Some Particular Evil

Book 1: The Anglian Detective Agency Series

by Vera Morris

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

You can run but you can't hide . . .

The first instalment in Vera Morris's much-loved Anglian Detective Agency Series.

Laurel Bowman has started a new life as a teacher on the isolated Suffolk coast while she tries to get over the murder of her sister. But it seems she cannot escape from death.

When the headmaster's wife is murdered, the detective in charge, idiosyncratic DI Frank Diamond, soon has a list of suspects. He is no stranger to Laurel, but despite their troubled past, together they start to unravel the truth.

Then the murderer strikes again and Laurel must fight, not just for justice, but for her life.

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: October 21, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 317

Sample

1

Saturday, March 1, 1969

The mortuary was as cold as a butcher’s fridge and smelt of Dettol and fear. Laurel Bowman stood rigid between two policemen she’d never met before.

‘Are you ready, Miss Bowman?’ the detective inspector asked.

The sheet undulated over the body, showing curves of breasts, a slight swelling of the belly and the lines of legs. The police were mistaken. Laurel stared at it and inhaled deeply. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

The attendant’s gloved hand gripped the edge of the material. He slowly peeled it back.

‘Is this your sister, Angela Bowman?’

The face was a wax imitation, a macabre joke. The harsh strip-light played on hair that was too dark, combed back from the forehead. Angela’s red hair curled round her face. These features were hard, not soft and beautiful, and the skin had a greenish glow, freckles standing out across the nose and cheeks like the first signs of decay.

Pain and loss gripped her heart and ripped into her guts. She swayed and the detective sergeant moved closer, holding her arm as though afraid she’d collapse.

‘Is this your sister, Angela Bowman?’ the inspector asked again.

Laurel nodded, gulping back the bile rising in her throat.

The sergeant tightened his grip as she struggled to breathe. Then, as she straightened her body and raised her head, he relaxed his hold.

‘You must say if it is her, or not.’ The inspector’s voice was as cold and unfeeling as the white-tiled room.

‘Yes, it’s Angela.’

She turned and looked at the inspector. He wore a loose, black gabardine raincoat, too large for his frame, sweeping past his knees. Iron-grey hair was painted over his scalp and the hooded eyes showed no warmth or sympathy.

She glanced at the sergeant who’d supported her. His thickly lashed green eyes, level with hers, stared back, unblinking.

‘Are you in charge of this … case?’ she asked the inspector.

‘I am. Sergeant Diamond is also on the team.’ He gave a cursory nod towards him.

She looked at her dead sister. She’d lost her. She’d never again see her smile, never hear her laughter, and never share their memories. Her breathing deepened, her hands curling into fists. ‘How did she die? Who did this?’

The inspector pushed his chin forward. ‘The post-mortem will establish the cause of death and no doubt our investigation –’

The man sounded like an actor from a third-rate TV crime series. Before they could stop her she stepped forward and pulled the sheet from Angela’s body. Up close she could see eyeballs pushed against the lids, lips twisted as though she was trying to tell her what had happened. Purple bruises sullied the cream flesh of her long neck and small breasts. She reached out and pressed her fingers against Angela’s cheek – it was cold. Cold and clammy like Plasticine. Laurel’s body shook, her nostrils widened and she raised her fists. Who’d done this to her?

The sergeant pulled her back and the mortuary attendant, his eyes inflated like a frog’s, scrambled to pull the sheet from her hands and cover her sister’s body.

‘This is not helpful, Miss Bowman. Please try to control yourself.’ The inspector spoke as though she were a naughty schoolgirl who’d had a temper tantrum. Laurel felt like socking him on the jaw.

Sergeant Diamond grasped her shoulders and moved her away from the table. ‘We’ll get him. Whoever murdered your sister we’ll find him and bring him to justice.’ His low voice was angry. With the killer or the inspector? She couldn’t tell.

Justice – there could never be enough justice. Even if he died a thousand times, or rotted for a thousand years in gaol, it would never be enough.

She turned again to the inspector. ‘Who found her?’

Lines of irritation creased his forehead. ‘I can’t reveal details at this point in the investigation, Miss Bowman. I think it would be better for you to return home to be with your parents. Sergeant Diamond, will you drive Miss Bowman?’

‘My pleasure, s … i … r.’

She looked from one man to the other, recognising undeniable insolence: she’d seen and heard it often enough in her job.

The inspector’s face flushed maroon. ‘I shall be at your house in about an hour, Miss Bowman. I need to ask you and your parents some questions about your sister’s life.’

They would be waiting for her. She would see hope die in their eyes as she broke the news. They would be devastated. ‘Now? Today? I don’t think my parents will be capable of talking about Angela just yet.’

Sergeant Diamond touched her arm. ‘I know it’ll be hard, but the sooner we know more about Angela’s life the sooner we’ll be able to find her killer.’

‘Sergeant Diamond, you are not to question the family. That’s an order. I will do that when I arrive. Do you understand?’

Diamond’s nostrils flared. ‘I understand completely.’

No love lost between these two. Whatever was between them they’d better put a lid on it if they were going to find Angela’s murderer.

Sergeant Diamond was silent as they drove through the suburbs of Ipswich.

‘I presume this is your car?’

He nodded.

‘What is it? A Chevrolet?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Correct. ’62 Chevy Corvair. Bit of a rust bucket, but I’m getting a new one soon.’

‘Another American?’

‘I expect so.’

The car suited him: his slim body, long hair and leather jacket said rock star rather than policeman. No wonder he and the inspector hadn’t jelled. ‘Will you help me when I get home? I don’t know how I’m going to tell them.’

He glanced at her. ‘Of course I will. Would you like me to break it to them?’

She hesitated. Knowing he’d be there if she couldn’t frame the words was a comfort. ‘I need to say it. But if I need help …’

He nodded, changing down a gear before a sharp bend. ‘Angela didn’t look like you. I wouldn’t have guessed you were sisters.’

Beautiful Angela: small, delicate, with Titian hair; whereas she was a blonde, five foot eleven, with Amazonian shoulders. It wasn’t only their physical differences, they had different personalities: she’d known what she wanted to do from the moment she’d won her first race at primary school, whereas Angela had drifted from job to job, and boyfriend to boyfriend, unsure of herself.

‘No, you wouldn’t know we’re sisters … were sisters.’

‘How did you get on?’ He looked relaxed, at home behind the steering wheel.

‘I thought the inspector told you not to question us?’

The eyebrow rose again. ‘We’re having a friendly chat, that’s all.’

‘She was my little sister. I loved her. I love her.’ She screwed her eyes tight, trying to stop the tears. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

‘That’s what I like, a good trumpeting into a sheet, none of this delicately wiping the nose with a lace handkerchief.’

Laurel said nothing. He was doing his best to lighten this appalling situation.

‘A fisherman found her early this morning. His boat is beached just north of Felixstowe pier. He always walks under it first thing to see if anything’s been thrown up by the tide. That’s where he found her. By the way, try to look surprised if the inspector tells you.’

‘Thank you.’ At least there was one policeman she could relate to. ‘Was she in the sea?’

‘No, she was above high water mark.’

She wanted to know more. Was she naked? Had she been raped? But she couldn’t get the words out. Thoughts of Angela suffering, terrified and fighting for her life were too awful. Over the past few months she hadn’t paid her enough attention, hadn’t talked with her the way they used to – and now it was too late. She twisted her engagement ring round her finger until it hurt. She’d been so tied up in her own life – would that guilt ever leave her?

‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ she asked, conscious of her faltering voice.

‘No, fresh air will be good for both of us – plenty of fresh air today.’

He was right. A cold wind rattled through the half-opened window, making her eyes water and lifting the sergeant’s dark curls so they waved Medusa-like about his head. It was a strong east wind bringing a tang of salt from the North Sea, blowing rain clouds west to shed their load on higher parts. No sign of spring in the hedgerows: the buds tight on the oaks and hawthorn. They looked as lifeless as the dead elms. They’d never leaf again.

Angela was dead. It was finally sinking in. She’d thought the police had made a terrible mistake, but that hope had shrivelled and died.

Although it was only a few hours since the police, a man and woman, had come to the family home, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

It was seven in the morning, her mum was making tea. Angela wasn’t up. ‘Take Angie a cup, dear,’ Mum said to Laurel. Then there were loud knocks on the front door.

They told them a woman’s body had been found and the contents of a nearby handbag suggested it might be her sister. She refused to believe it could be Angela. She’d rushed upstairs to her sister’s bedroom. The eiderdown was smooth, her pillow plump. Where was she?

She slowly walked down the stairs. Mum saw her face and collapsed into an armchair. Dad rushed to Mum’s side. He turned and looked at Laurel. She shook her head. His face crumpled. The WPC went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and held it to Mum’s lips.

‘Someone must come to Ipswich to see if the body we found is your sister,’ the PC said.

‘I’ll go,’ Laurel said.

She turned back from the car’s side window and faced the road. How was she going to break the news to them?

‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked as they turned onto the A45.

‘I teach. I’m head of a PE department in a girls’ grammar school.’

‘I bet they don’t mess with you.’ Laughter lines crinkled the corners of his eyes.

‘The pupils or the staff?’

‘Both; and throw in the governors and parents for good measure.’

She couldn’t help smiling, though it seemed wrong, and she blessed him for trying to take her mind off Angela. ‘Am I that frightening?’

‘Terrifying.’

As they came off the A45 into Felixstowe she started to give him instructions. On High Road West they passed the Conservative club and the primary school. She swallowed hard, her guts twisting into knots. From High Road East they turned into Rosemary Avenue. She wanted to grip his arm and make him turn the car round. He turned the corner into Colneis Road and pulled up in front of her house. There was someone standing behind the net curtains of the window. A shadow moved towards the front door.

He turned off the ignition and faced her. ‘Ready? You can do it. I’ll be there.’

She knew she’d have to be as hard as granite to get through the next few hours, days, weeks, and possibly months. She’d have to be a rock for her parents. It was hell to lose a sister, but to lose a child? She couldn’t imagine it. They must stand together and do everything they could to help the police find out who’d done this. That’s all she cared about. Whoever he was he must pay. She wanted to see him in the dock, convicted and sent down for life.

2

Eighteen Months Later

Monday, September 7, 1970

Laurel braked when she saw the sign.

Blackfriars School

Dunwich

Suffolk

Headmaster Mr P M Nicholson BA (Hons) MEd

She turned the Ford Cortina GT into a gravelled drive which looped in front of a Georgian mansion. There were two cars in the car park: a Morris Traveller with moss growing round the wooden frames of the rear windows, and an electric-blue American car – a Ford Mustang? Surely that wasn’t the headmaster’s car?

She’d arrived – her new home, a new career. She peeled off her driving gloves and tossed them onto the passenger seat. Had she done the right thing? As soon as she’d accepted the post of senior mistress she’d started to have doubts. Was this the kind of school she wanted to teach in? A small, private school miles from anywhere? But she’d been desperate to get away from Felixstowe – the last eighteen months had been sheer hell.

She loved her parents but their grief was killing her She often found Mum crying in Angela’s bedroom, had to prise crumpled sheets from her hands, and rock her in her arms until her sobs quietened. It was making her ill listening to her parents’ stilted conversation, or even worse face their silences and blank eyes as they asked themselves the perpetual questions to which they had no answers. Why did it have to happen to Angela? How much did she suffer? Who killed her? She could give them the answer to one of these questions. But she didn’t dare.

She’d had to get away from the stalled investigation and especially Sergeant Diamond. When his eyes locked with hers she was sure he knew what had happened, what she’d done. In August she went on holiday, staying with a friend in Edinburgh, taking in the British Commonwealth Games. When she got back Mum told her he’d been promoted and moved to another case. She was relieved, although in some ways she would miss him. He’d never stopped trying to find Angela’s murderer. If she’d known he would move away perhaps she wouldn’t have taken the job, but it was too late; she’d committed herself to Blackfriars.

She was glad to be away, but was she glad to be here? Laurel opened her door. She couldn’t see anyone. She smiled, imagining boys and girls milling round, boisterous, shouting, laughing – this place would change next week when the pupils came back. Schools without people were false, empty shells; without the sights and sounds of children they were nothing. She’d have several new challenges: teaching boys, living day and night in a school and being part of the senior management. She was sure all that would help her to regain her life.

The mizzle of rain, which started as she left Felixstowe, had stopped, leaving a sea-fret swirling round the house. Glimpses of the ruined walls of Blackfriars Priory and the Leper Hospital, nearer to the cliffs than the school, came in and out of focus.

She swung her legs from the car and paused. Distant waves were thudding against the shingle beach. How long before the ruins tumbled from the cliff’s edge to join the gravestones and other shattered remains of medieval Dunwich on the sea’s bed? Autumn and winter storms would rip at the sandy cliffs, eating into the land and spewing earth, trees and masonry onto the beach forty feet below, mixing with flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea.

She smoothed the skirt of her suit and patted the back of her head to make sure the French pleat was still intact. She hoped she looked like a senior mistress – she didn’t feel like one. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the main entrance and pushed open the door.

It was a spacious hall, with mahogany-panelled walls and floorboards. Opposite the front door a wide, shallow staircase led to a balconied corridor; at the top of the stairs was a door signed Headmaster. Left of the stairs was a cosy group of coffee table and three easy chairs; behind them cabinets displayed silver trophies. She’d been pleased at her interview to find the school still believed in sports days and competition.

To the right of the stairs was an office. Through the glass window Miss Piff, the school secretary, was bent over a typewriter, fingers a blur. Laurel knocked on the window. Miss Piff’s head shot up, grey curls bobbing, her eyes widening behind blue-framed glasses. She stood up and opened the office door.

‘Miss Bowman. Good journey, I hope?’ With ram-rod back she held out her hand, smiling, apple-red cheeks high in her round face. Her warm voice matched her firm handshake.

‘The A12 was busy, but I made good time.’

‘I do hope you’ll be happy at Blackfriars. We were all impressed when you came for the interview. I’m so glad you accepted the post, I was afraid you’d find us too quiet after teaching in a large school. Come into the office.’ She glanced at her wrist watch. ‘It’s nearly sixteen hundred hours: tea time. Would you like a cup?’ She waved Laurel in.

Laurel smiled as she looked down on Miss Piff, all five foot two of her, dressed in a tweed skirt and beige twin set. ‘That would be lovely.’

Miss Piff pointed to a chair in front of her desk and busied herself with teapot and kettle. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bowman.’

‘Please call me Laurel.’ The office was well organised: telephone books, pencils, reams of paper arranged in regimented rows.

Miss Piff smiled. ‘Are you sure? Perhaps when we’re by ourselves; doesn’t do to let standards drop. My name’s Dorothy, by the way.’ The red flush of her cheeks spread to the rest of her face.

‘Thank you, Dorothy. I’ve always found school secretaries to be helpful, and the fount of all wisdom and knowledge.’ She’d learnt it paid to have the school secretary on your side.

‘I’d offer you a cigarette but I make it a point not to smoke in school, even in the holidays.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t smoke.’

Miss Piff nodded as though she approved. ‘Of course, you’re quite an athlete I hear – wouldn’t suit your lifestyle. I wish I could stop, but I started during the war and I haven’t been able to quit.’ She didn’t look too sad about it. Miss Piff continued to beam. ‘I do like your suit, Miss … er, Laurel. It brings out the blue of your eyes.’ She paused. ‘Some of the staff wondered why you hadn’t been snatched up by some handsome man. I better warn you some of the male members are fancying their chances – well, at least one. I told him you probably already have a fiancé.’ She waited expectantly, her eyes shining behind her spectacles.

Laurel fingered the indentation where her engagement ring used to be and inwardly sighed. ‘I’m afraid my height and build puts most men off. I’m more interested in my career than being a housewife. I’m thirty, so I think I’ll be staying on the shelf.’ Her fiancé Simon couldn’t take the gossip about Angela’s morals; his family were horrified at the scandal of her murder.

Miss Piff nodded her head. ‘Very wise. I never married, although … I live with my sister, Emily, in Dunwich village. A good relationship with a sister or brother can be a rich experience. You must come to tea and meet her.’

‘That would be lovely, Dorothy.’

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

Laurel was prepared for this question. ‘No. I’m an only child.’

Miss Piff moued disappointment. ‘What a shame.’ She passed her a cup of tea. ‘The headmaster has asked to see you as soon as you arrive but he’s busy at the moment: the inspector’s with him.’

A school inspector? Did private schools have inspections? ‘Is there going to be an inspection soon? There wasn’t any mention of it at the interview.’ Laurel drank the tea.

Miss Piff laughed. ‘No, no. It’s the detective inspector who’s with him. He’s taken over the case.’

She wanted to spit the tea out. Nearly choking, she swallowed and licked her lips; the cup rattled on the saucer as she put it down. ‘I don’t understand. The case? What are you talking about?’

Miss Piff’s mouth formed an O and raised eyebrows pleated her forehead. ‘The governors did tell you about Mr Nicholson’s wife?’

The muscles tightened in her abdomen. ‘We were told before we had our interviews Mrs Nicholson had suddenly died, Mr Nicholson was on compassionate leave, and we could withdraw from the interviews if it was impossible to accept the post without first meeting the headmaster. One candidate did withdraw.’

Miss Piff nodded. ‘I remember; I didn’t like the cut of her jib. She wore high leather boots and I imagined her with a whip in her hand. I was glad when she went.’

Laurel bit her lip, wanting to smile. But why were the police involved? ‘I presumed Mrs Nicholson had an accident or a sudden illness.’

Miss Piff leant forward over her desk, the lines on her forehead deepening. ‘Miss Bowman, the governors should have told you. Mrs Nicholson was murdered – raped …’ her voice lowered, ‘… and strangled. They haven’t found her killer. Surely you read about it in the papers? It was on the television.’

Laurel twisted her fingers together until the bones hurt. Not again. ‘I only read the sport pages, as for television …’ Since Angela’s murder she’d avoided news bulletins; she didn’t want to see details of lurid murder cases.

‘Very wise – nothing but doom and gloom in the newspapers at the moment. Those poor passengers hijacked by Palestinian guerrillas! Four aircraft at once. What is the world coming to?’ She paused. ‘Miss Bowman … Laurel, are you all right?’

Laurel dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. What was she talking about? Thoughts were shooting round her brain like vapour trails in an aerial dogfight. This couldn’t be happening – another murder. ‘I’ll be fine in a moment.’ She hesitated; there was genuine concern in Miss Piff’s eyes. Should she tell her about Angela? No. She wouldn’t tell anyone. ‘I’m all right now. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my reaction to anybody.’

Miss Piff nodded, glasses slipping down her nose. ‘Of course not, especially the headmaster, least of all him. A school secretary learns to be discreet.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Shall I ring Mr Nicholson and let him know you’re here, or do you want to wait a while?’ she asked, tilting her head.

Laurel smoothed her hands over her skirt, trying to gain control. ‘No, please ring him. Poor man. How is he coping?’

Miss Piff looked at her, seemed satisfied and picked up the phone. ‘He’s doing his best. Susan, Mrs Nicholson, was a … very attractive woman … to look at. She had lovely Titian hair, but she was a small person, not like you, Laurel. She didn’t stand a chance.’

3

Detective Inspector Frank Diamond – Francis to his Irish mother and Francis Xavier if he was in trouble with her – folded one leg over the other and slouched back in the armchair Philip Nicholson had indicated he should sit in.

The headmaster had a height advantage, being about six foot three to his five eleven, and seated in an upright chair behind his desk, looked down on him. Frank wasn’t worried by the power play, if that’s what it was.

‘Inspector Diamond, is this interview needed? You have my statements on record; there isn’t anything new I can tell you.’ He paused, rubbing his forehead. ‘This is reopening wounds that have hardly healed,’ he said in a rich baritone.

Frank imagined him on the assembly platform, mesmerising the pupils with his presence and sonorous voice. He had to admit Mr Nicholson was a good-looking, if boringly dressed, man. He reminded Frank of one of the film stars his mother was keen on, one of a long list. What was his name? Tall, dark-haired guy with chiselled features and quizzical eyebrows: Gregory Peck? The case notes he’d studied gave Nicholson’s age as forty-three. He was educated at a minor public school, followed by Durham University where he’d read history, then rapid promotion teaching in boys’ public schools. He’d been appointed headmaster of Blackfriars five years ago.

‘Mr Nicholson, as you know, the previous inspector is ill and I’ve taken over the case with Detective Sergeant Elderkin, whom I believe you’ve met.’ He nodded his head towards a large, middle-aged man wearing a navy suit, white shirt and red tie – another snappy dresser. He was seated at the rectangular conference table on the right of the office. He looked uncomfortable, his bulk squeezed into a green leather armchair, his notebook and pencil ready. ‘I’ve studied the case notes, but I need to talk to everyone who gave statements.’

Philip Nicholson sighed. ‘Yes, of course. I understand. I’d want to do the same. Have you talked with the previous inspector … Inspector Bushell?’

Frank nodded, running his hand over his chin and deciding the electric razor his mother had given him as a promotion present, wasn’t up to the job. ‘I have.’

‘What was his opinion? It must have been a stranger – a maniac. Let’s hope you catch him soon. It’s six months since …’

‘The inspector’s opinion matches yours.’ Frank glanced round the office, taking in the uncluttered desk, the children’s art work on the wall behind Elderkin, and a safe to the left of Nicholson. Sea air came in through a half-opened mullioned window, but the room smelt stale.

‘I’d like to go through your movements from Tuesday 7th to Thursday 9th of April.’ Nicholson stared at him.

Unusual eyes, bright blue, the irises circled in black. His alibi looked solid, but he needed to check. He could tell from Nicholson’s shocked expression when they’d first met he wasn’t impressed by his appearance. He knew his former colleagues at Ipswich called him Danger Man or Donovan behind his back, commenting on either his way of working, or his appearance, or both.

Nicholson sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘On Tuesday I went to Colchester for a few days to stay with my mother –’

‘Why didn’t your wife go with you?’

‘She wanted some time to herself. We had a busy term ahead of us; she decided she’d get the house up to scratch.’

Frank wondered how he’d react to the multiple-questions and no-need-to-answer technique. ‘Susan, is it OK if I call her Susan?’ Nicholson nodded. ‘Was Susan keen on housework? Wouldn’t she have liked to have the chance of doing some shopping in Colchester? You’re isolated here. How did she get on with your mother? Did your mother like Susan?’

Nicholson licked his lips and remained silent.

‘Don’t bother answering; we’ll talk about Susan in depth some other time. I need to know what made Susan tick.’ He glanced at Elderkin, who was glowering and making crossing-outs on his pad. ‘What mood was Susan in when you left?’

Nicholson folded his arms across his chest. ‘Mood? She was perfectly happy, said she’d do some walking. She was looking forward to a few peaceful days before the summer term started.’

‘What time did you leave on Tuesday?’

‘About ten, I was in time for lunch with Mother.’

‘That was the last time you saw Susan?’

Nicholson unfolded his arms, his hands clenching on the edge of his desk. ‘I last saw her in the mortuary.’ He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders heaving.

He’d expect this kind of reaction shortly after a death – not six months later. ‘Did you phone her when you were in Colchester?’

He raised his head, his face crumpled with pain. ‘She phoned me on Tuesday evening.’

‘What time? Where’s the telephone in your mother’s house?’

He looked puzzled. ‘In the hall. She rang just before dinner: a quarter to seven.’

‘Did your mother talk to her?’

‘No. She was busy in the kitchen.’

A raucous gull wheeled past the window. Nicholson flinched. He was definitely on edge. ‘Did she phone on Wednesday?’

‘No, she didn’t. I meant to ring her but I took Mother out for dinner and we got in about ten. I was afraid I’d wake Susan up if I rang then.’

‘How was Susan when you talked to her on Tuesday? What’d she been doing that day?’

Nicholson rubbed his forehead. ‘Inspector Bushell didn’t ask me that. I’ll have to think … nothing much.’

‘Take your time, Mr Nicholson, it could be important. Had she talked to anyone that day? Had she been out?’

Nicholson took out a gold-plated cigarette case from inside his sport’s jacket. He flicked it open and offered it to Frank.

‘No, thank you.’

Nicholson glanced at Elderkin. ‘Cigarette, Sergeant?’

Elderkin looked tempted. ‘No thank you, sir. I’m a pipe man.’

That figures, thought Frank.

Nicholson tapped a cigarette on the desk blotter, used a lighter, and inhaled deeply. He blew a stream of smoke towards Frank. ‘No. She didn’t mention seeing anyone. She’d been sorting through her clothes, getting ready for the warmer weather. We had a chat, I asked her how she was, told her we were going out to dinner the next evening, nothing important.’

‘How long had you been married, Mr Nicholson?’

His hand covered his face again. ‘Nearly two years,’ he muttered.

There were squeaky noises as Elderkin’s considerable bottom wriggled on the leather seat of his chair. He glanced at him. Elderkin was shaking his head and frowning, as much as to say, ‘Give the man a chance.’ Elderkin needed training. Could he teach an old dog new tricks? A picture of a bloodhound holding a notebook and pencil flashed across his mind. He smiled at Elderkin, who looked puzzled.

The phone rang; Nicholson picked it up, listened, and looked relieved, as though the cavalry were on the horizon and he was about to be rescued. ‘I’ll ring back in a minute, Miss Piff.’ He put the phone down. ‘My new senior mistress has arrived. I’m afraid we’ll have to finish. Is there anything else, Inspector?’

Frank got up, glad to be out of the uncomfortable chair. A senior mistress? He pictured a dragon-like creature with an imposing bosom and lisle stockings. Did the headmaster have any junior mistresses? ‘We’ll finish this tomorrow. During the next few days I’ll be interviewing all the staff who were in the school at the time of your wife’s murder. I should be finished before term starts, but it’ll be necessary to talk to them again as new facts emerge.’

‘Yes, of course. Most of them will be arriving soon. Wo