had ordered her to lie face down on the bed and Martha hadn’t dared resist, even when he stuffed a dirty rag in her mouth and wrenched her arms backwards, binding her wrists together. Seconds after this, she’d felt his fingers seek out hers and for a disorienting moment, she’d thought he was trying to hold her hand. But then she felt a sharp tug on her wedding band and realized the nature of his intentions. Her engagement ring soon followed, both yanked without ceremony from her protesting flesh, before her assailant relented, rising and moving away.

Momentarily, Martha was too shocked to react, but confusion and alarm now turned to anger. This was her house, her bedroom, those were her rings – treasured keepsakes that spoke of her commitment to Greg, but which also conjured up precious memories of their engagement in Hawaii and wedding in Beaulieu. How dare he snatch her rings away as if they were mere baubles, chunks of metal and stone to be sold for cold, hard cash. What kind of low-life was he? Even now, she could hear the intruder rifling through her jewellery box, helping himself to a lifetime of gifts and purchases, not to mention the heirlooms she’d inherited from her mother, before her untimely death.

Keep it together, Martha. Keep it together.

The words sprang to her mind, unbidden, but welcome. Yes, half of her wanted to scream, to yank at her ties, to thrash out her outrage, but her wiser half counselled caution, reminding her what was at stake. Images of Bailey suddenly filled her thoughts and Martha’s outrage immediately vanished, replaced instead with concern for her baby girl. As long as both she and her daughter were unharmed at the end of this awful attack, what did it matter if she lost a few valuables? She felt foolish now for caring about things which could be replaced, maybe even recovered. It was flesh and blood that counted.

She had to keep quiet and sit it out. To do as she was told, then wait, helpless but relieved, for Greg to come home. As she thought this, anger bullied its way into her thoughts – why wasn’t Greg here to protect them? – but she quickly shrugged off these fruitless accusations. This wasn’t his fault. The only person to blame here was the violent intruder now stalking her home.

Her attacker had finished ransacking the dresser and once more all was quiet. Martha didn’t dare look, hardly dared to breathe, waiting for the thief to leave the room and pad away down the corridor. She strained her ears to take in his departure, but to her alarm, he now headed back to the bed, climbing onto the mattress. Instinctively, Martha pulled her knees up, clamping them together. Terror mastered her – she felt breathless and dizzy, even as tears filled her eyes. Was his grim theft just the opening insult, the first part of a sickening violation of her life and happiness? Suddenly, Martha knew she had to move and she lurched sideways, attempting to throw herself off the bed. She had barely shifted her body, however, before a heavy hand clapped her on the back, forcing her down. Still Martha bucked, desperately trying to free herself, but her attacker’s hold was unyielding, the weight of his arm flattening her. Any moment now she expected to feel his coarse hands on her, tearing at her clothes, her skin, but to her surprise nothing happened. It was as if he was just sitting there, staring at her. She could feel his eyes boring into her, as they lay on the bed together like an odd couple …

And now suddenly, with total clarity, Martha knew exactly what was happening. Knew that the situation was far worse than she had initially imagined. This was the reckoning. What the events of the last two years had been building inexorably towards. Now Martha did open her eyes, craning around to see her attacker, determined to beg for her life, despite the awful, choking rag in her mouth. But once more she was pushed back down, her nemesis unwilling to face her.

Desperately, Martha’s eyes scanned the room, searching for some means of salvation. Her gaze was drawn to the mirror on the wardrobe door, which provided her with a partial view of her tormentor. He was swathed in shadow, sinister and indistinct, but even so she knew it was him, knew what he had come for. And now, as if in answer to this sickening realization, she noticed him move, raising something above his head. Fixing her eyes on the mirror, Martha tried to work out what it was, peering through the near darkness, as her heart pulsed with terror. And now, finally, she saw it – the blade of a hatchet catching the light sneaking in from the landing.

Martha froze, then with a sudden burst of energy, she screamed, screamed for all she was worth, even as the damp cloth slid down her windpipe. It was painful, muffled and ultimately fruitless – before her muted scream had ended, her attacker struck, bringing the axe down hard on the back of her head.

Nothing stirred, nothing moved. Outside, the unforgiving wind could be heard, rattling the windows and shaking the letterboxes. But inside, the house was quiet as the grave.

Turning the lights off, Detective Sergeant Charlie Brooks headed upstairs, taking care to avoid the seventh step which always protested loudly, keen not to disturb her slumbering children. Jessica and Orla were a handful at the best of times, but had been particularly trying tonight, bickering, crying, answering back, leaving Charlie utterly exhausted by the time they finally went to sleep. She’d been supposed to read with Jessica tonight, the elder of her two, but couldn’t face it, instead adding a fictitious entry to her reading record and opting for a glass of wine instead. The crisp Sauvignon Blanc had been refreshing, but hadn’t dispelled the knot of tension in her stomach. It would take more than alcohol to do that.

Cresting the stairs, Charlie slid across the landing into the master bedroom. Her hand moved instinctively towards the light switch, but then she pulled it back. She didn’t want its harsh glare tonight, illuminating the neat, empty bed, so opted instead for the comfort of darkness. Increasingly Charlie preferred it this way, often getting undressed in the gloom, preferring not to draw attention to her post-baby figure, which had once been trim and lithe, but now felt lumpen and unattractive. At first, she’d done this to conceal her form from long-term partner Steve, but now she did it as much for herself, though this scarcely made her feel any better.

Sipping her wine, Charlie sat down on the bed, pulling her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through her recent calls, then, after a moment’s hesitation pressed CALL. Immediately she felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She knew she was being silly, a little crazy even, but she wanted to talk to him, to be reassured by his smooth, gentle voice. But with dull predictability, voicemail clicked in.

‘Hi, this is Steve. Leave a message!’

Charlie hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed. Another night spent alone, another night wondering where he was. Every time she asked, he blamed work, saying he’d been kept late at the body shop, but where was all this work coming from, this sudden flurry of vehicle repairs? What was so pressing that he had to spend night after night away from home? It made her angry, it made her resentful. But more than that it made her scared. It was their anniversary soon – an event Steve normally made a big deal of – but this year he’d hardly said a word about it. It was as if he was no longer interested, as if he no longer cared.

Rising, Charlie crossed to the window, tugging the curtains aside. The wind had dropped now and the darkened street was lifeless and cold, as if frozen in time. She longed for some activity to distract her – a couple snuggling as they hurried along, a dog walker braving the elements, even Steve scurrying back home – but there was nothing, no movement at all. Charlie felt a wave of emotion rise within her, distress cloaked in panic, and she tried to clamp it back down. She must not be paranoid, not let her anxiety run away with her. Instead, she should gather herself, do something productive – there was plenty of casework to catch up on and numerous domestic duties outstanding – yet despite her best intentions, she found she couldn’t move. She was gripped by insecurity, by fear, and though she knew she was torturing herself, she remained stock-still, staring out into the night, lost in the darkness.

He paused on the threshold, looking back into the room. Martha White’s lifeless body lay on the bed, hidden in the gloom. From a distance, you’d think she was slumbering, dead to the world. But the blood spatters on the wall, which were now creeping their way earthwards, staining the wallpaper an obscene crimson, gave the lie to that fantasy.

A woman’s cardigan hung on a chair by the door and he paused now, wiping the axe blade on the fabric, watching with fascination as the wool sucked up the viscous liquid. Satisfied that the blade was clean, he turned and moved away down the corridor. The carpet was rich and yielding, the sound of his tread consumed by the thick pile, yet to him each step sounded like a hammer blow, alerting the world to his crime. His brain was pulsing, his heart pounding. Having done the deed, he now just wanted to get the hell out.

He hurried towards the staircase, but even as he did so an ear-splitting cry rang out. It was so sudden, so unexpected that he jumped out of his skin, before spinning to face his accuser. But there was no one in the corridor, no one near the scene of his crime and to his surprise, he now realized that the noise was coming from the bedroom across the landing. His instant reaction was to turn and run, but so piercing was the noise that instead he pushed open the door and hurried inside, determined to confront his accuser.

As he did so, he realized how addled his thinking had become. In the gentle light of a rotating mobile, a baby girl was illuminated, hollering for all she was worth. Crossing quickly to the cot, the intruder stared down at the unhappy infant. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but his sudden appearance only distressed her further, the baby’s face screwing up in alarm. The sheer force of her crying, the savage volume of her cries took him aback. Is it possible she knew? That somehow she’d sensed her mother’s death and was determined to raise the alarm, trumpeting her outrage in the hope that good folk would now descend on her killer? Surely there could be no other explanation for the superhuman decibels that she dragged from her tiny lungs? Was she accusing him? Shaming him?

He had to make her stop. Even putting aside his paranoia, it was possible her persistent crying would alert passersby or excite the interest of neighbours. Even as he thought this, he heard a noise outside. Was it someone opening the garden gate? Coming to investigate? Turning to face the infant, he knew she had to be silenced, that he could not make his escape with this persistent alarm ringing out. Gripping the handle of the hatchet, he stared at the baby girl, willing her to cease crying, but her little face was puce with distress, beyond consolation. There would be no stopping her … unless he stopped her.

This had never been his intention, she was the innocent in all this, but suddenly he felt as if he had no choice, as if life, fate, karma was driving him towards this grievous act. Slowly, he raised the axe, willing himself to be bold, to screw down his courage. Looking away from the scrunched-up face, he counted down from three.

Three, two, one …

Letting out a curse, he brought the axe down.

But as he did so, he caught himself, stopping the blade in mid-air. Something had captured his attention. And now, in spite of himself, he let out a laugh, a long belly laugh. It was so obvious, so bloody obvious – why hadn’t he thought of it before? Lying next to the baby’s sticky mouth, half concealed under her chubby cheek, was a dummy. A bright yellow dummy. This was what she’d been craving, its absence the cause of her sudden distress.

Lowering the axe, he picked up the dummy, placing it gently in her mouth. Immediately, the howling ceased, the baby sucking contentedly on the rubber teat. Even more amazingly, within seconds, the little girl was asleep, her distress forgotten. Peace reigned, the silence broken only by the gentle music of the spinning mobile.

Shocked, but relieved, the intruder turned on his heel and hurried out of the room, leaving the unwitting baby girl to her slumber.

Helen moved fast up the silent stairwell, her gaze searching the dark corners, the gloomy doorways. But the home straight presented no dangers tonight – she was quite alone.

Mounting the top-floor landing, Helen hurried to her front door. Swiftly, she slid a key into the upper deadlock, then the lower one, before moving on to the latch key. Moments later, she was inside, the steel door bolted and secured behind her. Routine now kicked in and, baton drawn, she moved cautiously from room to room, satisfying herself that no intruders lay in wait. Helen was exhausted, out on her feet, and part of her was tempted to throw herself down on the bed and pass out, but fear drove her on. Leaving the bedroom, she returned to the kitchen, snapping open her laptop to scroll through the footage from her security cameras. The door cam revealed little, save for her neighbour’s excursion to Tesco Metro and the in-flat cameras less still. Her home was secure.

‘The temperature will be an icy three degrees tonight and the wind chill factor will make it feel considerably colder …’

Helen liked to have the radio on in the evenings, a voice to penetrate the all-consuming quiet of her flat, and as the weather report continued, she crossed to the living room, throwing herself down on the sofa. Tugging off her boots and socks, she let her head fall back onto the soft fabric, closing her eyes. Images of the night’s work filled her thoughts – the protesting ship’s captain and crew, the aggressive search team, a huge haul of cocaine found in a secret compartment under the transom – but she pushed them away. She needed to escape from her duties, her daily life, to embrace something outside of herself, something mundane, ordinary and safe.

‘So, if you are heading out tomorrow, I’d dig out a hat and gloves and if you’ve got a nice woolly scarf, I’d throw that on too …’

The gentle Hampshire lilt of the reporter’s voice added to the cosiness of this image, and Helen longed to lose herself in fantasies of winter fun, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest, intent on playing its usual grim game of word association. Mention of the scarf made Helen think of necks and suddenly her thoughts were drawn to Alex Blythe, standing in her flat, in her bedroom, slowly ringing the life out of his poor pet. Blythe had left his spaniel on her bed as a parting gift, even as he called Helen to make his final, awful threat. The import of his chilling message was bad enough, but the knowledge that he had delivered it whilst standing in her home struck deep. He had been here, sitting on her bed, calm and collected, amused by his omnipotence.

Blythe hadn’t been seen since – not a single sighting in over five months – but his presence lingered. Helen had reinforced the flat’s defences, installed top of the range security equipment, but this hadn’t made her feel any better. A vendetta had been declared, one Helen felt sure the psychiatrist would make good on, in person or by proxy. Which is why even when she was home at night, safely locked away from a dark, dangerous world, Helen couldn’t rest. Isolated, lonely, she was never truly alone these days, the spectre of Alex Blythe forever on her shoulder.

He slid the key into the lock and turned it gently. Sighing softly, the door relented and he hurried inside, keen to be out of the cold. His running gear was expensive and efficient, trapping the heat generated by his exercise, but the wind was cold tonight, its bite sharp.

Closing the door behind him, Greg White slipped off his trainers. They were still damp and he knew that he would get it in the neck if he left wet footprints all over the hall floor. Removing his clinging socks, he hung them on the nearest radiator, then padded into the kitchen. The lights were off and he left them like that, keen not to disturb his slumbering family. Their newly fitted kitchen was still visible, however, the moonlight streaming in through the roof lights, illuminating quartz, steel and oak. Greg knew it was pathetic to covet inanimate objects, but the sight of their kitchen, which had been designed to wow visitors, never failed to thrill him.

Why not, mate? You’ve earned it, he thought to himself happily, crossing to the fridge and pulling the door open.

A chilled bottle of water awaited inside and he snatched it up, pouring himself a large glass. One gulp, two, three, he sucked the icy liquid in until he could hold his breath no more, lowering the glass and drinking in the air instead. Man, he felt better than ever tonight – energized, adrenalized, alive. Why did he not do this more often? It was such a refreshing alternative to the rigors of work and the endless demands of their delightful but demanding baby girl. Replacing the bottle in the fridge, Greg slid across the tiled floor, keen to be upstairs. Martha had not been sleeping well, had complained as much this morning, and the sooner he was in bed the better. He was tempted to head to the very top of the house, to use the guest room, but he knew Martha wouldn’t stand for this. However tired they were, however ground down by parenthood, there was no question of separate beds. Martha’s parents’ fractured marriage made her very sensitive on that point.

Mounting the stairs, Greg hurried towards the bedroom, pausing only to peek into Bailey’s bedroom. To his relief, she was sound asleep, sucking contentedly on her dummy. Greg knew people had differing views on the use of pacifiers, but God, how it had improved their lives. Whoever had invented them deserved a knighthood, along with the clever people who thought up swaddling blankets and Calpol.

Retreating, he moved on, padding as quietly as he could to the bedroom. He hesitated on the threshold, intrigued to see if Martha was asleep or not. Occasionally she conked out, but if she hadn’t managed to, she was often to be found tossing and turning in the darkness, occasionally offering a terse comment about his late return. Happily, all seemed quiet within, the still form of Martha just visible in the gloom, so teasing the handle down, he crept inside, closing the door gently behind him.

DC Japhet Wilson hopped from foot to foot, casting accusing glances at the Whites’ front door, now decorated with yellow-and-black police tape. He was only a week into his new job at Southampton Central and, though he’d known he’d have to confront some challenging situations, he hadn’t been expecting this.

The police operator had fielded the call just before midnight. A panic-stricken husband begging for help, trying to put into words the scene of horror he had just discovered.

‘My wife … she’s … she’s been attacked … There’s blood everywhere, oh my God … Come quickly. Please just come …’

Japhet was glad he’d never manned the phones during his career – how did these people remain calm, collected and dispassionate when confronted by such distress? – but better that perhaps than having to deal with the grim reality. Uniform had secured the house in St Denys by the time he arrived, giving him fair warning of what he was about to discover, but still the sight of that poor woman took his breath away.

Nauseous, Japhet tugged a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He was still the senior officer on site, had been for hours, witnessing the sickly grey dawn break over this blighted house, but he could probably get away with a crafty smoke before the boss arrived. Yet, as he put the cigarette to his lips, bile suddenly rose in his throat. Thinking better of it, he replaced the cigarette in its packet. He’d enjoy one later, when he felt normal again. Whenever that would be.

He was due to finish his shift soon, had said he’d call his mother when he was done, but that would have to wait. No one would be clocking off today. Even when he did finally talk to her, what news would he send back to Walthamstow? There was no question of giving her the full details of this incident – she would be sick with worry, convinced Southampton was a hotbed of murder and depravity – but she’d know that he was distressed, so he’d have to give her something. The question was what.

He was still mulling on this when he heard a motorbike screech to a halt. Without looking up, he instinctively straightened, turning to face DI Grace. She was the reason he’d joined the Major Incident Team, impressed by her courage, leadership and dynamism. Even now she was tugging off her helmet and bearing down on him, eager for news.

‘What have we got?’ she asked, getting straight to the point.

‘Female Caucasian, thirty-two years old. Martha White, wife of Greg White and mother to a six-month-old, Bailey.’

Helen Grace said nothing, grim-faced.

‘We believe she was killed sometime after 7 p.m. last night. The husband found her just before midnight.’

‘What about the child?’

‘She’s fine, though we believe she was in the house when the incident took place.’

‘Jesus Christ …’

Wilson nodded; that was exactly how he’d reacted when told of the baby’s narrow escape.

‘Who’s had access so far?’

‘Just uniform. They’ve established a common approach path, taped off the significant areas. Oh, and Jim Grieves is in there. He’s in the bedroom now.’

Nodding, Grace turned to leave, then paused, turning back to her latest recruit.

‘Do you want to come with me? You might learn something.’

‘Better stay here, ma’am. We’ve already had a few rubberneckers. Don’t want them contaminating the scene …’

A ghost of a smile seemed to pass across Grace’s face, before she replied:

?