Ann
Cleeves

THE
DYING
LIGHT

For the founders, staff, volunteers and participants
of The Woodyard, Barnstaple,
who turned my fiction into reality.

Acknowledgements

I’ve been working with many of my publishers – in the UK, the US, Canada, Australia and worldwide – for decades. They have become friends. There are too many individuals to mention, and I know that some are grafting away behind the scenes. I might not have met you, but I appreciate all that you do.

2026 will be my fortieth year as a published author. Thanks to Pan Macmillan and Minotaur, all my titles will become available to readers. I’m grateful – I think – that the earlier books are back in the world.

I’m supported by fabulous agents and their co-agents. A special shout out to Moses Cardona in the US, who has supported me through uncertain times. Rebecca Watson has taken care of all broadcast rights with tact and patience, and I’m delighted now to be working with Sandy Violette and Caspian Dennis of Abner Stein. It was a joy that everyone came together for the Orkney launch of The Killing Stones.

My UK publicist, Emma Harrow, is a PR and organizational genius. I could say more, but then you might want to hire her, and I can’t imagine my working life without her. Bring on the next tour!

A huge thanks to the home team here in the North East. My invaluable assistant, Jane Hartley, looks after my diary and advises on scary tech and general admin. She also manages the Reading for Wellbeing project with skill and passion. Roger Cornwell and Jean Rogers devised my website in the early days and now organize it and my monthly newsletter. Their flexibility and generosity make my life very much easier.

A special thanks to my great friends Martin and Paul. Matthew and Jonathan wouldn’t have been created without you.

Prologue

THE TWO GIRLS CLIMBED OUT OF the car and there it was, in all its glory. Tide House, so white in the morning sun that it hurt their eyes to look at it. The pool blue and glittering. The sea below them partly hidden by trees. Lundy Island on the horizon. They’d driven overnight on Thursday to avoid the traffic on the M5, so they’d arrive as soon as possible after the exams were over, and in time for the weekend. Hannah had needed to be in Millscombe for the weekend. For the festival. For Jake. They’d told their parents that it would be more comfortable to set off late in the evening. After all, the country had been in the middle of a tarmac-melting, climate-emergency heatwave for weeks.

‘Wow!’ Lottie was impressed and it was hard to impress Lottie, super-cool, with her place at St Hilda’s, Oxford, and her model good looks. Her string of super-cool boyfriends. Her sporting prowess. ‘We could be in the Mediterranean.’

Soon, Hannah thought, they’d separate, head off to different universities, different lives. The thought gave her an unexpected and overwhelming sense of relief.

She was dizzy and light-headed after the drive, grateful to have arrived safely. She’d had to persuade her mother that of course she’d be fine coming down early with Lottie. She’d passed her driving test first time, and though the car her parents had given her wasn’t new, it was perfectly reliable. Her father had winked and reminded her mum of their reckless youth, the miles they’d travelled in their crappy minivan. The festivals and the squats.

‘I think we can trust this lovely lass to make it from London to North Devon in one piece. She’s far too sensible already,’ he had said.

So here she was, the stress of A levels over, with her bestie, her saviour, in her parents’ holiday home in North Devon. Three days of freedom, of sunshine, of independence, before the olds turned up with her younger brothers.

Hannah opened the boot and began to pull out the bags. There was a splash, and she turned to see that Lottie had already stripped off and was in the pool, her blonde hair dripping, her face just above the water, grinning.

Chapter One

THE CALL CAME EARLY ON MONDAY morning. Jonathan was out for his morning swim in the sea. It was so hot that Matthew Venn had been tempted to join his husband, but he was fastidious, risk-averse, and the talk of sewage overspills into the estuary turned his stomach. Let Jonathan enjoy the exercise and claim that wild swimming set him up for his day at the Woodyard, the community arts centre that was his pride and joy. Matthew was happy with a tepid shower and a clean shirt. If the heat continued, he might do without the jacket and tie.

His phone rang when he was just out of the shower, and he didn’t bother with a towel, still exhilarated, proud that he could walk naked from the bathroom to the bedroom in an empty house, with only a trace of awkwardness. Nakedness had never been tolerated when he was growing up, and he was still secretly ashamed of his body.

It was Jen Rafferty, his sergeant, the duty detective, on the phone.

‘We have a body, and a missing young woman.’ Jen had lived in Barnstaple for years and had brought up her kids there. Ella was away at university now. Ben walked every morning to the sixth-form college, up the hill in Sticklepath. But Jen had kept the Scouse accent and the chip on her shoulder.

‘Suspicious death?’

‘Unexplained, at least.’

‘Where?’

‘A fancy holiday home out at Millscombe.’ A pause. ‘The owner’s a bit of a celebrity.’

‘Oh?’ North Devon attracted celebrities. Actors, artists, chefs from the television. Most of them from London. Locals couldn’t afford the expensive houses they bought up and treated the newcomers with a mixture of awe and resentment.

‘Yeah, a politician. Even I’d heard of him. A guy called Armstrong. Paul Armstrong. He turned up very early this morning with his wife and two young sons. His daughter and her friend came down on Thursday night, arriving Friday morning. Armstrong found the friend drowned in the pool and the daughter disappeared.’

‘An accidental death?’

Matthew thought a drowning could be accidental, especially if a young person had been drinking, taking drugs. Though the disappearance of the other girl made it suspicious.

‘Unlikely according to Armstrong. The dead lass was a strong swimmer. She’d represented the country in school competitions.’ Jen took a breath. ‘Not given, he thought, to excess, because she hoped for a place in the next Olympics.’

‘How old was she?’

‘They were both seventeen, nearly eighteen. They’d just finished A levels. They came down to celebrate in the sun before the parents arrived with the young boys.’

‘Are you at the scene?’

‘On my way. Ross is with me. He’s driving. I’ve contacted Sal Pengelly.’

Sal was the forensic pathologist.

Jen gave him the postcode. ‘Apparently it’s not very easy to find. There’s a track just past the pub, the Fisherman’s Arms.’ The call ended. Matthew wasn’t sure if that was because Jen was too impatient to sign off properly or because of the dodgy mobile reception that tourists complained about.

He dressed, drank some of the coffee he’d made before showering and left a note for Jonathan. Outside, it was already hot and still.

On the drive, he thought about Paul Armstrong. Jonathan’s secret, guilty pleasure was a particular glossy photo magazine that showed intimate pictures of famous people – the interiors of their immaculately designed houses, their weddings and exotic holidays. Occasionally, when he had nothing better to read, Matthew would glance through it. Once, he was certain, Armstrong had featured on the front cover.

He was, as Jen had said, something of a celebrity. His rise to power had been meteoric. A doctor before being elected to parliament, he was a publicist’s dream. Charming, good-looking, self-deprecating. He must have had his eldest child early, while he was a student, because he was still in his late thirties. Forty at the most. Already a junior minister and tipped for stardom, perhaps the highest office in the land. On the left of the party, but not too far to the left to cause problems for the leadership. Loyal, tactful and not given to public expressions of dissent. Happily married to a childhood sweetheart as far as anyone knew. The cover photo came into Matthew’s head. A family shot. The parents, a teenage daughter and two younger sons, standing together and smiling into the camera. Too good, Matthew had thought even then, to be true. Why had they let the magazine into their home? What had they wanted to prove?

Then, there were implications for the ongoing investigation. The disappearance of a minister’s child would trigger a special protocol. Venn had already phoned Christopher Appleyard, the Chief Constable.

‘Wouldn’t there have been security?’ he’d asked. ‘For a minister’s daughter?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s not made the cabinet.’ A pause. ‘Not yet. He’s an ambitious bugger from all I hear.’

Venn thought Appleyard moved in the kind of circles where he might hear.

The chief would have to inform the Home Office, and the Prime Minister would be told. Venn thought that his immediate boss, Superintendent Oldham, would become more ineffective than usual. He wasn’t a man who could cope with pressure and his response would be all panic and bluster. The involvement of the Home Office might release extra resources, though, and they’d need those if a wide-scale search for the politician’s missing daughter became necessary.

Venn was so wrapped up in the bureaucratic details, the hoops he’d have to jump through, a strategy for managing Oldham, that he was driving almost on automatic pilot. He realized with a start that he was approaching his destination.

Millscombe was a hamlet, not a village. No school. No church. A few scattered houses on each side of the narrow road and a pub that must cater for tourists rather than locals. A beer garden and a menu celebrating freshly caught fish, with prices that would send a farm labourer or hotel worker into cardiac shock. As Jen had described, there was a narrow lane just past the pub car park. He spotted a ‘No Through Road’ post and attached to it was a hand-painted sign saying ‘MILLSFEST’ and a finger pointing down the track.

Matthew took the turning carefully. Trees brushed the car on either side. He passed a turning to the right, with a cattle grid, the gate propped open. In the distance a house and outbuildings. There was a banner in the field next to the farm entrance: ‘MILLSFEST’, accompanied by a painted logo. The logo – a cow with musical notes coming out of its mouth – triggered the memory of a conversation with Jonathan. He’d come home a week before with a flyer he’d picked up from work, full of enthusiasm and plans.

‘There’s a new festival just along the coast. A few regulars from the Woodyard are involved. I know you hate anything loud, but it’s mostly folk and acoustic. You’ll love it. I thought I’d get tickets.’

But it seemed that camping would be involved, and Jonathan’s arty friends still intimidated him, so Matthew had said he’d be duty inspector that weekend and would need to stay at home. Jonathan had grinned, knowing perfectly well that this was an excuse, that roughing it really wasn’t Matthew’s thing, but forgiving the lie. Easy and laidback, as he was about everything.

The festival had just happened. Matthew hadn’t remembered the name, but this must be the place. In the end, Jonathan hadn’t been enthusiastic about camping either and had settled for a Saturday day pass. He’d arrived home late on Saturday night, smelling of woodsmoke and beer, after a lift with a non-drinking friend. The friend had come in for coffee. Matthew had already been in bed, not asleep but still irritated by the loud voices and snatches of singing. They’d had, it seemed, a very good time. Jonathan was still raving about it on Sunday morning.

Surely this must be worth exploring? Matthew thought now. The teenagers would have been attracted by a festival within walking distance. Was that why they’d come to North Devon a couple of days before the adults?

Beyond the farm entrance, the lane continued widening a little, and the view opened up, so Matthew could glimpse the sea on the horizon, caught between two headlands. And then, at the end of the track, there was a gate, open now, with a uniformed officer standing next to it. A wooden sign with Tide House burned into it. Then the house itself, built, Matthew guessed, in the 1930s, a whitewashed bungalow, with slightly curved walls, surrounded by a curved crazy-paved terrace. Lots of glass. Art deco? Art nouveau? Jonathan would know. Matthew parked next to Ross May’s car and followed the sound of voices to the seaward side of the building.

Passing the house, he came to the swimming pool. It was tiled blue, but the water seemed an even deeper colour now because it reflected the cloudless sky. The land dropped away quickly beyond it. A wooded valley must lead down to the sea. Unless there was a public footpath through the garden, the cove at the bottom would be inaccessible to anyone but the homeowner. It was, Matthew thought, as close to paradise as it could be. In this weather at least. Not so much fun in a winter westerly gale with lashing rain and the track turned into a mud bath.

The young woman’s body had been pulled out of the pool and was lying on the terrace.

Venn stood for a moment, unnoticed, looking in at the scene. The couple stood to one side with a uniformed officer. They looked up when he approached.

‘We needed to be sure that she was dead.’ Armstrong seemed horrified. They’d covered the body with a large towel, but his eyes kept straying towards it. He must have seen dead bodies when he was a junior doctor, but he’d known this person, and his daughter was still missing. Of course he’d be distraught. His accent was different from what Matthew had been expecting. There was definitely a northern edge, flat vowels. Matthew thought he’d heard the man speak before. There’d been radio interviews, television appearances, not just on news broadcasts. He’d first come to public notice, appearing on television, speaking about fitness and well-being, implying that anyone could be as healthy as him with just a little effort. Perhaps he modified his voice when he was speaking in public. All politicians were actors.

His wife was standing a short distance away from the group and was on her phone. She was as Matthew had remembered her from the photo, a bit boho for an MP’s wife. No make-up, cropped jeans, a cheesecloth top that might have come straight from the seventies, red leather sandals. Sandy hair that looked tousled and untidy, but which could have been some sort of fashion statement.

‘Cath’s trying to get through to Lottie’s mother,’ Armstrong said. ‘A horrible job, but of course she needs to know. She might want to come down. She’s a single mother and Lottie was an only child. They must have meant everything to each other.’

‘Lottie’s the dead girl?’ Matthew worried briefly about the language. Was a seventeen-year-old still a girl? A woman? Of course, it hardly mattered. Lottie was dead and her friends and family wouldn’t be concerned about semantics. But these things made him ridiculously anxious. He’d grown up in an enclosed evangelical community, cut off, separate, and he still felt that he was apart, that the social world was a minefield, just waiting for him to set off an explosion.

‘Yes. Charlotte. Charlotte Cauldwell. Known to everyone as Lottie. She and Hannah have been friends for a while. They were at the same school.’ He looked up. ‘I don’t understand. Where is Hannah? She must have been taken. She wouldn’t run away if Lottie was in trouble.’

Matthew had already thought of kidnap as a possibility. Perhaps the friend had just got in the way. What did politicians call it? Collateral damage. Armstrong must have money to have been able to afford this place. More money even than a minister’s salary. So why, he thought again, expose your family to the publicity of a magazine like Home Interiors? A sort of hubris or a desire for validation?

Cath Armstrong finished her call. Just of that generation when women in public life still routinely took their husbands’ names, she was known as Armstrong. She was crying. Fat tears were rolling down her cheeks.

‘Elaine can’t believe it. She’s organizing a car to bring her down.’

Someone else with money. The thought came unbidden. It seemed to Venn that he’d inherited a tricky relationship with money from his religious parents. He’d grown up within the Barum Brethren, a small West Country sect, certain and implacable. Despite having been cast out, ‘unfellowshipped’ when he lost his faith, he’d not been able to shake off entirely their strict morality. He still felt a little guilt about the lifestyle that he and Jonathan had achieved. The Brethren had always had an ambiguous attitude to wealth. They took the Bible literally, so saw it as a bar to paradise. In theory. In reality, rich people had been given status and power, a kind of reverence.

‘We’re organizing a search for your daughter,’ Matthew said. Jen and Ross were already in the house. They’d asked for permission to go into the building as soon as they’d arrived. They’d bring in the specialist team to widen the search. Maybe the coastguard and the Exmoor rescue group. It would be a logistical nightmare. All those people would need feeding. Accommodation if the search wasn’t quickly over, and at the start of the busiest holiday season that would be almost impossible. He turned to Cath. ‘I assume you’ve already tried calling your daughter’s mobile?’

‘Of course! We started calling when we were almost here. Not before that, because we thought they’d both be asleep. It just went through to voicemail. I’ve been trying ever since. The same thing.’ She was restless and fidgety. He knew she was thinking she should be doing more to find her daughter. That Matthew should be doing more. It would take time to bring the search team in, but she wouldn’t be interested in the detail. Matthew understood her need to see action.

‘If you give my colleague the number,’ he said gently, ‘we should be able to find out where and when it was last used.’

‘Oh yes! Of course!’

‘When did you last hear from her?’

‘She texted on Friday morning to say they’d arrived safely. Nothing since then, but we weren’t really expecting it.’ Cath paused. ‘Teenagers, they’re so wrapped up in their own world. Why would they?’

‘There was a music festival at the farm over the weekend. Were the girls planning to go to that?’

The parents looked at each other. ‘I don’t remember Hannah mentioning it, but if it was at the farm, I’m sure she’d want to be there,’ Cath said in the end. ‘Did she talk about it to you, Paul?’

He shook his head, as if the question had little meaning. Matthew supposed a minister would have his head full of other things and family issues would come at the bottom of the heap.

‘Have there been any specific threats to you?’ The question was directed to the husband. ‘Anything we should know about?’

The man shook his head. Frustration more than denial. ‘The usual bile on social media. I stopped reading the stuff. It’s all mostly pathetic and sad. Ignorant, left-behind folk letting out their frustration on the wrong people.’

‘We’ll have to check.’ Another job for the specialists, Matthew thought. The digital team. The Home Office would probably get involved again. Or the security services. ‘Is it general knowledge that you own this house?’

‘It’s hard to keep anything secret these days, isn’t it? We were hoping to have it as a bolthole. An escape from the world. But we employ a gardener to keep on top of things over the spring and summer. A cleaner to tidy up when we leave. We were seen on the beach once – there’s a public path down through the woods from the pub if you know where to find it – and of course everyone can take a photo with their mobile. Word got out, first here in North Devon, then more widely. There’s resentment about second homes. Apparently, I’m betraying my working-class roots. I can understand it, but this place cost a bloody fortune, and I can’t imagine that many locals would have been able to afford it.’

Cath had been growing more and more impatient. Matthew thought the conversation had skimmed over her head, like a flat pebble skimming over water, only touching down occasionally. He’d talk to her again when she was feeling a little less fraught.

‘I can’t stand this.’ Her voice was shrill and loud. She’d obviously made an effort to be calm when she’d been talking to Lottie’s mother. ‘Just standing here chatting. I’m going to look for Hannah.’

She ran off, very quick and light on her feet, disappearing towards the sea before Matthew could stop her.

Chapter Two

CATH ARMSTRONG COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT. IT wasn’t just the panic of finding Lottie dead and her daughter having disappeared. That was a bizarre nightmare, but she’d have been knackered anyway. She’d shared the overnight driving with her husband but had hardly even dozed when it was her turn to rest. As soon as she’d taken over, Paul had fallen fast asleep, the passenger seat tilted back. Not snoring exactly, but breathing heavily and rhythmically, the noise soporific, so she’d had to open the window to keep herself awake. Yet, when it was her turn to nap, she’d found it impossible. Insomnia had always been a curse, even when she was a teenager. Now, exhaustion and anxiety were muddling her thoughts. It was a struggle to believe that Lottie was actually dead, and that Hannah had disappeared into thin air. The day was turning into a blur, spiked by moments of sparkling light and sharp shadows.

The steep path to the beach led through woodland, the trees stunted by the wind and the shade in the combe, so the light filtered through, dappled on last autumn’s dropped dead leaves. If Hannah was hiding away anywhere, surely it would be here? Her car had still been outside the house and inland she only had the farm and the village to head out for. If she’d reached those, she’d have got in touch with them, answered their phone calls. Cath thought there must be some logical explanation. She was given to panic and fearing the worst. Paul was always telling her to be more positive, and now she tried to follow his advice. Lottie’s death must be an accident – tragic of course, but not sinister – and Hannah would be here on the beach, perhaps with that local boy from the farm she’d taken a shine to. She wouldn’t even know that Lottie was dead. Cath conjured up the image of a fire, encircled by pebbles, the ashes still warm, and her daughter lying sleepily on the dry sand in the arms of a handsome young man. It was the sort of thing she’d have done when she was young.

As she skittered down the footpath, she shouted, ‘Hannah, pet! Where are you?’

She wasn’t even too disappointed or panicked when there was no reply, because her daughter would be on the beach, not in the woods, wouldn’t she? With the boy from the farm. Asleep after a night of sex and cheap red wine.

The path was rocky where the soil had worn away. To her right there was the stream, hardly more than a trickle after a month of drought. Beyond that, the silhouette of the ruined watermill that had given the combe its name. Cath was wearing sandals and had to watch where she was putting her feet, not looking ahead, so it was almost a shock, a jolt, when the ground levelled, and she came out onto the narrow beach. There must have been an early morning high tide, receding now, because the emerging strip of sand was dark and smooth, perfectly clean. No debris. No footprints. No beautiful girl sleeping with a good-looking boy. Cath was hit again by reality. Lottie was dead, and she’d swum for England in international schoolgirl competitions, so she wouldn’t just drown. And Hannah was missing. Paul was a fixer. He could sort out most of the family’s problems, through his contacts or his cleverness. But this was something he wouldn’t be able to fix. She sat on the dry sand that the tide hadn’t reached and started crying again.

The cove was surrounded by two low headlands. Seabirds were breeding on the cliffs and the noise of their calls drowned out the sound of the water which was calm and oily. Cath didn’t realize that someone was behind her until they tapped her gently on her shoulder. She turned and saw a tall woman, of about her own age, with wiry red hair. The sun had brought out her freckles. The woman sat down beside her.

‘I’m Jen. Jen Rafferty. Inspector Venn’s sergeant.’ The voice was quite unexpected. Scouse. Out of place here on this idyllic beach in North Devon. But Cath had often felt out of place here too. And in their smart north London home. It was only when she saw the Angel of the North on the skyline and crossed the Tyne Bridge into Newcastle that she had a sense of true belonging. She was, as Paul called her, a sentimental Geordie.

The sergeant spoke again. ‘Did you think Hannah might be here?’

‘She loves the beach. For the boys, it’s the pool, games, diving and jumping, but Hannah was always a little mermaid. She’s most at home in the sea.’

‘Tell me about her.’

That surprised Cath. She’d expected questions, action, not a chat. But still, she found herself talking.

‘We were too young when I had her. Students. Paul was doing medicine, so you’d think we’d have known better, but sometimes these things happen, don’t they? And we were excited. Those days everything seemed possible, easy. We didn’t think a baby would change our lives so much. We’d carry on in the same way but just take her with us.’

‘Did it work out like that?’

‘It kind of did.’ Cath found herself smiling, thinking of those days in dreadful student flats in Newcastle, brightened by cheap rugs and home-painted charity shop furniture. Hannah in a makeshift carrycot in the corner while they partied with friends, the child asleep despite the noise of the music. ‘But she was an easy baby. I’m not sure it would have been so possible with the boys.’

‘Were you doing medicine too?’

‘No.’ Again, the thought of that made Cath smile. ‘Languages were my thing. French and Russian, but I dropped out because I couldn’t do the compulsory year abroad. Not with Hannah.’

‘That must have been tough.’

‘It was. I always thought I’d go back to it, but it never worked out. Paul’s career took up so much time. And then he got into politics too. Stood for the council first. Every night a meeting. Even worse when he became an MP.’

‘So,’ the detective said, ‘you were at home, holding it all together?’

‘Aye, something like that. Especially when the boys came along. Financially, things were easier of course. We all moved to London to be close to Paul when he became an MP but I’m a Northerner at heart and I missed the support of my friends and family.’

‘And Hannah? What did she make of her dad being in the public eye?’

‘She struggled.’ It was, Cath realized, a kind of confession. To herself as well as Jen Rafferty. ‘She was a shy, timid little thing, and our house was always full of people and noise. I didn’t mind the role of an MP’s wife. I liked being a part of the decision-making, even on the edges. I thrived on the chaos. It never occurred to me that all those people intimidated her. Perhaps I didn’t give her enough time, didn’t listen enough.’ Cath paused. She expected the other woman to jump in with a question – most of her female friends were better at talking than listening – but Rafferty just stared out towards the sea, so Cath continued talking.

‘Hannah found it hard going back to school after Covid. Of course, our place was very different during the pandemic. Quiet. Paul went back to working for the NHS in London, filling gaps wherever he was needed – he wasn’t a minister then – so usually it was just me and the kids there. Hannah spent a lot of time in her room. The boys were very young, so I thought she needed a bit of calm for the Zoom teaching. She was in the third year of secondary school when she went back. Without thinking, we’d sent her to our local comp. It was a brilliant school, one of the reasons why we chose to live where we did. Paul and I are both against private education.’

‘She didn’t settle?’

‘It was a nightmare. Every morning was a battle. She was physically sick. We stuck it out for a term, but if anything, it was getting worse.’ Cath stopped suddenly and turned to the woman. ‘Look, shouldn’t we be searching for her? Why are we just sitting here chatting?’

‘Other people will be searching for her,’ Rafferty said. ‘This is important. I need to understand her.’ A pause. ‘I’ve got a lass who’s just started uni. I’m a single mam. I know teenagers aren’t easy.’

‘She never got into any bother,’ Cath said. The northern accent was getting stronger. She felt easy, as if she were talking to one of her mates back home. ‘No drugs, no coming home pissed. Nothing like that.’ As soon as the last sentence came out, though, she knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t a lie exactly, because Cath had only had her suspicions, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

‘You were worried about her?’

‘I was. We were …’ Though Paul had never been quite as worried as she was, Cath thought. He was always too busy. Not just with parliamentary stuff, but all the media, the after-dinner speeches, the well-being podcast that had done so well and allowed them to buy this house in North Devon.

‘In the end, we took her out of the academy and started her in a private day school close to home. Just girls and small classes. Against all our principles, but sometimes they have to come second, don’t they?’

‘Did it help?’ It sounded as if Jen Rafferty was genuinely curious.

‘It did. At first at least. Lots of the girls had parents who were famous for one reason or another. She didn’t stand out or get bullied because her father appears on the telly. She’s a grafter and did really well in her GCSEs. She’s into environmental science. She’s got a university place if her A levels are good enough.’

‘But more recently?’

Cath knew that things had changed lately but thought this wasn’t the time to talk about that. No need for the police to get involved. Paul would have a fit if the incident became public, and it could have nothing to do with Hannah’s disappearance.

She shrugged. ‘She’s a teenager. Raging hormones. They’re all desperate to fit in, aren’t they?’

‘Ah,’ Jen said. ‘Not the easiest to live with. Boyfriend? Girlfriend?’

‘She wasn’t in a relationship with Lottie, if that’s what you mean. Not, of course, that we’d mind.’ Cath was about to say that some of their best friends were gay, but stopped herself, just in time. Wasn’t that the sentence mocked by some of her friends?

‘Anyone else special in Hannah’s life?’

‘She did have a thing with the lad who lives at the farm on the edge of the village when we were here at Easter. Or, if not a fling as such, then a friendship. Intense. You know, as only they can be in their late teens.’

‘What’s his name?’ The question sounded casual, but Cath could tell that the detective thought this was important.

‘Jake. Jacob. Jacob Brennan. He’s a bit older, but not away at college. He works for his dad. We only met him properly a few times when Hannah brought him to the house for supper or to use the pool.’

Cath was expecting more questions about Jacob, but the detective’s focus shifted again.

‘Tell me about Lottie.’ Jen Rafferty was looking at the sea, at the shallow waves sliding across the sand, as if she had nothing better to do than sit here in the sunshine, topping up her tan.

Cath felt impatient again. Angry. ‘What do you need to know?’

‘Did she have any problems? Was she happy? Stable? Confident?’

‘Are you thinking that she might have killed herself? No! If anything, she was too confident!’ As soon as the words were out, Cath wished she could suck them back.

‘Oh?’

Now she’d started Cath couldn’t stop. All her resentment at Lottie came spilling out. ‘She was one of those girls that have everything: brains, looks, money, a mother who adores her.’

‘A bit spoiled, you’re saying?’

‘Maybe.’ Cath struggled to find the words to explain. ‘She was used to everything going her way. It made her seem entitled. A bit entitled.’

‘But Hannah got on okay with her?’

‘Oh yes, Hannah was thrilled when Lottie decided that they’d be best friends.’

‘You don’t sound too enthralled by the friendship.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘Oh no, I was delighted,’ Cath said. Because she wasn’t stupid. If Lottie hadn’t killed herself, and her drowning wasn’t some dreadful accident, then it must be murder. Hannah had disappeared, so it made sense that the police would be considering her a suspect. ‘Besides, it didn’t matter what I thought, did it? I was just pleased that Hannah had found a friend.’

Chapter Three

MATTHEW LEFT THE TEAM AT THE scene. The space in front of the house was already crowded with vehicles belonging to the crime scene manager and the first members of the specialist search team to turn up at the locus. Matthew told his DC, Ross May, that he was going to Millscombe Farm to chat to the neighbours. Jen was staying with the mother so Venn said the DC was in charge here at the house until the sergeant returned. Ross loved that. It still didn’t take much for power to go to his head.

As Matthew was walking back up the lane, enjoying the peace and the time to think, he received a text from Jen: Apparently Hannah had some sort of relationship with a lad who lived at the farm. Name of Jacob.

All the more reason, then, to talk to the farmer. Away from the Armstrongs’ bungalow, everything was very quiet. He could hear chiffchaffs singing in the thick hedges, and swallows dipped overhead. His father had been a bit of a birdwatcher, and Matthew still noticed these things. He paused for a moment at the farm gate and looked back towards the coast. Because of the twist in the lane, the bungalow was invisible. He took a photo of the scene on his phone, then of the poster advertising MillsFest. He hadn’t heard of any of the groups or singers mentioned. His sheltered upbringing meant that he’d missed out on popular culture when he was growing up, and he suspected that this festival had been aimed at people of his age, not at teenagers. Jonathan wouldn’t have been quite so enthusiastic if the music had been more contemporary.

He had to walk a little way along the track before he had a clear view of the farmhouse ahead of him. It lay beyond a meadow, and the house and outbuildings were sheltered by a strip of woodland. They were stone-built and solid, the sun behind them throwing a shadow. Beyond the house, a traditional lowland landscape that might not have changed in centuries. Small fields where cattle grazed, separated by hedges, sloped to a stream. The hedges bent away from the prevailing westerly wind and were still flecked with blossom. Everything looked warm and glowing in the buttery light.

The stream curved and eventually, Matthew thought, would make its way to the sea. It formed one border of the wide meadow, which earlier in the spring had probably been covered with wildflowers. This must have been the venue for the festival; the grass was flattened, trampled. In the distance, beyond the meadow, there was another patch of woodland. This was indistinct, shifting in a heat haze. An open-sided barn next to the house must have held the stage.

Matthew could see a figure, a silhouette against the bright morning light, halfway across the meadow. It was impossible to tell age or gender. They were walking slowly backwards and forwards. Matthew had been intending to call first at the house, but instead he went through another gate which was already open and walked towards the individual, who was quartering the ground, head down, focused, it seemed, on some task. So focused that they didn’t realize anyone was approaching until Matthew was almost within touching distance.

It was a young man with wild hair, dressed in shorts. He was carrying a black bin bag and the sort of instrument used by street cleaners. He looked at Matthew, not hostile, but curious.

‘Can I help you?’ A Devon voice.

‘Clearing up after the weekend?’ Matthew was curious too.

‘Yeah, we did most of it yesterday evening, but there’s still a bit along the edges, and we’ve got more campers arriving this afternoon.’

‘Are you Jacob?’

The young man gave a nervous smile. ‘Jake, yeah. Only my gran and the teachers ever called me Jacob.’

‘I’m a police officer,’ Matthew said. No need now to go in with his rank. ‘I’m looking for Hannah Armstrong. Her parents are worried about her.’

‘Oh!’ He sounded suddenly anxious, intimidated. ‘Is it this morning they were coming?’ He nodded towards the house. ‘She’s sleeping it off. We were really good all weekend, stayed pretty sober, and then when the punters left yesterday afternoon, we had our own party last night.’

‘So, she’s here? Can I see her?’

‘I guess. It’s about time she woke up anyway.’ A pause. ‘Mum’ll go ape if she knows Hannah’s parents are worried. She wasn’t even sure she should let her stay in my room.’

Matthew’s first thoughts were that he’d overreacted. What a fool he’d look, calling out the search team, putting Appleyard on high alert, and stoking up the parents’ anxieties! He should let them know at once that Hannah was safe. But not yet, he decided immediately afterwards. Let me talk to her first, before the parents rush in with their tears of relief, their hugs and their recriminations. Let me find out if Hannah is really safe and what happened to Lottie.

Jake led him through a back door into a cramped room with coat pegs and boots, a cage for a dog and a large chest freezer, and then into the kitchen. A middle-aged woman was frying bacon in a pan on the Aga, her face red from the heat of the range. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, covered by a floral apron, and she turned when she saw her son.

‘Breakfast in ten minutes.’ Her voice wasn’t local. Northern. Broader than Cath Armstrong’s but from the same end of the country.

Then she noticed Matthew. ‘Are you one of our guests? We weren’t expecting you just yet, but no problem. Give us half an hour and Jake here will make sure everything’s ready for you.’

Matthew thought that very little would throw her.

Now Jake looked as red as she did. ‘He’s a policeman, Mum. Hannah’s parents have arrived, and they called her in as missing.’

The woman looked across at Matthew and shook her head, implying, Young people today. No thought for their elders.

She wiped a hand on her apron and held it out. ‘I’m Tess. Tessa Brennan.’ A little laugh. ‘They’ve no manners, have they, these young things.’

She looked over Matthew’s shoulder to her son. ‘Well, you’d best go and get her then. Her parents must be in a dreadful state if they called the police. Poor things. I suppose in their position, with all the hassle politicians get these days, they have to be careful.’

Jake walked on through the kitchen and Matthew heard footsteps on wooden stairs. He was tempted to follow, but Hannah was probably not dressed. He might be almost comfortable now with his own nakedness, but the thought of confronting a seventeen-year-old girl in her bedroom horrified him. Jake had left the kitchen door open, and he expected to hear voices. The woman lifted slices of bacon onto a plate and put them in the bottom of the oven to keep warm.

There were more footsteps and Jake appeared in the doorway.

‘Well?’ The woman sounded impatient. ‘Is she on her way?’

‘She’s not there.’ Jake frowned. ‘I checked the bathroom. And her clothes have gone.’

‘That’s very thoughtless. Not like Hannah at all. I suppose she remembered her folk were turning up this morning. Must have been early, though. She didn’t come this way while I was here.’ She reached for the pan again and was about to crack eggs into it.

‘She was still fast asleep when I got up.’ Jake seemed confused.

‘Could I have a look?’ Matthew thought they’d almost forgotten that he was there.

The pair stared at him.

‘This is about more than a missing teenager,’ he said. A hurried explanation. ‘Hannah’s friend Lottie is dead. Mr and Mrs Armstrong found her when they arrived this morning. It really is very important that we find Hannah. You do see?’

The woman seemed to take in the implication of Matthew’s words before her son. He continued staring, stunned.

‘Of course! Take the man upstairs, lad!’

Matthew was already at the door. ‘Could you show me?’

Jake showed him into a front bedroom, with two windows that let in the light. It was obviously his room, and the couple had been sleeping here together. His clothes were piled on one of the chairs, and a pair of trainers lay next to the double bed. The cover was old, handmade patchwork. The work perhaps of the grandmother who always called him Jacob. It had been flung back. There were bare floorboards painted white and coloured rugs bright in the sunshine. This didn’t seem like the room of an angst-ridden teenager, but Matthew thought he knew nothing about young people. There was no sign of Hannah.

‘I don’t understand.’ Jake’s voice was confused, distressed. ‘Where is she?’

‘What time did you leave her?’

‘Five-ish. It was already light. I hadn’t really slept, and I thought I’d get the site cleared before she woke, so we could spend the full day together.’ Now his voice was wistful.

He loves her! Matthew thought.

‘And she was definitely still there when you left?’

‘Oh yes!’

‘You hadn’t had an argument? There was no reason for her to have run off.’

‘No!’ He had light, sandy hair, and the sort of face that flushed easily. He was blushing now. ‘We’d had a lush evening. You know, the sort of time you know you’ll remember for ever.’ He stared at Matthew. ‘You say her friend is dead?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Was she here last night too?’

Jake shook his head. ‘She was here during the day, but she left at about six. This wasn’t her scene, she said. It was as if she was too sophisticated for us. Like we were yokels. Quite a lot of the holidaymakers are a bit like that. They come for a taste of rural life, but they don’t like it so much when they get it. The smell of cow muck and silage. I was worried that Hannah would leave too, but she didn’t. Lottie was upset about that. I think she was used to getting her own way.’

‘They had a row?’

Jake shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Nothing quite like that. Hannah just said she was staying, and she’d see Lottie back at Tide House – that’s what they call that place.’ A pause. ‘Lottie kind of flounced off.’ Another pause, his voice uncertain, dazed. ‘You’re saying she’s dead? How did she die?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘You will find Hannah?’

‘Oh yes.’ Matthew hoped he sounded reassuring. ‘We will find her.’

When they returned to the kitchen, Jake’s father had just come through the door. Tessa was pouring boiling water into a teapot. Venn had his own expectation of a farmer – a taciturn man, dressed in overalls, more used to dealing with animals and the soil than people. Matthew might have been born and raised in North Devon, but he’d been a town boy, living in Barnstaple with his devout parents. He knew very little about the countryside apart from walks with his father. This man was quite different from the image he’d created. He might have been a rock band’s roadie. His hair was dark and long, tied back into a ponytail, and he wore a T-shirt with a dragon on the front and shorts.

‘Mr Brennan.’ Matthew held out his hand. ‘I’m DI Venn.’

The man walked across and shook it. ‘Bob Brennan.’ He grinned. His teeth looked very white in his suntanned face. ‘What are you doing here, then?’ His voice was broad Devonian, rich and creamy. Curious but not anxious.

‘We’ve been looking for Hannah.’ Jake sounded panicky now. ‘She’s not upstairs.’

‘She’ll have gone back then, won’t she, to her fancy-pants parents? Did they call the police to check where she stayed the night? They wouldn’t send a detective out looking for one of our girls. But an MP’s daughter, that’s different.’

The tone was still slow and easy, but Matthew could sense the bitterness beneath it.

‘Hannah’s friend is dead,’ Matthew said. ‘Of course we’re concerned.’

‘That Lottie? You’re saying she’s dead?’

Matthew nodded. ‘You knew her?’

‘I met her on Saturday at the festival,’ Brennan said. ‘Hannah introduced us. A sparky little thing. Hard to believe …’ His voice tailed off, then he looked up. ‘What happened?’

‘We don’t know yet, but that’s why we’re here.’ Matthew was speaking to both parents now. ‘Neither of you saw Hannah leaving this morning?’

‘No,’ Tessa said. ‘I assumed she was in bed, maybe with a bit of a hangover.’

‘What time were you up?’

She looked at her husband. ‘You were away before me for milking. I didn’t come down until about eight. It was a late night and a relief to have a bit of peace with all the visitors gone.’

‘Would she have come through the kitchen to leave the house?’

Tessa gave a little laugh. ‘The only way. The front door’s locked and I can’t remember the last time I saw the key. Everyone comes in through the back. The postie leaves any parcels in the porch at the front, but we have to go round to fetch them.’

So, Matthew thought, Hannah must have left between five and eight. They didn’t have an accurate time of death for Lottie, and the Armstrong family had arrived at Tide House at seven-thirty. In theory, Hannah was still a potential killer. They needed to find her.

‘Do you have anyone staying in your glamping pods?’

‘Only in one. An American couple. Geoff and Karen Kinzalow. The rest left yesterday afternoon as the festival was winding down. The Kinzalows are here for another three days.’

‘Thanks.’ Matthew moved towards the door. A collie was curled up in the little room beyond and looked up at him. ‘Someone might be along later to chat to you.’

Jake was on his feet and following. ‘Can I come? I want to help look for Hannah.’

‘Tide House is out of bounds for the moment. But please do look for Hannah on the farm. I’ll let you know when we find her.’

If we find her.

Matthew walked slowly back down the track and through the gate. Someone had torn down the MillsFest poster.

He’d started walking down the lane towards the smart white house when his phone buzzed. There was a text from Jen Rafferty.

We’ve found another body. Hannah Armstrong.

Chapter Four

MATTHEW COULD HEAR CATH ARMSTRONG SCREAMING before he reached the entrance to Tide House land. It was a primeval howl of pain and it reminded him of the long call of the herring gull: nerve-shattering, ear-splitting. He nodded to the constable at the gate and turned a corner to see a group of people, still standing, a frozen, horrified tableau, in the sunlit front garden. Jen Rafferty was holding the woman, and the husband was looking on, apparently helpless. There was, Matthew saw with relief, no sign of the young boys, though surely they would hear the sound even from inside the house? He wondered who was with them. Ross May wasn’t part of the group, so perhaps Jen had sent him in to be childminder. He wouldn’t enjoy that.

Jen saw Matthew approaching over Cath’s shoulder and gently prised herself away, passing the woman to her husband. Cath seemed not to notice the change in contact and clung to him as she had to the detective.

Jen gestured to Matthew to follow her and showed him to the beginning of the path that led down the combe to the beach. There was the noise of water – the gentle murmur of waves on the beach below and something closer and more vibrant. The shallow stream that he’d seen from the farm trickling here over a rocky bed, hidden by trees.

‘Cath found her,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t stopped screaming since.’

They walked in single file until they were halfway down the slope. A uniformed officer was just visible.

‘Hannah was in the farmhouse until early this morning.’ Matthew remembered how he’d almost phoned the parents to tell them that their daughter was safe. He couldn’t imagine how dreadful that would have been – to give them false hope just before the body was found.

They stayed on the path and looked across at the crime scene. The crime scene manager was already there. Matthew couldn’t see a body immediately. There was the skeleton of a building, not big enough even for a cottage. The old watermill, he realized, a round millstone lying on its side, covered in lichen. One collapsed wall, less than a metre high, seemed to be the focus of the professional’s attention.

‘I missed her on the way down to the beach,’ Jen said. ‘I was so focused on where I was putting my feet, worried about going arse over tit. Cath was walking ahead of me on the way back up and saw a shoe. Hannah’s shoe. She rushed over and picked it up before I could stop her. It’s been bagged now. From there, she saw the lass, just the other side of that stone wall.’ A pause. ‘I had to follow Cath, or she’d still be there with her daughter. Holding her in her arms. Screaming.’ Jen paused again for a moment. ‘We’ll have mucked up any footwear prints.’

‘I suspect there wouldn’t be much to see anyway.’ It was all dead leaves from last autumn and bare rock where the millstream had carved its way to the beach. No mud or bare soil. Little chance of footwear marks. ‘Did you get any idea about cause of death?’

‘Blunt force trauma, I think. There was a wound on the back of the head. But Sal Pengelly will make her way from the house soon.’ Jen turned her head until she was facing Matthew. ‘She reckons Lottie might have been killed in the same way, before being thrown into the pool. Though she could have slipped or tripped and hit her head on the way down.’

‘That would be something of a coincidence, don’t you think? We should work on the hypothesis that both women were bludgeoned to death, until we know anything different. Did they die at the same time, I wonder? Or did Hannah come back to find Lottie dead?’ Matthew was talking to himself, his voice so low that Jen could hardly hear.

The crime scene manager had wound a tape around the trees, marking a boundary. Matthew was pleased that he’d fastened it the right way up. He was irrationally upset when the blue writing on the crime tape was upside down. He moved so he could see Hannah’s body on the other side of the mill wall. She was as dark as her friend was fair. Less perfect. Less groomed. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. One shoe. A red espadrille. The other bagged by the CSIs. A matching little red cardigan had fallen open to reveal one shoulder. Were these the clothes she’d been wearing to the festival the day before? Jacob would know. She was slight and dark and was lying on her back. Matthew could clearly see the blood that had seeped into the ground. Around her, in the shadow of the wall, green shoots and a few remaining bluebells, well past their best, dying, crushed in places by Cath Armstrong and Jen Rafferty.

‘Poor lass.’ There was a catch in Jen’s throat. ‘Her whole life ahead of her.’

Jen had a daughter not much older who’d started at university in Bristol the year before.

‘I’ll have to go back to the farm and tell the Brennans.’ Matthew was thinking of Jacob, in love.

Jen looked surprised.

‘I promised I would,’ Matthew said, ‘and the son was her lover. They slept together last night.’

‘A suspect then?’

‘Oh, at this stage, isn’t everyone a suspect?’

He turned and walked up the steep path to Tide House. In the garden, Cath Armstrong had stopped screaming, and everything seemed unnaturally quiet.

Venn stopped on his way to the farm to phone Appleyard. He’d asked Jen to tell Oldham that the Armstrong girl was dead too, but he didn’t trust the superintendent to pass on the facts calmly to the Chief Constable. Oldham would want someone else to take responsibility, perhaps a team from Exeter or Plymouth. He’d never completely trusted Matthew. After all, Matthew was married to a man, he didn’t understand rugby and he didn’t drink beer, unless it was the fancy continental stuff. Besides, the superintendent would want someone from another region to blame if the case went tits up.

The Chief Constable answered immediately. ‘Any news?’ Oldham couldn’t yet have passed on the message.

‘We’ve found another body.’

‘The Armstrong girl?’

‘Yes, the mother found her. No doubt about the identity.’

A brief silence on the end of the line before Appleyard continued. ‘This’ll be a shitstorm then. Box 500 might want scrutiny in case there’s some political motivation.’

‘Box 500?’

‘MI5.’

Venn thought this was well outside his area of experience or expertise. Perhaps Oldham was right, and they should bring in someone from outside.

Appleyard seemed to guess what Matthew was thinking. ‘You’ll be SIO of course. But it’ll be a category A murder, so you’ll get all the resources you need.’ A pause. ‘Within reason.’

‘I’m not sure …’ Matthew admired Appleyard, but this would be, as he’d said, a shitshow, with intense media scrutiny and probable political interference.

‘You’re the best murder detective in the region. Since you’ve joined us, the cases you’ve worked have been sensitive and complex, and you’ve managed them all with dignity and competence. I need you to be lead on this. If you have any problems, you come straight to me. Superintendent Oldham can supervise anything else that comes up in the patch.’

‘Thank you.’ Because what else, Venn thought, could he say? At least it seemed he wouldn’t have Oldham on his back.

‘Are you happy with your existing team?’

‘Yes. Rafferty has already developed a good relationship with the family and May has matured a lot since he first joined us. Vicki Robb is invaluable back at base with the tech. Totally reliable.’

There was another moment of silence. ‘Perfect,’ Appleyard said at last. ‘Best to keep a small core team, I think. Less chance of leaks. And as I said, come straight to me. That’s the line of command.’

Bob and Tessa were still in the farmhouse kitchen. Breakfast had been eaten and cleared away, but they were drinking coffee and chatting quietly. When he knocked at the boot room door, Tessa shouted for him to come in.

‘You again!’ Her voice was cheerful. ‘There’s coffee in the pot if you’d like some. It’s the calm before the storm. We’ve got more campers arriving later today. You’ve found Hannah then?’

He didn’t answer, but the coffee smelled good. It was keeping warm on the edge of the Aga. Tessa passed him a mug, and he helped himself, before sitting with them, shaking his head at the offer of milk.

‘Where’s Jacob?’

‘Jake? Over at the glampers.’ She went on to explain. ‘We’ve got half a dozen glamping pods at the end of the meadow, close to the stream. Bob’s idea. For the people who like the notion of outdoor living but don’t fancy roughing it. You’d be surprised how much they pay …’

‘Of course. And Jake’s there?’

‘Yeah. Making himself useful, getting ready for the new arrivals. No point sitting here fretting, and besides, the Kinzalows needed more wood for the hot tub.’ Her voice was easy, relaxed.

Bob Brennan looked across the table at him. ‘Have you found the maid?’

‘She’s dead,’ Matthew said. They would hear soon enough from their son. ‘We found her body not far from the path down to the beach.’

Tessa let out a little cry. ‘Oh, my poor Jake! He loved the bones of her. I couldn’t see that it would work out, not long term – we were so different from her family – but I thought they’d have one glorious summer.’

Again, her voice triggered a memory of the Armstrongs’ accent, and Venn couldn’t help asking, ‘You came from the North East too. You have much in common?’

‘Aye, maybe. But my granddad was a pitman, and my dad was a plumber, working for the City Council. He was active in the union, but no, we didn’t exactly mix in the same circles …’

‘What happened to the girl?’ Bob Brennan was impatient. The easy manner of the ageing hippy had disappeared.

‘I can’t discuss any details at this point, you’ll understand.’

‘But not an accident?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘We’re treating it as suspicious.’

‘I’ll have to go and tell Jake,’ Tessa said. ‘We can’t have him finding out some other way.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brennan, I need to do that. But I’ll send him back to the house to you when I’ve spoken to him. You can look after him then.’

‘There’ll be no speaking to him.’ Tessa was talking to herself, the anxiety tight in her throat. ‘He’ll close down and hide away. He started out at uni, but he couldn’t cope, and when he came home, it was weeks before we could get him out of his room. We had to get him to the doctor in the end.’

So perhaps, Matthew thought, Jake Brennan had been an angst-ridden teenager after all, and his room hadn’t told the full story. ‘I’ll be gentle,’ he said, then looked directly at her. ‘I’ve suffered from depression in the past. And I dropped out of university too.’

She looked up, surprised, then nodded, giving him permission to go.

Matthew walked over the meadow towards the woodland that had been lost in the heat haze. The sun was high in the sky now and it was very hot. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Everything seemed very sharp and glaring. Here, in the middle of the large field, there was no shade. The line of trees around the holidaymakers’ structures gave that corner a patch of shadow and the air of an oasis. As he approached, he saw that each pod was different, and that they’d been built around an oxbow in the stream, which was wider and slower here, almost a river.

The buildings were eclectic, built in very different styles. There was a yurt and a shepherd’s hut, a gypsy caravan and a wooden building that was almost a treehouse. Each site had its own outdoor kitchen, open on one side, and its own smaller hut with a shower and composting toilet. Hammocks were strung between the trees, and there were wood-fired hot tubs next to the river. Matthew thought that Jonathan would love it, but it would still be too basic for him.

Jacob was outside the yurt, sitting with the Kinzalows on chairs that looked as if they were built from driftwood, surrounding an unlit fire pit. The Americans were middle-aged and cheerful. The woman had been watching Matthew crossing the field. The men had their backs to him and didn’t look round until she shouted out.

‘Look, we’ve got a visitor. It must be for you, Jake. We’re strangers here after all. Will you join us in a cold drink, sir? We have our creature comforts. Even a fridge.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll have to drag Jake away from you for a while.’ Then: ‘Are you staying long?’

‘Oh yes!’ Her voice was melodic, and she sang out the words. ‘We have another three days.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll take you up on that drink later. I’d be grateful if you could stick around until I’ve spoken to you.’

Geoff Kinzalow looked up sharply. ‘Oh? Why should we do that?’ Not exactly hostile but making it clear that he wouldn’t be ordered around by a stranger.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Venn said. ‘There’s been an incident, and you might be able to help us. We’ll try to get to you as quickly as we can.’

‘No worries at all,’ the woman sang out. ‘We were planning a lazy day.’

If she was curious, she gave no sign of it. Venn was grateful for that, but it seemed a little strange that the pair had no questions for him.

Jake waited until they were out of earshot of the Americans, then he put his hand on Matthew’s arm. He seemed desperate. ‘Where is she? Why did she go like that without telling me?’

‘Is there somewhere cooler we could talk?’ Because Matthew felt exposed here, the field scorched, almost white because of the drought, and in the late morning sun it felt as though the two of them were visible for miles. They could have been walking across a desert, and he sensed the eyes of the Americans on his back through a gap in the trees.

Jake turned sharply and led Matthew diagonally towards another edge of the field. The land sloped more steeply here and soon they were out of sight from the farmhouse. They came to a wide muddy patch, edged with reeds. In the middle of it there was some brown shallow water.

‘In the winter, it’s a pool, but it’s all dried out. Dad gets an environmental subsidy for keeping it wild. At the right time of year, it attracts wading birds. Some of the glampers and campers are birders, and Dad wants to attract them too.’

Jake walked on. He asked no more direct questions yet. Perhaps he didn’t want to hear the answers. He was making for a hide on the far side of the pond. He opened the door and stood aside for Matthew to walk in. Inside, there was a smell of wood and creosote. It was dark and cool. Jake opened a hinged flap, so the light came in and there was a view of a pair of lapwings on the grass close to the hide. The men sat on a bench and looked out at where the water had once been.

‘What’s happened?’ Jake’s voice was shrill. ‘Why didn’t you bring Hannah with you?’

‘Because she’s dead,’ Matthew said. He paused briefly. ‘We think she was murdered.’

For a moment Jake sat, frozen and silent, and then the tears ran down his cheeks, and he was sobbing like a small, confused boy. ‘You’re sure? You’re sure it’s her? I told you that she was with me all night.’

‘We’re sure. Her mother has confirmed it.’

‘I want to see her!’

Matthew shook his head. ‘That won’t be possible. Not now. You understand, it’s a crime scene.’ Another pause. ‘Shall we go back to the house?’

There was a violent shake of the head. ‘Not now. I can’t face my parents yet. They’ll be all sympathy and pity, but they didn’t really understand. They thought it was some sort of teenage fling. They were worried that she’d hurt me in the end and make me ill again.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about her and how you met?’

Matthew was still staring at the muddy patch ahead of him. He’d found it was always easier to talk if there was no eye contact, side by side in a car perhaps, or together staring into a fire. He and Jonathan had been sitting like that when his husband, who’d been adopted as a baby, had announced his intention to search for his birth mother. Matthew had been glad Jonathan hadn’t seen his reaction, his distress. Matthew still wasn’t sure why he was so upset by the idea. Perhaps because his present happiness seemed so fragile.

He felt a stab of guilt. How could he be thinking about something so personal when he should be focused on work, on this young man’s pain?

The lapwings flew off and Jake started to speak.

‘We met properly last year. The run-up to Christmas. There’s a public footpath across Long Meadow to this hide. Anyone can use it. I used to escape to sit in here if nobody else was about. Trying to sort myself out. I’d had a kind of breakdown at university. It was all too much. A new place and all those people and I felt like a failure because I couldn’t keep up with the work. I only lasted a couple of months and then came running back here.’

‘There are worse places to run back to.’

‘I’m not sure why I felt the need to go in the first place,’ Jake muttered. ‘There was no pressure from Mum and Dad. You’ve met them. They’re not the type to get stressed about stuff like that.’

There was a moment of silence, then a bird started singing from the reedbed. Matthew couldn’t see it and didn’t recognize the call.

‘I was in here early in the morning,’ Jake said. ‘It was a bit frosty. We don’t get much frost this close to the coast. The pond was full then and there was a layer of mist across the top of it, so it looked as if it was a pot steaming. Then the door opened. I got up to go, expecting some old guy with binoculars, but it was Hannah. She was wearing a red jacket, and her nose was red too – she had a cold and couldn’t stop wiping it. I asked her where she’d come from. There aren’t many visitors staying in Millscombe in the winter, and I knew she wasn’t local. She told me she was at Tide House. That put me off right away. You know, a fancy politician, buying the place and doing it all up, just to spend a few weeks there when the family wanted a break from London.’

There was another pause. The bird was still singing.

‘But she started asking questions,’ Jake went on. ‘About the farm, and the village, and she seemed all right, you know. Not posh. Hard to come across as posh, isn’t it, when your nose is dripping snot, and you can’t stop coughing? I found myself talking to her. I told her about uni and how I’d hated it, and she told me about being bullied at her old school and not liking the new one much better, because all the kids were so confident, but she’d made a few friends at last.’

You fell for her even then.

Jake continued talking. ‘I’d taken on a few shifts at the pub. They get busy over Christmas with locals coming out to celebrate. There’s a limited menu, but the food’s still good. The family came in that night for a meal, and when I saw them all together, I thought I had no chance. When I got to know them better, I thought they were okay. Especially Cath. But that night at first, they just looked like another entitled bunch of incomers. I wasn’t even sure that Hannah would recognize me. I was just the hired help.’

‘But she did?’

‘Yes.’ His face lit up. ‘She introduced me to the rest of them. “This is Jake from the farm. I met him this morning when I was out walking.” And Cath asked me if I’d like to call in for coffee the next day. “It’ll be lovely for Hannah to make some friends of her own age in the village.” So that’s how it started.’

‘The family must have gone home after Christmas.’

‘Yes, but we emailed.’ Jake smiled. ‘Long emails, getting to know each other. It’s odd. We never phoned or did FaceTime or Zoom. All words. Somehow, I found it easier to be honest, just writing things down.’

Matthew wasn’t convinced by that. Jake might have thought they were being honest, but weren’t these stories? Making a narrative so they could both show themselves in the best possible light. They wouldn’t be lying exactly, but they would be creative.

‘Would you let me see the emails?’ Matthew asked. ‘It might help me understand her better.’

Jake paused. He seemed awkward. ‘Some of them are a bit personal, but yeah, anything that helps.’

‘Was this weekend the first time you saw Hannah since Christmas?’

‘No. The whole family came again at Easter. They invited me to supper on the Saturday, and I helped Hannah to lay out an egg hunt for Gilbert and Alex.’

‘They’re Hannah’s brothers?’

Jake nodded. ‘Then when the rest of them went back, Hannah stayed for a few days and came to the farm for some of her meals. In the end, she was pretty well living with us. I drove her to Tiverton to catch her train home before school started again.’

‘Your parents didn’t mind Hannah spending so much time with you?’

‘No! They liked her and they could see she made me happy.’

‘And her parents?’

‘They were cool. They said she had her own life to lead, and they understood it would be easier here than in London with all the media around Paul.’ He paused. ‘She was seventeen, after all. All legal.’

‘You have no idea why Hannah ran back to Tide House so early this morning? No argument? Nothing troubling her?’

Jake shook his head. ‘She knew her parents were coming. Perhaps that was it. She wouldn’t trust Lottie to tidy the place, and she’d want to be there before they all turned up.’ He paused again. ‘We were chilled, you know. We had plans. She’d worked so hard to get the grades she needed to get into Exeter. The closest place to here. As soon as she got her degree she was going to move back. Work with me on the farm. She was doing environmental science, and we were going to make every inch of it more sustainable.’ He started sobbing again.

Matthew stood up. ‘We should go back. Your parents will be anxious about you. Someone will call in later to talk to you all in more detail about the festival.’

They walked back across the meadow. Two figures each deep in thoughts of their own.

Chapter Five

JEN RAFFERTY WAS FEELING OVERWHELMED. A double murder was unusual – and this was surely what it would turn out to be – but two young lasses being killed in a fancy house with high-profile parents seemed unreal. She’d started work as a detective in Liverpool. There’d been shootings and knifings and a mindless gang culture, wrapped around money and drugs. Hard and gritty and soul-destroying. This seemed even more immoral to her. Murder dressed up in smart clothes, talked about in educated voices. Paul Armstrong had been on his phone for most of the morning. She’d overheard him talking to some media adviser, as if all that mattered were the optics.

Then Matthew had disappeared, leaving her to deal with the Armstrong family on top of the chaos of an investigation. Cath falling apart. Two young boys hurt and confused. Paul Armstrong seeming to hide any real feelings by worrying about what the press would make of it. Trying to devise a story to explain a tragedy. Finding it easier to think about work than about his wife and his daughter, perhaps. That might be one explanation. If she was feeling charitable.

She was standing on the terrace, hoping to arrange her thoughts. Lottie’s body had already been taken to the mortuary and the swimming pool was clear and still, waiting for the search team to drain it and filter the water. Jen could see the girl’s mobile, lying on the bottom. Usually, much of the investigation by the forensic pathologist would take place at the scene, but Lottie had already been moved by the family, and anyway, now there was another body to consider.

Armstrong had been standing in the shade thrown by the house, talking again on his phone. He switched it off and came up to her.

‘What do you think, Sergeant? Did this start out as a burglary? Did the girls disturb someone?’ She could understand why people liked him. He spoke as if he genuinely wanted her opinion, even though she suspected that he was hoping to spin a story to throw to the press.

‘Too early to say, sir.’ She paused. ‘Is there somewhere you and your wife could go with the children? It can’t be easy for them to be here with everything that’s going on around them.’

And it’s a bloody nightmare for us.

‘Do you think we should go back to London? Cath wouldn’t hear of it. It was hard enough to keep her away from Hannah’s body. You saw that.’

‘Perhaps we could find you a hotel room nearby?’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘That might work.’

‘Would you like me to look into it for you?’

‘No, someone in my office will sort it out.’ Armstrong turned away from her, back to the shade and his phone as if that were some kind of lifeline, hooking him back to a world where he felt comfortable, where his daughter was still alive.

Matthew appeared then, walking through the cordon on the gate. He’d caught the sun on his forehead, and that made him look hot and a little feverish. He paused for a moment, looking over the garden, checking out Paul Armstrong, then he joined her.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?’

‘The CSIs are in the house, though they’re keeping out of the boys’ room for a while. Ross is still there with the kids.’ Jen shrugged. ‘They’d already gone up before Lottie’s body was found, so it was compromised anyway. Cath thought they might have a nap. There are lots of toys and a smart telly to keep them entertained and they’ll be knackered after the overnight drive.’ A pause. ‘If you don’t mind another walk, we could go to the beach. We’re not letting anyone go down the footpath close to the body. We’ll have the place to ourselves.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sounds good.’

They sat where she’d found Cath earlier in the morning, but they perched on a large flat rock rather than the sand. Venn wasn’t a sand kind of person. This was the place where the women had chatted while there was still hope that Hannah Armstrong was alive. There was a smell of seaweed and Lundy was very big on the horizon. It must be a trick of the light, but it seemed to have grown since she was last here.

It was midday. It occurred to Jen that they’d have to think about feeding the troops. The boring details that could swamp an investigation clicked through her mind, like old-fashioned slides into a projector’s carousel. Her father had kept all the family holiday photos like that and bored the relatives with a show every Christmas.

‘I’ve suggested to Paul Armstrong that the family find a hotel to stay in. Somewhere nearby. Their boys can only stay cooped up for so long, even with Ross to entertain them, and Cath is falling apart.’

‘Good plan.’ But the boss seemed preoccupied.

‘How was the boyfriend?’

‘He seems shattered. He really appears to have loved her. They were planning their life together. She was going to do environmental science at Exeter Uni, then they were planning to run the farm together, turning it into an ecological paradise.’ A pause. ‘Teenage dreams maybe, but real enough to them.’

Jen smiled, but this was all a bit close to home. She’d married the first love of her life, expecting that her dreams of wedded bliss would all come true. Her ex had turned out to be a controlling bastard, and she’d ended up leaving home with two young kids. A single mother in a strange place fighting to do well at work and to bring up her family without any major domestic disasters. Feeling a failure at both. Now she was still single, and soon both the kids would be independent, and she’d be alone. She was trying to recapture the freedom of the youth she’d never had. Maybe trying too hard. She was almost middle-aged after all. It was time she started behaving like a grown-up.

‘You don’t see him as a suspect?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘Not at the moment, but we can’t rule anything out, can we?’

‘Hannah’s death makes more sense to me than Lottie’s.’ Jen had been worrying at this since they’d found the second body. ‘Hannah at least had some links to the community here. Everyone in the district would know that the Armstrong family owned the house. That would have caused resentment and there’d have been connections. But Lottie had never been here before. She was a stranger. I’m wondering if Hannah was killed first, and Lottie got in the way.’

‘It’s possible. We’ll have to check out the political angle. Appleyard will be on top of that. Armstrong said he’d received threats. Nothing specific, but we know there are crazies out there, looking for revenge or celebrity.’

‘Would they target the daughter, not the man himself?’ Jen found some kind of terrorist killing hard to imagine, here in North Devon.

Matthew shrugged. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but who knows? The digital team will get on to it. Appleyard thought the secret services might have intelligence about that side of it too.’ He paused. ‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Lottie’s phone was in the pool. It must have gone into the water with her. No sign of Hannah’s, though, which seems a bit odd. You know teenagers and their phones.’

‘She might have dropped it while she was running. If she was running away from the potential killer. Get the search team to look out for it as a priority. It might help with timings.’

‘Of course.’ Jen thought the boss was telling his grandmother to suck eggs. ‘What did you find out at the farm?’

‘Both girls were at the festival,’ Matthew said. ‘Lottie left early. Perhaps she’d met someone and brought him back here, knowing they’d have the place to themselves. If she was aware that Hannah would be staying at the farm with Jake.’

‘So, we need to track down everyone who was at the festival? Is that possible?’

‘Tickets were sold online, so the Brennans should have a record. I assume there was some sort of security, a ticket check at the entrance. There might have been a way to gatecrash, by crossing the fields at the back of the farm, but it wouldn’t have been easy. I’ve checked the map. It would be a six-mile walk from the nearest road coming in from that direction, and this wasn’t the sort of festival that would attract the wild young things. Mostly folk. A bit of jazz apparently. Nobody famous. All local bands.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it. Was Jake the organizer?’

Matthew shook his head and smiled. ‘No, the father was behind the whole thing. I only know what was going on because Jonathan went with some of his Woodyard friends. I’ll get a full description tonight.’ He paused. ‘Once the Armstrongs have left Tide House, could you and Ross go back to the farm? Take a statement from each member of the family. Get as much info as you can about the weekend. An American couple is still camping in one of the luxury tents. I can’t see them as suspects at all, but they’re potential witnesses.’

She nodded. ‘Before that, I thought I’d go to the pub. See if I can persuade them to make up a bunch of sandwiches for the guys. Buy a load of soft drinks.’

‘Check what they’re charging first! We might be better sending someone back to Aldi in Barnstaple. You know what our budget is like this year.’

She grinned. ‘I’ll appeal to their better nature. See if we can get a discount for bulk buying.’

‘While you’re there, have a bit of a background chat. Encourage a gossip. Find out what the locals really thought about Armstrong and the family. Apparently, Jake worked behind the bar there occasionally, so they could have a useful take on him too.’

‘Might be worth paying a bit over the odds on the butties then? For inside info.’ She started back up the path, then turned back. ‘How much do I tell them?’

Matthew took a little time to answer. ‘Say there’s been a family tragedy. An unexplained death that we have to investigate, and we’ll be here for a while. They’ll have seen all the vehicles in the lane, so they’ll know something’s happened. It’ll be all over the media tonight anyway. Even if the Brennans haven’t spread the word, it’ll get out.’

For a moment, she thought he was planning to stay where he was, staring out to sea, but he got to his feet and followed her up the path, past the old watermill where the girl’s body still lay, with its guardian officer, back into the garden and the glaring sunshine.

Chapter Six

MATTHEW WATCHED JEN DISAPPEAR UP THE lane towards the pub. She had hair the same shade of red as autumn leaves, and he could still see the colour of it when she hit the shadow thrown by the high hedges, bent by the westerly winds.

On the terrace, Paul Armstrong had just finished a phone call. Matthew went up to him and held out his hand.

‘Mr Armstrong, we chatted earlier, but I didn’t properly introduce myself. Matthew Venn. I’ll be senior investigating officer here in North Devon. I’m so sorry about Hannah’s death. We’ll do everything we can to find out what happened.’

Simple words, but Armstrong seemed suddenly moved by them. Matthew thought the man had been able to push away the reality of Hannah’s murder by managing detail, anchoring himself in his old working life. Now, the use of his daughter’s name broke through the pretence. His eyes became unfocused, and he looked as if he might faint. He’d been awake for most of the night and fighting to keep calm all morning. He must be exhausted.

‘Shall we sit down? Would you like some water?’

Matthew took his arm and led him around the house to where the terrace was wider and contained a picnic table and chairs. The chairs were wicker with padded cushions, comfortable, and there was an umbrella to keep off the sun.

‘Yes, water would be great. Thanks.’

There was a small outside bar with a sink, and glasses. This would be where the family would party, Matthew supposed. Would they invite locals to join them? Or only their grand friends from London? The tap water was surprisingly cool. He filled two glasses and took them back to the table. Armstrong was wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Venn’s colleagues were out of sight now, but the murmur of their voices could still be heard in the distance. They seemed a long way off.

‘Where’s your wife?’

‘She’s up with the boys. She wanted to tell them. They must be so confused.’ He looked up at Matthew. ‘She’s calmer now. Of course, she found Hannah’s body. I haven’t been allowed to see her yet, so until now, it hasn’t seemed real. Just another crisis to manage.’

Matthew took a sip of water. ‘Jen, Sergeant Rafferty, tells me you’re hoping to move into a hotel.’

The man nodded. ‘That’s all sorted. We can move in this afternoon.’ He paused. ‘Your sergeant was very kind to my wife. Please thank her.’

‘I will.’ Matthew wondered if this was a politician’s politeness, a habit, like thanking waiters and shop assistants to make a good impression as a decent man. All the same, it was welcome. It didn’t happen often enough. ‘Are you up for a few questions?’

‘Of course.’ Armstrong had completely recovered his composure now.

‘When did you last hear from Hannah?’

‘Cath got a text early morning on Friday to say they’d arrived safely.’ There was a moment’s silence. In the background one of the invisible officers laughed. Venn frowned but Armstrong seemed not to notice. ‘We tried phoning this morning to say that we were nearly there and to tell them to stick the kettle on, but there was no reply.’ He looked across at Venn. ‘Was she already dead then?’

‘We don’t have a time of death. It’s hard to be accurate about these things. We think she was still alive at around five o’clock this morning.’

‘We were almost here by then! We stopped in the services in Bridgwater for coffee and because Gil needed the loo. If we’d carried on driving straight down, we might have got here in time to save her.’

‘Really.’ Matthew’s voice was very quiet, very gentle. ‘You can’t think like that. Every bereaved family is swamped by what ifs. If you let it, that way of thinking will drive you crazy.’

‘I suppose it would.’

‘Your daughter did have a phone then? We didn’t find one with her.’

Armstrong gave a tight little laugh. ‘Of course! We all have mobiles now. There’s no escape from them. Hannah’s was distinctive. It had a pink cover, and she’d drawn all over it, and plastered it with stickers. Rainbows and flowers. Even when she got a new phone, she kept the cover.’

‘Did Hannah say anything about their plans for the weekend?’

‘I’m not sure. Cath might know more …’ Armstrong looked up. ‘I wasn’t great about family stuff. Too wrapped up in work. Politics becomes a kind of addiction. Nothing else matters …’ He broke off and Matthew could see that there were tears in his eyes again. ‘Until something like this happens.’

The mood was suddenly broken by the sound of a child’s voice, calling for his father, and Cath Armstrong and two small boys appeared round the corner of the house and onto the terrace. One of the boys ran towards the politician, who took him in his arms.

The woman looked entirely drained. Of colour, energy, emotion. ‘We’re ready to go when you are.’ The words were directed at her husband.

Matthew didn’t know much about children. He thought Gilbert and Alex were school age, but one of them was still very young. They could be five and seven. They wore shorts and T-shirts in bright colours, suitable for a holiday but incongruous here when the parents were mourning.

‘Have you got everything?’ the man asked. His voice was falsely cheerful in front of the boys. He’d be used to keeping up appearances.

‘Most of it’s still in the car.’

‘We’ll go and find our hotel then.’ He turned to Matthew. ‘We’re in the Victoria in Torr. You can get us there if you need us. That is okay with you, Inspector?’

‘Of course.’

‘You will keep in touch? When you know anything?’ The mask slipped briefly, and the voice croaked.

‘We’ll be in touch regularly with an update. Sergeant Rafferty will be your main source of contact. I know your wife has already spoken with her and I don’t want to bring in a stranger.’

After all, Appleyard had said to keep the team small to avoid leaks. So, Jen can act as family liaison.

Venn wanted someone who he could trust on the job.

The politician nodded. He got to his feet, carrying the smallest boy still in his arms, and the family disappeared around the house towards the pool and the drive. Venn stayed where he was until he heard the car driving away.

Ross May had come out of the house and was waiting when Matthew arrived there. The pool was in full sunlight now, and the reflection was so bright that he had to squint. Ross was local, the protégé of Oldham, Venn’s boss, still cocky but learning a bit of patience. Learning, too, the realization that he wasn’t always right. Venn thought Ross would have hated being locked up in a room with a couple of small boys, would see it almost as beneath him, an insult, but he seemed relaxed.

‘They were nice kids.’

‘Did they say anything useful about the family?’ There would be nothing that could be used officially, but at this stage Matthew just wanted to understand the Armstrongs better. He’d been the only, beloved child of religious parents. It had hardly been a normal upbringing. He was feeling out of his depth.

Ross shook his head. ‘They chatted a lot, but about their friends, school. At first, they weren’t really worried about Hannah, because their mum told them she must have gone for a walk, and she’d be back soon. They hadn’t taken in the fact that Lottie was dead. Their parents sent them straight into the house when they saw the body.’

Ross paused for a moment, before continuing. ‘The boys realized something was going on when all the uniforms arrived. Then they were quite excited, looking out of the window, full of questions. I told them that we needed help to find Hannah.’ He looked across at Venn. ‘That was when Alex, the oldest, said, “Like that time she went missing at home.” I asked when that was, but kids that age don’t really have much idea of time, do they?’

‘I suppose not. Interesting, though. Well done.’ Matthew thought that the children would never have talked to him. He had a presence that intimidated, even when he tried to be approachable.

‘Then the mother came in and told them that Hannah was dead. I don’t think Gilbert, the little one, understood what she meant, but Alex started crying.’ A pause. ‘It’s too much for anyone to take in, isn’t it? But she was probably right to be honest with them.’

Matthew thought he’d never seen Ross so moved or sympathetic, and perhaps the constable felt the need for an explanation because he added, ‘We’re trying for a family, Mel and me.’

Matthew didn’t know how to respond to that. Was it the moment for congratulations? In the end, he said, ‘You’ll be great parents,’ meaning it. It seemed to be the right thing to have said. Ross glowed.

‘Jen’s gone to the pub to see if they can provide some takeaway food we can bring down for lunch. When that’s all sorted, can you go with her to the farm and take statements from the family there? The son was Hannah’s boyfriend. Treat him carefully. He’s shattered. His father ran the music festival that took place there over the weekend. Do they know why Lottie left early yesterday evening? Did she come back to Tide House with anyone? There’s an American couple in one of the glamping pods too. They were there all weekend so it would be worth talking to them.’

Ross nodded. ‘Sure.’ No questioning of Venn’s judgement or suggestions for a different approach. Matthew thought that potential parenthood seemed to be suiting him already, making him more mellow. Less pushy. He much preferred this new, more mature version of Ross.

Chapter Seven

ALTHOUGH IT WAS LUNCHTIME, THE FISHERMAN’S Arms was almost empty. A family sat in the garden, beer for the parents and Coke for the kids. A couple of packets of crisps open on the table. The father looked up as Jen approached.

‘They don’t do food on a Monday. Apparently, they can’t find the staff.’ He had a Midlands accent; his voice was whining and complaining. A child denied a treat. ‘I couldn’t see anything about that on the website.’

Jen didn’t respond and walked on into the pub. Inside, it felt suddenly cool, shadowy. It took her eyes a moment to adjust after the glare of the midday sunshine. A young man stood behind the bar. A couple of men, elderly and in working clothes, sat in one corner but otherwise there were no customers. It seemed that tourists would only come here to eat, and, unlike the man outside, most of them had managed to source the information about the availability of food.

‘Can I speak to the manager?’

The lad behind the bar was wearing a polo shirt with a picture of a leaping fish on it – the logo of the pub. He was suntanned and muscular. A surfer’s vibe.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s Mag and Jim’s day off.’ A pause then an explanation. ‘They worked all weekend at the festival. We ran the beer tent.’

The elderly man in the corner shouted across. ‘They’re upstairs, though. I saw their Volvo outside. You’re the police, aren’t you? We saw all those cars going up the lane to Tide House,’ he added, not hiding his curiosity. ‘What’s going on down there then?’

Jen ignored that question and directed her own to the barman. ‘Are they upstairs? If so, give them a shout, will you?’ Then, when the lad made no movement, she nodded towards the corner of the room. ‘He’s right. I am police. Detective Sergeant Rafferty.’

The barman nodded and walked away. She heard him muttering into his phone, before he reappeared behind the bar.

‘They said to go on up. It’s this way.’ He led her out of the bar and back into the sunshine. The family had driven away, leaving the glasses, empty crisp packets and a mound of sweet wrappers they must have brought with them on the table. There was a narrow stone staircase at the side of the building leading to a blue door, which looked as if it had been freshly painted. The lad tapped and then squeezed past Jen to return to the garden. He scooped up the glasses and litter and went back inside.

The door opened to reveal a woman in a purple maxi dress. She might have been in her fifties, but she was wearing her age well. Her hair was dyed a vibrant blonde that made no pretence at reality and although the dress was sleeveless, there was no loose flesh on her arms or round her neck. Jen had started to notice these things. She was getting more and more grey hairs too and had begun to hide them.

‘Come along in.’ The voice was local. The woman turned and Jen followed her into a big open-plan living room, with a fancy stainless-steel kitchen at one end. The woman must have seen Jen staring at it. ‘I know, you’d have thought Jim would have had enough of cooking at work, but he loves it … We spent more on that part of the room than the rest of the conversion. He’s just getting dressed, he’ll be along in a minute. We had a heavy weekend.’

‘What a lovely place!’ Jen couldn’t help herself. There was a wood burner at the opposite end to the kitchen, a comfortable sofa, and three windows looking away from the car park and into the woodland, with a glimpse of the sea in the distance. Another looked out at the car park and the fields beyond. Everything was tastefully decorated in muted greens and blues.

‘The pub used to do accommodation, but we decided to concentrate on the food, and knocked through the rooms to make ourselves a flat.’ The woman sat and gestured for Jen to do the same. ‘I’m Marigold Hooper, known to everyone as Mag. What’s this about then? Daniel said you were police.’

Jen paused for a moment. ‘We’re investigating two unexplained deaths at Tide House.’ She was about to continue, but Mag interrupted.

‘Not Cath and Paul?’ She sounded shocked, upset. It seemed to Jen that these were more than customers.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t go into details just now. You’ll understand.’ She thought that Mag was close to tears and added, ‘But no, Cath and Paul are okay. Thing is, we’ve got a whole team working the scene and I need to feed them. Some of them have been there since very early this morning. I wondered if you’d be able to provide some sandwiches, crisps? We have a tight budget, but we’d be happy to pay …’

‘No need for that.’ Mag was resolute. ‘Always happy to help out and it’s quiet as the grave here on a Monday lunchtime. I’ll get Daniel to make a start, and Jim, my husband, will join him when he’s properly awake.’

As if he’d heard his name, a large man came through a door next to the kitchen. He had a round bald head and a round stomach. Tats on one arm, running up towards his neck. He wore cut-off jeans, a giant shirt and flip-flops.

Jen introduced herself and gave the same brief explanation of her presence. ‘Your wife said you might be able to help feed the team I have working at Tide House.’

The man looked at his wife. Jen could tell he wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of feeding a team of cops. For free.

‘I’ll just get Daniel to start prepping. I said you’d go and join him in a bit.’ Mag picked up her phone and texted.

‘Daniel’s your barman?’ Jen said. ‘The lad downstairs?’

‘Yeah. He’s seasonal staff. A student.’ Mag turned to her husband, who still hadn’t moved, irritation showing. ‘It is okay to help them with a bit of lunch?’

‘Sure.’ The tone was pure sarcasm. He paused for a beat. ‘What exactly is going on down there?’

‘Two people are dead,’ Jen said. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that.’

‘And that’s tragedy enough! We can help, can’t we, Jim?’ Mag shot her husband a look. Jen couldn’t quite work out what she was trying to tell him. Probably that it was a good plan to co-operate with the police. To pull back on the sarcasm? She wondered if either of them had a record.

Mag turned back to Jen. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? I was just about to make some coffee. It won’t take them long to sort out a packed lunch for your guys. How many of them are there?’

‘About a dozen.’ Jen tried to sound apologetic.

‘No problem!’ Mag looked across at her husband. ‘You okay to help Dan in the kitchen? Give us a shout when you’re done.’ It wasn’t a question but a form of dismissal.

Her husband nodded and disappeared through the door to the stone stairs. Jen thought he would usually do what he was told by his wife. They came across as an ill-matched pair. Mag seemed to think an explanation was in order. ‘Take no notice of Jim. He only really relaxes when he’s in the kitchen and then he’s a miracle worker.’

The woman went to the hob and loaded an old-fashioned Italian coffee maker. The smell filled the room. Jen sat on one of the sofas and looked out of the window at the view over the combe. This felt like an escape from the investigation, and she experienced a moment of guilt.

‘How well do you know Paul and Cath Armstrong?’

‘They’re regulars at the pub.’ Mag pulled a couple of blue mugs from a shelf. ‘Well, when they’re here. They come for food the first night whenever they arrive at Tide House. It saves them cooking. And they’re neighbours, aren’t they? Not every second homeowner makes the effort to know the locals. They’re minted enough to load up their car with a Harrods hamper and a case of booze, but they don’t. Bob Brennan has a bit of a farm shop, and I know they buy from him too.’

‘Have they ever had you down to Tide House?’

Mag gave a little laugh. ‘Not to eat. I don’t think Cath knows much about cooking and according to her, Paul doesn’t do much except ruin a good steak on the barbecue, but I’ve been down for coffee or drinks quite a few times.’

‘And your husband? Was he invited too?’

Mag frowned. ‘Of course! He’s just mostly tied up here.’ She must have realized that sounded like an excuse, because she continued. ‘Jim’s born and bred Devon. He doesn’t take kindly to wealthy outsiders buying up houses that could provide homes for local workers. I’m Cornish. We’ve been overrun by tourists for decades, so I guess I’m used to it.’

Jen tucked away that bit of information to pass on to Venn. ‘What do you make of the Armstrongs? As a family?’

‘I like them. The boys are poppets and Hannah’s a bit shy, but good company when she feels comfortable. I don’t know Paul so well. He’s usually tied to his phone or in his office in the house, even when he’s supposed to be on holiday, but he’s a minister now, isn’t he? You’d expect him to be busy. But he’s friendly. You’d think a politician would be pompous, but he’s got a word for everyone.’

Jen thought that sounded just like a politician, but she let Mag continue. ‘Cath’s become more like a friend. She pops in sometimes and if I’m not behind the bar, I’ll bring her up here so we can chat.’

She poured the coffee and joined Jen at the sofa.

‘What do you chat about?’

‘Oh, nothing serious. The kids. We were never able to have any ourselves …’ Mag glanced away, so Jen couldn’t tell how much she regretted the absence of a family. ‘But I was a social worker – I specialized in fostering and adoption – so she treats me as some sort of expert.’

‘She’s worried about her children?’ Jen hoped she sounded as if she was just chatting too.

‘Not the boys. They’re still at primary school and no bother at all. Hannah’s found it quite hard to make friends and feels herself a bit of an outsider. I said to Cath, I’ve never met a teenage girl who doesn’t feel that she can’t fit in. They all think they’re too fat, or too skinny, or they don’t listen to the right music. Lockdown didn’t help.’

‘Do you still work with children?’

‘Oh, my dear, no! I gave all that up when we took over this place. There’s no time for anything else at all. Besides, Jim sees the customers as a necessary evil to allow him to cook. I look after the front of house.’

‘Sounds like the perfect partnership.’

Mag gave a little laugh. ‘Ah, maybe. It works for us.’

‘What do the other locals make of them taking over Tide House, turning it into a holiday home?’

‘There’s some resentment, but like I say to Jim, it’s not as if most of the workers round here could have afforded it. You can’t imagine anyone in hospitality or a farmworker having the cash to do it up. There’s more a feeling of jealousy, I think, because it’s a bloody gorgeous house and you get that kind of envy everywhere, don’t you?’

‘I hear you were at MillsFest over the weekend,’ Jen said. ‘How did that go?’

‘Yeah, we were. Bob Brennan asked us to set up a beer tent. Jim wasn’t sure at first. It took us away from the pub, didn’t it, and Saturdays are busy. And like I said, he’s happier in a kitchen than behind a bar. We agreed in the end, though. More to be neighbourly than anything else. You know, support another local business. And it worked out okay. A lovely, chilled weekend. Daniel took over the beer tent on the Sunday, so we could come back here to do Sunday lunches. We couldn’t give those up. People book weeks in advance for Jim’s roasts, even in this weather.’ Mag set her mug carefully on a coaster on the coffee table that looked as if it had been sculpted from a huge piece of driftwood, her voice suddenly serious. ‘Look, what has gone on over there at Tide House? We’ll find out soon enough. A place like this, there aren’t any secrets for long.’

Jen supposed Mag was right, and besides, she hoped for more information from the woman.

‘Hannah Armstrong is dead,’ she said. ‘Along with her friend Lottie.’

‘Oh no!’ The woman sat for a moment, with her eyes closed as if that might shut out the reality. ‘Poor, poor maids. I should go and see Cath. She’s got no family nearby and no real friends.’ Mag sounded genuinely horrified.

‘The family have moved into a hotel, and I suspect they want to be on their own for a bit. You might text Cath, though, just in case she needs someone to talk to.’ Jen paused. ‘Did you see the girls at the festival?’

‘I saw Hannah. She was with Jake. He’s a lovely lad. He’ll be devastated. I think she was his first real love according to his mother.’

‘There was the other girl, Lottie. You didn’t notice her?’

Mag hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. ‘But I wouldn’t. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but there was enough going on to keep us busy.’ She paused again and it occurred to Jen that the woman might know more about Lottie than she was letting on.

‘Jake used to work for you, didn’t he?’

‘He still helps out sometimes, when we’re short-handed.’

‘We think the girls died early this morning. Did you hear anything? A car going down the lane towards Tide House?’

Mag gave a little laugh. ‘I didn’t hear a thing! We’d done a full Saturday at the festival, then Sunday lunches here, and the Brennans invited us across to the farm for a bit of a party in the evening. We close early on a Sunday, once lunch service is over, and we left Daniel to clear up the festival bar. It was all winding down early evening. One of the musicians had stayed on when the punters went home, and that American couple who were glamping with them came along to the farm too. It was a lovely night. Music and far too much to drink. Bob booted us out at midnight. He said he had to be up for the cows. I slept like a log and was only waking up just now when Daniel phoned to say you were here.’

‘So, you must be good friends with the Brennans?’

Mag took a while to think about that. ‘Not what you’d call close. We run to different time schedules, don’t we? They’re up at the crack of dawn for the beasts and we’re still clearing up past midnight. We’ve been here for a few years, but that was the first time we’d socialized properly.’

Jen wondered if that was too much information. It would be worth checking out the relationship between the couples.

‘Were Hannah and Jake there that evening?’

‘Early on. They disappeared up to his room after a while. I’m sure they had far more fun there than staying with us oldies.’

‘But Hannah’s friend Lottie wasn’t at the after-party?’

Mag shook her head. ‘It was just the Brennans, the Americans, the musician and us. And the youngsters early on.’

Jen heard heavy footsteps on the steps and the landlord appeared. ‘It’s all boxed up and I’ve told Daniel to give you a hand with it.’ He went quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You’ve got all you want here?’ His voice was not quite rude, but it was nowhere near as friendly as his wife’s. Maybe it was the result of a hangover. Maybe.

Chapter Eight

MAG FOLLOWED JEN TO THE DOOR.

‘I’ll come down with you and keep an eye on the bar, while Daniel helps you take the stuff to Tide House.’

Another family was sitting at a table in the sun. Mag waved to them. Jen thought she’d be a brilliant landlady, friendly. It would take the same skill set perhaps as social work.

There were two cardboard boxes on a table just inside the pub, one filled with sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, a pile of crisps on top, and the other with cans of Coke and lemonade.

‘That one will be heavy,’ Mag said. ‘Let Daniel carry that. He’s a strong boy, works out at the gym.’

‘Are you sure I can’t pay?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Just find the bastards that did this.’

The two old men were still in the corner, staring and listening to every word.

They turned down the lane towards Tide House and walked past the entrance to the farm. Daniel had headphones on, listening to his music. Mag had been right: he carried the heavy box without any effort. Jen had thought Daniel would have been as curious as the elderly drinkers about the drama on his doorstep, that he’d have questions about what had happened to the Armstrongs, but he seemed lost in his own world. Then she thought about Ben, her son. He had no curiosity at all about other people’s business. His life was lived mostly second-hand via his devices. Halfway down the track, Jen nudged the barman to take off the headphones.

‘Hey, mate, I could do with a word.’

He slipped them from his ears so they hung round his neck.

‘Are you local?’ They were approaching Tide House. There was intermittent shade. She could hear distant voices from the team at the house.

‘I live in Torr. My parents bought a place there during lockdown. They have their own business and can work from home. We’re all into surfing, and they bought the place on impulse. A kind of Covid cabin fever drove them to scroll through all the property websites. I thought it was crazy.’

Rich then. Homes in Torr didn’t come cheap. They might not be as pricey as some of the pretty surfing villages, but you’d still need a few bob.

Jen was curious. ‘Are they settling in?’

‘Yeah.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘Most of their friends are like them. Freelancers who’ve moved from the city. Torr’s like a little bougie bit of London or Bristol but close to good beaches.’

‘What about you?’

‘Yeah, it’s okay.’ He seemed about to replace the headphones when he realized that she was waiting for more. ‘I’m at uni. Cambridge. I work at the Fisherman’s during vacations. My parents expect it. They say I should support myself during the holidays and good surf gear costs a fortune.’ He grimaced as though the expectation was unreasonable.

‘You worked at MillsFest yesterday?’

He nodded. ‘Mag and Jim wanted to be back at the pub for Sunday lunch, so they asked me to man the beer tent.’

‘What was it like?’

He shrugged. ‘Hardly banging. Middle-of-the-road music for middle-aged people and latter-day hippies. A couple of the bands were okay, I guess.’

‘There must have been some young people there. Hannah Armstrong from Tide House and her friend Lottie.’

He paused for a moment and shifted the weight of the box he was carrying.

‘Yeah, they were there.’

‘And?’ She was starting to lose patience.

‘And nothing. They were there, but I was working. Pulling a lot of pints.’ His mouth snapped shut.

‘You must know Jake too? You’re around the same age, and he works occasionally at the pub.’

‘I suppose. We don’t have much else in common, though.’ The voice was a little sneering. He was at a fancy uni and Jake worked on the family farm. All her prejudices came to the surface. Then, before she could spit out some retort, she heard the boss’s voice in her head, gentle and mocking. Sometimes you should lose that chip on your shoulder, Sergeant. Drop the preconceptions. It takes time to understand what’s really going on with a person.

So, she let the sneer hang in the air without challenge. Now, they’d reached the cordon at the gate into Tide House. ‘Just leave the box here,’ she said. ‘We can take it in.’ A pause. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Daniel lowered the box to the floor, returned his headphones and sauntered away, swaying slightly to the music. Jen watched him go until he’d turned a corner in the lane.

They ate their packed lunch on the terrace where Venn had chatted to Paul Armstrong. The CSIs had already checked it, and it was a long way from the pool, so the crime scene manager cleared it for their use. From here they could still look out over the sea to Lundy, though, and apart from the burst of conversation when they shared ideas about the case, there was an incongruous sense that they were at a picnic on the beach. The sandwiches were delicious and soon disappeared. Jen was sitting next to Ross. The early start, the sun and the food began to make her sleepy. A couple of cocktails and she could imagine herself at a holiday resort.

She roused herself, got to her feet and stretched. ‘Shall we head up to the farm and take those statements? I want to know more about why Lottie left the festival before Hannah last night.’

She was picturing Daniel, the barman’s, reaction when she’d mentioned the girls’ names. He’d seemed wary and defensive. Hannah was already involved with Jake, but Lottie was a free agent, wasn’t she? She and Daniel were both good-looking young people. Was he the reason she’d disappeared from the farm? The timing might work, if Daniel had joined her once the beer tent was closed and cleared. Jen could imagine them together, joyous at the prospect of having Tide House to themselves for the night. A pool for skinny-dipping. The heat of the day captured there, reflected from the white walls, and the cool of the water.

‘We taking the car?’ Ross stood and yawned.

‘Nah, we’ll walk. It’s not far.’ She wanted time to formulate the questions she’d need to ask.

He pulled a face, which reminded her of her son when she was on a health kick and suggested a hike into Exmoor.

They walked in silence. Venn hadn’t mentioned any sort of post-festival gathering in the farmhouse the night before, and he would have done if the Brennans had discussed it with him. Yet Mag had described a party leaving them with a hangover the following day. Jen wondered if the farmers hadn’t spoken of it out of respect for their son’s dead girlfriend – talk of a boozy celebration might be embarrassing at a time of such tragedy – or shock, or because the family hadn’t considered it relevant. After all, Hannah had still been alive and in Jake’s bed hours later.

They’d already reached the road. The pub garden next to it, separated from it by a rope strung between posts, was empty. Through the window she could see that the two old blokes were still nursing their pints. They stared out at her and one of them gave her a wave. They were nosy and gobby and would certainly be worth talking to at some point. Mag would be able to provide their names and addresses.

The track to the farmhouse was in full sunlight and Jen was sweating by the time they reached it. Perhaps she should have driven after all, though Ross seemed perfectly comfortable in the heat. Next to the house there was a small barn, which seemed to act as an occasional farm shop. Opening hours were posted on the door. It didn’t open on a Monday.

A door into the farmhouse was ajar, and they looked in at an untidy boot room. A dog woke up and stared at them but made no sound.

Jen banged on the door. ‘Hello! Okay to come in?’

‘Yeah.’ A woman’s voice. They walked through into a cluttered kitchen. Tessa Brennan was sitting at the table. She looked up as they approached, but the movement seemed to take an effort. It was as if she was exhausted.

‘More police,’ she said. ‘What is it this time?’

Jen wondered how she could tell just at a glance who they were. Perhaps Tessa could see what she was thinking.

‘We cancelled the campers who were going to come today. None of us could face it and it didn’t seem right. Friends of ours have a site in Croyde and they agreed to take them. The Americans are still here of course. We didn’t have the heart to boot them out, and they’re glamping at the other end of the field. We hardly know they’re there.’

‘They were with you, though, at your party last night.’ Without being asked Jen took another of the chairs at the table.

Tessa shot them a glance. ‘You know about that? I suppose there aren’t any secrets if you’re investigating a murder.’ She paused. ‘What do they call you two then?’

Jen let Ross go first and then introduced herself.

‘You’re not from round here,’ Tessa said to Jen. ‘Not from your voice.’

‘Only by adoption.’

‘Like me then.’

Tessa nodded towards Ross. ‘He is, though. Sometimes it feels as if there are hardly any of you locals left. It makes folk like my Bob and the Hoopers resentful. Sometimes I feel like a second-class citizen in my own home, the way I’m looked at when I open my gob.’ She sighed. ‘What is it you want now then?’

‘To take a statement,’ Jen said. ‘To go through the details.’

‘We’ve told that inspector everything we know.’

‘And I expect he explained that it would need to be done officially.’

Reluctantly, Tessa nodded again.

‘But we can save a bit of time and record it. Talk me through yesterday. Right from the beginning.’ She put her phone on the table and switched it to record.

‘The festival was Bob’s idea. A way to make a bit of cash, with loads of tourists in the area, and he’s always been into his music. He plays himself a bit, used to be in a band. Guitar, and he’s got a lovely voice. We started letting campers into the field last year, but although the glamping pods are usually booked up, we haven’t got much in the way of facilities, so we don’t get many people with their own tents. Not for more than a few days. We sold day and weekend festival tickets and asked Marigold to do the beer tent. Hired the portable toilets. There were a couple of street food vans and Bob set up a barbecue, cooking our own burgers. They went down a storm. It was lovely. Chilled.’

‘Did Hannah and Lottie go home to Tide House on Saturday night? Hannah didn’t stay the night with Jake?’

‘No, the girls went back together. They left when the music stopped at about midnight. Jake still had work to do, and I assume they didn’t fancy litter-picking and dealing with the composting loos.’ She paused again. ‘That’s not fair. Hannah offered to help, but that Lottie dragged her back, saying she wanted to swim in the Tide House pool, because it was a full moon.’ Tessa looked up. ‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I couldn’t take to that girl.’

‘Why not?’

Tessa shrugged. ‘There was something snooty about her. Polite enough on the surface, but condescending, you know, as if she was doing us a favour by being here.’ A pause. ‘Name-dropping all the famous people her mother worked with. Telling us how she nearly got to swim in the Olympics.’

‘What time did they come on the Sunday?’

‘Hannah was here first. Nine-ish. Again, offering to help. Lottie swanned in about midday. I didn’t see either of them after that until we were starting to wrap up. I was in the house all day, prepping for Bob’s barbecue.’

‘When did it wrap up?’

‘The music stopped at six and some people left before then, wanting to get their cars out of the field before the rush.’

‘Then you invited Mag and Jim, and your American guests, into the house for a party?’

‘Not a real party,’ Tessa said. ‘It wasn’t that organized. Bob was high as a kite, with the music and it being such a success. He’d not had a drink all weekend, because he’d wanted to keep on top of things. One of his mates – a fiddle player from Barnstaple – was getting a lift home from his girlfriend, but she’s a nurse and her shift didn’t finish ’til ten, so he was around. We wanted to thank Mag and Jim Hooper for all their help. Jim can be a difficult sod, but he worked like a trooper on Saturday. Karen and Geoff Kinzalow just happened to be outside.’

‘You didn’t invite Daniel, even though he’d manned the bar all afternoon?’

Tessa shook her head. ‘Like I said, it was just for friends.’

‘And you didn’t count Lottie as a friend.’ It wasn’t a question.

Tessa gave a little laugh. ‘I would have invited her, to be nice to Hannah, but by the time the field was cleared, she’d already waltzed off.’

‘Did she leave the same time as Daniel?’

‘You think they left together? Maybe, but I didn’t see. Jake might know.’ A pause. ‘You can see how the two of them might have got on.’

Throughout the interview Ross had been unusually quiet. Now, he added a comment.

‘Both young. Both snobby incomers.’

‘Yeah,’ Tessa said. ‘Something like that.’

‘Tell me what happened then.’ Jen wondered if Ross had ever considered her a snobby incomer too, then thought nobody ever thought of Scousers as snobby.

‘I pulled together some food. Nothing fancy. Cheese and bread and cold meat. A couple of the quiche we sell in the farm shop. A bit of salad. John, Bob’s mate, played a few tunes and after a couple of pints Bob joined in with his guitar. Jake and Hannah stopped for supper but then they headed off to his room. To listen to their kind of music, they said. It was almost eleven by the time John’s girlfriend turned up and Mag and Jim didn’t leave until after that. I sent Bob to bed as soon as they went, tidied up a bit and then went up myself. It had been a good night with friends.’ She paused again. ‘I couldn’t believe it when your inspector turned up in the morning with his talk of murder.’

Chapter Nine

JEN WAS PLEASED TO FIND THE American tourists, Karen and Geoff, still on the campsite and still relaxed, not resentful that Venn had asked them to stay put. They were on holiday after all. Wouldn’t they want to explore the area? See the sights? Eat pasties and cream teas? Why be happy to remain here, sitting on rickety chairs outside this strange shack that looked as if a bunch of kids in an adventure playground had thrown it together? They must have hired a car, because there was a bulky SUV. Automatic, of course. It squatted beside them like a giant toad. She wondered why she’d taken against the pair without even talking to them. Probably because she’d been forced to walk in the sun again, across the long meadow, Ross ambling effortlessly by her side. She’d put on sun block that morning, but she could feel the burn on her nose and forehead. Having red hair and pale skin was a nightmare.

‘Hello!’ It was Karen. ‘Who are you? We’ve had a lot of visitors today.’ The words were pitched like a tune, rising notes, melodious, as if they were part of a performance. Her voice was clear and rich. She could be a singer.

‘We’re police officers,’ Jen said. ‘There’s been an incident in a house by the shore. Sorry to have kept you hanging around. Could we ask you some questions?’

Geoff seemed not to have noticed their arrival. He had a book on the table in front of him and hadn’t looked up from it until Jen spoke. Now he raised his eyes and stared at her. ‘What sort of incident?’ He was a big, paunchy man with a sagging face. ‘The other guy wasn’t very specific.’

Jen thought the whole thing would be on the early evening news in a couple of hours. No point trying to cover the facts. ‘Two young girls have died. Hannah Armstrong and her friend Lottie.’

‘How?’ He was suddenly alert.

‘They’re unexplained deaths. We’re investigating.’

‘So,’ he said. ‘You think they were murdered.’

She saw that there was no point in replying. It had been a statement, and no response was required.

‘Oh my goodness!’ Karen’s voice had risen at least an octave. ‘Here? In this wonderful place of peace and tranquillity?’

It seemed an odd thing to say. Murder was terrible anywhere. Especially that of two young women with their lives ahead of them. The response seemed strangely rehearsed. Jen wondered if they’d already heard the news from Jake or his parents.

‘You’d better sit down,’ Geoff said. ‘Ask your questions.’

The idea came to Jen then that he was a man more used to asking questions than answering them. It was his confidence, his sense of authority.

‘You’re here on holiday?’ Ross hadn’t picked up the same vibe or wasn’t intimidated by it. But then, Jen thought, he wasn’t the most perceptive of souls.

‘Sure!’ Karen said. ‘We love this part of England. Geoff’s family come from here. We’re tracing his roots.’

‘Why here in Millscombe?’

‘Oh, that was a spur-of-the-moment decision,’ Karen went on. ‘We were staying in a hotel in Torr. All very lovely of course, but not the real Britain. We saw this place advertised and thought why not give it a go? A real working farm. Geoff grew up on a farm in New England and it appealed to him.’

‘Are you a farmer now, sir?’ Jen thought that unlikely.

The man gave a deep laugh, as though the idea was ridiculous. It was his wife who answered.

‘Oh no, Geoff’s a writer. A reporter.’

‘I was,’ he said. ‘Retired.’

‘But you’ve been working on a book,’ Karen cut in. ‘He was a very famous journalist in his time, Detective.’

Jen decided it was time to move on to the matter in hand. None of this was relevant to the death of two young women who must have been strangers to the couple. ‘You were here for the festival over the weekend?’

‘We were,’ Karen said. ‘We couldn’t miss that. What an opportunity! I took so many pictures. Real British colour.’

‘And afterwards you were invited into the farmhouse for a party?’

‘Not really a party,’ Geoff said. ‘A few drinks with Bob and Tessa and their friends.’

Karen jumped in. ‘It was so kind and hospitable of them to ask us.’

‘Who was there?’ It would be good, Jen thought, to confirm the story, though it seemed straight in her mind already.

‘The owners of this place, Bob and Tessa, their friends who run the pub, Mag and Jim Hooper, John, one of the musicians, and the kids were there for a while too.’

‘The kids?’

‘Jake, the Brennans’ son, who does most of the work around this place. And poor Hannah. Apparently, her father is a famous British politician.’ Karen sounded starstruck, but there was something about the woman that didn’t quite ring true. It was as if this was a performance, overly dramatic.

Jen shot a look at Ross. So, even these American visitors knew who was living in Tide House. ‘Oh?’ she replied, her voice innocent.

‘Sure! Geoff interviewed her father once, when he was working for the Post, and he makes an appearance in the new book. We were based for a number of years in London. Our girls went to high school there. We fell in love with your country. We’ve kept on our apartment in the city.’

There was a moment’s silence. Geoff seemed to be looking down at his book again, but Jen sensed a tension. Anger even that his wife had given away this information. ‘That’s a coincidence,’ she said.

‘Not really.’ He looked up and stared directly at her. ‘I was a political journalist. I interviewed a lot of powerful men and women.’

Karen must at last have sensed her husband’s reluctance to engage with this side of the story and she moved on. ‘The kids didn’t stay long last night, though. They wanted to be alone. There was this chemistry between them. You could almost smell the lust. It made me feel very, very old.’ She gave a little laugh, then smothered it immediately. ‘And now the girl is dead. And last night, they both seemed so wonderfully alive.’

Ross took over the questioning. ‘What time did you wake up this morning?’

‘Not as early as we usually do,’ Karen said. ‘We were very late to bed on Saturday night. The music, of course, kept us awake. It was lovely, but we were quite glad when it stopped. And then it was midnight when everything wrapped up yesterday. We were still having coffee and breakfast when young Jake stopped by to check if we needed anything. That would have been about eight o’clock.’

‘You didn’t hear anything in the night or early this morning? A car or voices?’

Karen shook her head. ‘But then we wouldn’t. There’s hardly any traffic through the village even if we were close enough to hear it.’ She smiled across the driftwood table at them. ‘That’s why we love this place. It’s so quiet.’

Ross thanked the couple and got to his feet to walk away. Jen followed but a little reluctantly. Although she couldn’t come up with any more questions, she felt there was more to know about them. She found them slippery, and while the story of their stay in North Devon was plausible, she didn’t quite believe it. She followed Ross across the arid meadow, with its steel-hard soil and brown grass, and felt their eyes following her all the way.

Chapter Ten

MATTHEW VENN HAD WATCHED JEN AND Ross wander away from Tide House and up the lane towards the farm. After making sure the debris from the lunch was cleared away and chatting to the senior CSI, he went to sit in his car. He needed to be on his own to think and to phone back to the station. He’d parked in the shade of a large oak, but even with the windows down, it was still so hot that he was struggling to breathe. When Ross and Jen returned from the Brennans’ place, he’d head back to Barnstaple. He didn’t think there was much else he could do here, and perhaps irrationally he felt that he was only in the way, that the rest of the team would prefer to be left to it without him. He was given to these moments of awkwardness, the sense that he was a perpetual outsider, an unhelpful presence. Since he’d met Jonathan, those moments occurred less frequently, but they still came back to bite him when he was least expecting them.

He phoned Vicki Robb, who was supervising the ops room, and asked her to check out the backgrounds of Tessa and Bob Brennan and the couple running the Fisherman’s Arms.

‘Tessa grew up in the North East. There might be a connection with Hannah Armstrong’s family, though it’s highly unlikely. Jen suspected that Jim Hooper, the landlord of the Fisherman’s, might have had a history with the police. And can you chase up Hannah’s mobile provider? That’s a matter of urgency.’

Then, leaning back in the seat, he shut his eyes, and began to think through the investigation. Anyone walking past would assume that he was asleep.

It was the lack of motive that troubled him most, and the timeline. Sal Pengelly was always adamant that it was impossible to pinpoint an accurate time of death, so Matthew couldn’t know which of the young women had been murdered first. And that was important. He found it hard to believe that a random psychotic killer might have found his way to Tide House early on a Monday morning and killed the girls for fun. So, which of them had been the intended target? Surely it couldn’t be both?

He was still sitting there, lost in his thoughts and preoccupations, when he heard his colleagues’ voices approaching. No sign of them yet, because of the curve in the lane. He got out of the car, not wanting to be caught apparently slacking, and walked towards the sound.

Jen and Ross were deep in conversation. Not an argument. No raised voices. But a disagreement about an apparent connection between the Kinzalows, the American couple glamping at Millscombe, and the Armstrong family. When Matthew came across them, they’d stopped walking and were standing facing each other in the middle of track.

‘I’m just saying that it’s a big coincidence,’ Jen said. ‘How did they land up here, in the middle of nowhere? He’s a political journalist writing a book and he turns up on the doorstep of one of our up-and-coming politicians. Who he’s met before. They could still be staying in a swanky hotel in Torr, not roughing it in a farmer’s field.’

‘Maybe he was interested in meeting Armstrong again.’ Uncharacteristically, Ross didn’t want a battle. ‘He might have been after some kind of interview or background for his book, and he hoped to get close to him informally. But I can’t see how that would make the man kill two young women who were complete strangers to him.’

They’d seen Matthew now and turned towards him, both wanting his support for their point of view.

‘So, Geoff Kinzalow had met Armstrong previously?’ Venn thought he needed more details before coming to a judgement.

‘He worked in London,’ Jen said, ‘and interviewed him there. They must have been in the UK for a while because their kids went to secondary school here. The wife, Karen, told us about it. Geoff seemed less pleased that she’d told us about the connection. They still have a base in the city.’

‘It could be a coincidence.’ Matthew thought they did happen. Occasionally. ‘But Kinzalow is definitely worth checking out. I’m heading back to Barnstaple now. The superintendent wants a report.’ He didn’t add that he’d tell the man to speak to the chief for an update. Oldham was a tricky man to handle. Close to retirement. A social drinker, verging on alcohol dependence. Ross was a protégé, so Venn was always careful when speaking of his superior, but if he’d still had a faith, he’d have prayed every night that the man would retire soon. ‘I’ve already been in touch with Vicki. I’ll ask her to dig out what she can on the Americans.’

That seemed to please them both, and he continued: ‘Are you both okay to stay here? Arrange a rota with uniforms to cover overnight. And check in with the CSIs and Dr Pengelly before you leave. Let me know if there’s anything interesting.’

‘Sure,’ Jen said.

‘But get home at a reasonable time. We’ll meet up early tomorrow.’ The three of them walked together back towards Tide House. Matthew got into his car and drove carefully down the lane with a feeling both of relief and a dereliction of duty.

In the police station, Oldham was waiting for him, lurking next to Vicki’s desk. He smelled of mouthwash with an undertone of alcohol and sweat. Matthew hoped he hadn’t started drinking this early but that he’d been on the piss the night before.

‘What’s going on at the coast then?’

Matthew thought of all the urgent things he could have been doing but laid out the facts as patiently as he could.

‘Appleyard says you’re to be in charge.’ Oldham’s words came out as a sneer, but there was also an edge of resentment.

‘I was first on the scene and he wants a small core team.’ Matthew wondered why he felt the need to placate Oldham, why despite all the superintendent’s faults, he still wanted the man’s approval.

‘Aye, well.’ The northern accent was always more prominent when there was any confrontation. ‘Keep me in the loop. I’m still your boss.’ He heaved himself off the desk where he’d been perched and stamped away.

In his own office, Matthew phoned the Chief Constable.

‘So,’ Appleyard said, ‘there’s no indication that this might be political or terror-related?’

‘Not so far. Has special branch picked up any intelligence?’

‘Nothing. And no group’s claimed responsibility.’

‘The American journalist camping out at the farm has been writing a book that features Armstrong,’ Venn said, ‘but I can’t see any motive, even if a holiday in Devon was planned in the hope of a scoop. Jim Hooper, the pub landlord, is hostile to rich city families buying up properties in the area. But so are a lot of people, even Bob Brennan whose wife is an incomer. Until we have any further information, I think I’ll have to treat this as personal.’

‘Let’s keep an open mind, shall we? What else have we got?’

‘Vicki Robb has been doing the routine stuff. The only individual involved so far with any sort of record is Jim Hooper, but there’s nothing since he was a juvenile. There’s still no sign of Hannah Armstrong’s phone and it hasn’t been used since the night before she died.’

There was a moment’s silence at the end of the line. Matthew supposed that Appleyard had been expecting more, but when he spoke, there was no criticism, only a warning.

‘News will have got out now. Expect a swarm of national press in the morning. They’re like bloody locusts. Let me know if you need more manpower to keep the scene secure.’

Venn was still thinking about logistics as he drove out of the town, making his way home. By the time he got to the long, low white house close to Crow Point, his husband was already there. He was sitting outside in the shade with a glass of white wine in his hand. Matthew had crossed paths with a few vehicles on the short toll road into the dunes. The drivers would be leaving the shore after dog-walking or sunbathing. But there hadn’t been many – this wasn’t a place easily found by tourists – and now the garden was quiet.

Jonathan waved absent-mindedly and smiled through the open kitchen door, then lifted his glass, inviting Matthew to join him.

‘Let me shower first.’ Matthew could already feel the tension of the day easing. Under the water it was washed clean. He pictured the stress as a pool at his feet, ebbing away.

In the bedroom he hesitated. Jonathan had bought him shorts, a kind of joke because his husband wouldn’t be seen in anything that informal. Now Matthew put them on with a polo shirt, looked down at the white, bony legs and almost changed his mind.

He took the bottle of wine from the fridge, poured himself a glass and went out to top up Jonathan’s. He waited for some sort of joke about the bare legs and bare feet, but there was nothing, so he returned the bottle, took one of the white wooden seats on the terrace and waited. Jonathan must be preoccupied. It would be some crisis at the Woodyard, the community arts centre that he managed. He’d talk when he was ready. He wasn’t a man to keep troubles hidden away, bottled up. In the meantime, Matthew had preoccupations of his own: two young women bludgeoned to death, with no apparent motive and an uncertain timeline.

They sat for a few minutes in silence.

At last Jonathan spoke. ‘I think I’ve tracked down my mother. My birth mother.’

Matthew had always known that his husband was adopted. There’d been no secret about his upbringing, about his sense of growing up in the wrong place. Perhaps that unease about identity, the emotional dislocation from family, had brought them together. Jonathan’s adopted parents were hardworking hill farmers. They’d loved their son, but they’d not understood his wild imagination, his passion for art and music. They had closed minds. Like Matthew, Jonathan had left home in his late teens. He returned for duty visits and admired his parents’ resilience, but they didn’t have much in common, and they’d made little effort to understand his world.

He’d first talked about finding his birth parents the year before. The idea had made Matthew anxious. He’d worried that this relationship, which was beyond anything he’d thought possible when he was younger, would change and fracture if somebody new was brought into the mix. Besides, he’d told himself, wasn’t he enough for Jonathan? The man had his work and his friends, and he had Matthew. What else could he need?

Then he’d told himself that of course Jonathan would be curious about his birth parents. His husband would want to know where he’d come from, the backstory of his life. How selfish of Matthew to resent any new family! So, he’d made every effort to be encouraging and supportive.

Now, it seemed, Jonathan had continued the process of finding his mother without discussing the matter with Matthew. The man, whom Matthew had believed was transparent, open about everything, had kept secrets after all.

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ Matthew kept his voice even. He had no right to throw about recrimination. This was Jonathan’s business. And as a detective he knew that open questions elicited more useful answers.

‘I went to Plymouth Central Library to access the General Register Office. They’re one of the places in the country that hold records of birth certificates. It’s all on microfiche.’

‘When was that?’ Again, Matthew kept the question easy, conversational.

‘Ages ago. Just after Christmas.’

But you didn’t tell me! The shriek, demanding and shrill, remained in Matthew’s head. He knew he was being unreasonable. Again, he told himself that this was Jonathan’s business. His shit.

‘I was there anyway.’ Jonathan’s voice was apologetic. He guessed that Matthew must be feeling shut out, excluded. ‘That accessible arts conference I went to in Plymouth.’

Venn remained silent.

‘I found my birth certificate number there and then I was able to put my name on the adoption contact register.’ Jonathan looked up at his husband. ‘I was always Jonathan. My Exmoor parents kept my name.’

‘I’m pleased,’ Matthew said. Which was an understatement. He couldn’t imagine Jonathan being called by any other name. It had a rhythm, and it was warm and welcoming. It defined the man.

‘My mother was registered too. I suppose that meant she wanted to find me. I emailed her last week. Today, she emailed me back.’

‘Have you arranged to meet her? Is she local?’

‘She’s Cornish. North Cornish. Local enough.’ Jonathan looked across the table at Matthew. The sun was low in the sky now. If they were standing on the beach, there’d be a golden path across the sea from the shore to the horizon. ‘I’ve said I’d go to meet her. Better that than have her here, I thought. Besides, I’m curious about where she lives. How she lives.’ He paused. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Matthew was hit by a sense of relief, for a moment at least. He was to be included in this venture. Jonathan didn’t see his search for his mother as some sort of escape from the marriage. A new adventure. Or, if it was, it would be an adventure in which Matthew would be allowed to participate. He could support his husband as he’d been supported ever since they first met. He reached out and took Jonathan’s hand. ‘When are you planning to go?’

‘I’ve arranged to visit this weekend. No point hanging around. I thought we could find a little hotel. Stay over. A treat even if everything goes tits up.’ He drained the wine in his glass. ‘What if I don’t like her?’ Matthew could hear the desperation in his voice. ‘What if she doesn’t like me?’

‘She’ll like you.’ About this at least Matthew was certain. Everyone liked Jonathan. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’m not sure that I’ll be able to come then, though. Not that soon. I’m working this case. The double murder in Millscombe. You will have heard all about it.’ Because already the murders were all over the local news.

‘You’re not indispensable,’ Jonathan said. ‘By that time, you’ll need a day off. And you’ll have sorted it by then. A place like Millscombe, it’d be hard to keep anything secret.’

‘Sure.’ But Matthew was seldom sure about anything, and it occurred to him, with a sudden stab of guilt, that he’d rather be working a murder case than watching an emotional reunion between Jonathan and his birth mother. That he was probably the most selfish man in the world because he wanted Jonathan all to himself.

Chapter Eleven

MATTHEW WAS IN HIS OFFICE EARLY. Vicki had sent through as much information as she’d been able to dredge from the internet about Geoff Kinzalow. There was a surprising amount of material to work through. The man had worked first as a reporter on a small-town newspaper in Massachusetts, then moved on to The Boston Globe. His articles were easily available, and they seemed to Matthew to be well-researched and interesting. Kinzalow had been interested in politics from the start, even the politics of the school board and community groups.

He’d moved on to The Washington Post for a few years, and had lived in London as their correspondent there, but had resigned to write his book.

Vicki had tracked down Geoff’s interview with Paul Armstrong. It seemed to Matthew to be intelligent but uncontroversial. There was a lot about the politician’s early life in the North East of England and his work as a doctor. It had been written years before and was a background piece about a new MP, introducing the man to a US audience, suggesting that he was charismatic, already in the public eye and already destined for greater things. The headline read: Could this be the UK’s next prime minister?

Vicki had found out a little about Kinzalow’s personal life too. His wife, Karen, had been a teacher, working with younger children, changing jobs whenever the journalist moved for work. The couple had two daughters – Emma was a little older than Hannah and Lottie, Elizabeth the same age. Matthew wondered if this could be another connection. He wondered what school the Kinzalow girls had attended when the family lived in London. Paul and Cath Armstrong might remember the journalist’s name and Cath at least would know if the girls had been friends. London was a big city, and it would be quite a coincidence, but he made a note to check it out.

In the police station, he found Vicki at her desk. ‘Can you dig out a UK address for the Kinzalows? We know they’ve held on to a place in London.’

‘Sure. I’ll try.’

‘Did you get anything on Tessa Brennan, from the farm?’ The fact that the woman had grown up in the North East was another coincidence, another connection with the Armstrongs.

‘No criminal record of any kind. She grew up in Ashington in south-east Northumberland.’ A pause. ‘Her grandfather was a miner, an activist, and his father worked for a union too. He did have a record. Scuffles with the police on a picket line at a protest outside some council building. He died a few years ago.’

‘Okay. Useful to know.’ Though it was hard to see how this might be relevant.

Matthew passed on the information about the Kinzalows at the morning briefing, crediting Vicki with the research and making her blush. He moved on to actions for the day.

‘I’m going back to Millscombe for at least an hour or two. I’d like to talk to the Kinzalows myself.’ Because internet research wasn’t always accurate and besides, he preferred personal contact. The research had prompted more questions.

‘Jen and Ross, did anything new come out of your chat with the Brennans?’

‘There was someone else at the gathering at the farm on Sunday night,’ Jen said. ‘A musician called John Kemp. I’ve spoken to him, and he confirms their version of the evening.’

Matthew nodded. Corroboration was always useful. ‘Could you both go to Torr and speak to the Armstrongs in their hotel. Jen, I’d like you to act as family liaison. Ross, can you check out the place where the Americans were staying before they decided to camp out in Millscombe. Did they leave earlier than expected? Then see if you can track down the elderly drinkers Jen saw in the Fisherman’s Arms. Pick up all the Millscombe gossip. That’ll be for you too, Ross. They’ll probably talk more freely to a local.’

Venn paused then. He was distracted for a moment by a memory of his breakfast conversation with Jonathan. His husband had come in from his swim both elated and anxious about the prospect of meeting his birth mother.

She’ll be a stranger. I’ll know nothing about her.

It occurred suddenly to Matthew that he could do a background check on the woman, at least find out if she had a record of any kind. But he was too much of a rule keeper to use the PNC for his own purpose, and Jonathan would hate it if he ever found out.

There was a silence in the room and Matthew was aware suddenly that the team were staring at him, surprised by his unusual lack of focus. He asked the crime scene manager if the team had found anything useful.

‘Nothing yet. They’ll continue searching this morning.’

‘Any information on the post-mortem?’

‘Sally’s doing Lottie this morning,’ Jen said. ‘Hannah tomorrow.’

Matthew nodded and made a mental note to contact the pathologist at lunchtime.

‘Can we find out if Lottie’s mother has arrived yet?’ he went on. He’d tried to call her the evening before using the phone number Cath Armstrong had given him, but it had always gone straight to voicemail, and she hadn’t called him, although he’d asked her to do so. ‘Cath Armstrong was trying to arrange accommodation for her in the same Torr hotel. I assume she came yesterday evening. I’d like to talk to her.’

Jen nodded. ‘I’ll check with the Armstrongs when I set up the meeting.’

‘Thank you.’ Matthew thought he should probably say something more. Something stirring to send them on their way. But all he could come up with was: ‘Let’s meet up again this evening. Good luck.’

He took his own car to Millscombe. Jen Rafferty and Ross would go straight to the seaside town of Torr. He parked outside the cordon at Tide House and talked to the officer who’d been on duty overnight. Asked him if he’d seen anything.

‘Nothing,’ the man said. Venn recognized him. He was older, comfortable in his own skin. He wouldn’t have minded doing the overnight shift. He’d be the sort who could catch up on his sleep easily during the day. ‘Dead quiet here, isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe there’s a beach full of grockels just round the headland. A couple of reporters turned up first light, but they’ve gone to find breakfast.’

‘The quiet before the storm. The invasion will come soon.’ Matthew wondered if he was being overdramatic, but this felt ominous. Two pretty young women and a minister in the public eye would be catnip to the press.

Matthew walked to the farm. This time, he’d come prepared for the heat. No jacket and no tie. A short-sleeved shirt.

Tessa Brennan was outside in the farmhouse garden hanging washing on the line. Sheets, pillowcases and towels. The sun reflected off them and made him close his eyes for a moment against the brightness.

‘A good day for it,’ he said.

‘I’d love a bit of a breeze, though.’ She looked across at him and smiled. ‘Never happy, are we? Last year it was stormy all summer and we didn’t like that either.’ She picked up the laundry basket. ‘Bob and Jake are away into Barnstaple. We have a stall at the Pannier Market, and they go every week. I thought it might do Jake good to be distracted for a day. But you’re very welcome to come in for a coffee. I was just about to make some.’

‘I’m really here to chat to your American campers,’ he said. ‘If that’s okay?’

‘Oh, my dear, I’m afraid you’re too late. They came into the house last night and told us they were leaving. They settled up then and when I got up this morning they’d already packed and gone.’

‘I thought they were planning on staying the rest of the week.’

‘They were! And they paid up until then. Insisted on it.’

‘Did they give a reason for the decision to move on?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing I quite believed in. We wouldn’t want strangers about the place after the recent tragedy, they said. They’d leave us in peace. I thought it was kind at the time, but it was so rushed. It was as if they were scared. I suppose the thought of a killer on the loose would do that to you.’

She started to walk back towards the house. Matthew followed her.

‘Did they say where they were going?’

‘They didn’t say very much at all.’ Tessa paused. ‘I suppose it makes our life easier. It’s one less thing to worry about. I’ll go and clean the pod once I’ve had my coffee. There’s another couple arriving next week and it’s nice not to have the rush on turnaround day.’ A pause. ‘If they decide to come that is. We’ve had a load of cancellations. The killings have been a nightmare for the business.’

‘Would you mind if I had a look inside before you go in there to clean?’

‘Sure.’ They’d arrived at the back door. ‘These deaths are unsettling for everyone. I hope you get things sorted soon.’

He was walking away when Tessa called after him. A thought had come to her. ‘Jake said you wanted to look at the emails he had from Hannah. He’s happy for you to see them if it’ll help. Let me have your details and he’ll send them across.’

When Matthew reached the group of buildings at the far end of the meadow, he realized that they were more stable than they looked from a distance. He’d not noticed in any detail when he’d first met Jake outside with the Kinzalows. They had the look of ramshackle structures, thrown together from driftwood and canvas, charming but not very comfortable. In fact, they seemed solid enough to withstand a westerly gale. He walked round the outside first.

Behind the buildings there was a narrow copse and the stream that would flow on to the combe, the old mill and the beach. A log-fired hot tub, shaded by the trees, wooden, with a crooked chimney. Each of the glamping pods had something similar, but the structures were spaced out, and the stream meandered, so the residents would have had a sense of privacy. Close to the yurt where the Kinzalows had been staying the grass was flattened where a vehicle had been parked.

A woman’s swimsuit hung from an overhanging branch. He presumed that Karen had put it there to dry after using the hot tub and forgotten it. Another indication of a hasty decision to leave. They hadn’t seemed to Matthew the sort of people to be easily scared away, and he wondered again if there was something more sinister in their rush to escape.

Inside the tent was almost palatial, in a colourful, boho kind of way. There was electricity. A switch for a light on a wooden post that held up the yurt at its centre and a socket to charge phones and laptops. Venn pressed the switch. The small window let in little light despite the brightness of the sun outside. It would be cool in here on the hottest of days, and a wood-burning stove in the corner would keep it warm enough in a North Devon winter.

A double bed stood in the middle of the room. The Indian patterned throw had been tidily pulled back. It was richly coloured in reds and blues and matched the rug on the wooden floor. A small, battered sofa stood next to the stove. It had been recycled from a former life. He supposed that the Brennans would have made a virtue out of the second-hand furniture, the sustainable vibe of the place. Everything was clean and tidy. Even the waste basket was empty.

Venn switched off the light and went outside to check the open-sided kitchen. There was a small tabletop oven, a microwave and a fridge, a couple of electric hobs. Again, everything was spotless, gleaming. All the crockery and cutlery had been replaced in the wooden cupboard. Was this the sign of considerate visitors, or of people wanting to leave no trace of themselves?

He moved on to the shower and toilet block. Each pod had its own. A composting toilet with a bucket of sawdust beside it and a separate stall with a rudimentary shower. It occurred to him that Jonathan would love it here after all, and that when the case was over, he should book it for a weekend. A surprise. Matthew wouldn’t mind roughing it just for a couple of nights.

He was about to leave the site when he was pulled back into the main yurt, hooked by the memory of something a little out of place. He’d been careful not to touch anything. A routine almost superstitious anxiety about leaving a trace of himself in a crime scene, though there was no evidence that anything untoward had happened in here. Now, he took out his handkerchief and used it to open the wood-burning stove. Everything else had been spotlessly clean, but there were traces of soot on the glass door.

In the stove, it seemed that there’d been a recent fire. It had been hot for weeks and he couldn’t imagine Tessa Brennan not cleaning the grate between visitors. Certainly, there’d been no need for the Kinzalows to light a fire to keep warm. Inside, not everything had been burned to ash. There was still a stick of kindling, charred but remaining. And a scrap of paper that had stuck on the metal frame of the stove just inside the door. He lifted it out carefully, still using the handkerchief, and put it in a plastic bag that he had in his pocket, keeping it as flat as possible, worried that it would disintegrate. He had enough restraint not to look at it now. It could wait.

Chapter Twelve

TORR WAS A TOWN OF CLIFFS and hills and steep streets, with a harbour and two little sandy beaches. It wasn’t a place for families or surfers. The beaches could only be reached by a series of steps, and parents gave up the struggle of carrying buggies and babies. And the coves were almost enclosed by headlands that flattened the surf.

It was a Victorian town, with a theatre and a bandstand, and villas with terraced gardens that had been turned into hotels and guest houses. It was picturesque, and beloved by older people who were happy to look at it through guest house conservatory windows or from the coaches specializing in Devon and Cornwall tours.

More recently, it had become rather chic. Because properties had been relatively cheap, artists and poets had moved in. One of the larger hotels had been renovated and returned to its Victorian glory, with wood-panelled drawing rooms and crisp white linen. It was called, unimaginatively, the Victoria. It was here that the Armstrong family were staying in one of the grander suites, which miraculously had become available when the MP had asked for last-minute accommodation.

Paul Armstrong met Jen and Ross in the lobby. He looked as if he hadn’t slept, but he’d shaved, and he greeted them with his usual politeness. It seemed that the hotel, built into the side of a hill, had turned the lower floor into a swimming pool and spa. That, he said, was where Cath was, with the boys. They were water babies, and in a pool they were happy, though he couldn’t understand why they didn’t prefer to be outside.

‘Would you like coffee? I would. I couldn’t face breakfast.’

They sat in a quiet and shadowy lounge. There were giant house plants in pots and lacy cloths on the dark-wood coffee tables. Jen was reminded of a funeral home. The room was empty. It seemed that the upmarket coach tour group, who’d been in residence the night before, had moved on to Newquay and Penzance.

Paul Armstrong passed on this information with a smile and only a trace of condescension.

Just after a waitress in a black frock and white apron brought in the coffee tray, Jen saw a woman hovering at the door. She was tall and striking with platinum-blonde hair, wearing a sleeveless cotton dress with a tight bodice and full skirt. While the dress could have been worn by Marilyn Monroe, the hair was rolled into a Grace Kelly chignon. All she needed were white gloves to turn her into a fifties film star.

Armstrong glanced up and recognized her.

‘Elaine! Come in and let me introduce you to two of the detectives who are investigating this dreadful affair. This is Elaine Cauldwell, Lottie’s mother.’

Despite the glamorous appearance, the woman seemed uncertain, diffident. She bit her lip.

‘I don’t want to interrupt.’

Jen thought there was something vulnerable about her and wondered if she’d been ill recently. She gave that impression. She had the looks of a mature woman but the fragility of a child.

Armstrong introduced them, remembering their names without hesitation. Jen supposed that a good memory would be another useful skill for a politician.

The woman took a seat. ‘No coffee, thanks. I’m jumpy already.’ Her voice was light and girlish too. ‘I was looking for Cath.’

Armstrong explained that the rest of the family were swimming and Elaine stood up again, too restless, it seemed, to remain seated. She was, as she’d said, jumpy.

Jen was grateful that Lottie’s mother didn’t intend to stay. It would be hard to ask Armstrong about any relationship with the Kinzalows with her sitting there, but rude and unkind to send her away.

‘Perhaps we could talk later,’ Jen said. ‘We’ll come and find you.’

‘Oh.’ Elaine seemed surprised by the request. ‘Of course.’ At the door she stopped and turned back. ‘Can I see her? Can I see my daughter? I can’t believe, you understand, that she’s dead.’

‘Of course,’ Jen said. ‘We’ll let you know when that will be possible and make the arrangements.’ She didn’t want to tell the woman that the post-mortem was happening now, that Lottie would be on the pathologist’s table, her skin cut open to reveal the body beneath, her organs removed and sitting in stainless-steel bowls.

The woman turned and fluttered away, leaving behind a trace of expensive perfume.

Armstrong looked after her but made no comment. He turned back to the detectives, and for a few minutes the professional sheen disappeared, replaced by a kind of desperation. ‘I can understand how she feels. This seems unreal to me too. I can’t help thinking I’ll wake up from the nightmare.’

‘We have a few more questions,’ Jen said. ‘As the investigation proceeds, matters come up, and we’ll have to disturb you.’

‘Of course.’ He was himself again. ‘I do understand.’

‘Does the name Kinzalow mean anything to you? He’s an American reporter.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘The name’s familiar,’ Armstrong said, ‘but I can’t quite place it.’

‘He interviewed you. A big profile piece for The Washington Post. He said you might become the next prime minister.’

Armstrong gave a little laugh. ‘Ah, there were a few of those. Until I started making real decisions and the polish wore off.’ He paused again. ‘But I don’t think I know the name from that context. I believe there was a girl called Kinzalow who was a friend of my daughter’s. She might have come to the house a few times. You should ask Cath. She keeps on top of the domestic stuff. Keeps the ship afloat, you know.’

Oh, I know. Makes sure you have clean shirts for meetings. Does the school runs and parents’ evenings. Stocks the fridge and the larder.

Jen’s husband had been a hotshot lawyer. And still was, despite his abuse of her during their marriage. She’d been working too, but he’d left all the domestic stuff to her.

‘Why do you want to know?’

Jen was still preoccupied with memories of her husband, and it was Ross who answered.

‘The couple were staying at Millscombe when your daughter was murdered. In one of the glamping pods at the farm.’

‘Oh?’ The MP seemed genuinely surprised. ‘What a strange coincidence!’

‘You weren’t expecting them to be there?’ Jen was focused again. It was odd, she thought, that the Kinzalows hadn’t mentioned any connection with the Armstrongs to Venn when he’d briefly spoken to them. Not just odd. Suspicious.

‘No! Not at all. Cath might still be in touch with the mother, but she would have mentioned, I think, if we were expected to be sociable to relative strangers. The whole point of being in Tide House is that we escape that sort of commitment.’

‘You are sociable with locals, though? I understand that you came to know Marigold and Jim Hooper from the pub.’

‘Well, we eat there whenever we come down. We like to support local businesses and it’s no hardship when the food’s that good. And half the price of anything we could get in London.’ He paused, realizing perhaps that this sounded snooty and ungracious. ‘Cath and Mag have become pals. I’m often still working, even when we’re supposed to be on holiday, so it’s good for her to have a friend.’

Jen thought he was being a patronizing git.

‘What about Jim? Do you get on well with him too?’

Armstrong gave a hard, humourless laugh. ‘Let’s just say we don’t share the same views politically.’

‘Oh?’

‘He blames lefty liberals for the country’s ills. He came to Tide House for drinks one night and after a couple of cans, made it quite clear what he thought of me and the party. Mag was mortified and never brought him again.’

Jen was trying to process that, to work out if it might be important, when she remembered a comment, according to Ross, made by the oldest Armstrong boy.

‘One of your sons mentioned a time when Hannah went missing. Can you tell me something about that?’

‘Oh?’

Jen thought the question had shocked him and he was taking time to decide how much to say.

‘Was she away overnight?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ Clearly, Armstrong wanted to make light of the incident. ‘She didn’t come home after school one afternoon and Cath started panicking when she wasn’t answering her phone. In my situation, there’s always the possibility of kidnap, I suppose, or a terror-related incident, but Cath does tend to overreact.’ He paused. ‘Of course she was fine in the end.’

‘What time did she get in?’ Jen was curious now. ‘What had she been doing?’

Armstrong gave a little shake of his head, as if this was too trivial a matter for him to spend time on. ‘Really, I don’t remember. She was back before midnight. She said she’d lost track of time, and her phone battery had died. She was very apologetic. She knew how her mother worries.’

‘Did you alert the police?’ Jen thought there might be a record. Some more details.

‘I believe Cath had just called to report Hannah missing when she turned up.’

There was a moment of silence broken by Ross: ‘If you think of anything more …’

Jen could tell that the interview was boring the constable now. Ross had a very limited attention span and obviously thought they’d achieved everything possible from the conversation. A seventeen-year-old girl staying out late wasn’t unusual, after all.

‘… you will get in touch?’

‘Of course!’ The man sounded relieved. Perhaps they were boring him too.

Chapter Thirteen

CATH WAS SITTING IN A WHITE wooden chair next to the hotel pool. She’d propped it upright so she could watch the boys playing in the water. Most of the loungers were flat with towels rolled on each one, waiting for guests who wanted to relax, but now they were all empty. Cath and her children were the only people there and she supposed most of the visitors would want to be outside, to enjoy the weather. This place had no natural light and was airless and gloomy. There were statues, pretending to be Greek or Roman, in alcoves in the walls. Some had no limbs and made her think of violence and torture, and by association of Hannah’s body lying cold and still, waiting for a pathologist to attack her with a knife.

Cath would have welcomed some background chat, a sense of the real world continuing. Only the boys’ shrieks and laughter echoed from the gothic vaulted ceilings.

Cath heard footsteps and turned to see who was coming in. She was hoping for another family, kids for the boys to play with, to distract them, and her, but it was Jen Rafferty, the woman with the red hair who’d been with her when Hannah’s body had been found.

‘Hello.’ Cath found that she was relieved to see the woman. There was something solid about her. She’d be straight. Tell the truth. ‘Have you caught the person who did this?’

‘Not yet. But we will.’ And Cath believed that too.

Jen pulled one of the heavy white loungers next to Cath and propped it up so that she was upright too. She nodded towards the boys. ‘How are they doing?’

‘They slept in the end last night,’ Cath said. ‘I don’t think it’s real for them, though, and the water has always calmed them. They can forget for a bit.’

‘I’ve got some more questions if you’re up for it?’ A pause. ‘I’ll be your contact throughout the investigation. If you have any questions, call me at any time.’

Cath found the idea surprisingly reassuring.

‘Thanks. And of course I’m happy to answer questions. Anything to help.’

‘It’s about a family called Kinzalow.’

‘Oh?’

Cath hoped she’d kept her voice even, but she’d felt a sudden jolt, a shock at the name. She was back in their house in north London, opening the door to find Karen Kinzalow in floods of tears, screaming, her face so close to Cath’s that she’d felt specks of spittle on her cheeks. It had been horrendous. The worst day of her life, she’d thought. Until she’d found her daughter dead.

‘You do know them? Your husband thought that you might.’

So, Paul was leaving it up to her to come up with a story. To make a decision about how much to tell.

Thanks, Paul!

If it were left to her, she would have told it all. What did it matter now? But since it had become clear that Paul would be the one most likely to succeed in politics – after all, he had the charm and the ambition – she’d led the support team. He’d often told her he would never have made minister without her, and she thought that was probably true. Loyalty had become a habit. So, she told the detective what she would find out anyway.

‘Their younger daughter Elizabeth was friends with Hannah and Lottie for a while. In the same little group that hung out together.’

‘They all went to the same school?’

Cath could tell that the detective was surprised by that information. She nodded. ‘Elizabeth didn’t stay for A levels. I think the Kinzalows moved back to the US then. Geoff stopped being a journalist and had decided to write a book. Something about an American’s perspective of Britain. I’m not sure that he ever finished it. It might be a work in progress. Or perhaps it was never published here.’ Cath realized that she was saying more than was necessary and stopped. It made it seem as if the families were close, and that wasn’t the impression she’d intended.

‘Did you know that they’d be in Millscombe this week?’ Jen asked. ‘The parents, not the whole family.’

‘No!’ The surprise at least was genuine. What could Geoff and Karen be doing there? They’d know about Tide House of course. The girls would have discussed the place. Hannah loved it so much.

‘Would Hannah have known they were planning a trip to North Devon? If she and Elizabeth were friends?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I don’t even know if the girls were still in touch with each other. Perhaps through social media. She moved back to the US with her parents a couple of years ago.’

Cath didn’t mention the accident, the reason that Elizabeth had moved home. There was no reason to go into details. Best to keep things simple. ‘She didn’t stay on to do A levels.’

‘Did the Kinzalows hold on to their flat in London, do you know?’

‘I believe that they did,’ Cath said. ‘They were real anglophiles.’

‘Just a strange coincidence them turning up here then.’

From the tone of her voice, Cath could tell that the detective didn’t really believe in coincidence.

‘I understand Hannah went missing one evening,’ Jen said. ‘Can you tell me what happened? You must have been anxious because you called the police. Your son mentioned it to my colleague and your husband said that you’d reported her missing.’

Cath felt her thoughts scrambling. It was hard to think of a response. Once again, she thought of Paul, and what he would want her to say.

When did I turn into a woman who tries to second guess what her husband wants of her?

She tried to give a little laugh. ‘I overreacted. She was out with a friend.’ Because that was what she’d told the police at the time and Jen might have checked that too. ‘If you’re in the public eye, it’s easy to let your imagination run away with you.’

‘Who was she out with?’ Jen asked. ‘With Lottie Cauldwell? Elizabeth Kinzalow?’

‘Oh no,’ Cath said, a moment of panic, because if they were sufficiently interested, the police would surely check. But she didn’t think she could reel back now. ‘Neither of those. In fact, Hannah wouldn’t tell us who she’d been with. She said we shouldn’t treat her like a child.’ A pause. ‘I wondered if she was with a boy.’

She looked out at the pool. Alex and Gilbert were quieter and seemed a little listless.

‘Look, I have to get the kids out. They’ve been in for so long that they’ll be wrinkled as prunes. If that’s all I can help with …’

‘Sure!’ Jen’s voice was unnaturally cheerful.

Did that mean she didn’t believe Cath? Or was it how she spoke to all newly bereaved relatives of victims of crime?

Cath stood up and found two of the towels. She called to the boys. ‘Time to get out, guys!’ Her voice sounded as strangely bright as Jen’s had been.

The kids made a token attempt to stay longer, but really, she thought, they’d had enough. Perhaps their laughter had been as forced as Jen Rafferty’s voice. They clambered up the nearest steps and stood before her, shaking like dogs. She handed Alex a towel and wrapped Gil up and held him on her knee as she had when he was a baby. She rubbed him dry. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’

Jen was still there, watching them, when she walked with them to the changing room.

In the hotel room, Paul was on the phone. Of course. He usually was on the phone. He mouthed, ‘The PM,’ and she swept the boys into their own room so he wouldn’t be disturbed. Sometimes, she thought her whole life these days was about preventing her husband from being disturbed. It hadn’t been like that in the early days, before Hannah was born. Then she’d been seen as the activist, the person most likely to reach the top in politics. He’d been her second in command. But in those days, looks had mattered. Perhaps they still did. And Paul had always been more beautiful than her.

He’d been more ambitious too. More ruthless. Fighting his way onto the council and then into parliament, using tactics that she’d have been too cowardly to contemplate. But always, she thought, on the side of the angels, just as he was now.

From the boys’ room, Cath heard Paul end the call and she went to join him. They’d been given a large suite, at the top of the hotel, with a living space at one end, separated strangely from the bedroom by a stand-alone bath, a clawed monster with copper taps. The boys had their own bedroom through a connecting door. Paul had opened the French door and was standing on the narrow balcony looking out.

‘Elaine Cauldwell was looking for you,’ he said. ‘Did she find you?’

‘No. The woman detective did, though.’

‘Perhaps Elaine saw the two of you talking and chickened out.’

‘Should I go and find her?’ Really, Cath thought, it was the last thing she wanted – Elaine was always trouble – but it was probably the right thing to do.

‘I think you should,’ he said. ‘We need to know how she’ll hold up to all this.’

‘She’ll hold up. You know she’s much tougher than she looks.’ Cath didn’t join her husband on the balcony. There was a giddy view all the way across the garden and down to the harbour. She’d never been good at heights. ‘Jen Rafferty, the detective, was asking about the Kinzalows.’

He turned, so his back was to the view. ‘I know. What did you tell her?’

‘That Elizabeth had been part of Hannah’s group at school, but that she’d left before they took their A levels. I didn’t give a reason. I said I didn’t know if they’d still be in touch through social media, but I didn’t think they’d met up in person. I wasn’t sure how much they’d check. The accident can’t be relevant now, can it?’

‘I can’t see how.’ Paul was going to say something more, but a phone rang. This time it was her mobile.

‘Elaine,’ she said, looking down at it and seeing the woman’s name on the screen. ‘I suppose I’d better arrange to meet her.’

The women sat on the terrace looking out at the garden that sloped steeply down to a road, which was hidden by a high laurel hedge. There were uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs and matching tables. Elaine was already there, drinking what she claimed was lemonade, but which Cath guessed was gin. Maybe with a splash of tonic. A waiter appeared at her shoulder, and she asked for sparkling water.

‘I can’t believe any of this,’ Elaine said. ‘I’m falling apart. How can you be so calm?’

It was an accusation, not in any sense a compliment. She was saying, Don’t you care that our daughters have been murdered?

‘You should have seen me yesterday.’ Cath paused while the waiter delivered her water. She thought that Elaine was just saying what was expected of her. ‘I was howling for hours. Now, I think I’m just numb. Exhausted. And of course, I have the boys to worry about.’

‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘At least you have them. At least you’re not alone.’

Cath wanted to stand up and walk away. She’d forgotten how much she disliked the woman.

‘Have you managed to tell Keith?’ Keith was Elaine’s ex, Lottie’s father. Former actor, now director of well-reviewed and reasonably successful films, and based in LA. He’d run off with a woman much less beautiful but rather less flaky than Elaine. Perhaps it was bitchy to mention him, but it made Cath feel slightly less wretched.

‘Yes, I finally got through to him.’

‘Is he coming over?’

‘Not yet. He’s in the middle of a shoot. He’ll wait for the funeral. Classic. Work will always come first.’ Elaine looked up at Cath. Despite her distress, the woman’s make-up was flawless. If she’d been crying, the mascara must have been expensive and waterproof. ‘Do we have any idea when that will be?’

Cath hadn’t thought as far as a funeral. The idea made her feel faint. A funeral made death real and final. She had a sudden image of flames licking a coffin and then of a grave, the coffin buried by feet of black soil. Which would be worse? She breathed deeply and tried to push away the panic. Perhaps she needed alcohol too.

‘I suppose we’ll have to wait for the police to release the bodies.’

Elaine twisted her glass in her fingers. ‘They are sure, are they, that it wasn’t some terrible accident?’

Cath thought of her daughter, lying next to the millstone below Tide House, the blood and the shards of bone mixed with dead leaves. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Quite sure.’

‘Hannah must have been the target, surely.’ Elaine’s voice was petulant, once again accusing. ‘Nobody would know that Lottie would be there. Everyone knows about Tide House, Paul’s idyllic bolthole on the coast.’

‘We can’t make any assumptions. The police are working on it.’ In some attempt to fight back, Cath added, ‘The Kinzalows were there. In the village. They were camping at a farm less than a mile away.’

Elaine’s eyes widened. ‘You think they had something to do with this?’

The fight had already gone out of Cath. She couldn’t summon the energy. She shrugged. ‘The police found out about them. Who knows? It might be a coincidence.’

‘Really?’ Elaine’s voice was shrill. ‘Do you really think so? I don’t!’

Cath was sitting with her back to the view. Even here, on solid ground, the slope made her feel giddy and unsafe. She saw Jen Rafferty walking towards them. Elaine was about to continue talking, but Cath stood up and made a little gesture with her hand to silence her. After all, she supposed, in the end they were on the same side. And Hannah and Lottie had been friends.

Chapter Fourteen

JEN WAS ON HER WAY OUT when she glimpsed both women on the terrace. She’d been in reception, chatting to staff, making it clear that the Armstrongs shouldn’t be disturbed by press or any curious members of the public with an agenda of their own. True-crime podcasters or curious onlookers or crazy psychics saying they had information to pass on.

‘Tell them all to contact Barnstaple police station.’

She’d been hoping to talk to Lottie’s mother and now she was here.

Ross was still in Torr, but he was checking out some of the more likely places where the Kinzalows might have been staying before heading to Millscombe.

‘You’ll be better with emotional women than me,’ he’d said after the interview with Paul Armstrong. A cop-out and an excuse. ‘I’ll pick you up later and we’ll head back to Millscombe to catch up with the boss. Then I’ll check out your elderly drinkers.’

Cath had seen Jen approaching and was already on her feet to go by the time she’d reached the table.

‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’ Cath said after making the brief introduction. It wasn’t really a question, more a statement of intent. She didn’t wait for an answer.

Perhaps Cath was being tactful, but she was probably exhausted too. Jen didn’t sense any close friendship between the women in the brief moment before they separated. There’d been no real physical contact. No hug before Cath walked away back into the hotel. Sometimes it was difficult, Jen thought, when kids became friends, but the adults had nothing in common.

She took a seat next to Elaine. A waiter was hovering, and she ordered a coffee. It had been an early start, and she needed a caffeine boost. It was hard to express condolence without appearing insincere, and she struggled to find the right words.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I have children who’re about Lottie’s age. I can’t begin to imagine the sense of loss, or what you must be going through.’

Elaine stretched out a thin white hand and took Jen’s where it lay on the table. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

‘It must be harder because it was just you and Lottie.’ Of course they’d investigated the family situation. She knew that Elaine was divorced, and they’d checked that the husband was still in the US when the murder had been committed.

‘We were very close.’

‘Tell me about Lottie.’

‘Oh, she was a terrific girl.’ Elaine leaned her head back and then groped in her bag for a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled deeply. ‘Lottie hated me smoking,’ she said. ‘She was such a health freak. I never did it when she was around.’

Jen waited for more detail. She assumed that the mother would have a little more to say about her daughter. But Elaine stared into the distance.

‘How old was Lottie when her father left?’ Perhaps, Jen thought, an open question wouldn’t work so well with this woman.

‘Eleven. She was just about to move up into secondary school. It was terrible timing.’ A pause. ‘The whole thing was hateful.’

‘Was Hannah her best friend?’

‘Of course! Hannah didn’t join the school until after Lottie, but recently they’ve become inseparable.’ A pause. ‘They would have moved on to different universities of course. Lottie had got a place in Oxford. I think Hannah was hoping for Exeter.’ There was something boastful about the comment. Jen could imagine Elaine bragging about her brilliant daughter to friends whose children weren’t quite so academic. Jen hated that sort of parental one-upmanship – the social media pages glorifying a perfect family always made her feel inadequate – but she tried to be charitable. The woman had just lost her only daughter.

‘Had Lottie been down to Tide House before?’

Elaine held the cigarette away from her face and shook her head. ‘Usually, it was only the family. But this was special. The end of exams and the last chance, I suppose, for the girls to have some time on their own together. I thought they might head out to somewhere a bit livelier, a resort on the Med perhaps, but they were happy with a couple of days on their own in North Devon before the rest of the family turned up.’

‘Was Lottie going to stay for the family holiday too?’

‘Oh no, she was only there for a few days. The plan was that she’d spend the rest of the summer in LA with her father. He’d found her some sort of internship. It would be wonderful experience and look great on her CV. She was going to come back to town from North Devon on Tuesday for a week and then she’d fly out to join him.’

Jen’s daughter, Ella, had tried for an internship in London in the summer before she started uni, but even the paid ones wouldn’t have come anywhere close to covering her living expenses. Jen had suggested to her ex that he might like to chip in, but he hadn’t bothered to reply.

‘Do you know Geoff and Karen Kinzalow?’

Elaine took a moment to reply, but Jen thought the question wasn’t a surprise to her. Cath must have warned her about the Kinzalows.

‘There was an Elizabeth Kinzalow in the girls’ class at school.’ Elaine looked around for an ashtray and when none seemed immediately available, she leaned down and stubbed out the cigarette on the paving stone. She left the stub there.

‘Geoff and Karen were staying in Millscombe. Elizabeth wasn’t with them.’

‘She was always a wild little thing,’ Elaine said.

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, you know, underage drinking, dabbling with drugs. And a bit rebellious at school. Perhaps her parents thought that she’d be safer at home in America.’ Elaine seemed to consider for a moment. ‘There was an older sister, I think. Perhaps Elizabeth is with her.’

‘Is there any reason why the Kinzalows might want to stay near Paul and Cath’s house? Were they friends?’

There was another silence and another shrug. ‘I didn’t have time to get involved with the whole school gate thing,’ Elaine said at last. ‘All the cliques and bitchiness left me cold. I run my own business, a theatrical agency. I have done since my husband left. It’s not been easy.’

Jen wondered now if her first impression of Elaine, as a frail and vulnerable woman, had been mistaken. Yet there was still a pleading tone to her voice. She wanted to be understood, even to be forgiven for not playing the role of traditional mother.

Elaine continued talking. ‘Lottie had to be resilient. I couldn’t be there for her as much as I’d have liked. I’m afraid I don’t have any patience for spoiled children with doting parents.’

‘Was Karen Kinzalow a doting mother?’

‘She didn’t work,’ Elaine said. ‘Not when they were living in London at least. I think she was a teacher in the US. So, she became one of those professional parents. You know the sort. They fill their days with volunteering in school, preparing packed lunch boxes with healthy snacks, ferrying their kids to music lessons, acting on committees. Looking down on those of us who have to earn a living.’

For the first time, Jen felt a moment of understanding, of sympathy. She’d felt humiliated by those parents too – the ones who never sent their kids to school in unwashed uniforms or missing a vital piece of games kit. Who sat with them while they did their homework.

‘Did you have any contact with Lottie over the weekend?’

‘A couple of texts. She sent photos of the house and pool when they arrived. It looked delightful. I must admit I was imagining something rather more basic.’ She looked at Jen, a kind of confession. ‘I was rather jealous. It was so hot in London. Airless. I wished that I’d been invited too.’

‘You were never asked to stay in Tide House?’

‘No. Cath and I don’t really have that sort of relationship.’

‘What sort of relationship do you have?’

‘I’ve explained. Our kids were friends. There was no more to it than that. We didn’t move in the same sort of circles.’

But you hoped for an invitation to their holiday home?

Jen waited, hoping for a more detailed explanation of the circle that Elaine did move in, but none was forthcoming. ‘Did Lottie take any photos later that weekend?’

‘Of the music festival, you mean?’ Elaine’s voice was light. ‘Dozens! She put some of them on social media and made little videos too. It was a tiny bit cruel, but some of her comments were very amusing. I suppose she was used to more sophisticated entertainment than a party for middle-aged hipsters in a farmer’s field, and she never was terribly tactful.’

‘Could you send everything you have to me?’ Jen slid her work business card across the table. Lottie poking fun at her host’s neighbours seemed more than tactless. It was unkind. Surely it was hardly a motive for murder, but the images of the festival might highlight something that was.

‘Of course. I’ll go straight back to my room and do it now.’

It seemed that Elaine thought the interview was over. Jen couldn’t think of anything more to ask and expected the woman to get up and leave. Instead, she sat where she was and started talking again.

‘You must think me very cold. Heartless. I suspect that was why Keith left me. He loved drama – thrived on it – and couldn’t understand why I hated it. Something about my childhood, I expect. My parents weren’t the most reliable. I’ve tried therapy, but I can distance myself from that too. It’s my means of survival, keeping a distance. One way or another. I’ve taken antidepressants this morning and had a couple of drinks. A way of keeping the scary stuff at bay.’ She looked up, frowning. ‘I know it’ll hit me in the end. The reality that my darling Lottie is dead. But I can’t feel it now. Perhaps it’ll be real when I see her.’

‘I can’t tell you when that might be possible, I’m afraid.’ Jen wished she’d been able to record this interview. She’d have liked Matthew Venn to hear it, the tone as well as the words. He understood these things better than she did. But Elaine wasn’t a suspect. She wasn’t even a witness. She was a bereaved parent.

‘I’m not sure what I’m expected to do here.’ Elaine’s words seemed to spill out without thought. She spoke quietly, but Jen could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘I can’t be holed up in my room with nothing to do. I can’t make polite conversation with the Armstrongs. They must be the reason that my daughter is dead after all. She knew nobody down here. Who would want to kill her? But there must be plenty of people with a grudge against a minister. Hannah must have been the target. My daughter just got in the way.’ She paused and twisted her chair, so she was looking down at the harbour. ‘Can I leave? Go back to London? Work will be a distraction at least. You can call me when I can see Lottie.’

‘Of course.’ Because there was no reason to ask Elaine to stay, and Jen saw that she was on the verge of a complete meltdown. She didn’t want to be the person to have provoked that, or the person who would have to cope with it. ‘I can arrange for a lift to the station in Barnstaple or Tiverton.’

Elaine dismissed the idea of the train with a shake of her head. ‘I use Steve, a regular driver. He’ll come and fetch me.’

She got to her feet then and swayed across the terrace towards the hotel entrance. It seemed to Jen that she must have had more than a few drinks.

Jen wandered out of the hotel. She needed something to eat and didn’t want to bump into either of the Armstrongs or Elaine. She walked down towards the harbour and found a little cafe, an old-fashioned greasy spoon that didn’t seem to attract tourists. It smelled of bacon and chip fat.

On the way she checked her phone. There were a couple of messages from Venn. One said that the Kinzalows had left Millscombe Farm: We’re trying to track them down. A later one said that he’d arranged to chat to the staff at the Fisherman’s Arms. See you at the briefing. So, if Ross could pick her up as agreed, she could drop him at Millscombe to talk to the old guys from the pub and be home to see Ben, her youngest, still living at home, before she had to go out again. It felt as if she hadn’t seen her son for days.

There were a couple of tables outside the cafe, and she placed her order and sat there. There was no shelter from the sun, but there was a little breeze. She phoned Ross. No answer, so she texted him. Pick me up from Torr harbour in twenty mins? No reply.

An elderly woman brought her a sausage sandwich and instant coffee. Jen felt a wave of nostalgia. Where else in Torr would you be served instant coffee? Her phone beeped and she checked the text from Ross. It’ll be closer to thirty. Traffic a nightmare.

She looked up and saw a middle-aged couple walking away from her. They both wore light cargo pants and sandals. She had on a striped Breton shirt, and he was wearing a baggy T-shirt which probably had a logo on the front. Some band from the eighties. At a corner the woman turned, and Jen recognized her at once. Karen Kinzalow.

Chapter Fifteen

MATTHEW VENN WAS SITTING ON THE terrace outside Tide House when his phone rang. It was Vicki.

‘Keith Cauldwell has been in touch. He wants to talk to someone about the investigation. I said you’d call him. That is okay? He said he’ll be free for the next hour but tied up after that.’

Too tied up, Venn wondered, to mourn his only daughter? But perhaps work was an essential distraction. It always was for him at times of stress.

He rang the man; the call was picked up immediately. He introduced himself, and when Cauldwell responded, his voice was clear, as if he were sitting next to Venn, an invisible ghost. He’d picked up a vague transatlantic accent that ebbed and flowed throughout the conversation.

‘I need to know what happened,’ he said, not demanding or bullying, but with a kind of desperation. ‘I wish I could be there, but I can’t. This is the very worst time in a shoot for me to leave. So many people depend on me. Besides, what good would I do? I’d just be in the way.’

‘When did you last hear from Lottie?’

‘I had a few texts over the weekend. A link to some videos she’d made.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Fine! A little bored maybe. She was always easily bored. Honestly, more of a city girl. She was looking forward to coming out to LA.’

‘Have you ever had any concerns for your daughter’s welfare?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cauldwell seemed confused.

‘Anxiety that she might be mixing with the wrong people. A stalker. A kidnap threat even. You’re in the public eye.’

‘Not as much as Paul Armstrong! I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. No, nothing like that.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What exactly happened out there? All I know is that the two girls died. Elaine’s a wreck and hasn’t told me anything useful.’

Venn gave an outline of the case. ‘We’ve got a great team working on the investigation. I have your number now and I promise I’ll tell you when we have an outcome.’

At the other end of the phone, Venn heard noises. Someone shouting Cauldwell’s name. The sound of a car revving.

‘If you think of anything useful,’ Matthew said, ‘please get in touch.’

‘Sure.’ But Cauldwell seemed to be back in work mode, no longer engaged. ‘Sure.’ The call ended.

Matthew looked through the clear plastic folder at the scrap of paper he’d retrieved from the wood burner in the Kinzalows’ glamping pod. Around him, there was still the activity surrounding a murder scene. Hannah’s body would be taken to the mortuary in Barnstaple later that afternoon, but the Armstrongs wouldn’t be allowed back into the house until the search team had finished in the grounds. That would take days.

There wasn’t much to see on the retrieved piece of paper. This wasn’t a magic clue to point to the identity of the killer, like the plotline of a Golden Age novel. It was unlined and stiff, more like card than paper, which perhaps was why it hadn’t completely burned. Bevelled edges. An invitation of some kind? To a wedding or a party. In the bottom right-hand corner, he thought he could see the letters VP. The end of a request to RSVP, perhaps. Why would the Kinzalows go to the bother of lighting a fire to burn something like this? Why not throw it with other rubbish into the recycling bin at the edge of their plot? He wished he knew what else had been burned. It was possible that this had been thrown onto the fire as an afterthought, a piece of random waste, when more important documents had been destroyed.

His phone rang. It was Sal Pengelly, the pathologist.

‘What have you got for me?’ Venn knew she wouldn’t have phoned if it weren’t urgent.

‘I need to wait for tests to come back to be sure,’ she said.

‘But?’

‘The idea that Lottie Cauldwell was a clean-living girl, not given to excess because she had an eye on the next Olympics, is nonsense. She’d consumed a lot of alcohol in the hours before she died. Way above the legal level for driving. I’ve asked for tox reports on drug use.’ A pause. ‘We found a trace of cocaine in one nostril. Too far up to have been washed away by the water in the pool.’

‘Are you saying her death could have been accidental?’

‘I’m saying that it’s a possibility. She was still alive when she went into the pool. But there’s a head wound too. She could have slipped and hit her head before sliding into the water. Or hit it on the side of the pool after she went in. It’s still more likely a blunt force trauma; someone knocked her out before she went in.’

‘And she was pushed into the water when she was unconscious?’

‘That’s certainly a possibility. The cause of death was drowning.’

From his seat on the Tide House terrace, Venn looked out at the empty pool. It had been drained and filtered by the CSIs looking for traces of a possible killer, but nothing had been found to explain Lottie’s death. He tried to recreate the scenario that had run up to the girl’s drowning. Everything about her death was confusing. There was no question that Hannah had been murdered, but this was ambiguous, and Venn hated uncertainty.

In the end, he gave up trying to unravel the puzzle. He had too little information. Instead, he sent a text to Jen and Ross, letting them know about the Kinzalows’ sudden disappearance from the farm.

He decided he’d be more useful now if he drove back to Barnstaple to set in motion a search for the American couple. He looked once more at the empty shell of the pool – a symbol, he thought, of the tragedy at Tide House – and made his way to his car. When he’d parked, the vehicle had been in shadow, but the sun had moved, and the heat had been trapped inside. The steering wheel almost burned his hand when he touched it. He put the charred card from the Kinzalows’ pod into the glove compartment and started the engine, the air conditioning blasting.

He had to force his way through a horde of journos after one of the officers protecting the house opened the gate to him. He found the crowd unsettling. What could they hope to achieve? He was on his way past the pub when he saw a large man propping a blackboard onto one of the windowsills. On it was written the special lunches of the day. The place must do food on a Tuesday then. He pulled into the car park. The man turned.

‘Sorry, mate, we don’t open for another half hour. Just getting ready.’ The tone was professional enough but there was obviously no possibility of flexibility. This must be Jim Hooper. Jen had described him perfectly.

Venn introduced himself. ‘Could I have a few words?’

‘It’s not the best time. And we spoke to the redheaded woman yesterday.’

‘Sergeant Rafferty. Yes, I know. And we’re very grateful for the delicious lunch you provided. I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient but we’re investigating the deaths of two young women right on your doorstep. I don’t imagine that would be very good for business.’ Venn wondered if he’d be so irritable if it wasn’t quite so hot. ‘Honestly, this won’t take long.’

The man shrugged and went inside. Venn followed. There was a small public bar, a lounge with tables set for food and a bigger, more formal dining room. Hooper stood behind the bar in the lounge, keeping a distance between them, bristling with hostility. Venn found these circumstances hard to judge. Was the man a homophobe who’d picked up that he was gay? Someone who’d had dealings with the police and disliked them on principle? Or was he really stressed because he was busy, and this interrupted his pre-service routine?

‘There were a couple of Americans staying with Tessa and Bob at the farm.’

‘Yeah,’ Hooper said. ‘They were at the party afterwards.’

‘Did they come in here to eat during their stay?’ Because they would, surely, Matthew thought. Even if they were happy campers who loved an al fresco barbecue, if there were an award-winning pub on the doorstep, they’d try it out at least once.

Hooper shrugged again. It seemed one of his few methods of communication. ‘I’m not front of house. I wouldn’t know.’

Venn didn’t react. He sensed that Jim was winding himself up for some sort of confrontation. Hoping for it. But perhaps, Venn thought, he was being oversensitive, reading too much into the situation. The heat might be making the man irritable too.

‘Perhaps there’s someone who might know. Your wife? Your barman Daniel?’

‘Mag might know. Daniel’s not in until this evening.’ Hooper pushed his way through a swing door and Venn heard him shouting for his wife.

She appeared almost immediately, smiling, conciliatory. ‘Inspector. How can I help?’

He repeated his question about the Kinzalows.

‘Oh yes, I remember them!’ She seemed pleased that she could give him what he needed. ‘They came in twice and ate in the lounge both times. Lots of customers prefer that because it’s not quite so formal. Big tippers. Daniel was serving that night, and he was delighted.’ A pause. Venn was about to jump in when she continued speaking. ‘The first time, they were with a guest, the second time it was just the two of them.’

‘Can you describe the guest? Were they staying at the farm too?’

‘Oh my goodness, no. I couldn’t imagine her as a camping sort. Not even in those glamping pods at Bob and Tessa’s place. Far too glamorous for that.’

‘Oh?’

‘She looked as if she’d stepped off a red carpet. Like some film star or pop singer. Blonde hair and bright red lipstick. Old-fashioned, you know, but able to carry it off. She didn’t eat much. A starter and a pudding, and she only picked at those.’

‘You didn’t get her name?’

Mag shook her head. ‘Sometimes, I get a chance to go out and chat to the guests, make them feel welcome. But it was so busy, it wasn’t possible that night. A big group of locals had booked in the restaurant for a special anniversary.’

‘What night was it?’

‘Tuesday, a week ago today. I remember because it’s unusual to get quite so hectic that early in the week.’

Venn nodded. ‘And the second time? When the Kinzalows were on their own?’

‘That would be Thursday,’ Mags said. ‘And I did have a chance to chat to them then.’ She paused for a moment. ‘They were quite cagey, though. I asked them about the woman who’d dined with them a couple of days before – really, I thought she might be famous – but they weren’t giving anything away.’

‘Did they tell you what had brought them to Millscombe?’

‘I think it was a break and a chance to see a bit more of the country. They live in the States, but they’ve kept a flat in north London. They just wanted a holiday to escape the heat of the city.’

Oh, I think it was a lot more than that.

Venn smiled and thanked her and left the cool of the pub to go back to his car. All the way back to Barnstaple, he was thinking about the Kinzalows and their mysterious guest, and how that could in any way be relevant to the murder of two young women.

Chapter Sixteen

JEN DROVE ROSS BACK TO MILLSCOMBE in the pool car. He’d tracked down the place where the Kinzalows had been staying in Torr before they moved to the farm.

‘A lovely guest house,’ he said. ‘More like a boutique hotel. Why would anyone want to camp out in a field when you could stay in a place like that? They said the Kinzalows were perfect visitors.’

Jen dropped him at the pub. Even if the two elderly drinkers weren’t there – and they probably would be because it seemed like a second home – Mag would know where they lived.

‘What do you want from them?’ Ross was halfway out of the car when he asked the question.

‘Probably just gossip, but they’re always around, aren’t they? We need to consider them as potential suspects too. But really, I want to know more about Jim and Mag Hooper. They seem like an odd couple. He’s always angry and she seems friendly and helpful. She was a social worker, seems sympathetic. Maybe Hannah confided in her sometimes.’ A pause. ‘Be like the boss. Let them talk.’

She drove home then, arriving at the same time as Ben, her youngest. He’d grown up a bit since Ella had left home for university. He wasn’t quite so sullen or uncommunicative. He even looked almost pleased to see her, though the first, inevitable words were, ‘What’s for tea?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go back to the station for a briefing at six. We could eat together after that.’

‘I’m not sure that I can wait that long. I’m starving.’ That, at least, hadn’t changed.

‘There’s cake to keep you going. Vanessa brought some last week.’ Vanessa was her fancy friend, who didn’t need to work after her lucrative divorce. She was a magistrate, but that didn’t take up all her time – she went through phased passions, and her latest was baking. Jen was feeling the benefit and hoped it would last a bit longer than the other brief obsessions.

She fished in the freezer and found a steak pie, another of Vanessa’s creations. They could have that with oven chips and peas when she got home.

They sat in the garden to drink tea and eat cake. A brief pause in a hectic week. Jen lived in a narrow, terraced cottage, off a busy street, just outside Barnstaple town centre. The garden was long and thin, and usually left to itself, unless Vanessa came in and it became one of her projects. A narrow path led to a back gate in a high wall and on to Jen’s parking spot. There was no space for a lawn, and Jen wouldn’t have had time to cut grass, but it was green with fruit bushes and shrubs and herbs in pots. Now that it hadn’t rained for weeks, she did enjoy watering it, and most evenings she would go out with a hose. A last moment of peace before bed.

There was a rickety wooden table that needed a coat of varnish to stop it rotting away, and a couple of old wooden kitchen chairs. They sat on a patch of terrace, just big enough to hold them in the shade of a damson tree. Ben stopped with Jen long enough to eat two slices of apple cake and to give her a few details from his day. Then he sloped off to his room. Homework, he said, but she didn’t believe it for a minute. He’d be gaming with his friends.

She called after him: ‘Dinner at about eight.’

He waved but didn’t even turn round.

Jen cleared the table and put the cake back into its tin. She’d have to phone Vanessa, maybe arrange a coffee in the Woodyard once this case was over. This cake wouldn’t last very long.

When she arrived at the police station, Venn was already in the briefing room. Jen called across to him.

‘You got my text? I saw the Kinzalows in Torr, but they disappeared before I could speak to them.’

He frowned. ‘Did they see you?’

‘Yeah, sorry, I think they did. I was sitting outside that greasy spoon at the harbour when they walked past.’ Jen hesitated, picturing the moment. ‘I don’t think they realized I’d seen them, though. I didn’t shout out or make any kind of scene.’ And I had a mouthful of sausage sandwich. ‘They turned a corner then, into one of those narrow streets that lead up from the waterfront. By the time I’d gone after them they’d disappeared.’

‘There are lots of holiday rentals there.’ Ross had wandered in. ‘They could have gone into one of those. The place where they’d been staying before was booked up. If they’d looked online, they’d have seen it had no vacancies.’

‘Could they be in Torr to look for the Armstrongs? It seems a coincidence that they left Millscombe at the same time as the family moved out of Tide House.’

‘I find it hard to imagine them as stalkers,’ Venn said. ‘But it’s a coincidence all the same and it’s certainly worth checking out tomorrow. And I’m glad you didn’t make a scene, Jen. We don’t want to frighten them back to the US. We’d have no chance of talking to them then.’

The room had filled up now and Venn moved to the front and called the briefing to order. Jen sat at a desk not far away. Venn was always efficient in these meetings, straight to the point; he allowed no chat. She should be home in time to have dinner with Ben. He’d want to take a piled plate back to his room and his computer, but she’d insist that they eat together.

Venn had started speaking and she dragged her attention back to the room in time to hear a question directed at her.

‘You spoke to Cath Armstrong and Elaine Cauldwell about the Kinzalows. What did you gain from the conversation?’

Jen thought for a moment and tried to find a way to put her impression of the women into words.

‘I don’t think Cath and Elaine are close. They move in different circles and they’re quite different personalities. Cath’s down to earth. Loves her kids. Still engaged in her husband’s career, but I can’t see her enjoying the public role of minister’s wife. She’s not after the celebrity. I found it easier to get a handle on her. Elaine Cauldwell is far more complicated. She comes across as being fragile – she admitted to taking antidepressants and she’d certainly had a few drinks when I spoke to her – though there’s something manipulative about her too. She’s used to getting her own way. Obviously minted, but I’m not sure if that’s down to the success of her business, or if she sucked her husband dry during the divorce.’

‘They both admitted to knowing the Kinzalows?’

‘Yes, but only after I pressed them. I don’t think either of them was telling the whole story. Elizabeth Kinzalow was at school with the girls for a while but left before they did their A levels. Cath said it was because the family was moving back to the States, but I had a sense that there was more to it than that. The Kinzalows still have their London flat, after all. I wondered if there’d been some sort of falling-out.’

‘Not important, surely?’ Ross was dismissive. ‘When I was at school, girls were always having tiffs.’

‘I don’t know.’ Jen thought she’d been lucky. Ella had been more interested in chemistry and physics than posting pictures of herself on Instagram. ‘Social media can be pretty toxic these days and you need to be resilient not to be affected.’ The thought reminded her of another bit of information passed across by Elaine. ‘Apparently Lottie took photos and videos during MillsFest and posted them. Her mother described them as cruel. I asked her to send them to me, but they haven’t come through yet.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps she thought better of it once she’d sobered up.’

Venn looked towards Vicki. ‘I spoke to Keith Cauldwell, the father, and he mentioned videos too. Can you have a shot at tracking them down? Just in case Elaine has changed her mind about passing them over.’

The woman nodded and Venn continued speaking. ‘I called into the pub and talked to Mag Hooper. She said the Kinzalows ate there twice. The first time, a week ago, they were with another woman. Mag described her as glamorous, dressed like a film star.’

‘That sounds like Elaine Cauldwell.’ It must be too much of a coincidence, Jen thought, to be anyone else. ‘But she didn’t mention it. She gave the impression that she’d never been to Millscombe before.’

‘Can we get a photo and show it to the Hoopers?’

‘Sure.’ Jen paused again for a beat. ‘There must be some further connections between those people. Something more than they’re letting on. Are we certain that Elaine Cauldwell was back in London by the time the girls were killed?’

‘According to her PA she was in her office that morning.’

Jen thought about that. ‘And we know that Hannah was still alive at five. It would be tight, but she could be back in London and in her office at opening time. She has her own driver. I’ll speak to him to confirm her movements. I can’t imagine why she would want to kill her own daughter, but I suppose we can’t rule her out.’

‘Can we ask the PA where Elaine was the Tuesday before the girls’ murder? That was the day Mag Hooper said the Kinzalows were eating with the guest.’

‘Of course.’

‘I want to talk to the school tomorrow,’ Venn said. ‘Try to pin down the relationship between Hannah, Lottie and the Kinzalows’ daughter. Do we have contact details?’ The question was directed at Jen.

She nodded. ‘I’ll send them across.’

Matthew turned his attention to Ross. ‘Did you speak to the older guys who Jen bumped into in the Fisherman’s Arms?’

‘Yeah, they weren’t in the pub when I got there, so I saw them at home. There are a couple of semi-detached cottages on the road out towards Torr. They live there, rent them from the Brennans at Millscombe Farm. Billy has never married and Joe’s a widower. They both used to work for Brennan’s dad, and Bob let them stay on when they retired. He doesn’t need labourers any more. He and Jake can cope on their own.’ Ross took a breath. ‘They gossip like old biddies and if they’d had their way, I’d still be there.’

‘You spoke to them together?’

Ross nodded. ‘It made sense. Saved a bit of time and having to duplicate the questions. Besides, I’d phoned to arrange a visit, and they were all set up for me. Billy was hosting and the kettle was already on. Me turning up was the most exciting thing that had happened to them in years. There were even chocolate biscuits.’

Jen could picture the scene. The two men, curious, enjoying the attention. She wished she’d been there.

‘But did they have anything useful to say?’ Matthew Venn was keeping the meeting on track.

‘A bit. All very subjective. There was a bit of resentment when Tide House was sold to yet another Londoner. A local GP who practised in Torr had lived there with his family until he’d retired to the south of France. They would have liked someone there full time.’ Ross broadened his accent and mimicked one of the men: ‘“A great pile like that, empty for most of the year. It’s a sin.” But they took to Armstrong when they met him. I think he bought them a pint whenever he saw them in the pub.’

‘One way of keeping the locals on side.’ Jen thought it would have worked for her.

‘Anything else?’

‘Seems Jim Hooper has a bit of a temper.’ Ross stopped, a dramatic pause, to make sure the room realized he was about to pass on important information. ‘According to Billy and Joe, Hooper had a row with Hannah and Lottie on Friday night.’

‘The same day that they arrived in Millscombe?’ Jen thought that might explain Mag Hooper’s attempt to keep the police sweet, and Jim’s hostility. She’d want to make light of the incident and perhaps for him, it still rankled.

Ross nodded. ‘The girls went into the pub, all dressed to the nines, and asked for drinks. Jim was behind the bar, asked for their ID and they were both seventeen, so he refused to serve them with alcohol. Apparently, Lottie got lippy, and Jim threw them out. He threatened to tell Hannah’s parents. According to the guys, Hannah was mortified, but Lottie flounced away, making a scene, enjoying the drama.’

‘I can’t imagine Jim Hooper killing them a couple of days later for making a scene in the pub,’ Venn said. ‘He was following the law. Nothing else he could have done once he knew how old they were.’

‘It confirms the impression we have of Lottie, though, doesn’t it?’ Jen was remembering the first conversation she’d had with Cath. ‘That she was entitled and spoiled. Not someone who believed that the rules applied to her. Not thinking that Hooper would ask her age.’

Venn nodded. ‘Why did Hannah go along with it? She spent more time here and had more to lose.’

‘Because Lottie was the more forceful character? Because Hannah wanted to let loose before her parents came down with the kids? Or didn’t want to lose face in front of her mate?’ Jen had a thought. ‘Was Jake there too?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Apparently it was early. There were only a few people in the bar.’

‘Something and nothing then,’ Venn said. ‘The girls pushing their luck and Hooper overreacting.’

Jen still thought she’d like to know more about the incident and decided she’d ask Mag Hooper about it when she next saw her.

‘Did you get anything more about the Hoopers? Like I said, it seems an odd kind of relationship. And it’s a bit daft Jim Hooper being so anti-incomer when he makes his living out of the tourists. That place wouldn’t survive without them.’

‘I don’t think he minds the holidaymakers,’ Ross said. ‘According to the old guys, it’s the second homers he can’t stand. People like the Armstrongs, pushing up prices. They said it was a political thing too. He’s always moaning about the government apparently. Business rates. The minimum wage. In the winter, a gaggle of small businesspeople meet in the bar, planning to get some of their own onto the council.’

‘Is Bob Brennan involved?’ Venn asked. ‘I can’t imagine it. There’s more of the ageing hippy about him.’

Ross shook his head. ‘They say not. Just Jim and a bunch of suits from Torr.’

‘Suits?’

‘That’s how they described them.’

It would be an odd mix, Jen thought. Jim Hooper with his tattoos and his belly mixing with the Torr business and professional classes. ‘Any names?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem important if they only meet in the winter.’

That was a first too. Ross admitting he might have missed something.

‘And Mag?’ Jen found it hard to imagine the woman plotting a revolution against anything. She was far too eager to please.

‘Apparently, she makes sure she’s out on those nights. She wants nothing to do with it.’

‘But it’s still a happy marriage?’

There was a moment of silence before Venn joined in the conversation. ‘Ah, who can judge what goes on in another couple’s marriage?’

He moved on to talk to the CSIs and Sal Pengelly. The CSIs had found no evidence linking anyone specific to either murder scene.

‘We should be clear by the end of tomorrow, but don’t hold your breath.’

Sal was at the briefing and repeated the information she’d already passed on to Venn. ‘Lottie drowned. She’d been drinking heavily, and we have evidence of illegal drug use. She wasn’t dead when she went into the pool.’

‘So, if someone had fished her out, she’d still be alive?’

‘Perhaps.’ Pengelly wasn’t prepared to commit herself. ‘We’re doing the post-mortem on Hannah tomorrow, though the cause of death in that case seems less complicated.’

The room fell suddenly quiet, everyone hit at the same time by the appalling tragedy of the case, the reality of two young women murdered.

Venn allowed the silence to hang for a moment, before deciding on actions for the following day.

‘Jen, can you have a proper talk to Daniel, the barman. He might have been the last person to have seen Lottie alive.’

‘Sure.’

‘Arrange to see him at home in Torr. He’s an adult, but you might want to meet his parents.’ Venn paused. ‘Ross, let’s put a real effort into tracking down the Kinzalows, shall we? They know more than they’ve let on so far. They lit the log burner in their glamping pod and I’m not quite sure why. Not in this weather. Unless they were burning paper that they didn’t want us to find. I fished out this bit of card from the ash. An invitation?’ He pressed a button on his laptop and the image was flashed onto the white board. ‘Any thoughts?’

There was no response in the room, and Venn closed the meeting.

* * *

Back in her cottage, Jen started preparing supper and opened a bottle of supermarket red wine. She was still moved by the response of the meeting to the girls’ deaths. It was so easy when they were all so wrapped up in an investigation to forget the impact of the tragedy on the victims’ friends and family.

Ben emerged from his room to eat with her. She poured him a glass of wine and hugged him before they sat down at the table. Later, she tried to video call Ella, but there was no reply.

Chapter Seventeen

WHEN MATTHEW ARRIVED HOME, JONATHAN STILL wasn’t back. He’d let Matthew know that he’d be late. A trustees’ meeting at the Woodyard. He’d left a note.

I’ll have eaten, so go ahead without me.

Matthew felt a little bereft, then guilty because he depended so much on Jonathan for his happiness. He loved their evening meals together, but then Jonathan usually cooked, so it made his life easy. Venn thought that he took too much from their relationship and gave too little. He must make more effort to support his husband in his search for his birth mother. After all, she’d be related to him in a way too. He might discover a very different family, warm and relaxed. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that: exhilarated and scared at the same time.

He found cold meat and salad in the fridge and took it outside with some good bread from the bakery in Braunton. After eating, he sat with his laptop and checked his messages. He saw that Jake had forwarded the email thread between Hannah and him, and scrolled back to their first contact, just after Christmas. In the email conversation, Venn saw the relationship develop from tentative friendship to something more intense. There seemed to be some gaps in the timeline – perhaps some exchanges were too personal, too intimate for Jake to share – but the tone was always loving. Hannah was obviously looking forward to meeting Jake, counting the days until the end of exams and her trip to Tide House. In the most recent message, there was talk of their future together:

If all goes well, in a couple of months, I’ll be in Exeter. Just think, we’ll be able to meet most weekends!

The joyous, youthful excitement made him want to weep. He shut the laptop. It was quiet and still, and he heard Jonathan’s car before he saw it. It was an old car that needed replacing but Jonathan could never seem to find the time to look for a new one. It wasn’t, he always said, a priority.

The sun was low, and Venn saw Jonathan as a silhouette with the light behind him. Even from the way he was walking through the garden and onto the terrace, he could tell that the man had had a bad day. Jonathan could never hide his feelings, had never felt the need to. He sat in the chair next to Matthew.

‘Difficult meeting?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’ Jonathan paused. ‘Maurice Braddick is dead. A heart attack. They took him into hospital, and he seemed well enough, then he had another cardiac arrest on the ward. They couldn’t save him.’ He looked up at Matthew. ‘Lucy was there, visiting when it happened. She’s in bits.’

‘Of course.’ Matthew didn’t know what else to say. Lucy Braddick was a woman who’d played a large part in the first murder case he’d investigated when he came back to North Devon. She had Down’s Syndrome and had lived at home with her elderly father, until she’d gained the confidence to move into independent living. She worked in the Woodyard cafe. Jonathan had looked out for them both – Maurice, the anxious father who found it hard to let her go, and Lucy, fiercely proud of her work and her new home.

‘You know, she will be okay.’ Venn reached across and put his arm around Jonathan’s shoulder. ‘She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And she has lots of support.’

‘I know.’ Jonathan went into the kitchen. He came back with two mugs of coffee, and they sat, chatting about everyday things, watching the sun disappear below the dunes.

Matthew was up and out the next morning even before Jonathan had been for his swim. He was in his office at the police station, on his computer, checking the holiday lets and guest houses in the streets behind Torr Harbour. He came up with a list of places for Ross May to check and emailed them across to him. There was an email in return. On it, boss.

At eight, Matthew decided there would be someone in the office of the school where the dead women had been students. He’d like to talk to the head teacher before their day properly began. Lottie and Hannah had left because they’d finished exams, but the younger girls would still have classes.

He phoned the number Jen had given him. A recorded woman’s voice told him that the office didn’t open until eight-thirty and offered a number of options if he didn’t need to speak to a real person. He left a message, saying it was urgent and leaving his contact details. Five minutes later his phone rang.

‘Inspector Venn. This is Sylvia James. Headteacher of Silverdale School.’

The tone was brusque and businesslike. She must have known that Venn was calling about the murder of two of her pupils, but she expressed no emotion. Perhaps private schools were businesses after all.

‘You’ll know why I’m calling.’

‘Indeed. I thought I might have heard from someone earlier.’ As if, Venn thought, he’d been late handing in his homework. The woman continued: ‘It was unfortunate that we had to learn about the tragedy from the press.’

He ignored the dig and continued. ‘It would be helpful for me to talk to you, to have your insight into the girls and their families.’

‘I see.’

‘Perhaps I could talk to any staff who were close to them. Tutors or form teachers.’

The woman seemed to be considering the request. There was a moment of silence before she answered.

‘I can let you have any facts that you require. No need to disturb my staff. In confidence of course. We’re already being hounded by the media. They’re camping out by the school gate, yelling questions at whoever comes in. They’re even approaching the girls with microphones and cameras.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that any of my officers would leak information to the media.’ His voice was mild. He didn’t want a confrontation, but this had to be challenged.

She didn’t reply immediately. He persisted.

‘And it would be useful to talk to teachers who had direct contact with Hannah and Lottie. Perhaps we could set up a Zoom meeting. At a time convenient to you and your staff.’

Now, Sylvia James seemed to come to a decision. ‘No. You can come here. I can be free at the end of our school day. Four-thirty.’

‘This afternoon?’ He wondered at her arrogance. Her assumption that he would drop everything and travel to London to see her.

‘That is convenient for you? I’m afraid it’s the only time I have free this week. The end of term is our busiest time.’

He saw then that she was playing games with him. She was hoping that he couldn’t make the appointment. Then she could persuade herself and everyone else that she’d been helpful to the police, without having to speak to him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can rearrange things here.’

She was surprised. ‘I’ll see you then, Inspector.’ A pause. ‘I’m so sorry about Hannah and Lottie. What a very dreadful thing.’ He couldn’t tell if she meant it because she’d known the girls well and was personally hit by their deaths, or because of the impact the tragedy was having on the rest of the school. But either way, it proved that she was more human than she’d first seemed.

In the end, he decided to head to London as soon as he could get a train. He wanted to get a sense of the places where the Armstrongs lived. Geography had always been important to him. He loved maps and used them whenever he was travelling. He thought people reflected the communities they were a part of. Elaine Cauldwell intrigued him too. He thought he might understand her better if he went to her office and met the people she worked with.

He phoned Jonathan and told him what he’d planned. ‘I should be home late this evening.’

Then he sent a message to his team, explaining his movements for the day, and drove to Tiverton Parkway to catch the train.

He arrived into Paddington at lunchtime. The air was heavy, and the station packed with people wanting to leave the city. Matthew had an old A–Z and used that to navigate. He had time to kill before meeting the girls’ head teacher and he walked past Regent’s Park to Bloomsbury where Elaine Cauldwell had her office. He found it on the first floor of a stately terraced house in a quiet, respectable square. He’d been expecting something different, more raffish for a theatrical agency. Something more Soho. The door to the whole building was locked, only accessible with a key code. He pressed a buzzer and waited for a response.

‘Yes?’ The tone was sharp and suspicious. He suspected they’d been pestered by the press too.

‘Detective Inspector Venn from Devon and Cornwall Police.’

‘Really?’ The suspicion was still there. The reporters must have been inventive.

‘Really. I’ll show you my warrant card if you let me in.’

There was a buzz and a click. He pushed the door open and climbed wide stairs with a dark wood banister. The office was guarded by a formidable woman behind a large desk. He supposed she’d be used to fending off failing actors and scriptwriters as well as the press. She was of indeterminate age and wore a black silk garment that looked like a dressing gown. Her grey hair was long and loose and gave her the appearance of a witch. Silver bangles jangled on both wrists.

‘Show me that card.’

He presented it to her.

‘I suppose it looks all right.’ She was grudging. She would have preferred the opportunity for a fight. ‘Elaine’s not here, though.’

‘Oh? I thought she came back from North Devon yesterday.’

‘That doesn’t mean she felt up to work. I suspect she doesn’t want to see anyone. You’ve had a wasted trip.’ That thought cheered her up.

‘I had to be in London anyway,’ Matthew said. ‘It helps to talk to people close to an investigation. You must know the family well.’ She had the attitude of someone who’d worked there for a long time. Besides, it seemed to him that she might not be easily employable elsewhere, with her eccentric looks and rudeness. Not these days.

‘I’ve been with Elaine since the beginning. Before she hooked up with Keith.’

‘Her ex-husband? Lottie’s father? Yes, I’ve spoken to him.’

She nodded. Now that she’d verified Venn’s credentials it seemed she was willing to help, even to gossip, because she continued. ‘I knew that relationship wouldn’t last. He never understood Elaine.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve just made some coffee,’ she said. ‘Want some?’

‘Please.’

She disappeared and returned with a tray. Two rather grubby mugs and a filter jug. No milk. No sugar. A half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives. ‘You might as well take a seat.’

He did as he was told. He suspected that would always be wise with this woman. ‘And you are?’

‘Kitty Westwood. Elaine’s PA and right-hand woman.’

‘You didn’t think the marriage would last?’ He poured coffee into the mug. It was sufficiently strong, he thought, to kill any germs, and it smelled very good.

‘Elaine’s brilliant at what she does,’ Kitty said. ‘She can spot talent from a mile away. And not just talent, but a look. A lot of our work is mundane. Adverts, walk-ons, one-liners. You don’t need to be a great actor for that, but you need a look, something to grab the attention of the viewer. Keith always had ambition. He considered himself an artist. He could never take Elaine’s work very seriously. But when he was starting out, she was the one who kept the show on the road, paid the mortgage and the nursery fees when Lottie came along. Then, as soon as he got a bit of success, he bailed. Elaine couldn’t believe it. She’d supported him all that time, and had pictured herself in LA, with all the glamour and the fame, and he made it clear that she wasn’t part of the deal. She did okay financially out of the divorce, and this place ticks along very nicely, thank you, but she felt betrayed.’

‘He’d found another woman?’ Because that, Matthew suspected, was often the way of it.

‘Yeah. Younger than Elaine of course, but not nearly so beautiful. A bit mousy to be honest, a script editor. That must have hurt too.’

‘It would have been hard for Lottie.’

‘I suppose so.’ Kitty snapped her mouth shut.

‘Oh?’ Matthew said again. He sipped the powerful coffee and felt the caffeine rush through his system.

The desire to speak overcame any sense of loyalty. ‘That girl was always spoiled rotten. A minx and a madam.’ A pause, then she continued, choosing her words more carefully. ‘You can see how it’d happen. Both parents wanting her to feel loved. Desperate to be the favourite. And Elaine has her demons, that’s for sure.’

‘What kind of demons?’

‘She’s always had bouts of depression,’ Kitty said. ‘It comes of being so highly strung. Her parents were both in the theatre. More bothered about their careers than their daughter. Elaine got a good therapist, I think, but they fell out and she took to self-medicating.’

‘Booze?’

Kitty nodded. ‘Not that she’s always on the tipple. She can go weeks without touching the stuff. But then something will knock her confidence, and she goes on a bender.’

‘Just as well she has you to keep things running smoothly here.’ Matthew paused for a moment, while Kitty flushed with pleasure at the compliment. ‘Did her daughter have similar problems? Depression, I mean. I understand she was a very talented swimmer, so she wasn’t a great drinker.’ After all, he thought, Lottie’s drinking before her death could have been a one-off.

‘Not so much these days,’ Kitty said. ‘Lottie had great potential as a junior, but she didn’t keep up with the training. Don’t believe that nonsense about her being in the next Olympic team. That was all talk. The girl showing off. Neither Elaine nor Lottie really believed it.’

‘So, Lottie did like to party?’

‘Not all the time. A binge drinker, a bit like Elaine. She was serious about schoolwork, and she knuckled down to exams. She’d always fancied Oxford. The idea of it. And she was bright. It came easily to her. But once she’d finished A levels, I can imagine her going a bit wild.’

‘Any boyfriends?’

‘Oh, loads, I suspect. But I wasn’t aware of any serious attachments.’ Kitty paused. ‘She was like her mother. She needed admiration, adoration. Her young men soon got bored of her demands.’

There was a moment of silence broken by footsteps on the stairs. Venn waited for the agency office door to open, but they continued to the next floor.

‘I understand that Elaine was in North Devon the week before her daughter died.’ Venn spoke as if he was certain that the woman was there. ‘Do you know what that was about?’

Kitty looked up sharply. ‘What day was that?’

‘Tuesday. She was there on Tuesday evening.’

‘I knew she was out of the office on Tuesday, and she was back in on Wednesday lunchtime. She didn’t tell me where she’d been.’

‘Was that unusual?’

Kitty paused for a moment. ‘I tried to keep on top of her diary, but it wasn’t always possible.’

‘Did you meet Lottie’s friend Hannah?’

‘The politician’s daughter? Yes, she came here with Lottie a couple of times.’

‘What did you make of her?’ Venn thought this woman was astute. He was interested in her opinion.

Kitty shrugged. ‘She was pleasant enough. Very different from Lottie. I suspect Lottie stuck with her because of the famous father rather than any real affection. I doubt the friendship would have lasted after they both went off to university.’ She frowned. ‘I suspect they were both rather lonely, you know. Hannah was shy and awkward, and Lottie put off a lot of people with her brashness and arrogance. It was probably a friendship of convenience.’

Venn thought that sounded very sad, but perhaps it was better than no friendship at all. Especially if all their contemporaries at school seemed happy and close.

‘What about Elizabeth Kinzalow? Did you meet her?’

Kitty shrugged. ‘American? I think she came in once with Lottie. Two of a kind, I thought.’

‘Oh?’

‘You know the sort. A bit showy. A bit loud.’ A pause. ‘But she was American.’ As if that was explanation enough.

‘You told my colleagues that Elaine was here on Monday morning, the day that the girls were killed.’

The response was immediate. ‘She was!’

Kitty glared at him over the coffee mug.

‘At the start of play?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘When would that be? Nine o’clock?’

There was a moment’s silence so profound that Venn could hear birdsong from the square outside.

‘Theatrical types aren’t early starters, Inspector,’ the woman said. ‘The office doesn’t open until ten-thirty. But Elaine was here soon after I arrived.’

Matthew didn’t think that gave Elaine any kind of alibi. He thanked the woman for her help and made his way down the stairs and into the square.

He hoped that Ross had tracked down the Kinzalows. If Elaine Cauldwell had been with them in the pub before the murders, he was very interested to find out what the meeting had been about.

After looking at his watch and his A–Z, he decided that he’d take a little detour and check out the Kinzalows’ London home. Just in case they’d come back to the city.

Chapter Eighteen

EARLY ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, JEN TRIED to get in touch with Daniel Miller, the occasional barman at the Fisherman’s Arms. He was hard to pin down, not answering his mobile. Jen had Mag’s phone number and called her before leaving home.

‘It’s Daniel’s morning off,’ Mag said. ‘He’s not working until this afternoon. Knowing him, he’ll either be surfing or asleep. I’ve got his mum’s number, though. Always useful if you’ve got young staff, who need the occasional wake-up call.’

‘I understand your husband had a bit of a row with both girls last Friday.’ Jen made sure her voice was light. Not a hint of accusation.

‘We can’t get away with underage drinking,’ Mag said. ‘Not these days. Not in a pub like this. They were pushing their luck.’ A pause. ‘If it had just been Hannah, Jim might not have made such a big deal of it, but that Lottie really got up his nose. Besides, we couldn’t encourage it. Let it go once, and all the kids try it on with their fake IDs. We’re not that sort of place.’

‘Of course not.’ Jen was conciliatory, but she wasn’t sure how many kids would afford the prices they were charging for drinks. ‘If I send through a photo, could you let me know if it was the woman who had dinner with the Kinzalows on Tuesday evening?’

‘Sure.’

Jen took the phone from her ear and sent the photo over.

Mag’s response was immediate. ‘Yes, my dear, that was certainly her.’

‘I don’t suppose you heard any of their conversation?’

‘I don’t eavesdrop on my customers!’

‘Of course,’ Jen said. ‘Of course.’

‘But it wasn’t the friendliest of conversations. You could tell that from the body language. If you work in hospitality, you have to be vigilant, and we all have a sixth sense for trouble.’ A pause. ‘A bit like the police.’

Jen phoned the mobile number she had for Daniel, but once more it clicked straight through to voicemail.

‘Sorry, I’m probably catching a wave. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.’

Daniel’s voice. Confident. Educated. Again, she remembered Venn’s word of advice about the Scouse chip on her shoulder and tried not to make any sort of judgement. She left a message asking Daniel to phone her back, then tried his mother’s number, but she failed to reply too.

Ross May did answer. ‘I’ll pick you up at home,’ she said, ‘and we’ll head out to Torr.’ She thought it would be good to have him with her when she talked to Daniel, and then they could start a proper search for the Kinzalows. ‘Mag has confirmed that Elaine was the woman they met in the Fisherman’s Arms.’

Daniel’s call came through just as she parked outside Ross’s house on one of the new estates that had sprung up around Barnstaple. Ross’s wife Mel was in the front room, and she grinned and waved out of the window. Mel was a manager of a care home for the elderly and some days she worked shifts. She’d had a health scare the year before, but she was looking well.

‘Hello.’ Daniel’s voice was grudging. ‘You left a message.’

‘I’d like to speak to you,’ Jen said, ‘to take a more formal statement. I’ve spoken to Mag, and I know you’re not working this morning. We’ll come to your house. I’ve got your address. It’ll be fine if you want your parents to be with you.’

‘I don’t know.’ The same sullen tone. ‘It’s not really convenient. I had plans.’

‘This isn’t about your convenience.’ Jen knew how to deal with difficult young people. You never let them call the shots. ‘We’ll be there in an hour.’ She ended the call before Daniel could reply and just as Ross came out of his front door.

She’d expected that the Millers would live in one of the grand Victorian villas that snaked up the hill out of the town, but it was a new build on a small estate. Executive, each detached, each individually designed with a view through long windows to the harbour. Enough space on the drive for three cars or a boat. Jen thought this was the kind of place Ross would dream of owning.

An older man wearing shorts and sandals, a polo shirt with a fancy logo and glasses pushed onto his forehead opened the door to them.

‘You must be the detectives.’ He held out his hand. ‘Daniel’s dad, Alan Miller. Dan said you’d be coming to take a statement. I’ll give him a shout. You can use my office. I was ready for a break anyway. I’ve been on a Zoom call to Oz. It started in the middle of the night. The time difference can be a nightmare.’ He gave a quick grin. ‘But better, I suppose, than those horrific long-haul flights.’

‘Daniel said you work from home.’

‘Yes. Financial advice. My own consultancy. Businesses, not individuals.’ He paused. ‘There are regular trips to London, of course, but the work–life balance is so much better here. Besides, the train doesn’t take very much longer than it did from Surrey.’ He spoke very quickly, as if he could be doing something much more important.

‘You’re welcome to sit in on the interview, if you’d prefer.’

‘Oh,’ he said easily. ‘No need for that. Daniel’s an adult after all. And I assume this is just routine.’

‘Of course,’ Jen said. ‘Just routine. But all the same, it might be a good thing for you to join us.’

Miller’s office was at the top of the house. A big room, it was a mix of old and new. An old desk with a fancy computer and keyboard. A comfortable armchair in one corner, a small sofa in another. A lot of family photos. Daniel must have an older sister. There were shots of the two of them as youngsters, brown and sandy on the beach. Pictures of them a little older carrying surfboards. All, it seemed, very perfect. The memories of family holidays that had caused the Millers to move to North Devon immediately after the pandemic. Jen and Ross sat on the sofa and waited for Miller to fetch his son.

Daniel looked as if he’d just got out of bed. Despite the automated voicemail message, there was no sign that he’d been up surfing. He hadn’t shaved or brushed his hair and was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep again after returning Jen’s call, and had scrambled to get dressed when he heard them come in.

He was resentful. Miller perched on the edge of the desk and Daniel slumped into the sofa.

‘I’ve already told you everything I know.’

‘I’m sorry that we had to disturb your morning off.’ Better, Jen thought, not to start off with a row. ‘This is important, though. Two young women died. You might not have known them well, but you must understand how distressing this is for the people who did. Their families.’

Miller gave a little cough. Daniel got the message. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’

‘Were you working in the Fisherman’s Arms early on the Friday evening?’

He nodded. ‘Mag was setting up the bar for MillsFest. The main event was on the Saturday, but people were arriving, and Friday’s always a busy day at the pub.’

‘Hannah and Lottie came in and tried to get served. Did you see the encounter with Jim?’

Daniel gave a little laugh. His father frowned. This time, the son seemed not to notice the disapproval.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It was quite a show. Jim laying down the law. The London girls all dressed up. I think Hannah Armstrong was dead embarrassed, but Lottie didn’t care. She gave as good as she got.’

‘I suppose,’ Jen said, ‘that it didn’t matter to her. She probably would never come back to Millscombe. Hannah would have found it awkward. Her parents were regulars at the pub. Cath and Mag were friends.’

‘I guess.’

‘Does Jim Hooper give you a bad time? He’s not a great fan of outsiders moving into the area.’ Jen supposed it wasn’t relevant, but she was curious.

Daniel shrugged. ‘A few snidey remarks. Nothing I can’t handle. Besides, he’s mostly in the kitchen. I work more with Mag and she’s okay.’

‘Were the girls going on to the farm after calling in to the pub on Friday?’ Ross asked the question. Maybe he thought Jen was wandering from the point.

‘I assume so.’ Daniel gave a smirk, which made Jen want to hit him. ‘Hannah had a bit of a thing for Jake Brennan. And though Saturday was the main day of the festival, there was some music on the Friday too. A kind of informal, open-mic thing.’

‘Did you see the girls later that evening?’ Ross again. Jen was content to let him take over. She might let her antipathy show.

‘The Friday night? No! I just drove home.’

‘What about Saturday?’

‘I was at the pub all day, covering for Mag and Jim while they were at the festival.’

‘But you must have seen them on Sunday because then it was your turn to run the beer tent. And apparently, you and Lottie left at about the same time.’ Ross looked at Daniel.

Miller shifted in his seat. ‘What are you implying, Sergeant?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Ross let his accent become a little more pronounced. Playing, Jen thought, the local yokel, hoping that Miller would underestimate him. ‘But at the moment it seems as if your son might be the last person to have seen Lottie Cauldwell alive. An important witness. You do understand?’

Now, Jen did jump in. ‘Our CSIs are working in Tide House. They’ll be there for a while yet. Checking for fingerprints, footwear prints. DNA on a glass or a bottle. Looking for something to put a stranger in the place. If you were there, Daniel, perhaps for an after-festival drink, now would be a good time to tell us. If you lie while we’re giving you a chance to set the record straight, it will seem rather suspicious.’

There was a moment of silence. Miller was staring at his son. Jen found it hard to know what the man was thinking. He’d be a good negotiator in a business deal. The best kind of poker player. He turned back to the detectives and smiled.

‘I think you can accept my son’s word, Officers.’

Jen ignored Miller and turned to the son. ‘So, you’d be happy to let us take your fingerprints and a swab for DNA?’

Silence, and then the father spoke again. ‘I don’t think you can insist on that, Officer, unless you’re prepared to charge my son with a crime, and I really don’t think you have sufficient evidence to do that, have you?’

Now, Jen couldn’t keep quiet. ‘Most innocent people volunteer to help the police in this situation.’

‘Perhaps they do, but I’d prefer not to have my son’s details on record.’ He sounded now more like a dodgy lawyer than a businessman. Why was that? Perhaps he didn’t believe Daniel’s story either.

Ross turned back to the son. ‘You did leave the music festival at the same time as Lottie, though?’ His voice was unthreatening, but certain, implying that the two young people had been seen together, that they had a reliable witness, but really, it was no big deal.

Daniel took a little while to answer, as if he was dredging through his memory for the details.

‘We might have walked out of the field together,’ he said at last. ‘We chatted for a bit. I liked her. She was good fun. Didn’t mind a bit of banter.’

‘But then you drove home, just as you had on Saturday night?’

There was another moment of hesitation.

‘Yeah.’

‘You were seen leaving the festival field at about six. So, you’d have been back here in Torr at six-thirty, seven at the latest.’ Ross smiled and waited.

‘No!’ Daniel tried to sound indignant but only came across as shaken. ‘I had to get everything back to the pub.’

‘According to the Brennans the festival wrapped up early evening, and the beer tent was cleared soon after.’

‘Not the takings.’ Daniel was rattled now. ‘I had to drop them in.’

‘Was Lottie with you?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘No way. She didn’t want to go back into the Fisherman’s, not after the run-in with Jim Hooper.’

‘So,’ Jen said, ‘you did have a conversation with Lottie as you left the farm?’

‘I’ve already told you. We were chatting.’

‘How did she seem?’ Jen aimed for a gossipy tone.

‘A bit bored, to be honest. She was used to a bit more excitement in her life.’ Implying that he was too.

‘Is that why she made those videos, mocking MillsFest?’

Daniel shot her a look and laughed. ‘You know about those? Yeah, I guess.’

‘What time did you actually get back here on Sunday evening?’ Jen’s tone was sharper now. She looked across at Miller. ‘Perhaps your dad will be able to help with the details.’

‘I didn’t come straight back here,’ Daniel said too quickly. ‘I caught up with some surfing friends. Had a few drinks so I left the car at their place. I went from there to work on the Monday morning.’

‘Your friends will be able to confirm that?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Did you actually come home on Sunday night?’ Ross looked at Miller first and then at his son.

‘I assumed that he was in,’ Miller said. ‘I was up here in the office. Fending off alligators.’

‘I’m sorry?’ For a moment, Jen thought the man must be mad, then she remembered Ben in his room at home, losing himself in some computer-generated battle. ‘Is that some sort of computer game?’

Miller gave a throaty laugh, relieving the tension in the room a little. ‘Nothing like that. Business jargon. It means fighting off a hostile takeover bid. I was advising a small company, talking through tactics.’

Jen turned to the son. ‘Well, Daniel, did you come home on Sunday night?’

He seemed about to bluster then thought better of it. He looked awkward. Very young.

‘Where were you?’ Jen persisted. ‘Of course we’ll check.’

‘Getting pissed in a bar on the harbour with a bunch of surfing mates. I crashed out on someone’s floor.’

‘Oh Daniel!’ The man was angry now. ‘I thought that had stopped. The drinking. The unsuitable friends. I thought you’d started growing up.’ He seemed more concerned now about his son’s adolescent behaviour than about the possibility that the lad could be suspected of murder.

‘We’ll need contact details for the person you stayed with,’ Jen said. ‘Of course we’ll have to check.’

‘Sure.’ There was the same mixture of arrogance and sullenness that made Jen want to hit him. ‘Sure. Sammy’ll be in now, I expect. He works late shifts in the bar at the Victoria. He’s not a morning person.’

* * *

Daniel had told them that Sammy lived in accommodation for employees at the Victoria Hotel. Jen supposed they’d never keep seasonal staff if they had to find their own places. All the rental flats would be ridiculously expensive, especially in the summer. There was an ugly three-storey sixties block behind the hotel, shielded from the customers by a high brick wall. The only view from the rooms would be of the car park or the kitchen. It had the air of shabby student accommodation – single rooms with shared very basic kitchens and bathrooms. There was a key code to let them into the building. Daniel had given them the code and directions once they got inside. Sammy’s room was at the end of a corridor. They could hear the music before they got anywhere close.

So, Jen thought, he was awake. She’d bet that Daniel had phoned his friend and warned him that they’d be coming. But when they reached the end of the corridor and knocked on the door, there was no answer, and it seemed now that the thump of heavy metal bass was coming from the neighbouring room. Jen pushed on Sammy’s door, but it was locked. She banged on the door with the music. The sound was lowered.

‘All right, all right,’ someone shouted from inside. A woman’s voice. ‘I’ve turned it down.’

Jen banged again and shouted, ‘Police.’

The door opened and a skinny young woman with hair so black that it must have been dyed looked out.

‘What do you want?’ She pulled the door closed behind her, but Jen could still smell the blast of weed.

‘Not you, love. I want a word with Sammy.’

‘Oh.’ The woman sounded relieved that she wasn’t the target of their attention. ‘He’s left. He had a row with the management and walked out last night.’

Of course he did, Jen thought. And I bet he told his best mate Daniel that he’d be leaving. So, Daniel would know it was safe to name him as an alibi.

‘Any idea where he’ll be?’

The skinny woman shook her head. ‘Not a clue.’

Vicki Robb had been in the police station in Barnstaple, phoning hotels and B&Bs in Torr, trying to track down the Kinzalows. Jen saw there’d been a missed call from her as soon as they left the Victoria Hotel staff quarters and phoned her back.

‘What have you got for me?’

‘No joy. I can tell you where they were staying before they started camping at Millscombe, but Ross had already tracked that down and there’s no information about where they’ve been since they left.’

‘Okay, Vick. Maybe spread the net a little bit wider. We know they have a vehicle. They could be anywhere. They might even have headed back to London. But let’s check places within a twenty-mile radius of Torr to begin with.’ She had a thought. ‘Did you check with the Victoria?’ It occurred to Jen that if the Kinzalows were shadowing the Armstrongs, this might be an obvious place to be. ‘If not, we’re here and can ask at reception.’

‘Yep, it was one of the first places I tried. No one of that name staying there.’

‘Of course you did.’

Vicki was talking again. ‘The boss is on his way to London to speak to the dead girls’ head teacher. Shall I ask him to try the Kinzalows’ London address if he has time? I’ve found out they’re still renting an apartment in the city.’

‘Terrific. Thanks.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

Jen thought about that. It seemed to her that the whole morning had been a waste of time. She was certain that Daniel Miller had been lying to her, but she couldn’t prove it and had no idea why. She was tempted to go back to the flash new house where he lived with his family, demand to look at the student’s phone to see any messages between Daniel and Sammy. But she suspected that any visit would be fruitless. If Daniel had any sense, he’d be on a beach somewhere with his phone switched off surfing with his friends.

‘We’ll come back to Barnstaple,’ she said. ‘I want to check the videos that Lottie put on social media. Let’s see if they can give us a clue about why someone would have wanted to kill her.’

Chapter Nineteen

JEN AND ROSS SAT AT VICKI’S desk in Barnstaple looking at Lottie’s Instagram account. She had a surprising number of followers. News of her death had obviously reached them, and the latest posts expressed horror at her passing:

OMG, I can’t believe such a beaut has left us.

Love you always, Lottie.

It was hard to tell how many of these followers were real friends. It seemed to Jen that many were aspiring actors and directors. Perhaps they’d hoped to reach the famous director Keith Cauldwell through his nepo-baby daughter. Certainly, in some of the posts about her death, there were photos of Lottie pulled up from pictures she’d added earlier on her account and in many of the images, she was with her father – at his home in LA, on a red-carpet press night in New York, on the set of his latest film. In all of them she looked posed and poised, turned to the camera as she took her selfie. Jen wondered if she’d ever been seen in public without make-up. All the posts looked curated as if Lottie had aspired to celebrity too – to become some kind of influencer, famous in her own right. There was an occasional mention that she was headed to Oxford after the summer break, but her taste in cosmetics and clothes seemed far more important than her academic achievements. There was no mention now of her sporting achievements. Perhaps wet hair and muscular arms didn’t seem like a good selfie look.

Jen wondered which was the real Lottie – the studious student or the pouting young woman of social media. Because she must have done some work to get into university. She must have aspired to more than this. It must have been a struggle hanging on to both identities.

Some conspiracy theories had already developed, and many of these included a reference to Hannah and her family. A few were outright weird: Hannah had been killed because of a right-wing plot to punish Paul Armstrong for the government’s planned hospital reforms. Or because of a left-wing plot with the same motive. The lovely Lottie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was simply collateral damage. Who, after all, said her friends, would want to kill such a beautiful person? The conspirators said that the police would have no interest in finding Lottie’s killer. The Armstrongs would have put pressure on them to keep away from the real perpetrator for political reasons. There was a hashtag: #WhokilledLottie?

‘Great,’ said Jen. ‘Just what we need!’ She had an image of Millscombe being invaded by a group of amateur detectives, assuming that they would have a better chance of tracking down the girls’ murderer than the local police. All trying to find their way into Tide House and taking selfies at the crime scene. It would be a nightmare. At least there was only one obvious route into the house. And she’d make sure that they had more officers patrolling the woodland near the old mill. Hannah’s relationship to a government minister meant that they’d have the budget for that.

Vicki brought up the videos taken over the weekend of MillsFest. Lottie was a skilled editor with a sharp and often cruel sense of humour. Some of the videos had been set to music, and her voiceover oozed sarcasm.

‘Look at Grandpa! Cool moves!’ she said, as a guy no older than Jen was dad-dancing with a teenage daughter.

‘This really is the place to be …’ A sweep of the site, managing to make it at once tedious and squalid. There were close-ups of bored faces and overflowing rubbish bins. At one of the bored faces, Jen paused the film.

‘Isn’t that Jonathan, the boss’s husband? I thought Matthew said he had a brilliant time.’

‘He probably did,’ Vicki said. ‘This has been heavily edited. All it would take would be one shot when he was looking away, thinking of something else, talking to a mate. The bins could have been emptied immediately after Lottie took the film, but she had an agenda …’

‘… to mock the festival and the people there.’ Jen was thinking. ‘Why? Just to make mischief because she was bored herself. Or did she have some ulterior motive? Do we know when she posted this?’

‘Yeah, late Saturday evening.’

‘So, the Brennans could have seen it before the girls were killed. They wouldn’t have been thrilled. They’d hoped the festival might bring more tourists into the campsite. This is the equivalent of a one-star review on Tripadvisor.’

‘Hannah would have hated it too,’ Jen said. ‘If she was planning a long-term future with Jake, it would be pretty embarrassing to have his parents’ event dissed in this way by a friend.’

‘Maybe that was why Hannah stayed with Jake on the Sunday night? To avoid Lottie? The couple could have gone back to Tide House, and they’d have had a bit more privacy, even with Lottie there.’

‘You think the girls weren’t as close as everyone makes out?’ Ross had been watching and listening, more focused than usual. Perhaps the screen held his attention more than a conversation or verbal briefing.

‘I know Jake said they hadn’t had a row,’ Jen said, ‘but it would be worth going back to the farm and checking.’ She was thinking that Daniel could have more information too. He’d seen the videos and had found them funny. She could imagine him and Lottie sneering together. Which made it even more important to find out where he was on the morning of the girls’ deaths. On impulse she called the Fisherman’s Arms. Mag answered.

‘Could you let me know when Daniel is working again? Nothing serious, but we’d like a quick word.’

‘So would we.’ Mag was clearly angry. The cheery front she usually gave to Jen was missing. ‘We’ve got a big fancy afternoon tea in the restaurant – it’s one of our regulars’ birthday – and he’s supposed to be here. But there’s no sign of him. I’ve tried phoning him and his mother, but they’re not answering their calls. If you track him down, tell him to get his arrogant, entitled arse back here.’

The line went dead.

Jen thought that could have been Jim speaking. Perhaps the Hoopers had more in common than she’d assumed, and Mag was simply a better actor.

Chapter Twenty

VENN FOUND THE KINZALOWS’ LONDON APARTMENT in a 1930s mansion block in the smarter bit of north London, not far from the school where Lottie and Hannah had been pupils. Hercule Poirot might have lived there. Geoff Kinzalow must have done rather well out of his journalism. Venn still had time to check it out before meeting the girls’ headmistress.

It was rather grand with a concierge behind a desk on the ground floor. Venn showed his warrant card and asked after the couple. The elderly guy grinned.

‘I did my time with the Met. Been retired twenty years now. They’re on the third floor. Nice couple. I haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks. They told me they were off on their holidays. Cornwall, was it?’

‘They live here full time?’

The man shook his head. ‘Nah, they split their time between here and New York. Usually go back to the US in the summer, but this year it seems there was a change of plan.’

‘Could they have come back from the West Country without your noticing?’

‘Yeah. Could have done. I’m only here during the day. But there’s still mail here for them.’ He nodded to the pigeonholes behind him.

‘Okay if I go up and see if they’re there?’

‘Sure. Want me to phone them first?’

Venn thought for a minute. They might be more willing to answer a call from the desk than him knocking on the apartment door. At least then he’d know where they were. ‘Please.’

There was no reply. ‘Still okay if I go up and check?’

The man shrugged. ‘They seem like a lovely couple, though. I can’t imagine why you might want to speak to them.’

Venn tried to sound reassuring. ‘They might be witnesses. Nothing sinister.’

‘It’s a long way to come to chat to a witness.’ He wasn’t stupid.

‘Ah,’ Venn said. ‘I was in London anyway.’

‘Shall I tell them you were looking for them if I see them?’

Venn thought for a moment. ‘No. Maybe not.’ He put his card on the desk. ‘But I’d be grateful if you can give me a shout when they get back.’

The concierge looked up sharply. ‘Like that, is it? Okay.’

Venn used the stairs to get to the third floor. They were carpeted and his footsteps were cushioned and quiet. Older lifts could wheeze and clunk. The building seemed sleepy, empty. He knocked on the Kinzalows’ door. It was heavy and he wasn’t sure anyone inside would hear.

Standing in the corridor outside the flat, he heard the lift approaching and waited. It stopped at the floor, and the doors opened. A wiry, elderly woman got out. She was immaculately dressed in smart linen trousers, a white blouse and a straw hat. She carried a string bag, and Venn saw fresh vegetables – celery, tomatoes and peppers. A big lettuce. She seemed surprised to see him there.

‘Can I help you?’ The voice was sharp, educated.

‘I’m looking for the Kinzalows.’

‘Oh?’ She was suspicious but not scared by the intruder. Certainly not overawed.

‘I’m a friend.’ Venn smiled. ‘Tony said I could come up to check if they’re back from their holiday.’ Tony was the concierge. He’d been wearing a name badge.

‘Oh,’ she repeated, but this time she was reassured. ‘No, they’re not back yet. They’d have called in to see me if they were. We’re old friends. Besides, I’d have heard them moving about the flat.’

Venn nodded his thanks and left.

The Armstrongs’ house was in a part of north London that looked as if it had once been a village. Leafy. Expensive. A main street with artisan bakeries and fancy restaurants serving food from all over the world. Coffee shops with tables outside. In the sunshine the place seemed continental, exotic.

The house itself was relatively modest, a mock-Tudor semi, a few streets away from the heart of the community, but in this location and within walking distance of the Heath, it would have cost a fortune. Venn stood for a moment, looking in. He could imagine the family living here. The loft had been converted into an extra bedroom, and he thought that might have been Hannah’s space, the place where she and her two friends had met, listened to music, done homework and talked about boys. Then he decided he was being fanciful, making up stories without any evidence. A local specialist search team had already been through Hannah’s bedroom and discovered nothing that might make her a victim. After all, he’d learned nothing about the Armstrongs by being here. Perhaps they were an ordinary family with an ordinary home. He’d just satisfied his curiosity by seeing it for himself.

Through the next-door window, a neighbour glared at him, assuming, he supposed, that he was a reporter or a ghoul. He walked quickly on.

He arrived at the school fifteen minutes early and waited outside the gate. Students were still leaving, wandering towards the exit in small groups, chatting. He was expecting something more uptight and formal in a private school, but most of the young women were wearing jeans and tops. The only thing identifying them as pupils of the place was the logo on some of the shirts. He supposed it must be the type of school where rules were minimal. Perhaps the children were expected to express themselves. Though they were still wearing a uniform of a sort. Expensive denim and Converse trainers. At their age, he would have found the notion of expressing himself terrifying. He still did.

The school itself was small for an institution. Perhaps once it had been a domestic house, Edwardian, three storeys, with a large garden. The garden was still there, though part of it had been covered by an extension. That was sensitively designed with a lot of wood. He made his way to the main entrance. Inside, it felt cool and airy. There was a smell of lavender furniture polish.

The head teacher was waiting for him in her office on the ground floor. She’d obviously been expecting him, despite his arriving a little early. She had the kind of nervous energy that develops after waiting a while, anticipating that something unpleasant is about to happen. She was older than he’d supposed from her voice, late fifties or early sixties, but she was informally dressed too in crumpled black linen trousers and a brightly coloured silk tunic. Her hair was dyed an improbable red. It was thin and her pale scalp showed through. She looked as if she could have been an actor. A good actor, because the phone conversation had left him with a very different impression. In reality, she seemed more theatrical than academic. Usually that would have intimidated him, but her nervousness made him reasonably confident.

‘Inspector Venn,’ she said. ‘Do take a seat. This is a terrible tragedy. We’re all trying to come to terms with it. Such a terrible waste.’

‘Of course.’ He paused. It was important to get her on his side. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve been hassled by the press.’

‘They’re monsters. Such prurient interest when two young lives have been lost, and their families have been grieving.’

‘Thank you for making time to see me.’ He wondered now if her previous lack of co-operation had been the result of anxiety, if the girls’ deaths had placed her in a situation she couldn’t quite handle.

‘I see now that it’s quite natural you should want us to meet.’ It seemed that she wanted to repair relations with him too. She leaned forward across her desk, becoming earnest and intense. ‘This school isn’t just about academic results. We develop our girls’ minds, hearts and personalities.’ The last sentence sounded like a mission statement, and he’d never been able to take those seriously. He was practised, though, in keeping a straight face.

‘It would be helpful for me to understand Hannah and Lottie better.’ He paused. ‘As you said, the parents are grieving, and I prefer not to trouble them with too many questions. This is a small school, so I presume you knew them well, even though they were about to leave you.’

‘Oh yes!’ Her nervousness seemed to have faded. ‘That’s why parents choose us. Because we can provide such a personal education for each child. Many of our students have struggled in mainstream education. We can be more flexible.’

‘Lottie and Hannah had problems before they came to you?’

‘Lottie came to us straight from primary school because our ethos is artistic. Both parents have a theatrical background. They wanted something to suit Lottie’s talents.’

‘I understand she was a sportswoman too. In the past, at least.’

‘Oh, she was!’ The teacher was enthusiastic. She might have been selling real estate, and he could have been a parent seeking reassurance that he’d made the right choice of school for his daughter. ‘Lottie was multi-talented. A real all-rounder. Academically very bright. She would have thrived wherever she went. Of course, there was a break during Covid when Lottie was in the first year, but we provided very full teaching. All in real time with individual tuition, even though much of it was digital.’

‘And Hannah?’

‘She came to us a little later. She struggled in more traditional education after lockdown. We attracted quite a number of girls who couldn’t quite settle. It’s even harder when the parents are high-profile of course. In a mainstream school.’

‘But Hannah settled with you?’

‘It took a little while, but absolutely!’ That same salesperson’s enthusiasm.

‘And the two were close friends?’

This time Sylvia paused for a moment before speaking. She seemed less certain. ‘Not at first, perhaps. As I say, Hannah took a while to settle. She was a rather shy and nervous child, given to bouts of anxiety. Then, in Year Ten, Lottie took her under her wing. She had her own little gang, and Hannah became one of the tribe.’

Venn conjured up the impression he’d gained of the pair. ‘Would you say that Lottie was a kind girl?’

The question obviously surprised the teacher and again, it took her a moment to respond. ‘That isn’t the adjective that would first come to mind. She was assertive and confident. Perhaps not as empathetic as one would hope.’

‘A bit of a bully?’

‘Oh no!’ The teacher sounded horrified. ‘We have no truck with bullying here. This is not that kind of place.’

There was a moment of silence, while Sylvia James shuffled a little uneasily. Venn hoped that her discomfort might lead to more revelations about the relationship between the girls, but she held her ground, staring him down.

‘Tell me about Elizabeth Kinzalow,’ he said at last. ‘She was another of your pupils.’

She continued to hold his eye. She was sharper than her appearance would suggest. ‘Why on earth would you want to know about her? She went back to the US before the girls started their A levels.’ The question seemed to have thrown her.

Venn wasn’t quite sure how much to give away. ‘Her parents were holidaying close to where your students were murdered. Perhaps that was a coincidence?’ He turned the last sentence into a question.

‘I can’t help you with that.’ She was dismissive. ‘I explained. We lost contact with the family two years ago.’

‘Was Elizabeth one of Lottie Cauldwell’s tribe?’

Another uncomfortable silence. ‘Really, Inspector, I can’t remember.’ She stood up to indicate that the meeting was over. Venn thought that was an answer of a sort. ‘Is there perhaps another pupil, a friend of Lottie and Hannah’s, that I might talk to?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t help you with that either. All our sixth formers left as soon as their exams were over. They could be anywhere by now.’

‘Perhaps you could give me the contact details of very close friends.’

She shook her head. ‘They’ll be upset enough by Lottie and Hannah’s passing. I won’t have them disturbed by unnecessary questions. I think I’ve given you all the information you need.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Venn said. ‘I really must insist. This is a murder inquiry.’

‘And I’m sorry too, Inspector, but I take my students’ need for privacy extremely seriously. Many of their parents are in the public eye. Come back with a court order, and then I can help you.’

Venn was still sitting, and she looked down at him, gathering together a pile of papers on her desk. She sensed victory. ‘I’ll take you to reception so you can sign out.’

Now, he did stand up. The woman might look flaky, but he changed his mind about her again. She was once more as steely as she’d seemed on that first telephone conversation. And something about Elizabeth Kinzalow had made her very uneasy.

He walked along the street to the nearest underground and took the tube to Paddington, which seemed to be full of Londoners with loud voices, wearing shorts and flowered shirts, on their way to holiday in the South West. He felt a moment of distaste, then guilt. He hated the idea that he might in any way be like Jim Hooper, resentful and prejudiced.

Chapter Twenty-One

VENN WAS ALMOST AT TIVERTON PARKWAY when his phone rang. No caller ID. He was about to reject the call when he had second thoughts. At this point in an investigation anything might be useful.

‘Yes?’ No name in case it did turn out to be spam.

‘Inspector Venn.’ The voice wasn’t old, but had that fruity, mellow quality that went with confidence and entitlement. It wasn’t a question. The man knew exactly to whom he was speaking.

‘Yes.’

‘You won’t know me. I’m a minor cog in the Home Office.’ A little self-deprecating laugh to indicate that he was, actually, a rather major cog. ‘Chris Appleyard gave me your number.’ As if he and the Chief Constable were best mates. Which, of course, they might be.

‘Oh?’

‘We are rather keen to have the matter of Hannah Armstrong’s death cleared up as soon as possible. It’s not good for the image of British policing if the investigation into the murder of a minister’s daughter drags on. Our press is notoriously critical. And there are always rumours in these sorts of cases of conspiracy, that some form of terrorism or radicalization is being hidden from the public.’

Venn felt a stab of anger but took a moment to answer. ‘I’m sure both young women’s parents are keen for an immediate result too. My team has already moved the investigation forward, and there is no indication of a political motive.’

‘I’m sure you’re all working very hard.’ The anonymous caller couldn’t have been more patronizing. ‘But if you need more resources, specialist advice from London, we’d be delighted to assist.’

‘The Chief Constable made it clear from the start that he preferred a small core investigative team to prevent leaks and the spreading of the sort of rumours you’ve indicated.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Venn could picture the civil servant at a large desk, a thin smile on his face. ‘But we can only agree to Chris’s approach for a limited time. Soon, I’m afraid we’ll have to send in more experienced officers.’

Venn wasn’t sure how to answer that immediately. He was about to say that a result that would hold up in court was more important than a speedy but unreliable arrest, but the call had already been ended.

Matthew had timed the evening briefing for later than usual in case of travel delays. The call from the Home Office had left him tense and angry, and he drove straight to the police station from Tiverton Parkway, muttering under his breath as he always did about the roadworks on the link road. He had a horror of keeping people waiting and always scheduled meetings for later than really needed, but his team was already in the ops room. By now, they understood him, and they were expecting him. They knew he would probably be early.

‘Good trip? Worth the effort?’ Jen was setting up the big screen and laptop.

‘I think so.’ Though he wasn’t quite sure that he could justify the day away. ‘I called into the apartment block where the Kinzalows live when they’re in London. No sign of them and I chatted to the concierge and neighbour. Both said they’d know if they were back.’ He looked out at the team. ‘My impression of Hannah and Lottie was confirmed by Elaine Cauldwell’s PA and their headteacher.’

‘And that was?’

‘That Lottie was the leader. The teacher called her assertive and confident. I’d think that was a euphemism for entitled and a bully.’

‘Just because she was an assertive young woman?’ Jen looked at him sideways.

Venn smiled.

‘Ah, maybe you’re right. That unconscious bias creeping in again.’

Jen gave a little laugh. ‘Nah, I think that you’re right, boss. The videos Lottie posted online were downright mean. If she could act like that with strangers, I imagine she could be equally nasty with her mates. Did you get anything more out of your London visit?’

Venn thought about that. ‘The teacher was cagey about Elizabeth Kinzalow. I’m not sure what she was trying to hide. Maybe the girl left school because Lottie was mean to her too.’ He turned back to Jen. ‘Was there anything else of interest on the videos?’

‘Other than that she was a sarky little cow?’ Jen shook her head. ‘But we’re just seeing what we’re expecting to see now. It’d be good to get a fresh pair of eyes on the site. And we should get a bit more detail on a bigger screen.’

‘Makes sense.’ Venn took a seat a little way back from the front – this was Jen’s meeting – but he had an uninterrupted view. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

Vicki started running the video. She slowed it down and stopped it when Jonathan came into view.

‘She’s using this shot to put the festival in a poor light, but you say that Jonathan enjoyed it?’

‘Yes, this is just misleading. He had a wonderful time.’ Venn looked more closely at the screen. ‘There’s Hannah and Jake just behind them. And isn’t that Karen Kinzalow looking on? Can we zoom in a bit?’

The figures grew larger as the focus changed. Jonathan and his friends were no longer in shot. Hannah and Jake were pictured staring into the distance, but even back on, it was possible to tell that they were happy together. They were holding hands and seemed oblivious to everything going on around them. To one side, Karen Kinzalow seemed to be staring at them. Vicki zoomed in further, but Karen’s features just became blurred.

‘Can we look at other images?’ Venn thought there was something about the woman’s stance that seemed too focused, almost threatening. ‘See if Karen appears again. Or her husband.’ Because, so far, there’d been no sign of Geoff in the mass of people. Venn wasn’t sure what significance that might have. Perhaps he was less sociable, or he didn’t like the music. Venn would have been interested, though, to know where he spent the day.

Vicki continued to show Lottie’s social media posts. In the very last one, Karen appeared again in the background, part of the crowd. Once more, it seemed, Lottie hadn’t noticed her. Venn wondered about that. If Elizabeth and Lottie had been close friends, wouldn’t Lottie have recognized Karen? Probably not, he thought. London was different from a town like Barnstaple. The girls could have been close without meeting each other’s parents.

‘Could you zoom in on Karen’s face, please, Vicki?’

This time the image was clearer. Hannah was nowhere in shot, but Karen’s face was turned to the camera, and she was staring at Lottie. Tears were running down her cheeks. She seemed inconsolable.

‘Have we heard from the digital team?’ Venn asked. ‘They were checking some of the malicious messages Armstrong received.’

‘Not yet.’ Vicki looked up from the laptop. ‘Want me to give them a push?

‘Please.’ It occurred to Venn that if Lottie took a strange pleasure in posting unpleasant videos on her social media, she might find it equally amusing to troll the father of her best friend. She wasn’t the sort of ignorant, left-behind person Armstrong had described, but she had been tech-savvy and malicious.

Besides, the Home Office is on my back, demanding action, a speedy resolution, and to know if we’ve found any terror-related material.

He felt the politics of the situation like a hovering threat, insubstantial in the present, but looming. He thought he’d ask for a meeting with Appleyard. He’d move things on more quickly and perhaps allow them to dismiss the political angle altogether.

It was nearly dark when he arrived home. The sun was low over the horizon, a semicircle of fire beyond the dunes. Jonathan was waiting for him, drinking beer from a can. There was salad on the table on the terrace, a crusty loaf. The barbecue was lit.

‘Marie dropped in some mackerel.’ Marie was a neighbour who had a small boat. Jonathan smiled and turned his face for a kiss. He smelled of fish and beer. ‘I thought I’d do something quick and simple. You’ve had a long day.’

‘Wonderful.’

Matthew watched. Everything was in shadow now. One outside light had come on automatically as the light faded, but it didn’t reach much beyond the terrace where he was sitting. The charcoal in the barbecue glowed and spat as the oil from the fish fell onto it. Jonathan was a silhouette, brandishing tongs and deftly turning the mackerel. Matthew could have sat, an entranced audience of one, all evening.

There were times when he thought he loved his husband so much that it made him vulnerable. To hurt and to loss. Jonathan was self-sufficient and resilient. He’d cope with whatever life threw at him. Matthew had always been anxious, fretting about past mistakes and worrying about future dangers. The hypervigilance made him a good detective but a troubled man. Surely now, though, he should be able to relax, even with a new family thrown into the mix.

They ate in silence. Jonathan was clearly starving. He ripped bread from the loaf and smeared it in butter, then used it to wipe the juice from the plate.

‘There’s an image of you on one of our victims’ socials,’ Matthew said. He’d cleared the plates and made coffee. The least he could do. Lottie’s posts were public, so he couldn’t see any problem in showing his husband the video. He opened his laptop and ran the snippets of film.

Jonathan was more upset than Matthew had expected. ‘That’s a travesty! Everyone had a great experience. I’m sorry that she’s dead of course, but what a bitch!’

Matthew found photographs of Lottie and Hannah on his phone. ‘Did you see either of these girls while you were there?’

Jonathan took the phone and looked closely at the images. He pointed at Hannah. ‘I didn’t see her, but the other one, I did see.’ A pause. ‘It was hard to miss her. She wanted to be noticed.’

‘She’s the girl who took the images for her socials and made the videos.’

‘That makes sense.’ Jonathan poured more coffee from the pot. He could drink a gallon and still sleep. Venn, on the decaf instant, was jealous. ‘She seemed lonely. A bit desperate. I can see how she might take her unhappiness out on the world with those snide films.’

‘You thought she was unhappy?’

‘Oh yes. Unhappy and lost.’

‘Was she with anyone else when you saw her?’

‘Not then. I saw her later that evening, though, with some guy, as we were leaving the festival.’

That would have been the Saturday night, Matthew thought. We know both girls were alive the rest of the following day. All the same, it would be interesting to know if she’d hooked up with somebody that evening.

‘Who was with her?’ Matthew thought it might have been Daniel. Either he’d have been trying his luck with Lottie, or she could have been flirting with him, if, as Jonathan had said, she was desperate for attention.

‘A middle-aged man. I wondered if it could be her father.’

Venn found a photo of Geoff Kinzalow that Vicki had sourced from one of his magazine articles. ‘This chap?’

Jonathan stared for a moment. ‘Honestly? I can’t tell. It was already getting dark, and I’d had a few drinks.’

‘Any idea what was going on? Was the encounter friendly? Hostile?’ Venn thought Jonathan might find this question easier. He understood theatre. It was in his bones, and he’d worked with actors and directors since the Woodyard had opened. He might not have seen the man’s face, but he’d have picked up on the body language, some sense of the relationship between the two.

Again, Jonathan took a while to reply. ‘Neither of those things,’ he said at last. ‘It seemed intense. He was leaning towards her, as if he were persuading her about something. He had his hand on her shoulder. That’s why I thought they were related. Father and daughter.’

Matthew wasn’t sure what to say about that. They sat for a moment in silence. Matthew was running various scenarios through his head – could Keith Cauldwell have been in the UK after all? – when Jonathan interrupted his imaginings.

‘I’ve booked us a room for Saturday night for our trip to Cornwall. A little hotel on the coast, close to the village where my mother lives.’ He corrected himself. ‘My birth mother.’

‘What time have you arranged to meet her?’

‘Early evening. Six o’clock. I thought that would give you the morning in the office if you needed to be on top of the investigation, and we could be back by Sunday lunchtime if you’re still working that case.’

‘Great,’ Matthew said. ‘Great.’

That night, despite his long day, he hardly slept at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING JEN WAS outside Daniel Miller’s home, banging on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a woman. She wore leggings and a loose T-shirt and carried a rolled yoga mat under one arm. In the other hand she had car keys. It seemed she was on her way out. She might have been the same age as Jen, even older, but she had the taut, toned body of a woman who worked out regularly with a personal trainer. Who didn’t drink and never ate cake.

‘Yes?’ She seemed twitchy, an addict scared of missing her exercise fix.

‘Sergeant Rafferty.’ Jen made sure she blocked the door, so the woman couldn’t get past her. ‘I’m looking for Daniel. I left you a message. He missed work. Is he at home?’

‘No.’ Her eyes were on the car in the drive. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but if I don’t go now, I’ll miss my class. Beach boot camp.’

‘Where is Daniel? You know he’s a person of interest in a murder inquiry? We asked him to stay in touch.’

Suddenly, the thought of weight training on the beach seemed less important. ‘What do you mean, a person of interest?’

‘He was present at Millscombe the weekend before the girls’ bodies were found. He admitted talking to one of the victims. He gave us a dodgy alibi.’ Jen knew she wasn’t being entirely professional, but this woman had got under her skin. ‘And he didn’t turn up for his shift at the pub yesterday.’ She was about to pass on Mag’s message word for word but thought better of it at the last minute. She needed the woman’s co-operation and describing her son as an entitled, arrogant arse might not help.

‘He was going to call the Fisherman’s Arms to explain,’ the woman said.

‘Well, he didn’t. And explain what?’

‘He’s gone back to Cambridge.’ She propped the mat she was carrying against the wall. Perhaps the beach boot camp didn’t seem quite so important now. ‘A friend was going through a bad time, and he said he’d go, give him a bit of support.’

Convenient.

‘I’ll need contact details for the friend.’

Stop pissing me about, lady.

‘I’m not sure that I have them. Daniel’s an adult now. We don’t track his movements.’ But even she could tell that this was serious, and Jen would need more than that. ‘Look, do you want to come in and I’ll see what I can find?’

They sat in the kitchen. There was no sign of her husband. Perhaps he was on an urgent call to Hong Kong or Singapore. Fending off alligators. Daniel’s mother was called Belinda, and she offered Jen coffee. There was a fancy pod machine on the bench, along with a milk steamer, so she provided a very good cappuccino.

‘When Daniel said he was planning to go back to Cambridge before the start of term, we thought that might be a good idea.’ Belinda, it seemed, didn’t drink coffee. She pulled a jug of homemade smoothie out of the fridge. It was the colour of rotting seaweed. ‘I mean, he hasn’t been doing brilliantly at university, and we thought a bit of time in the library before term starts …’ Her voice tailed off.

‘Nothing to do with two murdered young women, and not wanting to answer difficult questions about his whereabouts on the last morning they were alive?’ Jen thought she’d put up with enough. ‘You’d better tell him to get his arse back down here before the end of the day, or we’ll ask the Cambridge police to pull him in for questioning there. That won’t look good for his university career.’

The woman stared at her, shocked, the reality finally hitting home. ‘You’re not saying that he’s a suspect? He’d never met those girls before. Why on earth would he kill them?’

Jen wanted to tell her about some of the killers she’d known. The pathetic men who’d killed without any real motive. Because they needed to feel powerful for one moment in their lives. Because they couldn’t bear to be laughed at. Because they were so drunk or so high that they hardly knew what they were doing. Motive was often irrational, a fleeting moment of rage or despair.

‘He’s not a suspect at the moment,’ she said. After all, she didn’t want Daniel disappearing altogether. ‘But he is a person of interest and if he doesn’t come home under his own steam, we’ll have to pull him in, and he might be arrested and cautioned.’ She met Belinda’s staring, rabbit in a headlight eyes. ‘Would you let me have a look at his room? There might be something there to tell us where he really was that morning.’ When there was no immediate response, she added, ‘We probably have enough to get a warrant, and then you might get a police car and uniformed officers turning up on your drive. That would get the neighbours talking.’

Belinda paused for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Sure. I don’t think he’ll have anything to hide.’

She wasn’t certain, though. Jen thought her son was a mystery to her. She understood what that was like – kids could be that way. Hidden, full of secrets. It might be an indication of independence. Or it could be a sign of guilt.

Belinda led her up the stairs. The house was quiet.

‘Where’s your husband?’ Because his office door was open and there was no sign of him.

‘He’s in London. Business. He got the train yesterday evening.’

Jen wondered if that was important or relevant. ‘He didn’t go with Daniel?’

‘No. Daniel took his car.’

The son’s room was at the back of the house, big but a little dark, even though it faced east. The garden behind the house was steep, a series of terraces. Well-kept but bland. Jen thought they’d have a gardener, someone local to come in every couple of weeks to keep things tidy. Someone who didn’t really care.

Belinda hovered in the doorway. Jen turned and gave her a smile. Perhaps it wasn’t her fault after all that Daniel was so screwed up. Perhaps she too found him difficult to like. To love. There was an older sister after all, who’d moved away from home. Perhaps she was compliant, more like her parents.

‘It’s okay. I can take it from here. I won’t be long.’

The room had even less character than the garden. There were a couple of photos, of a young man, presumably Daniel, riding the surf, dwarfed by huge waves. Otherwise, nothing personal. Had he resented the family’s move from the city more than he’d let on? Was the entitled exterior masking loneliness?

Certainly, it was hard to believe that a student lived here. Even Jen’s Ella, who’d always been easy, too sensible for her years, left unwashed clothes around, books in piles, the occasional dirty mug. Ben’s gaff was a pigsty of discarded pizza boxes and evil-smelling underwear. Perhaps the Miller family had a cleaner as well as a gardener. And perhaps she’d been in since Daniel had done his disappearing trick the morning before.

Jen pulled on gloves and began her search. There was one wall of bookshelves. There were a lot of books; many looked daunting. There was nothing she’d be tempted to dip into and no sign that any had been recently read. Perhaps Daniel wasn’t an academic type but had been forced to apply to a good university to please his parents. He might be bright, but once away from their clutches, he’d struggled to be engaged.

Another wall was covered with built-in wardrobes and drawers. Boutique hotel grey. When she opened the doors, she was pleased that this was a tip. Either Daniel or the cleaner had just thrown in anything that would get in the way of a duster and Hoover. Clean and dirty clothes mixed. Damp swimwear and work polo shirts. She pulled out the shirts that had been worn. One smelled of woodsmoke, perhaps from the barbecue where Brennan had cooked his high-class burgers at MillsFest. No sign of blood spatter, but she took an evidence bag from her tote and put the shirt inside. Belinda Miller wouldn’t miss it. Jen thought it unlikely she’d be the person doing the laundry.

Under the window there was a desk with a laptop on it. Surely that wouldn’t have been left behind if Daniel had actually gone back to university to study, even if he’d intended on spending some time supporting a friend? He’d done a runner, encouraged by his parents.

In one of the desk drawers, Jen found Daniel’s passport. At least, then, the runner had only been to Cambridge, not overseas.

There was an en-suite bathroom. Again, it was spotless, with an overwhelming smell of bleach. Jen suspected that if Daniel had tried to wash blood or any other trace of the dead girls from his body or clothes, there’d be no sign of it now, even if they checked the drain. It seemed a very convenient coincidence.

Belinda was waiting for her in the kitchen. She was anxious, edgy. Jen had started feeling sorry for her.

‘Have you been in touch with Daniel?’ She kept her voice easy. ‘Is he heading back?’

‘He didn’t answer,’ Belinda said. ‘He’ll still be asleep. I’ve left him a message.’ With a spark of defiance, she added, ‘Do you want to check my phone?’

Jen shook her head. ‘No need for that. It’s in everyone’s interest to get him back here as soon as we can.’ She dropped her card on the table. ‘Give me a ring, will you, when you hear from him?’

Belinda nodded. She picked up her house keys and followed Jen to the door.

‘You off to boot camp?’

‘Too late,’ Belinda said. ‘But I need some exercise. I’ll go for a run.’

In the street Jen watched the woman jog easily up the steep bank until she disappeared from view.

Like I thought. An exercise junkie.

She decided that she’d go to the greasy spoon at the harbour for a full English. She hadn’t had time for breakfast before leaving home. Besides, the Kinzalows might appear again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

CATH ARMSTRONG WOKE ON THAT THURSDAY morning feeling drugged and heavy, not sure for a moment where she was. The room was unfamiliar. The big brown furniture seemed to trap her despite the size of the room. She was alone in the bed. It was the first proper night’s sleep she’d had since Hannah had died, and she realized now that she had been drugged. At last, she’d succumbed and taken the sleeping pills prescribed by the doctor Paul had somehow found. Her husband hadn’t lost his need to fix things, even though he must be grieving too. His grief expressed itself through a kind of manic activity. She could hear him now, out on the balcony, talking into his phone. It would be work. It always was work. She never worried that he might be unfaithful. He wouldn’t have the time or the head space. Besides, he’d always be worried that the press would find out. These days, he knew the importance of discretion.

She lay still for a moment, waiting for her head to clear. Her mouth was dry. She propped herself up and took a sip from the glass of water on the nightstand. Paul must have sensed the movement because he ended the call and came back into the room.

‘How are you feeling?’ He sat beside her on the bed and stroked her hair away from her forehead. She might have been his child, not his wife.

‘Pretty doped.’

‘At least you slept.’ Perhaps he was expecting gratitude because he’d found a doctor and meds to knock her out. Then he gave a little laugh, and his tone changed. ‘You were snoring like a pig!’

‘Ah, I’m sorry.’ She reached out and took his hand. None of this was his fault. She couldn’t imagine being here, coping with it all, without him.

‘That was Elaine on the phone. She’s going back to London. She says all this hanging around is driving her mad. Now they’ve let her see Lottie, what’s the point of being here?’

‘I want to stay,’ Cath said quickly.

They had been allowed into the mortuary after the post-mortem to say goodbye to Hannah. Hannah hadn’t been there. Cath had seen that immediately. Her daughter had been sensitive and kind and anxious. The body was nothing but a doll, a grotesque puppet. All the same, fleeing back to London while the shell of her was still here, while the investigation continued, would have felt like a betrayal. A dereliction of her duty as a parent.

‘Of course we can stay. There’s no rush.’ Because parliament was in recess, and he could work quite easily from here. She marvelled at his ability to compartmentalize. She knew he wept when he thought nobody was looking – Cath loved him for that – but when he was talking to colleagues, he was clear and focused. And he slept without the need for medication.

An idea, sudden and sharp, came into her head and she spoke without considering what the reaction might be. ‘Do you think we should tell the police what happened that night? Between the three girls.’

His response was immediate. ‘No! Really, Cath, don’t even think about it. What relevance could it have after all this time?’

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

‘Elaine wondered if you’d join her for breakfast on the terrace. I told her you’d call her back when you woke up. Her driver’s not picking her up until eleven, so there’s time.’

‘Oh!’ Cath wasn’t sure what to make of that.

‘Perhaps you should,’ Paul said. ‘She’s so flaky. We don’t want her talking to the press when she gets back. There’s too much nonsense already swirling around on social media. You might be able to talk some sense into her. Explain that it’s in everybody’s interest to keep a dignified silence.’ He paused. ‘There’s been no sign of the Kinzalows.’

She joined the dots. He didn’t need to say anything more. The earlier outburst had been enough.

‘All right. Can you phone her back? Say I’ll meet her in half an hour. You’ll be okay with the boys?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll take them down to the beach. You can join us when you’re done.’

Cath threw off the cover and got out of bed. For a moment she was dizzy, and she stood, steadying herself, before heading for the shower. Paul was already on his mobile to Elaine, his politician’s voice smooth and plausible.

‘Cath would love to join you for breakfast,’ she heard him say. ‘Safe travels back to London. Take care.’

Cath arrived on the terrace a few minutes late, but there was no sign of Elaine. She asked for a table for two. Below her the valley shimmered. There was already the beginning of a heat haze. She was staring down at the town and the water when Elaine appeared. She must be planning to head straight off because she was pulling a little suitcase behind her. It was very black and very shiny. She wore one of her film-star dresses, sleeveless, clipped in at the waist, a full skirt. Pale pink. Dark glasses, although there was an awning to provide shade.

Cath ordered coffee and pastries. She felt she needed caffeine and sugar to wake her up. To face Elaine.

‘Just coffee for me,’ Elaine said. ‘An oat milk latte.’

‘So, you’re heading back to London?’ Cath wondered what Elaine wanted, because it was clear to her now that the woman wanted something. They had never been friends. For Elaine, she thought, every relationship was transactional.

‘Yes. I have a business to run.’ Cath felt the words as a dig. It’s all right for you. You have a husband to keep you. ‘What are your plans?’ The coffee had arrived. Elaine stirred hers relentlessly but didn’t drink any.

‘We’ll stay for a while,’ Cath said, ‘until there are some answers.’

‘What if there are no answers?’ Elaine took off the sunglasses and stared across the table. ‘The local police don’t seem exactly dynamic.’ A pause. ‘That Inspector Venn, the gay one, went into my office yesterday and gossiped to my PA. Kitty’s very loyal. Of course she phoned me at once. I’m not sure what he hoped to find out there.’

‘It’s all background, I suppose.’

‘Have you seen what people are saying on social media?’ At last, Elaine set down her spoon.

‘No,’ Cath said. ‘I don’t want to know. I’m keeping away from it all. Radio, television, the legacy press. I’d find it all toxic.’

‘So many rumours flying around.’ A pause. ‘Lottie had quite a following. People loved her.’ Elaine paused again, a note of pride in her voice. ‘And she’d started making money. An influencer with brains and on her way to Oxford. She was an advertiser’s dream.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘There’ll be a backlash of course. There always is. So far, her fans have been very supportive, but the trolls will come out. The envious and the stupid.’

‘Paul is very keen that we stay away from the media.’

Elaine made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sneer. ‘I’m sure he is.’

Cath pulled a piece from a Danish pastry and was surprised that she found it delicious. She’d never quite believed that she’d enjoy anything again. She tore off another and put it in her mouth. It was fresh and crisp, with the taste of almond and vanilla.

‘We’ll have to hope,’ Elaine said, ‘that the Kinzalows keep their mouths shut.’

Cath didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about the Kinzalows.

Elaine continued: ‘Do you think they killed the girls? They were there, on that farm. They might have done.’

‘No!’ Cath was certain of very little at the moment, but she was certain about that. ‘Do you think we should tell the police about what happened that night?’ Almost exactly the same question as she’d put to Paul a little while before.

‘Of course not.’ The answer came back almost before Cath had completed the question. Elaine narrowed her eyes. ‘There are too many reputations at stake, don’t you think?’ She paused again. ‘So, we’ll take your husband’s advice, shall we, and keep away from the press. We should keep a dignified silence.’

Which was exactly the phrase that Paul had used. Cath wondered if she would have heard him making plans with Elaine if she’d woken up a little earlier. She supposed he would be pleased at the outcome of this encounter, but she felt grubby and uncomfortable.

Elaine’s phone vibrated. She checked it. ‘That’s Steve. The car is at the front, waiting for me.’

She walked away. Her skirt swayed with the movement. Most of the men on the terrace watched her go. Cath was left to sign the bill.

She texted Paul to say she was about to make her way to the beach.

Need anything from the room?

There was no reply. She was pleased and imagined him pottering with the boys, building a sandcastle or pulling creatures out of the rockpools and watching them swim around a plastic bucket before releasing them. His phone would be on silent and hidden under a towel. His focus completely on his sons. It was one of his strengths – the ability to give his complete attention to the matter on hand. She was easily distracted.

She walked slowly because the roads through the town were steep, in places cobbled and narrow, and besides, she found this moment of calm restful. Here among the tourists smelling of sun cream and ice cream, she was anonymous. She felt the same stab of guilt as when she’d enjoyed the breakfast pastry. She had no right to these moments of joy when Hannah was dead.

There were steps down to the beach. Her sandals flapped as they hit the stone. It wasn’t so crammed with holidaymakers that she couldn’t scan the shore for Paul and the children. Families usually headed for the wide bays with safe swimming – Saunton or Woolacombe. From this viewpoint, she picked up the red beach towels they’d brought from London almost immediately and remembered how excited the boys had been that evening, packing the car for the overnight drive.

Now, she could see the boys. They were squatting, piling flat, round pebbles into towers. The tide was in and there was little sand. They seemed engrossed. They must have inherited Paul’s focus, she thought. Alex especially could lose himself in a task, blinkered to the rest of the world.

She stopped abruptly on the lowest step, causing a young lad behind her to bump into her, and mutter something rude under his breath. She couldn’t see her husband. Her eyes flitted backwards and forwards across the beach. Paul was nowhere near the boys, and he wouldn’t have left them completely alone. She stepped aside to let the lad behind her go past and then ran towards her children. She felt light-headed and physically sick with panic, about to throw up. Her foot twisted on the shingle, but she hardly noticed the pain.

‘Hi, guys!’ Because she didn’t want to distress them. She’d surprised them and they looked up, smiling. They started talking about the game, but she interrupted. ‘Where’s Dad?’

Alex shrugged, unbothered. ‘Dunno. He was here a minute ago.’

She turned away from her sons and scoured the beach down to the water. Perhaps Paul had decided on a swim. After all, she thought, perhaps he had left them. He could be ridiculously reckless. Some of the things he’d done in his youth! In the heat haze it was hard to distinguish between the heads bobbing in the distance.

‘I’m here!’ She felt hands on her shoulders, turned and saw her husband.

‘Oh!’ Her body was flooded with relief, and gratitude. And the sense of how foolish she’d been to overreact in this way. As well as an undercurrent of anger that he’d caused her anxiety by wandering off.

‘I went on the search for ice creams,’ Paul said, ‘but the queue was too long. I thought we could get some on the way back. Maybe stop in that place that does the very best sundaes. What do you think, boys?’

‘Yeah!’ But it was clear that they didn’t want to leave just yet, and they turned their attention back to their game.

Paul turned Cath to face him and held her tight for a moment. They sat together on one of the red towels. There was the background noise of waves on shingle, gulls and children’s voices, all blurred together so she felt as if she were dreaming.

‘They were never out of my sight,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry. I just panicked.’

‘I wasn’t looking for ice cream.’ His voice was low, hardly more than a murmur. She had to strain to hear him. ‘I saw Karen Kinzalow. She was close to the top of the steps looking down at us at the beach. I think she followed us from the hotel, though it could have been chance, I suppose. I decided to speak to her. I don’t want her haunting us. Like some kind of ghost. I wanted to find out what she’s doing. You must just have missed us.’

‘And?’

‘She disappeared before I could catch up to her. I suppose she headed back towards the town. I couldn’t leave the boys to follow.’

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘If they’d killed Hannah, they wouldn’t still be here, would they? They’d have disappeared back to London. Or run away to the States. They’d be quite safe there.’

It took him a long time to answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t make up my mind what to do.’

The admission shocked Cath. Paul always knew the best thing to do. He was certain about everything. She repeated the question she’d asked him early that morning. ‘Should we go to the police? That Inspector Venn? Or the woman with the red hair?’

‘No.’ This time his response was less definite. ‘Not yet.’ A pause. ‘It might not even have been Karen. I could have imagined it.’

Cath shook her head. Paul wasn’t given, ever, to flights of fancy.

Gilbert was getting bored. He stuck out his foot and knocked over Alex’s tower. Alex seemed about to start a fight; he picked up one of the pebbles as if to hurl it at his brother.

‘Time for ice cream.’ Paul gathered Alex into his arms. His voice seemed unnaturally loud, but the boys didn’t notice. ‘I’m going for strawberry with monkey’s blood. What about you?’

‘Chocolate! And sprinkles.’

Cath shook out the towels and rolled them up to stick in the beach bag. They walked back into the town, both adults tense and hyper-vigilant, looking out for anyone in the crowd who looked like the Americans.

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE EVENING BEFORE, AT THE BRIEFING, Venn had decided that his first stop on Thursday morning would be to Millscombe and the farm. He hadn’t spoken to Jake Brennan or his father on his last visit – they’d been in Barnstaple manning their stall in the Pannier Market – and he wanted to talk about the festival. It would be useful to know if they’d seen the videos and comments Lottie had posted throughout the weekend. One of their friends, surely, would have told them what was happening online?

He stopped briefly at Tide House. News of the murders was clearly widespread now. Some of the reporters were still there, but their focus was as much on the other people gathered in the lane as on the police investigation. It seemed that Lottie had been more famous than Venn had realized. A small group of onlookers stood at the cordon, chatting, hugging and waving their phones in the air to snatch photos of the place over the gate. Most seemed to be young women. A few were in tears. They’d brought flowers that were already wilting in the heat, and handmade cards. Most of the cards had Lottie’s name on the front. Hannah, it seemed, didn’t deserve the same level of tribute.

The middle-aged police officer was still there, being patient but firm.

‘There’s nothing to see. Just let our team do their work.’

Eventually, they scattered, wandering back along the lane towards the Fisherman’s Arms, where Venn presumed their cars were parked. Perhaps, after all, murder wouldn’t be so bad for the Hoopers’ business.

Venn chatted briefly to the policeman. ‘Is that happening a lot?’

‘On and off. Lots of the journos moved on after the first day it went public. They’ve realized there’s nothing to see. We’ve got someone posted at the back of the pub to stop the rubberneckers getting down the combe that way. They’re the ones who think they can play detective and that they’ve only got to look at the scene to discover some vital clue we’ve missed.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame all these true crime podcasts. Bloody nightmare.’

Venn nodded towards the group disappearing up the lane. ‘That lot didn’t cause any bother, though?’

The officer shook his head. ‘Nah, there’s been a stream of them, turning up since the news got out. They’re just sad. They all claim to be friends of Lottie Cauldwell, though none of them met her in real life.’ He looked over the gate to Matthew. ‘It seems a strange kind of friendship.’

Venn drove all the way up the track and parked at the farmhouse. There was no break in the heatwave, and he didn’t want to arrive hot and sweaty after a walk. He’d seen no forecast of any change in the weather. The local news had featured wildfires on parts of Exmoor; there was already a hosepipe ban and talk of standpipes being introduced. Everyone, even the holidaymakers, was hoping for rain.

He found the family together in the kitchen. Jake looked unwell and pale. Perhaps Hannah’s death had finally hit home and triggered another crisis in his mental health. Certainly, his mother was treating him as if he was a sick child. She’d made him a couple of boiled eggs and toast soldiers and was encouraging him to eat. They’d shouted to Venn to come in as soon as he knocked – he supposed they’d seen the approach of his car – and Jake was already on his feet.

‘Sorry.’ A mumble. ‘I’m not hungry.’ He nodded to Venn and disappeared upstairs.

Matthew could imagine him holed up in his sun-filled bedroom with its memories of Hannah. Perhaps it still smelled of her. There might be objects belonging to her left behind – her toothbrush, some underwear, a book.

‘Coffee?’ Tessa was already switching on the kettle.

‘Please.’ Venn looked towards the door through which Jake had disappeared. ‘He’s taking it hard.’

‘He was numb at first,’ Tessa said. ‘Now each day he seems to sink deeper. He’s hardly eaten since that morning you found her.’

‘Will he get some help?’

‘Maybe. If we can persuade him to see someone. Our GP’s very good.’

‘And how are you both?’ It seemed to Venn that they were exhausted too. He imagined the whole family awake at night, weird anxieties rattling around in their heads, lying tense and still, pretending to each other that they were asleep.

‘Oh, you know,’ Tessa said at last. ‘There’s nothing worse than knowing that your child is hurting, and there’s not a thing you can do to make it better. He’s our only child. We’re both fixers, Bob and me, and this is something that nobody can fix.’

Brennan looked across at Venn. ‘Until you catch the killer. That might help the boy.’ His voice was hard, challenging.

Venn recognized the implied question.

Well? What are you doing? Why is this taking so long?

‘We have a lot of new information,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to trust me. I can’t tell you what’s happening. And I have more questions for you, I’m afraid.’

There was silence. Tessa put a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. ‘Go on then. Ask your questions.’

‘Lottie was posting little videos and comments online throughout the festival weekend. Did you see them?’

‘Sarky cow.’ Tessa sounded more resigned than angry. ‘Yeah, we saw them, but not until the Sunday morning. There was a little flutter of negative comment on our Facebook page, which was the exact opposite of what we were expecting or hoping, so we looked at them in more detail. People were reposting from Lottie’s site. She obviously has a lot of young followers, and they were sharing the nastiness without any idea really of what was going on here. But then there was a push back from our regulars, putting their own photos on our website and saying what a brilliant time they’d had at the festival, calling out the lass for being so bitchy and mean. In the end, we decided she’d done more good than harm. For us, at least. Raised our profile and generated positive comments from people who might not otherwise have bothered. I’m not sure it did much to her reputation.’ There was a pause. ‘Hannah was furious, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘That’s why Lottie didn’t come to our little party on Sunday night. Hannah had told her she wouldn’t be welcome.’

‘They fell out over it?’

‘I think there was a row,’ Tessa said. ‘A disagreement at least. It might have been why Hannah stayed here on Sunday night. Why she let Lottie go back to Tide House on her own.’

‘Did you see them arguing?’

Tessa shook her head. ‘But Hannah was very frosty when I asked if Lottie wanted to come into the house that night. I didn’t want to upset her mate. After all, we’d come out of the social media battle very well. Far more sign-ups to the farm newsletter. More bookings. I wouldn’t have minded her being there.’ Tessa paused and despite herself, gave a little grin. ‘I would have enjoyed having the chance to gloat.’

‘What did Hannah say?’

‘That Lottie would be getting the first train back to London on Monday. She’d drive her to the station. That she should have realized what a poisonous person the girl was. This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to destroy someone just for fun. It was time for the truth to come out.’

Venn wondered why Tessa hadn’t mentioned the falling-out before, then thought that wasn’t fair. Everyone had been in shock and Jake had said that there’d been no row. It always took a while for memories to surface. ‘Do you think that was why Hannah went over to Tide House so early on Monday morning? To take Lottie to Tiverton station before the rest of the family arrived?’

Tessa shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘She might have said something to Jake,’ Venn said. ‘Could I go up and ask him?’

‘I can’t see it would do any harm. The sooner this is all over, the sooner he might start getting well again.’

Venn knocked at Jake’s door. There was no response, so he pushed it open. The boy was lying on the bed but not sleeping. He was fully clothed, held in a shaft of sunlight, curled into a ball, hiding against the world, muscles tense and eyes wide open.

‘What do you want now?’

‘Answers,’ Venn said. ‘I want to know what happened to Hannah and Lottie.’

‘Really I don’t give a shit about Lottie.’ His voice was listless, sullen.

‘But Hannah? You cared about her.’

Jake sat upright, fiery-eyed and fierce.

‘What is the point of caring? It won’t bring her back.’

‘No,’ Venn agreed. ‘It won’t.’ He moved a few steps into the room. ‘But I need some answers. For myself. I can’t rest until I know how those two young women died. That’s why I can’t let you grieve in peace. I need your help.’

There was a moment’s stand-off. They stared at each other. Jake swung his legs around until his bare feet were on the floor and stood up.

‘What do you want to know?’

There were two seats by the window – one that would have been used by a nursing mother, low and comfortable, and another that might have been rescued from a classroom – and they sat on those, the chairs twisted so they faced the room, and the sun didn’t dazzle their eyes.

‘Lottie was posting unpleasant comments and videos about MillsFest on her socials.’

‘Yeah. It was all about making herself look clever.’

‘Your parents seem quite relaxed about it.’

‘Well, she was targeting quite a different audience, wasn’t she? MillsFest was never aimed at the bright young things from London. And most of our campers are a bit older too. They’re not looking for a wild party vibe. Mum and Dad were angry at first but soon saw it wouldn’t make a real difference to the business. Then, it was just a bit of a laugh.’

‘Hannah was angry, though?’

‘Yeah. She thought it was rude. A kind of betrayal.’ He looked at Venn. ‘Hannah had always seen Lottie as super cool, the leader of their little gang. It was as if Lottie had done her a favour by coming down to stay with her in Tide House.’

‘And after the posts, she saw Lottie as a spoiled and entitled girl, who was making fun of her friends? And her?’

Jake nodded, pleased, it seemed, that Venn understood.

‘Hannah wanted Lottie to leave,’ Venn said. ‘Is that why she went back to Tide House so early on Monday morning? To take her to the station?’

‘I suppose.’ Jake paused for a moment. ‘I knew she wanted Lottie to leave, but I thought she might have come to say goodbye before heading out to Tiverton. I’d expected her to be here in bed when I got back that morning after clearing the site. Sleeping. I’d imagined waking her up.’ For a moment the boy seemed lost in his dream.

‘I don’t suppose she left you a message on your phone?’ Because, Venn thought, wasn’t that what young people did? They texted or messaged through WhatsApp. WhatsApp was tricky for the tech team, encoded. They still hadn’t found Hannah’s mobile.

Jake shook his head. ‘She was old-fashioned like that. Often, she’d just leave a note. She had wonderful handwriting. She knew I loved it. When she was in London, we kept in touch by email, but then I’d get something in the post. A postcard, with one funny comment on it. Something to cheer me up. Occasionally, a long letter.’

‘Did you keep the letters?’

‘Not all of them.’ Jake looked warily at Venn. Did he expect the detective to demand to see them as well as the emails?

‘Did she ever mention a girl called Elizabeth Kinzalow?’

Jake frowned. ‘Kinzalow. Like the couple who stayed in one of the glampers?’

‘Yes.’ Matthew held his breath for a moment. The letters would be more intimate than an email exchange. Of course Jake would be reluctant to talk about them.

The boy shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. Hannah did mention other people occasionally, but I was only really interested in the personal stuff. The things about us.’

How self-absorbed the young are! Matthew thought, then he reconsidered. Or people of any age who are in love.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you’d mind rereading them for me to see if there’s any reference to Elizabeth. Or to anything that might be relevant to the case. It would be helpful.’

The boy didn’t immediately respond, and Matthew was worried that he might refuse.

‘Sure,’ he said at last. ‘I’d like to.’

‘I might have to see them later. You do understand?’

Jake nodded.

‘Hannah didn’t leave you a note on Monday morning?’ Venn asked. ‘Some explanation about why she left without finding you to say goodbye?’

‘No.’ Jake thought for a moment, then he stared across at Matthew. ‘But she would have done. I didn’t look. I was expecting her to be here, and then I was so anxious. And you came with the news that she was dead …’ His voice tailed off. Venn could tell that he was suddenly wracked with doubt and guilt. Perhaps he was haunted by the possibility that he might have saved her.

‘Could there be one, do you think? Is it possible that you missed it? Where would she have left it?’

‘She’d have pinned it here on the corkboard.’ A pause and a confession. ‘I kept all her postcards there, and she did some great sketches and cartoons.’

The corkboard was fixed to the wall, over a small chest of drawers. Venn let Jake scour the contents but peered over his shoulder. There was a postcard of Big Ben and another of the London Eye. London images which must have come from Hannah. Then a cartoon of Jake, binoculars round his neck, staring out at an unlikely bird. Some kind of in-joke, Matthew suspected.

‘No.’ Jake was disappointed. ‘There’s nothing new here.’

‘Just a minute.’ Matthew pulled out the chest of drawers and looked behind. And there it was. A scrap of paper, with the pin still attached to one corner. Hannah must have been in such a hurry that she hadn’t pushed it far enough into the board and it had dropped out. He put on gloves and lifted it out by the pin. He held it so Jake could read it. It had been meant, after all, for the boy.

Gone to sort out Lottie, once and for all. I’ll catch up with you later this morning. Love you! And a big X.

Matthew looked across at Jake and saw that he was weeping.

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘WHAT DID HANNAH MEAN WHEN SHE said she’d sort out Lottie once and for all?’ Jen stared at the note. ‘I can’t imagine her planning any sort of violence! Everyone says she was a timid little thing.’

She, Matthew and Ross were back in the police station in Barnstaple. Jen wasn’t sure that this scrap of paper, written, they’d realized, on the back of an envelope with Hannah’s London address on the front, took them any further forward.

‘No,’ Venn said. ‘And of course we don’t know if Lottie was still alive when Hannah got there.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Because, Jen thought, the boss had some kind of scenario in mind.

‘We know we won’t be able to establish a very accurate time of death.’ Venn seemed to be ordering events in his head as he was speaking. ‘Lottie might have been killed a little while before Hannah got to Tide House, or just as she arrived from the farm. She might have turned up to see Lottie being pushed into the swimming pool. There are trees along the edge of the garden. It’s possible that Hannah used the trees as cover and slipped down the path to the old mill to hide. But the killer saw her and followed her and had to kill her to keep her quiet.’

Jen thought about that. ‘Wouldn’t the killer have seen her coming down the drive towards Tide House? There’s no cover there.’

‘Not if our perpetrator was focused on the murder,’ Venn said. ‘And if Hannah thought she hadn’t been seen, she’d head for the trees to hide out until the killer left. There wouldn’t be any real escape by taking that path – she could have got down to the beach, but there’d be no way out from there because of the steep cliffs on each side of the cove. As you say, though, there’s no hiding place at all if she decided to go back along the drive towards the road and the farm. She’d be completely exposed.’

‘Which would make Lottie the intended victim all along.’ Jen thought that made sense. Lottie seemed like a manipulative lass who had a talent for making enemies and they hadn’t met anyone who disliked Hannah.

‘It’s just one possibility.’ Venn was always diffident about expressing an opinion. Maybe too diffident for an officer in charge. ‘One scenario.’

‘Who do we have as the killer then?’ Jen was becoming impatient now, with all these theories. ‘I can see that Lottie got up a lot of people’s noses. But who hated her enough to kill her?’ A pause. ‘Could it have been a stranger after all? We’ve seen all those people turning up at the crime scene. They all believed they knew her, loved her. If she’d slighted one of her adoring fans, or just ignored them, they might have turned against her. We know how cruel she could be, and she’d told the world that she was coming to spend some time with Hannah, so they’d easily be able to track her down.’

Jen thought that would be a nightmare.

‘Maybe,’ Venn said. ‘Vicki’s still wading through all her posts. I’ll ask her to look out for someone Lottie’s specifically targeted. But let’s consider the locals again. The Brennans were a possibility when we first saw Lottie’s social media, but Vicki’s checked the Millscombe pages and really, there was a flood of positive comments after her negative posts. If anything, Lottie did the family a favour. I can’t think of any other motive. They scarcely knew her.’ A pause. ‘I don’t see how this could have been premeditated. Who knew that Lottie would go back to Tide House on her own that night?’

‘Aren’t we forgetting about the Kinzalows?’ Jen thought there was something very odd about the American couple. ‘They seem to be everywhere. First, they met up with Elaine Cauldwell in the Fisherman’s the week before the girls died. Then they were at MillsFest, and now that the Armstrongs have moved to Torr, they’re knocking around there too.’

‘You’re right of course,’ Venn said. ‘Perhaps we should ask our friends in the Home Office to dig around in their background. Or Mr Appleyard.’

‘If Lottie had a weirdo stalker, who’d been watching her at the festival, he would just have followed her back to Tide House.’ Jen thought Lottie, with all her socials, might well have attracted weirdos.

Before Venn could give an opinion on that, Ross jumped in. He didn’t like being ignored for long. ‘Hannah knew Lottie would be at Tide House on her own, and so did Jake.’

‘I can see Hannah lashing out at Lottie in a fit of anger,’ Venn said. ‘Pushing her away if an argument got out of hand. Not meaning to kill her. But if that was how it happened, then who tracked Hannah down to the old mill and killed her? It doesn’t make any kind of sense. I guess Jake could have killed Lottie, though there’s no real motive. I’ve seen the email exchange with Hannah. He loved her to bits.’

Vicki had been working at the other end of the open-plan office. Now, she came across and perched on Jen’s desk. ‘I’ve been doing a sweep of other social media related to the investigation.’ She was, Jen could tell, excited, and it took a lot to excite Vicki, who was one of the most stolid and unemotional women she knew. ‘In the past, the Fisherman’s Arms had nothing but rave reviews. Five stars on the food and the service. Last weekend there was a flurry of stinkers. Overrated and overpriced. Don’t believe all the hype. That kind of thing.’

‘Lottie paying Mag and Jim back for chucking her out of the bar on Friday night?’ Jen said.

‘That’s what I thought, but all the reviews were written by different people.’

‘Bit of a coincidence.’

‘Yeah, but they all had one thing in common. All the comments were written by followers of Lottie.’

‘She got her adoring online mates to slag off the Fisherman’s?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘We know Jim’s got a temper.’ Jen pictured him glowering at them when they’d first met. ‘He could have followed Lottie to Tide House that Sunday night. Or fumed about the reviews until he decided to have it out with her on Monday morning. Again, a slanging match could have ended with him pushing her, just as Hannah arrived back in time to see.’

‘Maybe,’ Venn said. ‘But it’s all speculation. Best perhaps to concentrate on facts now. We still don’t know where Daniel Miller was that night after leaving the festival with Lottie. His alibi had conveniently disappeared, and Daniel himself has run away to Cambridge.’ He looked at Jen. ‘Do we have an update on his presence? Or do we need to send in the local cops to find him?’

‘I’ve had a message from his mother. Apparently, he’s on his way home. He should be available for interview later this evening.’

‘Do we believe her? She’s not just playing for time?’

Jen shook her head. ‘I believe her. She was scared shitless about uniformed officers turning up at his college and suggesting that their beloved son was a suspect in a murder inquiry.’

It occurred to Jen, as she spoke, that there were too many beloved children in this investigation. Too many children who hadn’t been allowed to face the consequences of their actions.

‘Tell her to let us know as soon as he gets in.’

‘Oh,’ Jen said. ‘I already have done.’

‘And we still don’t have any information about the whereabouts of the Kinzalows?’

‘Sorry boss.’ Ross was uncharacteristically contrite, Jen thought. He didn’t even try to come up with an excuse. ‘I’ve tried everywhere I can think of. It’s as if they’ve disappeared into thin air.’ A pause. ‘Should we go public? Put out a media release asking them to come forward?’

There was a silence. They both looked at Venn. It often took him a while to come to a decision. He would never be one for rash judgements. But this was a slow response, even for him.

‘Not yet,’ he said at last. ‘I want more background. Why are they here and why did they run off from the Millscombe campsite? Let’s dig more deeply before we show our hands.’

Jen could sense Ross’s frustration. He’d been hoping for immediate action.

‘So, what do we do now?’ Ross’s question came out as a cry of desperation.

Again, Venn took a while to answer. ‘Appleyard’s asked to see me. We’re meeting in an hour. His Whitehall sources might have more info on the Americans.’ He paused. ‘I’m convinced that the Armstrongs know more about the Kinzalows than they’re letting on. It’s no coincidence that the couple appeared in North Devon just at a time when they could have guessed that the family would be taking up residence in Tide House. And then moved to be even closer to them on the farm. Would you go back to the Victoria, Jen? See if you can get Cath without her husband. Paul has his own agenda. He’ll always be thinking of the politics, what I think they call the optics. See her informally again. Play family liaison. Say you want to fill her in on developments in the investigation. You’ll be in Torr then when Daniel Miller gets home.’

Jen nodded. She could see the sense in Venn’s plan, but she wasn’t sure she’d get any more out of Cath Armstrong. The woman had been on the edge of politics long enough to understand about optics too.

Jen phoned Cath before driving to Torr and the Victoria Hotel. She didn’t want to arrive in the town only to find that the family were away on some trip to cheer up the kids or to escape the boredom of the place. Jen wouldn’t have stayed there a minute longer than she had to. It had the vibe of a very expensive old people’s home.

Cath was waiting for her in the gloomy lounge where Jen had first met her husband over coffee. She must have left the boys with Paul, because she was on her own. It was afternoon teatime. Elaborate arrangements of rather dry-looking cakes and scones were piled on tiered flowery plates. Elderly women were eating enough sugar to trigger diabetes. It was more, Jen thought, about the show and the nostalgia than the taste.

Cath was sitting with just a pot of tea, and Jen ordered coffee.

‘You have some news?’ Cath seemed restless, a little unfocused. Her eyes darted around the room.

‘We haven’t made an arrest – nothing like that – but I wanted to update you. I’m acting as your family liaison officer and it’s my role to keep in touch.’

‘Ah, I thought when you asked to meet …’ Cath’s voice tailed away and her eyes moved again, this time towards the door. She looked back at Jen. ‘What do you have to tell me?’

‘We’ve discovered that Lottie made some very unpleasant social media posts about her weekend in Millscombe. About the festival at the farm and the pub. Did you know about that?’

Cath shook her head. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though.’

‘She’d done this kind of thing before?’

Cath seemed embarrassed, almost anxious, as if she’d given too much away. ‘No, no! But she was given to unkind comments sometimes. It was all about raising her social media profile, feeding her followers. Nothing they liked better than making other people seem small, a bit pathetic. She hadn’t had the most stable of family lives and both parents were so driven about their careers. Perhaps she had to find other ways to get attention.’

‘Can you tell me a little bit more about Lottie? She and Hannah were close friends, but they seem to have been very different people.’ Which was, Jen thought, an understatement.

Cath took a moment to answer. ‘Since Covid Hannah struggled socially. We didn’t realize how hard she was finding it to get into school. She was so anxious. I discovered that some mornings she was being physically sick. Once, I saw evidence of self-harming. Meeting Jake helped a lot, but that was much later, and of course he wouldn’t ever have been in London when things were tough. Lottie might not have been the friend we’d choose, but she was a friend.’

‘Why might you not have chosen her?’

Again, there was a silence before Cath spoke. ‘Honestly, I think she was a bit damaged. She needed drama in her life. She got bored so quickly. Perhaps that was a result of Covid too.’

‘I need to ask you again about the Kinzalows. We can’t believe that their presence in Millscombe was coincidental. They seem to have been following you.’

At the sound of the Americans’ name, Cath gave a little start. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Really, I can’t help you about them. But honestly, they seemed like a lovely couple.’ A pause and then she went on, her voice more desperate. ‘Truly, I can’t imagine them having any reason for wanting to harm the girls.’

‘You knew them through their daughter Elizabeth? What happened for the girl to go back to the States so suddenly?’

Cath turned away from Jen again, as if she were making up her mind to speak. Suddenly she tensed. Her hand shook and tea dripped onto the starched white tablecloth. She replaced the cup in its saucer and returned her gaze to Jen. But the detective was already on her feet, because she’d seen a face at the door looking into the lounge. A face that she recognized. Karen Kinzalow, an apparition brought to life by the calling of her name.

Chapter Twenty-Six

APPLEYARD HAD SUGGESTED THAT HE AND Venn should talk over lunch, away from the police station. It seemed an unorthodox way to behave, sidelining Oldham and the rest of the team completely, but Appleyard never seemed to care too much about offending his subordinates. He’d served in the army, and as soon as he’d left, he’d joined the police. He had a soldier’s bearing and steady eyes. A spy’s inscrutability. He’d rapidly risen through the ranks, both as a soldier and policeman. Venn respected him but didn’t understand him.

They met in a restaurant in a village in the Taw Valley, ten miles from Barnstaple centre, and were the only diners.

‘They’re usually only open in the evenings,’ Appleyard said, ‘but I know the owner.’ He gave no more details. They’d driven into the car park at almost the same time. The place was right by the river shaded by trees. Venn saw an angler on the opposite bank. The chief was based in Exeter, so Venn was surprised by the local meeting place.

The place was small, almost like a cottage living room, but the food was simple and delicious. A chilled soup, fresh homemade bread, good butter, followed by an asparagus tart and salad. No choice and no offer of alcohol. The food was laid on a side table for them to serve themselves. Small windows and thick walls kept out the heat and the glare from the sun. A pregnant woman let them in and then disappeared. Appleyard started speaking as soon as they were alone.

‘You asked for more information about the American couple.’

‘Yes. They seem to be following the Armstrongs around, and now they’ve disappeared. I can’t believe that’s a coincidence. Did your contacts find anything?’

‘Nothing criminal. No links to any terrorist group or extremist, left or right wing. The man was a journalist, as you already know. Left leaning. I’d think he’d get on with Armstrong. Certainly, there’d be no political hostility.’

‘Any other link with the dead girls’ families?’

‘There’s a daughter, Elizabeth, their youngest child …’

‘She was at school with our victims.’ Venn’s voice was impatient. Tell me something I don’t already know.

‘She had an accident.’ Appleyard continued speaking as if Venn hadn’t interrupted. ‘A fall.’

‘What sort of fall?’

There was a moment’s silence. Appleyard wiped an invisible trace of soup from his lip with a napkin.

‘Down a steep railway embankment on the west edge of Hampstead Heath in north London. Lottie Cauldwell called the emergency services. According to her, it was an accident. She said that they’d been messing about, Elizabeth lost her footing and tripped. The parents thought it was more complicated than that. They made a fuss. Contacted the local police.’

‘What did they suspect? Suicide attempt?’

‘Perhaps.’ A pause. ‘Or perhaps some sort of game that got out of hand. Hannah Armstrong was there when the girl jumped. Or slipped. She backed up Cauldwell’s story.’ Appleyard set down his napkin. ‘Of course, it would be very embarrassing for the daughter of a minister in the Health Department to be implicated in something like that.’ The pause lengthened. ‘There was alcohol in Elizabeth Kinzalow’s blood. A lot of alcohol. All three girls had been drinking heavily.’

‘There was pressure to keep the story out of the press.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘But the Kinzalows blamed Lottie Cauldwell for the incident?’

Appleyard nodded. ‘Elizabeth Kinzalow was left with life-changing head injuries. She’ll always need care.’

‘What did the school say?’ But Matthew suspected he knew what the school had said. That they were in no way to blame. No wonder that the head teacher had been so tight-lipped. Had she really believed that they wouldn’t find out about the incident? Venn supposed that without Appleyard’s help, they might not have done.

‘The school gave a statement to the press: Elizabeth was a valued student, bright and outgoing,’ Appleyard said. ‘She was a confident and well-loved member of the school. There had never been any sign of depression. The fall had happened outside school hours, and there was no evidence that it was anything but an unfortunate accident.’ He paused. ‘The local police couldn’t see that any crime had been committed, so no further action was taken.’

That could have been the night that Hannah was late home, Matthew thought. The evening that she went missing.

‘Will you send me over the police report?’

Appleyard shrugged. ‘Sure. What there is of it.’

‘How is the girl now?’ Matthew asked. ‘She’s not in Devon with the parents.’

‘No. She’s back in the US in supported living. Her sister visits regularly while the parents are back in the UK.’ Appleyard looked across the table at Venn. ‘It seems the Kinzalows have return flights booked for Monday. I can’t imagine having to deal with that kind of tragedy, but it seems it had become a sort of obsession – to find out what really happened to their daughter.’ A pause. ‘That gives us a deadline, doesn’t it? We don’t have enough to charge them with, and we certainly don’t want to trigger some international incident. But we need to be certain that they’re not double killers before they fly home to their girls.’

Venn chased possibilities in his mind on the drive back to Barnstaple. The day that Hannah had gone missing, the day that her brother Alex remembered her arriving home late, the day of Elizabeth’s accident. It would be possible to confirm that had happened that night. If Lottie had been responsible for the incident, how had Hannah remained friends with her afterwards? They knew that Lottie was a manipulative and bullying young woman. Had she put pressure on Hannah to keep quiet? Or had the tragedy of a terrible accident genuinely brought them closer together? He felt the extra pressure of time and expectation. Appleyard needed an answer before the end of the weekend.

He knew, though, that he couldn’t allow himself to be panicked so he continued with his plans. He drove straight to Millscombe and parked at the Fisherman’s Arms. The lunchtime rush was over, but tourists still sat outside in the garden behind the pub. He hadn’t realized on previous visits the extent of the outside space. It was shady there on the edge of the combe that ran past Tide House to the old mill and the sea. The schools were still open so there were few families and the place was peaceful, the customers bright young things who’d run away from the city for a few days’ break in their holiday homes or the wealthy elderly. It must be, he thought, a profitable business. At least in the summer. On the far edge of the garden, where it might be possible to push through the undergrowth and get to the old mill, a uniformed constable stood guard.

Inside, some of the tables in the restaurant still had customers. Marigold was behind the bar. There was no sign of Jim. He was probably in the kitchen. Soon the early diners would arrive. It was, though, Marigold who Venn wanted to speak to. There was another scenario playing out in his head and he thought he’d get more sense out of her than her husband.

She’d seen him come in. That would be her style, her eyes always on the door, ready to greet newcomers with a smile, loyal regulars by their names: The usual, is it, my dear? Making the lonely ones feel as if they were a part of the place. Important.

Venn thought Mag was as much an asset to the business as her husband’s cooking.

She smiled at him too, but there was little warmth in it. Mechanical.

‘I take it you’re not here for a pint?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘More questions, I’m afraid.’ A pause. ‘Is there somewhere we can chat?’

She sighed. A middle-aged woman was serving in the public bar. ‘Can you keep an eye in here, Janie? I won’t be long.’ Then she turned back to Venn. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

She didn’t suggest that her husband should come with them. She would have realized that, with his short fuse and sullen glares, he’d be a liability. That his record as a juvenile would make him an object of suspicion. Or perhaps she had other reasons for keeping him away from Venn. There must have been a way to the flat from the inside of the pub, but she avoided the backstage areas by leading Venn outside and up the stone steps. She took keys from her dress pocket and let him in.

‘I fancy a coffee,’ she said. ‘Want one?’

‘Thanks.’

The making of the drink in the fancy machine, the noise and the steaming of milk seemed to take a long time. Venn was a patient man, and he waited.

‘So,’ she said at last when they were sitting in the bright and comfortable room. ‘What are your questions?’

‘You got some bad reviews on Tripadvisor last weekend. Not all, apparently, from the same person.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘We know. There were cancellations. It didn’t matter so much at the weekend because we were tied up with the music festival, but that sort of thing can be a nightmare. People take notice of them. The last thing we need is a hit to our reputation. Especially now.’

‘Why now?’

‘We’re up for an award. Gastropub of the year.’

‘Would a few poor reviews influence the judging?’

She shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t want to take the chance. It’s a big deal. Something like the award would pull people in all winter. The villages round here are dead out of season, and we need the locals from Torr and Barnstaple to make up the slack.’

‘We’ve discovered that the people posting the poor reviews were all followers of Lottie Cauldwell.’

‘So, she did set them up. Vindictive little madam.’

‘You suspected she might be behind it?’

‘Well, after the row she had with Jim when he wouldn’t serve her, it made sense.’

Something about the way she spoke made Venn think that there was more to the incident. She was twisting the coffee mug in her hand. Poised, he thought, to confide in him.

‘You knew it was her, didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t just a suspicion.’

There was silence in the room. Through the open window came sounds from outside: a blackbird singing fit to burst, one of the young women lounging on the grass laughing.

‘That Sunday afternoon …’ Mag spoke slowly. She wasn’t looking at him. It was as if she was telling herself a story. ‘… Daniel was manning the beer tent. The festival was winding down. We were clearing up here after the lunchtime rush. She came in and ordered a drink. A G&T. Bold as brass. Luckily it was me behind the bar and not Jim. I tried to turn it into a joke. Nice try, lady. You know I can’t serve you, but I do admire your balls. Why don’t I get you a Coke on the house? That sort of thing. She smiled. Then she asked if we’d had some poor reviews recently. “Really,” she said, “you don’t want to make an enemy out of me. I can ruin your business. They’ll keep coming, those shitty reviews. Like, drip, drip, drip.” She was clicking her painted nails on the bar to the rhythm of the words. “Drip, drip, drip. You won’t know when, or what the next post will say, but they’ll be making your life a misery. Imagine the stress of that.”’

Mags looked up at Venn. ‘Really. That moment, I could have strangled her just to stop her talking, to stop the sound of her nails tapping on the bar, to wipe that grin from her face.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘No! Because that’s what she wanted. A reaction. Besides, I’m a softie. I want to throw up when I see Jim skinning a rabbit in the kitchen after he’s been shooting with his mates.’

‘Did you give her the drink?’

‘No way!’ Mag’s voice was fierce now. ‘That was blackmail. You give into a blackmailer and there’s no end to it. I thought we’d find a way to stop her. Besides, at that point, I wasn’t even sure she was behind the poor coverage. Maybe she’d seen the reviews and thought she’d make use of them.’ A pause. ‘It was the power she was craving. The power to make us do what she wanted. I’ve known bullies in my past, and I know you don’t make things any better by giving in to them.’

She spoke with passion. Venn wondered if she’d once been a victim of domestic abuse. Or if she’d grown up in a controlling family. Perhaps her relationship with Jim was more complicated than it seemed, and she wasn’t the person calling the shots.

‘What happened then?’

‘She walked out, smirking. At the door, she stopped and looked back at me. “You’ll change your mind,” she said. “By the end of next week, you’ll come crawling to me begging me to change my mind. But by then it’ll cost you more than a lousy G&T.”’

Venn took a moment to think this through. The blackbird was still singing. Joyous and exuberant.

‘Did you tell Jim about the encounter?’

Mag shook her head. ‘Not in any detail. I told him she’d been in again. One of the regulars might have mentioned seeing her, so I couldn’t hide that. I said something like, “That friend of Hannah Armstrong’s was back here, trying her luck. I sent her away with a flea in her ear.”’

‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’

‘Why do you think?’ Mag’s voice was scathing. ‘Jim hasn’t been in any trouble for years, but his record’s still there, isn’t it? If you’re looking for a killer, and he has a history with the police, who will you come looking for?’

Venn didn’t answer the question. He just nodded to show that he understood. ‘Was anyone else close enough to you to hear the conversation?’ he asked. ‘Another member of staff or a customer?’

Mag shook her head. ‘You’re thinking someone might have heard the threats and told Jim, and that he went down to Tide House later that night and killed her?’

‘Something like that.’ Venn gave a little smile, hoping she’d think he didn’t take the idea too seriously. Though of course he was perfectly serious.

Mag shook her head. ‘You’ve got Jim wrong. People think he’s always angry, but he’s really not. He’s got a bit of a temper, but I’ve never known him be physically violent. I mean never, in all the years we’ve been together. He knows he’s got too much to lose. I can imagine him brooding about Lottie Cauldwell’s antics, though. Something like that would throw him. This place means everything to him, and he’s never been brilliant with arsy young things. I can see him having it out with her. Storming down the lane and shouting. As if that ever did anyone any good. She would have loved the drama. Filmed it. But he couldn’t have killed her. I mean, practically. I was with him all evening. First clearing up here and then at the party at the farm.’

‘What about early the next morning?’

‘We were in bed together. All night. We didn’t wake up until your sergeant turned up here on Monday morning.’

Venn was going to ask if Mag was a deep sleeper. Could Jim have got up in the night or early in the morning without her knowing? He was framing the question in his head, when she got an answer in first.

‘Jim didn’t know about the threats. If he had, he’d have been ranting all evening, and he wasn’t. He was dead chilled.’

Venn nodded and waited for her to show him down the stone steps to the car park.

He stood in the sun and watched her walk into the pub before checking his phone.

There was a garbled voicemail from Jen. Breathless, as if she was running and talking at the same time.

‘Karen Kinzalow was at the Victoria Hotel. I think she was looking for Cath, but she saw me and bolted. I’m going after her.’

He called Jen back but there was no reply. He left her a message. ‘I’m in Millscombe. I’ll come to the Victoria and wait for you there.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

VENN STILL HADN’T HEARD BACK FROM Jen when he got to the Victoria Hotel, but Cath was there, on the terrace close to reception, with a glass of wine. It was early evening now, still light and warm but the shadows were lengthening, and the sun was lower in the sky over the sea. Everything rosy, the colours muted and strange. Jonathan would be home soon, and Venn felt a sudden pang of regret because he wasn’t there first for a change, to welcome his husband, to be the one to start preparing a meal.

‘Paul and I have been taking turns to look out for you,’ Cath said. ‘He’s put on a film for the boys. He’s seeing if one of the hotel staff will keep an eye on them, then he’ll come down and join us.’

Venn was glad that he had a chance to talk to Cath on her own. He could never trust a politician to be entirely honest. Cath might lie. She might, as he’d thought before, be aware of the optics, but she wouldn’t be quite as good at the deception. And now he knew more about the relationship between the Kinzalows and the Armstrongs. After the conversation with Appleyard, he could guess what Karen had wanted. But first he needed to find Jen.

‘What happened this afternoon?’ The background sound here was of gulls, not blackbirds.

‘I was talking to your colleague about Lottie. She wanted to know more about her, about the lasses’ friendship, and then I saw Karen, peering through the lounge door at me.’

‘It was definitely her?’

‘Oh yes! Your sergeant saw her too and chased after her. Did she catch her up?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. He was starting to get a little worried about the lack of communication from his sergeant. If Karen had given her the slip, Jen would surely have called in. And if she’d caught her, Jen would have asked her to come to Barnstaple for an interview. As a witness or a person of interest. ‘I haven’t heard from her yet.’ He tried to keep any anxiety from his voice. Jen wasn’t the most organized of detectives. Perhaps her phone was out of charge.

Cath sipped her wine. She was stressed, her body tense, one of the muscles in her face twitched.

‘Why might Karen have wanted to see you?’ He was hoping Cath might finally be straight with him. It was odd, this Kinzalow appearing and disappearing trick. The couple, who’d started off as relatively relaxed observers, had become potential suspects because of their link with the family and their strange behaviour. If they’d stayed at the campsite in their luxury glamping pod, Venn might just have seen their presence there as a coincidence to be explored, but not necessarily suspicious.

Cath shifted in her seat. ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t look at him and he knew this was a lie. She might not know, but she had a pretty good idea what Karen was after. She wanted more information surrounding Elizabeth’s fall. She wanted the truth. ‘They’re behaving very bizarrely. I think they’ve been following us. Paul was on the beach this morning with our sons, and they were there. He couldn’t chase after them because he didn’t want to leave the boys on their own.’

The memory seemed to trigger a moment of panic, and Venn thought that at last he might persuade her to talk.

Then, something in the distance caught her eye, and her attention shifted. Venn turned to see Paul Armstrong strolling towards them. One of the other guests recognized him and he stopped for a moment to talk, to accept their condolences.

‘He never stops working.’ Cath’s voice was bitter. ‘He says you only have to be distant and unresponsive once and you get a reputation for being rude and pompous.’

‘It must be hard always to be performing, always on show.’

‘These days, I don’t think he knows any other way to be.’ Cath paused for a moment. ‘Nothing matters so much to him as protecting the reputation of the party. He’s forgotten why he came into politics in the first place.’ She clamped her mouth shut because Armstrong was approaching the table.

He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Venn wondered if that was performance too. A show of family unity for his adoring public.

‘Pia, the lovely housekeeper, is in with the boys,’ Armstrong said. Then he turned his warm, politician’s gaze to the detective. ‘Do you have children, Inspector?’ As if he was really interested.

Venn shook his head. He knew that Jonathan would have loved a child. They’d talked about adopting. But in the end, Jonathan had realized that Matthew would be taking the step just to please him, and they’d agreed that wouldn’t ever work.

‘Cath tells me you’re being stalked by the Kinzalows,’ he said.

‘Stalked? That’s rather a melodramatic way of putting it.’ Armstrong looked at his wife before giving a little laugh.

‘I didn’t say we were being stalked, Inspector. I said that they were on the beach when Paul was there with the boys.’ Cath’s words came out in a rush.

‘So, a coincidence you think? Surely more than that? This afternoon, it seems that Mrs Kinzalow came to the hotel specially, hoping to speak to you.’ Venn looked at Cath. ‘Have you any idea what that might have been about?’

For a moment, she hesitated, and again he thought she might be about to speak, to come out with the whole story, but she caught her husband’s eye and shook her head.

‘No, sorry, I’m afraid that I haven’t a clue.’

‘You don’t think they’re here to ask you about their daughter’s accident? Hannah and Lottie were present after all, when Elizabeth fell?’ His voice was as mild and unthreatening as he could make it.

Of course it was Armstrong who answered. ‘Really, I don’t know why they would be. The police investigated fully at the time. It was a terrible tragedy, of course, but it happened more than two years ago. Why would they start harassing us for information now?’

Venn looked at Cath, but she didn’t speak.

They talked for a little longer, but the Armstrongs stuck to the official line, and Venn knew that he’d get no more out of them. He had a sense, though, that they were haunted by the Americans. The Kinzalows drifted on the edge of the investigation like ghosts. All these Londoners had their own reasons for fleeing to North Devon.

At last, they ran out of things to say. Venn knew that Armstrong would stick to the party line, even if it meant that there was no resolution to his daughter’s murder. Optics and politics mattered more.

Cath was the first to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but we have to give the boys their supper. It’s hard but we need to keep as close to their usual routine as possible.’ She turned and walked into the hotel.

Armstrong stayed behind for a moment. ‘We’re going home soon,’ he said. ‘Back to the city. I need to be there for work and as Cath said, the boys will be better in their own space, with their own friends. We’ll stay for the weekend, but head back on Monday morning. I assume that is okay with you?’

‘Of course.’ Because Venn had no valid reason to detain them. But that date, coinciding with the Kinzalows’ flight back to the States, had become an even more important deadline. He wanted the investigation over before they all disappeared.

Armstrong sauntered after his wife, followed by the sympathetic gaze of the remaining customers.

Venn stayed where he was on the hotel terrace. A waiter came and asked what he’d like to drink. He was tempted by the prospect of white wine, very cold and very dry, but he asked for sparkling water.

‘With ice, please, and lime if you have it.’

He checked his phone, but there was still no news of Jen. He called Ross.

‘Any idea where Jen is? I can’t get hold of her.’

Ross was still in the big office in the police station in Barnstaple. Venn could hear muttered voices, a phone ringing.

‘I haven’t heard from her. Wasn’t she going to interview Daniel Miller? I presume he’ll be back now.’

‘She left me a voicemail,’ Venn said. ‘She was chasing after Karen Kinzalow. There’s been no word since then.’ Jen might have gone straight to the Millers’ place, but he thought she would have got a message to him or to Ross to let them know what she was doing.

Perhaps Ross heard the anxiety in Venn’s voice. Or perhaps he was just bored by being stuck in the office. ‘Want me to come across?’

‘Yes,’ Venn said. ‘Yes, please.’

He paid his bill and made his way back to the car park. Jen had driven here from Barnstaple to speak to Cath Armstrong. Venn walked down the row of cars until he found Jen’s vehicle. He stood for a moment thinking through the significance of its still being there. Jen would have followed Karen Kinzalow on foot, but surely the woman would have had a car of her own, or her husband would be waiting for her? Unless Geoff didn’t know about Karen’s attempt to talk to the Armstrongs. That was a possibility, Venn thought. There’d been something secretive about her approach, her search through the hotel for a chance meeting with Cath.

So, had Karen given Jen the slip between the hotel and the car park? Or had Jen caught her? None of it made sense. He knew there was no way that his sergeant would have walked to the Millers’ house to interview Daniel. The new estate where his family lived was a mile from the town centre and up a very steep hill. Jen wasn’t famous for her love of exercise.

His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, certain that it would be Jen with a reasonable explanation for the lack of contact, certain that his anxiety would immediately seem ridiculous. But it was Ross, talking from his car on the hands free.

‘I’ve been in touch with Daniel’s mother,’ Ross said. ‘He’s home. Jen hasn’t been in touch. What do you want me to do?’

Venn thought for a moment. Daniel’s evidence was crucial. Venn was certain he’d been in Tide House with Lottie on Sunday night. What else could explain the panic, the alibi he must have known wouldn’t hang up, then his flight from the area? His reluctance to let them take his fingerprints.

‘Go straight to the Millers’. Someone must talk to Daniel. Make him see that lying to the police is a serious matter. Get him to tell you exactly what happened after he and Lottie left the festival on Sunday evening.’

‘Okay, boss.’

Venn could tell that Ross was excited. He wasn’t usually given such responsibility. ‘Ask if you can record the conversation. If he refuses, bring him back to Barnstaple and do it formally in the station.’

‘Sure,’ Ross said. ‘Sure.’ There was a crackle as reception failed and Venn thought the constable had finished the call, but after a pause Ross continued again. ‘Let me know when you hear from Jen. It’s not like her to go silent on us.’ A weak joke, but an attempt, Venn thought, to boost both their spirits.

He returned to the hotel and questioned the waiting staff in the lounge and the young man behind reception. Had they seen a woman running away from the building? They would surely have noticed her. She had long, red hair. But it seemed that shifts had changed since the meeting between Jen and Cath, and all he got were bewildered shakes of the head.

Outside once more, he found himself unable to think with any clarity. He didn’t have Ben’s mobile number, and besides, he didn’t want to share his anxiety with Jen’s son until it was strictly necessary.

His phone rang. No caller ID. He listened to the voice at the end of the line and ran towards his car.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ROSS MAY THOUGHT THIS WAS HIS opportunity to prove that he was a good detective, worthy of promotion. If he and Mel were going to start a family, she might want to stay at home with the kiddie for a bit, not go straight back to work at the end of maternity leave, and they’d be glad of the extra income.

He was nervous, of course he was. He’d watched Venn and Jen Rafferty operate. At first, it had seemed easy, the way they got people to talk, but he wasn’t sure he could work their magic. He’d learned that you needed patience and he’d never been good at that. He could deal fine with the little scrotes from the old council estates who stole cars and dealt drugs to the public-school kids hanging out in Croyde for the surfing to celebrate the end of their exams. He’d grown up with kids like that, gone to parties with them. Smoked a bit of weed with them. He thought Daniel Miller wouldn’t be very different. But his parents were different, and the idea of them sitting in on the interview made him feel intimidated.

The mother, Belinda, opened the door to him. ‘Daniel’s waiting for you in his father’s office.’ She had a narrow face, a bit rat-like, and hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. A sleeveless top, showing arms that were firm, almost muscular despite her age. A good body for an older woman. Anyone over thirty-five was middle-aged to him.

Ross was expecting the father to be in the room too, but there was just Daniel, sullen and unresponsive, sitting on one of the easy chairs by the window.

‘Would Mr Miller like to join us?’

‘He’s had to go back to London,’ Belinda said. ‘A crisis with one of his clients.’

Ross relaxed a little. Women, he could deal with.

‘Would you like tea?’ she said. ‘Coffee?’

He could tell that she was more nervous than he was and he relaxed a little more.

‘No thank you.’ Making the words brisk and formal, showing her that this wasn’t a social call.

‘Should I leave you to it?’ Again, she sounded tentative.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’m sure you have other things to do.’ He gave her his best smile. Mel always said he’d charm the birds off the trees with that smile. After all, she often told him, he’d charmed her, hadn’t he?

Belinda scuttled out of the room, and he sat on the chair that faced Daniel’s. The student looked pale and tired as if he hadn’t slept much the night before.

‘Now,’ Ross said, ‘let’s stop pissing about, shall we? We know you spent Sunday evening with Lottie Cauldwell at Tide House. The CSIs have found traces of a person not yet recognized and you’re the only possible visitor that night. If you keep lying, you’ll find yourself in serious bother. I’m told you’re bright, with a great career ahead of you, and a police record will fuck that up. So, why don’t you just give me the truth?’

For a moment, Ross thought the bluff wouldn’t work. This wasn’t someone who was used to being told what to do. He’d probably been spoiled rotten as a kid and believed he could get away with anything.

Daniel didn’t respond immediately. He sat, looking out of the window. A sulky child.

Ross pressed home his advantage. ‘We still have a team of CSIs in Tide House. They could be there for days. Taking fingerprints, looking for fibres. I’ll need to take away the clothes you were wearing that night so they can do a comparison, and of course we’ll have a reason now to take your fingerprints too.’

Daniel turned back to the room, and he shrugged, a bully’s attempt, Ross thought, to save face.

‘You might be able to prove I was there over the weekend. You can’t tell when.’

Ross was close to losing his temper, but he tried to think what the boss would do in this situation. He’d keep his calm. Sometimes, Venn would say, it’s best to do nothing. Silence is one of the best weapons we have. So, Ross said nothing, and he waited.

Daniel didn’t like the silence. He fidgeted. The window was open, letting in evening air from the garden, but he was sweating. At last, Ross did speak. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened? Start with the girls coming into the bar that Friday night and take it from there. Every detail. The whole story. I’ve got all night, and I’ll record it, so you won’t have to go over it again.’

As Ross set his phone on the windowsill to start the recording, he looked to see if there was any message from Jen. Nothing. Nothing from the boss either. There was a fleeting moment of worry, before he looked directly at Daniel. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

Miraculously, the student started talking. Perhaps he was too tired to fight any longer. He’d driven all the way from Cambridge. Ross preferred to think it was because he’d handled the situation perfectly. That at least would be the story he’d tell his colleagues when he got back to the station.

The boy’s voice was flat at the start.

‘They made an entrance, you know. All dressed up. Make-up and heels. They wanted to be noticed.’

Even Hannah? Ross wanted to ask, because all they knew about Hannah was that she wasn’t that type. But he didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to break the flow. Questions could come later.

‘They might have been drinking before they came in,’ Daniel went on. ‘Or smoking a bit of weed. They were giggling as they came through the door, as if they’d shared a joke outside. Even Hannah and that wasn’t like her. I’d seen her in the Fisherman’s before with her parents, and she’d always seemed quiet. A bit straight. You know.’

Ross nodded but he didn’t speak. Silence is our weapon.

‘Hannah soon sobered up when Jim told them he wouldn’t serve them. She was mortified; I could tell. But that Lottie, she didn’t give a shit.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘It was almost as if she was glad Jim had refused. She waltzed out of the bar like she’d won an argument. She was triumphant.’

‘You fancied her?’ This time Ross couldn’t help asking the question.

Daniel nodded. ‘Anyone would. She was hot and reckless, and she looked at me as if she’d be up for anything.’ He paused to think for a moment. ‘I followed them out, saying I was going to clear the tables in the garden. I wrote my number on the scrap of a bar mat and slipped it into Lottie’s hand. She laughed, as if that sort of thing happened all the time. As if she was expecting it. But she put it into her bag and gave me a kind of knowing smile. “Well,” she said. “I might just be in touch.”’ He paused. ‘I was like a kid all the next day, hoping she’d ring. It was a kind of madness. I’d only seen her for a few minutes, but I couldn’t get her out of my head. I hadn’t felt like that since I was fifteen.’

Ross nodded, but he thought he’d never felt like that. Not even with Mel, who he’d known from school before he was fifteen. He’d liked her, of course, fancied her, but not in the crazy way that Daniel was describing. Perhaps that was a posh boy thing too.

The student had started talking again. ‘On Saturday, I was left in charge of the Fisherman’s because Mag and Jim were manning the festival. I could hear the music from the field, and I knew that Hannah and Lottie would be there. It was a kind of torture. By the time my shift was over the place was quiet. I assumed they’d gone back to Tide House.’

He stopped. There was a bottle of water by the side of his chair, and he drank from it. Ross was thirsty too, and thought he should have asked Belinda for water, but didn’t want to break the spell now.

Daniel replaced the water and continued speaking. ‘I walked down the lane towards the house. I thought they might be in the garden having a drink. Or maybe Hannah had already gone to bed and Lottie might like some company.’

This time the silence dragged on for too long and Ross did ask a question.

‘And did she?’

Daniel hesitated a moment before answering. ‘Lottie wasn’t on her own. They were both there, in the pool. Skinny-dipping. There were fairy lights strung through the trees and moonlight on the water, and I stood for a bit just watching. I know it was weird, but I couldn’t help it. I was kind of entranced. It looked like a piece of film or art. The bodies, wet, and gleaming gold in the moonlight, slipping in and out of the pool. I wasn’t sure what to do. If I bowled up then, they might think I was some kind of pervert. I thought I’d wait where they wouldn’t notice me, until they got out, until they’d put some clothes on.’ A pause. ‘But then I heard a car turning down the lane towards me. It occurred to me that it might be the Armstrongs. I didn’t know what time they were supposed to be arriving. What would they think if they saw some strange man gawping at the girls when they were naked? So, I moved into the shadow of the house and went back to the pub and my car.’

‘What make was the approaching car?’

Daniel shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just a shadow. Big. Boxy.’

‘Did the girls hear it? Do you think they were expecting someone?’

‘I don’t think so. It stopped quite a way from the house. The headlights were switched off as soon as it was stationary. If they did hear anything, they might have thought it was just late drinkers leaving the pub, or guys from the festival driving home.’

‘Did anyone get out of the car?’

‘I didn’t see anyone. But I was spooked by then. The magic was gone. I just wanted to be home.’ Another pause. ‘I knew I’d be working the festival beer tent the next day and I thought I might catch up with Lottie in the morning. Or she still might ring. So, it wasn’t all anti-climax, you know. There was anticipation too.’

‘Let’s talk about the next day then,’ Ross said. ‘The Sunday.’

‘I hadn’t had much sleep. Too wired, I guess, and I knew I’d have to be up early to set up for the festival. Mag’s okay, but Jim’s a monster. You really don’t want to piss him off. He’s got a reputation. People say he knows some dead dodgy guys. I got to the site at about seven and started moving the stuff across from the Fisherman’s into the field. The Brennans helped with a tractor and trailer. Hannah turned up early too and was there with Jake. I didn’t ask about Lottie. I didn’t want them to know I’d been attracted to her. Besides, she didn’t seem like someone who might be good in the mornings.’

‘When did Lottie arrive?’

‘She got to the beer tent at about midday. She might have been on the field before then.’

‘Taking more videos?’

‘You saw those?’ Daniel smiled. ‘Of course, I looked her up when I got home that Saturday night. Saw her Insta site and all her followers. Her posts from the festival.’

‘A bit cruel?’ Ross asked.

‘Nah, just a bit of fun.’

‘Did you serve her when she came into the beer tent?’

‘Sure. She looked eighteen, didn’t she? Not my responsibility.’

‘Let’s move on.’ Ross was finding it hard to concentrate now. His mind kept turning to Jen and where she might be. Time, he thought, to cut to the chase. ‘Let’s get to the end of the day. Sunday, the last night of the festival. Hannah and Lottie had some sort of argument. What was that about?’

Daniel gave one of his slightly patronizing shrugs. He was more relaxed now, though surely he must realize that they were approaching his danger zone, the time of the young women’s deaths, the time when he had no alibi?

‘I think Hannah had seen some of Lottie’s socials. The jokey posts about the festival.’

‘And that made Hannah angry?’

Daniel gave a little smile. ‘She didn’t have much of a sense of humour.’

‘So, she decided to stay in the farmhouse with Jake that night, and you left the site with Lottie.’ Ross didn’t phrase that as a question.

A silence that stretched. Outside there was the noise of a lawnmower, though surely it had been too dry for grass to have grown for weeks? Some sort of odd ritual. A habit.

‘I offered to walk Lottie back to Tide House,’ Daniel said. ‘When we got there, she asked me to stop for a drink. I’d been working all day, and I was gasping so of course I agreed.’

‘And you fancied her rotten and you’d seen her skinny-dipping the night before. You had the house to yourself, and you thought you had a chance with her.’

‘I was nervous. It was ridiculous. But she was dangerous, you know? Sad and dangerous at the same time.’

‘Sad?’ It seemed to Ross a strange word to use.

‘Yeah. She was upset that Hannah had fallen out with her. “Everyone thinks I’m so mean. But none of it is personal.” She said something like that. “Hannah wants me to leave. She’s never really liked me, but she had no other friends, and I was the only one to pay her any attention. She owes me big style.” Lottie had been drinking all day of course, but I didn’t think she was that kind of drunk. You know, when you start sort of hallucinating, making stuff up.’ He looked up at Ross. ‘She might have been using. And not just a bit of weed. You know … I went into the Tide House kitchen to make her some coffee. That’s why you might find traces of me there.’

Ross had drunk far too much beer in his time, before he’d hooked up properly with Mel, and she’d straightened him out. Mostly in the rugby club after a match, either celebrating a win or drowning his sorrows. He’d felt he’d had to keep up with the old guys, because the superintendent, Oldham, had been one of the drinkers. It would have looked weak to turn down a pint, not to stand his round. But he’d never hallucinated. Besides, Sal Pengelly had found cocaine in the girl’s system, on top of the booze. No wonder she was spaced out. ‘How long did you stay?’

‘All night,’ Daniel said. ‘It was just starting to get light when I left.’ He looked directly at Ross. ‘We didn’t have sex. We slept in the same bed, and I held her all night, but nothing else happened. I could tell she wasn’t up for it, and whatever you think, I would never force it. Your CSIs won’t have found any evidence of that in her bed.’ He paused. ‘We talked. About parents and having to live up to their expectations, and how easy it is to screw things up.’

‘Had she screwed up anything in particular?’

‘Friendships, I think. She was hurt at some of the things Hannah had said. Really hurt. She was crying and crying, and I couldn’t get her to stop. That was how I knew she’d stopped pretending. I went to sleep in the end. Just for a couple of hours. I don’t think she did, though.’

‘She was still awake when you left?’

‘Maybe she’d been dozing. But she woke up when I got out of bed.’

‘And she was still alive?’

‘Of course she was still alive!’ His voice was shrill.

‘What time was that?’

‘I’m not sure. It wasn’t properly light. Around dawn.’

‘What did you do then?’ Ross thought he might be a fool, but he believed Daniel. And if all this was true, then at least they had a more accurate time of death for both the women. There’d always been the possibility that Lottie had been killed on the Sunday night. Now, it was clear that they’d both died early on the Monday morning.

‘I made her a coffee, but she didn’t drink it. She said the way she was feeling, she needed more than coffee. I didn’t know whether she meant booze or coke or both.’ Daniel stopped and looked out of the window. His voice was bleak. ‘She asked me to stay. The last time I saw her she was sitting in bed, a sheet half over her. The make-up she’d worn the night before had smeared across her face. And she still looked fucking gorgeous.’

‘But you didn’t stay?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘I walked back up the drive to pick up my car and I started the drive to Torr.’

‘But you didn’t go home?’

‘No. I couldn’t face it. The parents. They moved down here to save their marriage. A fresh start. But it’s been even worse. More rows. More silences. They live separate lives – Dad in his expensive suits heading up to London, Mum exercising until she drops in the hope that it will stop her thinking. Still trying to live up to the expectation that they should be living the dream in their house by the sea. And I was supposed to be the dream son – sporty and academic. Clean-living, like my big sister. I’ve been a disappointment.’

Ross knew what it was like to be a child in a house full of tension. He was about to say that he understood, but Daniel started talking again.

‘Besides, I wanted to think about Lottie. She clung on to me when I left, kind of pleaded with me to stay. I should have done. I could tell she was desperate for company. But I wasn’t sure that I could take her on. She wanted someone to save her. That’s what she said. It sounds mean, but I didn’t think I was up to that. I’m not really saviour material.’

‘If you didn’t go home, what did you do?’ We know now that you weren’t crashed out in your mate’s house.

‘I didn’t get as far as Torr. I parked up at Baggy Point and went for a walk along the headland.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

Daniel shook his head. ‘It was still very early. Only just light.’ A thought came to him. ‘I paid for the parking, though. Those bastards get you with a fine even if it is the crack of dawn. I paid on my phone. You have to key in your registration number, so I guess there’ll be a record somewhere. I wanted to be on my own.’ He paused again. ‘It seemed as if I’d reached an important moment in my life. I know it sounds crazy, but that night with Lottie shifted the way I thought about things. I don’t know how to put it. Some kind of epiphany. Almost a religious experience. I wanted something more. Something different. I wanted to be different.’

‘But you lied about meeting up with Lottie that night.’

‘I’d been in her bed!’ Daniel was almost screaming. ‘She died very soon after I left her. I was shit-scared. Of course I lied.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

JEN WOKE UP WITH A THUMPING headache and the certainty that she was about to throw up. Her head was swimming, and she was in pain. There was a memory on the edge of her mind, which generated a moment of panic. Her body was rigid. An adrenaline rush. Then the image floated away again.

She was lying on her back and all she could see was a ceiling. White, but shadowy. Was it evening?

‘Don’t move!’ The instruction was almost brutal. It was hard to tell if a man or a woman had spoken because the words seemed to come from a long way off. She was too tired to disobey. She didn’t think she could shift anyway. Something was restricting her movement. Were her hands tied together? Immediately afterwards, she drifted back into sleep, and the pain that seemed to have no defined source slipped away.

When she woke again, her head was clearer and this time, she knew that the pain was in her arm. Sharp. Also clear, like a bright focused spotlight. The memories became sharper too. Drinking coffee in a gloomy hotel lounge full of elderly people who were eating cake. A woman’s face peering round a door, then disappearing as soon as she was seen. Jen running. Bumping into a waitress who almost spilled a plate of scones and sandwiches onto the lap of an old geezer wearing a bright blue cravat, then out of a wide door and into the sunlight.

The woman was a long way ahead of her. She was older than Jen but far fitter and dressed for running in trainers, sweatpants, a T-shirt. Jen had been wearing a skirt and sandals with a little heel. The sandals were new and ill-fitting, smart but definitely not the most comfortable footwear for vigorous exercise.

Jen was aware, staring up at the ceiling, that she was no longer wearing those clothes. Not just the sandals. Everything else had been replaced too.

Back to the memory, because this was important.

She was looking down a steep and narrow road. On one side there was a garden, very green, despite the lack of rain and the hosepipe ban. Fleshy leaves, shiny in the sunlight. Exotic, almost tropical. On the other a high stone wall. At the bottom of the hill, the steep street hit another road at a T-junction. There, on the corner, Jen’s prey, Karen Kinzalow, was waiting.

Jen had slowed, assuming that the woman was waiting for her. She remembered a moment of triumph that was close to joy and relived it now. The sunshine bouncing off the plants, the nervous woman, waiting with a story to tell that might make sense of everything, Jen herself gasping after the short run, almost light-headed because she was so breathless, but happy and expectant. Finally, there might be answers.

Then, everything changed. Jen had been near enough to the woman to call her name, had shouted it despite her breathlessness, when a car appeared down the street. This was what the woman had been waiting for. It stopped and she climbed into the passenger seat. The vehicle set off even before she closed the door. Jen had been running down the hill, waving her arms, yelling for them to stop, and had almost reached it before it started pulling away. She was going so fast that she couldn’t stop when she got to the road. One of the sandals she’d coveted so much when she’d seen them in the shop window caught on the kerb and she fell, almost under the back wheel. The car just missed her; she put out her arm in an attempt to break her fall, twisted and hit her head on the flagstone pavement.

‘They didn’t stop to help you?’

Jen told the tale to Venn when he came to visit. Her left arm was broken. Not badly, everyone said. She was lucky. She’d been given morphine for the pain and was told she’d have to stay in hospital overnight because she’d had severe concussion. Venn looked more ill than she did. White-faced and anxious.

‘They must have phoned for an ambulance, though,’ Jen said. ‘It arrived soon after apparently, though that’s all a blur, and there was nobody else in the street. The car swerved away from me at the last minute, so it can’t really be classed as a hit and run.’

‘Who was driving the vehicle? I assume it was the husband. Geoff Kinzalow?’

Jen closed her eyes again and tried to picture the scene. ‘The sunlight was reflected from the windscreen. I couldn’t really see.’

‘It was their car? The four-by-four?’

‘Yes, I’m sure it was their car, so I don’t think anyone else could have been driving.’ Then she said suddenly, ‘I need to get home to look after Ben.’

‘Ben’s fine. Vanessa has called in to check on him. She offered him a bed for the night, but he said he’d rather stay there.’

Of course, Jen thought, he would. Much better his scuzzy pit, littered with pizza boxes and Coke cans and his gaming computer than one of Vanessa’s luxury en-suite bedrooms in her fancy house by the park.

‘She fed him, though,’ Venn said. ‘He didn’t turn down the chance of a meal.’

She lay back on the pillow. The sheets felt starched and clean. When was the last time she’d changed the sheets at home? This felt a bit like luxury too. She was in a single room, not a ward. Had Venn wangled that?

‘Are you still okay to talk?’ Venn said.

‘Sure.’ Using her good arm, she pulled herself into a sitting position. Her head swam and she felt a little sick and faint and then the nausea settled.

‘Ross spoke to Daniel,’ Venn said. ‘He recorded the interview. I’d like your opinion if you’re up to it.’

‘Sure,’ she said again, already feeling more normal. Suddenly starving. She wondered if they allowed takeaway pizza in hospital. Or beer.

Venn placed a phone on the bed and the interview began.

When it was over and Venn had switched off the recording, she looked across at him. Now, it was dark outside.

‘Ross did really well, didn’t he?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d have managed to get as much out of the lad.’ She thought of Ross as she’d first known him – cocky, eager, impatient. He still had his moments, but he’d changed a lot in the last few years.

‘What did you make of it?’ Venn was leaning forward, frowning.

‘It made me see Daniel in a completely different light.’ She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘And Lottie. I knew she must be pretty screwed up, but I’d never have described her as sad.’

‘Did you believe Daniel? That he stayed the night but there was no physical intimacy? That Lottie was alive when he left?’

‘Yes.’ The response came almost immediately. ‘Yes, I did.’ A beat. ‘I don’t think it’s something someone like him would make up. They’d be more likely to boast about their sexual prowess.’

‘So, we don’t think he was the killer?’

‘Of course, we have to keep an open mind …’ Jen knew Venn well enough not to sound too certain. ‘But unless he’s the best actor in the world, I don’t think he was.’

‘Of course, we learned one very important fact,’ Venn said.

‘That there was a car there on Saturday night, appearing at the end of the drive while the girls were skinny-dipping?’

‘Interesting, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly is! From Daniel’s description it sounds like the car that nearly ran me over. The car belonging to the Kinzalows.’

Jen started feeling sleepy again then. The desire for pizza had disappeared.

But Venn was still talking.

‘I got some interesting information from Appleyard. I think I know what the Americans are doing here. They’re booked on flights home on Monday, so we need to talk to them before then. But where are they hiding out?’

Jen was too tired to reply. Besides, she had no answer.

Chapter Thirty

IT WAS COMPLETELY DARK WHEN MATTHEW drove past Braunton Great Field and down the narrow toll road towards home. It had been a long day. Hard to believe it was still only Thursday. Less than a week since the girls had arrived for their holiday in the sun. A barn owl, sitting on a fence post, was caught in his headlights, its full-moon face very white. The sound of the car disturbed it, and it floated slowly away.

Jonathan was still up. He was sitting at the kitchen table working. It would be some funding application for the Woodyard or a report for the trustees. He rarely worked on admin when he was at the arts centre. There, he was always out in the vast, rambling building, meeting the people with learning difficulties who relied on the day centre for company, the artists who rented studio space, the cooks and waiting staff in the cafe. Checking in specially with Lucy Braddick, who worked there. Listening. Venn thought he’d make a great detective because he listened so well.

Jonathan heard Matthew come in, stood up and opened his arms to him. ‘What a time you’ve had!’

‘I’ve just come from the hospital. Jen’s okay. A broken arm and a headache but she’ll be fine.’

‘Want a drink? A glass of wine?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘Tea,’ he said. ‘I’d love some tea.’ It was later than he usually slept, and he liked a routine, but he knew if he went to bed now, he’d be restless. Sleepless. He needed to decompress. ‘Camomile, please.’

Jonathan switched off his laptop and they sat together in the living room, the curtains still open, letting in moonlight. It must be high tide, because Matthew could hear the rhythm of the waves on the shore.

‘It’s Maurice Braddick’s funeral tomorrow morning,’ Jonathan said. ‘Will you make it? Lucy would like you to come. I called in to see her in her flat today. She hasn’t been at work, but she’s being well supported by the staff there.’

‘How is she?’

‘Sad obviously but coping. I think she sees the funeral as a bit of an ordeal. Something unfamiliar as well as saying goodbye to her dad.’

‘I’ll try to get there.’

These weren’t idle words, and Jonathan would realize that he would try. Matthew couldn’t promise because in his work something could always turn up, but he’d be there if he could. He wasn’t sure he’d have solved the first murder he’d had to investigate without Lucy. Now, she almost felt like family. Matthew always checked in with her when he visited the Woodyard cafe where she worked. Maurice, her father, had been a good and gentle man and Matthew wanted to be at his funeral to pay his respects, not just to be there for Lucy.

His thoughts returned to the investigation, to Daniel and Lottie.

‘I got those young people all wrong,’ he said. In truth, he knew nothing about young people. He felt that he’d hardly been young at all. He’d gone from a priggish schoolboy to a depressed and anxious man, already middle-aged in his twenties. ‘I judged them as superficial, greedy and entitled. Perhaps they were lost and unhappy, putting on a brave face to the world. It was easier for Hannah to be kind. Her parents were stressed and in the public eye, but they cared about her. And then she found Jake, who adored her. She knew she was loved.’

Jonathan was drinking wine. He was on the floor, his back against the sofa where Matthew was sitting.

‘People can be greedy and entitled as well as lost,’ he said. ‘There’s no excuse for Lottie sticking those toxic videos on her socials or Daniel being sneering and rude. They were asking to be judged.’

Matthew was surprised. Usually, Jonathan was the most sympathetic of men. He tried to understand and not judge.

‘After listening to Daniel’s interview with Ross, I find it hard to believe that he’s our killer. He was our prime suspect. He was at the house where the girls had died, he had a made-up alibi, and then he ran away. It all seemed so simple. Now, I’m lost too. Back at the beginning. I have nothing.’

Apart from the Kinzalows, Venn thought. I need to find out what’s going on with them. At the moment, they’re all we have.

That was the message Venn passed on to the team at the morning’s briefing.

‘I can’t believe that they’ve just disappeared, but being involved in Jen’s accident has probably freaked them out. We have the car registration now. They hired it from a rental company in Barnstaple and had to show their driving licences and paid by credit card. Let’s put out an APR. It’ll be hard to track them down if they stick to the small rural roads, but they must be somewhere. If we don’t find them by lunchtime today, we’ll call a press conference and go public. They’re people of interest, and we need to find them.’

Venn was feeling the pressure of time. Not just because of the Kinzalows’ flight home and because it was already four days since the girls’ bodies had been found, and they needed some movement in the investigation. Not just because he was getting pressure from the press and Home Office officials. Not even because there were grieving parents who were waiting for answers. But he’d promised to go the following day to Cornwall with Jonathan, while he met his birth mother. He owed Jonathan that support at least. He had a good excuse to stay at work and send Jonathan off by himself – although Jen would be out of hospital later today, she wouldn’t be fully in action – but that would feel shabby. Besides, occasionally he needed to delegate, to prove to the team that they could cope fine without him. That he trusted them.

Rationally, he knew all that was true. He’d be on the end of a phone, and only a couple of hours away if he was needed. He’d hoped, though, to have everything wrapped up by Saturday. He didn’t cope well with deadlines, even self-induced ones, and found them stressful. All morning, he felt tense and ill at ease. He sent Ross back to Torr.

‘That seems to be the Kinzalows’ base. We have the vehicle registration now. Even if they’re sleeping in the car, and haven’t checked into any formal accommodation, they have to be parked somewhere.’ He remembered what Daniel had said about having paid for parking on Baggy Point on the Monday morning. ‘There’s nowhere free any more. There must be a record. Vicki, can you check with the council and with the National Trust. At the moment, the Americans are our most important lead.’

Our only lead.

Venn stayed in the police station. The most likely chance to find the Kinzalows would come from Vicki Robb’s trawling through CCTV and parking data. Ross might chance upon something in Torr, but the couple had evaded the physical search until now. Venn thought they could be moving, changing locations, losing themselves among the crowds of holidaymakers. Yet, Karen had come out of hiding to visit the hotel where the Armstrongs were staying. What was that about? None of it made sense.

Vicki had been checking Lottie’s socials looking for a potential stalker. Some guy who was obsessed with the girl, or a former fan she’d been particularly mean to. So far, she’d found nothing.

Venn had asked if there’d been any online connection with Jim Hooper before the argument in the pub.

‘She’s just the sort of young woman to wind him up. Beautiful, wealthy, overconfident, at least superficially. He might pretend to despise her, but I can see him being drawn to her too, attracted in an obsessive way, checking her posts every night, following her every move.’

Vicki was still working on that.

Maurice Braddick’s funeral was at eleven. The service was held in the small church in the village where he’d lived for most of his life. Jonathan was giving Lucy a lift and had arranged to meet Matthew there. Matthew still found funerals unsettling. They reminded him of his father’s death, the fact that he’d been excluded from the funeral because he’d been banished from the Brethren and not considered worthy to be there.

‘Just in case something comes up and you can’t make it,’ Jonathan had said when he made the arrangement, not because he was aware of Matthew’s unease and not being snide. Just practical.

Standing at the gate into the churchyard, always an observer, Matthew was astonished to see that his mother, Dorothy, was there, standing in the sunshine, awkward. She was wearing a washed-out dress more grey than black and a hat that hardly covered wispy, unruly hair.

This would be very different from Dorothy’s usual place of worship, the shabby hall where the Barum Brethren held their meetings. Matthew was suddenly taken back to those Sundays, listening to the elders speaking, to one particular elder who had become his hero. Then, like his parents, he’d believed that when the day of rapture came, only the people who shared their narrow faith would be saved. He’d been convinced that he was special.

Rosa, one of Lucy’s friends from the Woodyard day centre, was a member of the Brethren, and her mother was Dorothy’s closest friend. Matthew supposed that Dorothy was there to support them. He saw now that Rosa and her mother were there too. The three women stood slightly apart. Anxious.

He watched Jonathan emerge from the church porch. His husband went first to Rosa. He gave her a little hug, and they exchanged a few words. Rosa smiled. Then he turned to Dorothy and took her hand. From their first meeting he’d always disarmed the woman with his warmth and charm. Now, despite her hostility to the idea of gay marriage, Matthew’s mother had almost come to terms with the reality of the relationship.

‘It was good of you to come,’ Jonathan’s voice was clear, and Matthew could hear the words from where he stood. ‘I hope Matthew can make it. He intended to.’

So, Venn had no option but to join them. He was always less relaxed with his mother than Jonathan was. He sensed, or imagined, her disapproval and resented it. Jonathan shrugged it off.

‘Shall we go in?’ Jonathan said now. ‘Lucy’s already there.’

The church was full. There were village families and people who must be contemporaries of Maurice, school friends perhaps or colleagues from his days working in Barnstaple’s Butchers Row. The vicar had known the dead man, and she spoke warmly of him. The Woodyard community choir sang one of the hymns. Matthew found himself lost in the service. The sunlight shone through the stained glass and formed patterns on the floor. This was warm and simple, a community coming together to support Lucy, a long way from the tangled jealousies of his investigation.

But perhaps, Matthew thought, he was being seduced again by appearances. There could be people in the congregation who’d been appalled that Maurice had fought to keep Lucy in a mainstream school and had gossiped when he’d allowed her to live on her own in Barnstaple.

His mind wandered during the brief eulogy. He wondered what the dead girls’ funerals would be like. Private family affairs or more public appreciations of their brief lives? Emotions on show as performance art or sincerely felt?

He hated the idea of Paul Armstrong using his daughter’s funeral for political ends. He thought Cath would be firm about keeping it private. But perhaps his colleagues were friends as well as members of government and lines would be blurred.

Lottie Cauldwell’s father would fly in from LA, and presumably her parents would weep genuine tears at her passing. But if Lottie’s social media followers got wind of any service, they’d be gathering outside with more flowers and balloons and handwritten cards just to be a part of the event, to see their images on Insta or TikTok. Even invited members of the congregation might turn up in the hope that the Cauldwells’ celebrity would rub off on them. It could turn into another kind of performance. And perhaps, thought Venn in his jaundiced state of mind, Maurice Braddick’s funeral was a performance too.

When the service was over, the mourners stood talking outside the church, surrounded by graves. Matthew waited to speak to Lucy. Jonathan had helped her to arrange lunch for family and close friends in the pub, where she and her father had often eaten together, but Matthew wouldn’t go. He couldn’t face it. Because he’d no longer been a believer, he hadn’t been allowed into his father’s funeral, and this brought back the shame and the hurt.

Lucy had been crying. She rubbed at her face with a handkerchief Matthew recognized as Jonathan’s. Matthew put his arm around her.

‘If there’s anything we can do, just let us know.’ It seemed inadequate, but he meant it.

She nodded and squeezed him hard.

As he was walking away towards the lychgate, he heard footsteps behind him. Light and quick. He turned, expecting to see one of Lucy’s friends, someone young. But it was his mother.

Matthew waited.

‘We didn’t have a chance to speak.’ She was a little breathless. She must have been rushing to catch him up.

‘I’m sorry.’ Matthew wondered why he always felt the need to apologize to her. ‘I’m working on a double murder case. I don’t have much time.’

He expected a familiar lecture about how she’d never understood why he’d chosen the police service as a career. So much unpleasantness! she always said. He would be mixing with such unsavoury people.

So, her words surprised him: ‘Jonathan was telling me that he was looking for his mother.’ A pause. ‘His real mother.’

‘Was he?’ Matthew was astonished. This seemed such a private thing. He would never have discussed a matter like this with Dorothy.

‘I’m glad,’ she went on. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a son. Even worse to make a decision to give up a son and then regret it. It would be devastating. Heartbreaking.’ Her face was haunted, and he realized for the first time how much it had cost her to cast him away when he’d made public his lack of faith.

He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he took her in his arms and felt her bones, so fragile under the thin black dress that it seemed they might snap. They’d never before had a conversation of such intimacy. Such honesty. He was bewildered.

They separated and stood for a moment in silence, looking at each other.

‘You know, I think your father would have liked Jonathan very much,’ Dorothy said at last. There was a pause. ‘My husband had very fine judgement.’

She turned without waiting for a response and ran back to her friend with the same light, girlish steps.

In the car, Matthew looked at his phone. There was a text from Jen to say that she was home from hospital.

It’s my left arm that’s broken and I can still work. Heading in once I’ve had a shower and I’ve changed.

Then a missed call followed by a text from Vicki.

Karen Kinzalow turned up at the front desk. She wants to speak to you. She says she’ll wait.

Chapter Thirty-One

VICKI HAD PUT KAREN IN A meeting room. Venn went to her desk in the big open-plan office first.

‘How did she seem?’

‘I’m not sure. Anxious. Nervous.’

Vicki was great at tech and numbers, but not so good at reading people. She’d have been nervous too, when Karen appeared without warning and the rest of the team were unavailable.

‘How long’s she been in there?’

Vicki didn’t have to check the time. ‘Forty-five minutes now.’ Venn realized Vicki had been counting, waiting for him. ‘I was going to phone Jen, but she only got home from hospital a little while ago. I didn’t want to call her straight out.’

‘Well,’ Matthew said, ‘we’ve been waiting long enough for Karen to get in touch with us. It won’t have hurt her to kick her heels for a while.’

The meeting room was long and narrow, with a table in the middle big enough to sit twelve. Karen Kinzalow sat at one end, with her back to the window that had a view of a building site. She got to her feet. It seemed to Venn that she’d lost weight just in the few days since they’d first met. Her face was gaunt and lined.

Then, as he had in the church, looking out at the congregation, he thought that perhaps it was his perception that had changed, not the woman herself. He’d first seen her as a holidaymaker, relaxed and easy, with a loud cheery voice. Now, she was a suspect in the murder of the two young women, and she’d made every effort to evade the police.

Her first words surprised him. ‘Your co-worker, how is she?’

‘She had concussion and she’s broken her arm, but she’s home from hospital.’

‘I saw what happened and I did call the ambulance. The car didn’t really touch her, you know.’

‘You didn’t stop to help.’ His words were flat. Fact rather than accusation. He walked the length of the table and sat at the long side, but close to her.

‘We panicked,’ she said. ‘That’s all we’ve been doing since the girls died. Panicking.’

‘Your husband didn’t come with you. Does he know you’re here?’

She shook her head. ‘He’ll be wondering where I am.’

‘But he knew you were looking for Cath Armstrong, because he picked you up from the street outside the hotel in your hire car.’

‘We were friends once, Cath and I.’

Which wasn’t, Venn thought, much of an answer.

‘What happened that evening when Elizabeth hurt herself?’ In the end, he thought, that was why the woman was here. She wanted to tell him about her daughter.

At first, he wasn’t sure that she would answer, but it seemed she was just getting the story straight in her head.

‘We thought it would do our girls good to spend a bit of time away from the States, to see something of the world, so when Geoff was posted to London, we were all very excited. Americans can be a little insular – many don’t travel outside their state – and we had such plans! We chose a school which we believed would suit them. Small. Just girls. Not too formal. My eldest daughter sailed through her education. She loved every minute, did well academically and found a place in a good college back home.’

She sat for a moment, as if lost in thought. The words had dried up, so Venn gave her a prompt.

‘Elizabeth didn’t fare so well?’

Karen tipped up her face to look at him. ‘In the beginning, it seemed, she fared too well. Perhaps we’d been a little protective when she was growing up in DC. We thought England would be safer, and she was a little older. We gave her more leeway. Too much maybe. Geoff thought so. She could be reckless, a bit wild. She chose friends who seemed fun.’

‘Lottie Cauldwell?’

Karen nodded. ‘There were parties. Drinking. She seemed a little young for that and we wouldn’t have allowed it at home, but Europe has always been more liberal in some ways and after all, she was here to experience the culture. I suppose we didn’t want to come across as overbearing, different from other kids’ parents.’ She paused again, but this time Venn let the silence stretch and she continued. ‘We were pleased when Hannah Armstrong joined the group. Geoff had interviewed her father, and he said they seemed like a nice family. Responsible about their children. We hoped Lottie wouldn’t have quite so much influence then. She and Elizabeth were quite a toxic mix, egging each other on to wilder exploits. But Lottie was bright. Very bright. Academic work came easily to her. Elizabeth needed to work and was getting behind on her studies. Hannah was more like her, not so hot academically, and we thought her family had a little more influence over their daughter than we did over ours.’

‘Were there boyfriends?’ Matthew was wondering if the girls had been on their own when the accident had occurred.

Karen nodded again. ‘And that was a worry too. Pregnancy. Coercive control. Of course, I talked to Elizabeth about all the dangers, but at that age they think they know it all.’

‘But the three girls were on their own when the accident happened? No outsiders were involved?’

‘I don’t think of it as an accident, Inspector. Even if Elizabeth did slip.’

‘What do you suspect happened?’

‘They used to play drinking games. I caught them once. Lottie would film them. I’m not sure what happened to the videos. They were never on her public access social media. Perhaps it was just for the girls’ WhatsApp group.’ A pause. ‘Perhaps on more sinister sites. I don’t know. She was very tech-savvy.’

‘What sort of games?’

Karen shrugged. ‘They stopped that time when I caught them in Elizabeth’s bedroom. Kind of truth or dare perhaps. Elizabeth swore there was no harm in it and begged me not to make a fuss. Not to tell her father, who was stricter than I was. They were drinking that night that Elizabeth fell. I think they often went to the spot. It was their secret place, on the edge of the Heath. Once there’d been a building there. Some kind of hut, for railway maintenance workers, and nothing more than a ruin now, only three walls and a roof left, but I guess it provided some shelter.’ She looked straight at Venn. ‘A sort of den. They were still kids in lots of ways. There was a steep drop down to the abandoned railway track below, not particularly high, but sheer. There was a tall fence to keep people away, but they pushed their way through. They knew it would be private. It was winter, dark, although it wasn’t very late.’

‘You think that Elizabeth was dared to jump?’

‘Maybe. She might have been wild, and she might have needed drama in her life, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have jumped if she’d been sober. Or if she hadn’t been taunted, called out as a coward.’ Karen was crying now. ‘I just needed to know what happened that night. Elizabeth wouldn’t tell me. Or perhaps she couldn’t. Her speech was affected by the head injury and it’s hard to know how much she understands. Whatever happened, everyone was covering it up. It suited all the people involved to call it an unfortunate accident. To say that if anyone was responsible, it was Elizabeth. The school didn’t want their precious reputation tarnished, Elaine Cauldwell was worried about losing clients just as she was building her agency, and Paul Armstrong was being touted as the next prime minister. Geoff and I were the only people with an interest in getting to the truth.’

Venn found a small packet of tissues in his pocket and passed it across the table towards Karen.

‘You came down to North Devon in the hope of getting an answer to your questions?’

‘Yes! It was easy enough to track the girls’ movements. Lottie’s life was available for everyone to see on her social media. We booked into a place in Torr before they arrived but did a recce of the area and saw the glamping site at Millscombe Farm. And the posters for the music festival. There was one pod left when he phoned the Brennans. A late cancellation. We thought the girls would be there and it might be a chance to talk to them informally. It would be less confrontational than going to the house.’

‘Why now? Why wait two years before confronting the girls?’

‘We had other things to think about, Inspector! Our daughter is severely disabled. We took her back to the US and had to find people to care for her properly. When we were in London for Geoff’s work, Lottie and Hannah were protected by everyone. Their parents, the school, Paul Armstrong’s minders.’ She paused. ‘I might have let it go, but Geoff couldn’t. He brooded about the injustice and the way they’d kept us out.’

Venn could see how that would play out. He’d found a conspiracy of silence around the incident, and he was conducting a murder inquiry. How much harder would it be for the Kinzalows to get at the truth?

‘Did Elaine Cauldwell come to meet you during the week before MillsFest? You had dinner with someone meeting her description in the Fisherman’s Arms on the Tuesday evening.’

‘Yes!’ Karen seemed impressed by Venn’s knowledge of their movements. ‘We contacted Elaine to tell her we were down here. We wanted to give her the chance to explain what had happened, so we didn’t have to distress the girls with our questions. We didn’t expect her to turn up out of the blue. That seemed positive. But in the end, it was a nightmare. She said she’d tell the police we were harassing her daughter. That we were behaving like a pair of stalkers.’

Venn thought that their behaviour since the girls’ deaths was very close to stalking.

‘So, you were left with Hannah and Lottie to get your answers?’

Karen nodded.

‘Did Geoff try to talk to Lottie at MillsFest? There’s a video of her with an older man.’

Another nod. ‘She just told him to fuck off or she’d tell everyone he was a sexual predator.’ Karen gave a little wince. Swearing didn’t come easily to her.

‘So, on the Saturday night, you both went to Tide House in the hope of getting the girls together. Your car was seen in the drive.’

Because who else was driving a car like the one seen by Daniel Miller when the girls were skinny-dipping?

‘You seem remarkably good at your job, Inspector. I wish you’d been working for the Met when Elizabeth fell that night.’ Her tone was dry.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘The girls were swimming in the pool. They had no clothes on. Can you imagine what Lottie could have done on social media if we’d approached them when they were in that state? They hadn’t seen or heard the car. They had music blaring. We backed up the drive and drove back to the farm.’ There was a pause. She turned her head to look out of the window, though there was nothing to see but sunlight bouncing off concrete. ‘Geoff was ready to give up then, to drive straight home that night, but I said we should give it a few more days. I was hoping to catch Hannah on her own.’

‘And did you?’

She shook her head. ‘The following day, she always seemed to be with Jake Brennan. They were stuck together like glue. Even when we were invited into the farmhouse for that party on Sunday evening, the pair of them disappeared into his room.’

‘You didn’t see her early on Monday morning?’

‘No! We hadn’t moved from our pod before you came to talk to Jake. We didn’t know then that the girls were dead.’

There was another silence. Venn was going to release her. She had ample motive, but motive wasn’t enough to hold her, and she’d come here of her own will. Then he remembered the piece of card he’d found, charred, in the pod’s wood-burning stove.

‘We looked round your accommodation in Millscombe once you’d left,’ he said. ‘You’d used the stove, despite the heat. Why was that?’

He thought Karen might refuse to answer, but it seemed she’d decided on honesty now.

‘The three girls had formed a kind of secret club,’ she said. ‘They called themselves the Three Furies. Of course, Lottie was the leader. The queen bee. You’d have thought all their communications would be by text or email, but she sent or handed out postcards to arrange their meetings. A kind of affectation, fancy printing. But childish too, I thought. Lottie C demands your presence at … Alcoholic beverage required. The others were expected to RSVP. I had the card calling Elizabeth to their spot on the Heath that night. I found it in her room after the accident. I wasn’t stupid. I could see that Geoff and I would be considered suspects after the murder. So, I burned it. That was hard. It reminded me of how Elizabeth had been before she fell. Full of life and mischief and fun.’

Venn thought he’d have to let her go back to her husband. He couldn’t see how Karen could be a killer. He didn’t sense any desire for revenge, just a desperate longing for knowledge.

Geoff Kinzalow was a different matter, though. Venn had hardly spoken to him, had no sense about how he was feeling about his daughter’s accident and what he might be capable of.

‘I need to talk to your husband.’ A pause. ‘I could come now, if that would be convenient?’

‘Oh no! I’ll need to warn him, to explain that I came here to talk to you.’ She seemed horrified. He wondered if she was scared of the man. Or scared of what he might have done. He couldn’t picture her as a killer, but he could imagine her protecting her husband if he’d taken revenge on behalf of them both.

He was about to insist when she continued talking. ‘He’s no good at surprises. If you come now, he’ll just clam up.’

‘Very early tomorrow morning then.’ Because later in the day, I have to drive to Cornwall to meet my husband’s birth mother. Since speaking to his own mother, that seemed more important.

‘As early as you like,’ she said. ‘And I promise we’ll still be there. We’ve done enough running.’ She gave him the details of their accommodation. It was a tiny cottage, it seemed. They’d come across it by chance.

Venn stood up. ‘If you’re not there, I promise we will track you down.’ His voice was light, as if it was almost a joke, but she understood that he meant every word.

She stood too. She was hardly more than a silhouette with the sunlight behind her. ‘We’ll be waiting, Inspector. I told you we’re giving up the fight. It was dragging us down. I thought Cath Armstrong might have information for us. That was why we tried to speak to her in Torr. We knew Paul wouldn’t help. He only cares about his career. But we’re going back to London and taking a flight home to Washington on Monday. Our place is with our girls. This was a kind of madness.’ She stood very still, staring out at the room. ‘It’s your fight now, Inspector. Three girls’ lives have been cut short. I think you’ll get to the bottom of it. I’d be grateful if you’d tell us when you know.’

He moved aside to let her out of the room. With her back very straight she walked ahead of him. Leaving him with a challenge he didn’t feel able to meet.

Chapter Thirty-Two

JEN DIDN’T GET TO THE POLICE station despite her best intentions. Venn had banned her from coming to work.

‘The doctor said you weren’t fit. You have to stay at home. There are rules. Protocols. No argument.’

In the end he and his constable came to her house instead, with Ross carrying boxes of pizza and cans of beer. Venn was clutching a fancy takeaway coffee because he’d have to drive home at the end of the night. Vicki Robb wasn’t there, though. She was still at her desk. Jen thought the woman had some sort of social anxiety. She always found an excuse to avoid work nights out. Or perhaps she just preferred to keep her work and her social lives very separate.

Because it was Friday, Ben was at a sleepover at his friend’s place. They’d be drinking beer too, of course, or worse, and staring at a screen. She worried about that, the glazed eyes, the grunting when she tried to distract him, but in the end, she’d decided that at least there’d be two of them there tonight. The boy would have some human contact.

They sat outside in her garden as the shadows lengthened, and she switched on the fairy lights. The air was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the delicate cream flowers gleamed in the shadow.

‘So, Karen Kinzalow just turned up at the station?’ She was astonished. It was the last thing she’d been expecting. ‘And you let her go?’ They all had the Kinzalows down as their prime suspects, and Karen had given them a pretty good motive. If some loser gave one of her kids brain damage, she’d struggle not to kill them.

‘I think I believed her,’ Venn said. ‘And besides, I don’t have enough to charge her. I don’t know about the husband, though. We know he confronted Lottie at the music festival. He’s a more likely suspect and I’m seeing him early tomorrow morning.’

‘Yeah, right. But you know you’re an easy touch!’ She’d had a beer on top of the painkillers and could feel the inhibitions slipping away. ‘Someone plays the sympathy card, and you believe them.’

Though, Jen thought, that wasn’t really true. The boss had been the only person to see through the killer during their last investigation at Greystone.

Venn only smiled. ‘They have a flight to Washington booked for Monday. I need to talk to Geoff, but it’s possible that they just want to get home to their daughter. If they’d run away straight after the murders, we’d never have suspected them at all.’

‘I guess.’ Jen supposed he had a point. She turned her attention to Ross. ‘Great interview with Daniel!’

‘Thanks.’ That was all he said, but she could tell he was pleased. Thrilled. It felt weird that her compliment had so much effect on him.

Next door her neighbour was playing the piano. He was an older guy with a love of jazz and highly patterned shirts. He’d left his kitchen door open and the sound, smooth as silk, slipped into the garden, over the wall, and wrapped itself around them.

Venn had finished his coffee. Jen had brought out a bin bag for the rubbish and he carefully put the takeaway cup in that. Usually, he brought his own re-usable mug, and it occurred to her that he must be anxious to have forgotten it, despite the apparent confidence that all would be well and that the Kinzalows wouldn’t abscond once again.

‘I’m taking some time out tomorrow afternoon and evening,’ he said.

It felt like an announcement, more portentous, Jen decided, than it deserved. It must be important. She was curious. ‘Oh?’

‘Something I need to do with Jonathan.’

‘Cool.’ Ross sounded glad. Maybe he saw that as a chance to prove himself again.

‘I’ll just be at the end of a phone,’ Jen said. ‘The team can get me whenever they need anything.’

‘Great.’

There was a sudden silence as the music came to an end. Jen thought her neighbour would be pouring himself a glass of red wine. Sometimes, he shouted over the fence and asked if she wanted to join him. Her garden was prettier than his and they’d usually sit there, and he’d tell her stories of his life, the clubs he’d played all over the world, the musicians he’d met. If he hadn’t been so much older than her, with a wrinkled neck and wild grey hair, she might have fancied him.

‘We don’t have many suspects left then, do we?’ That was Ross. He always seemed in a hurry, impatient, his life running to a beat that nobody else could hear. ‘If we’re dismissing the Kinzalows as possibilities. And Vicki has confirmed Daniel’s story about parking in the National Trust car park at Baggy Point.’

‘We’re not dismissing the Kinzalows altogether.’ Jen thought Matthew sounded a bit defensive.

‘Apart from them,’ Ross said, ‘we’ve got the couple who run the Fisherman’s Arms and the family at the farm.’

‘At a stretch, they might all have a motive for killing Lottie.’ Jen had been thinking about this all afternoon. ‘Now we know that she stooped to actual blackmail.’

‘I wonder if she would have gone even further with her threat to badmouth the Hoopers’ business.’ Matthew was talking slowly, and Jen had to strain to hear him, even now that there was no sound of the piano. ‘I’m not sure that she would. It’s almost like the games she was playing with the girls. She was challenging Mag Hooper to stand up to her.’

‘Sad, Daniel called her,’ Ross said.

‘It sounds as if she was seriously screwed up.’ Really, Jen thought, her kids were doing okay in comparison. She couldn’t be that bad a mother. The year before, she’d been haunted by the idea that she’d like to give motherhood another go. She had longed to hold a baby in her arms again. That longing came back suddenly, sharp and intense. Next time, she thought, she might do it well.

The music started again. Venn said he should go because he had to be up early in the morning. Jen thought he might say more about where he was going the following day, but he never talked much about his personal life, so she didn’t really expect him to.

‘I went to Maurice Braddick’s funeral.’ He was on his feet, with the black plastic bin bag already in his hand, insisting that he’d dispose of it at home. Jen couldn’t imagine Robbie, her ex, ever being that thoughtful.

‘Oh, of course.’ Jen had completely forgotten about the funeral. ‘I’m glad one of us was there. How was it?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Instructive,’ he said.

They heard the boss walk out through the house, and the front door being carefully shut.

Jen expected Ross to follow him, but he handed her another beer and took one for himself. They each took a swig from the can.

‘What do you think the boss meant by instructive?’ Ross waited until the house was quiet before asking the question.

It was quite dark now, and the sky was full of stars. Jen shrugged. Her brain was blurry, and she almost wished that Ross would leave so she could get to bed. The great thing about takeaway pizza was that there was no washing-up to do, and Venn had taken all the boxes and napkins.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’ Jen thought it would be something about promotion. Ross had always been ambitious, and her bit of praise could have set him off. She yawned in the hope that he’d take the hint that she needed her bed.

‘How long did it take you to get pregnant?’

‘Not long enough!’ The words flew out before she’d really considered the answer. And it was true. They’d been married for a few months, but they hadn’t really started trying when Ella came along. One pissed and romantic evening, and Jen was knocked up. Then Ella had been such a good baby, quiet and undemanding, that soon afterwards, Robbie had decided he needed a boy. Someone to go to the match with him. A mini-me. She hadn’t been sure then, had already started getting anxious about the way the man treated her. His temper. His need to be in charge. But she’d persuaded herself that a baby might soften him again, especially if she could give him the boy that he wanted.

Now, she thought, What the fuck! How could I ever have thought that way?

She remembered the anxiety she’d felt at the scan, Robbie sitting beside her, holding her hand so tight that it hurt, her wondering what he’d do if the baby turned out to be another girl. Would he make a scene with the midwife, as if it were the professional’s fault? Or sulk in silence and take it out on her when they got home?

When he’d found out that the child she was carrying was a boy, he’d let out a cheer. It was as if he was in the Kop and Liverpool had just scored a goal. But Ben hadn’t turned out to be any sort of Robbie mini-me. He’d hated sport. Possibly because his father had started throwing balls at him when he could hardly walk. Ben was dreamy and not very academic. Ella had been able to escape into her books. Ben had just seemed perpetually confused by his father’s moodiness.

Ross finished his beer. And dragged her attention back to the present.

‘Only Mel and me, we’ve been trying for about six months and nothing’s happened.’

He sounded distraught and she realized she should have taken more time to consider her response.

‘That’s no time at all,’ she said. ‘I know couples who’ve waited much longer than that.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I expect you’re right. Well, I’d best get off. No need to get up.’

So, she was left there, her arm in plaster, alone and looking up at the stars. She waited for a moment in the hope that the guy next door might shout over the fence. After all, some company would be okay, some talk that wasn’t about murder, but he’d stopped playing and his house was dark, so she went inside and to bed.

Chapter Thirty-Three

IT WAS SATURDAY AND OCCASIONALLY JONATHAN allowed himself a lie-in at the weekend. Today, though, he was up with Venn, excited and wired because of the two mugs of coffee he’d already drunk. And because of the meeting with his mother. He was heading out for his swim as Matthew left just before six.

‘And you’ll be back? I mean, I’ll understand if you have to cancel, because you’re crazy at work, but just let me know if you can’t make it. Yeah?’

‘I’ll be back. I’ve told the team I won’t be around after lunchtime. That’s why I’m going to do this interview so early.’

Only then did Jonathan seem reassured, and he headed out towards the beach in his shorts and his flip-flops, a towel under his arm.

The cottage where the Kinzalows had been hiding out was in the Taw Valley, not very far from where Appleyard had taken Matthew for lunch. It was, as Karen had said, tiny. One room up and one down with a kitchen and bathroom in the extension. Once, apparently, it had provided storage for fishing gear and a kayak. The owner, who had a house at the other end of the garden, had converted it into living space for a teenage son who’d since left home. The river was low now, but Venn thought that if it were in flood, it would be possible to fish from the living room window.

Venn saw that their hire car was parked outside and felt a moment of relief. He’d believed Karen when she’d said that they wouldn’t try to escape, but he didn’t know Geoff, didn’t understand how desperate the man might be.

They were waiting for him, packed and ready to go. There was coffee on the hob.

‘Only black, I’m afraid,’ Karen said. ‘We’ve used up all the milk.’

Venn assured her that he only ever drank black coffee. Geoff sat in a corner on an upright kitchen chair, silent.

‘Why don’t you both take it outside?’ she went on. ‘Leave me to finish tidying up here.’ It was same trilling tone that she’d used when Matthew had first met them. Now that she’d spoken to Venn, perhaps she felt a little more relaxed, not quite so anxious after the deaths of her daughter’s friends. Not so desperate to know what had happened to cause Elizabeth to fall that night in London.

For a moment, however, her change in mood made him mistrust his judgement that the Americans were harmless. Had the woman conned him after all and was relaxed because he’d believed her story? It seemed a huge coincidence that the two dead young women were involved in the accident that had left their daughter with life-changing injuries.

He said nothing. Geoff got to his feet, his mug in his hand, and led Matthew outside.

Later, it would be very hot again, but this early, there was still shade from the trees that hid the little cottage from the rest of the property. A giant weeping willow’s branches trailed in the water. They sat on a bench, facing the river.

‘How did you find this place?’ Venn was genuinely curious.

‘We stopped at the tea shop in the village after we left Millscombe and there was a notice in the window. We found the owner at home and moved in that day.’

‘It’s a bit of a stretch to Torr.’ That, after all, was where most of the sightings of the couple had been.

The man gave a little laugh that crumpled his face. He was crumpled all over, Venn thought. He wore a creased, faded shirt and thin walkers’ trousers. Everything faded brown or green, as if he were a photographer or hunter and needed the camouflage.

‘I grew up on a farm in Maine. I’m used to driving long distances. That was like a trip to the store.’

A heron flew very low over the water, hardly flapping its wide wings.

‘Karen told me what happened to your daughter,’ Venn said. ‘I don’t have children. I can’t imagine. But I’m very, very sorry.’

Geoff stared ahead of him. ‘It would help if we knew the truth.’

‘So, tell me all you know. If the girls’ deaths are linked, I’ll find out what happened. And I’ll tell you. I promise.’

The man was quite still for a moment. At last, he nodded. ‘Karen told you most of it. I’m not sure I can add much.’

‘Did you know what was going on with the three girls? The drinking. The dangerous games they were playing. The strange secret society. The Furies.’

He shook his head. ‘Karen was left with the family stuff. I was working on my book. Head down. Making it clear I needed no distraction. I had a deadline and I’m like that. Focused.’ He turned and Venn saw that the man’s eyes glistened, either with tears or anger. ‘It was my fault, you see. If I’d not been so obsessed with my work, I would have seen what was going on. I would have persuaded Karen that we needed to rein Lizzie in. She thought the girl needed freedom. I believed she needed more boundaries. It was the one thing we disagreed on.’

‘Whose idea was it to come to North Devon to see the girls, to get your answers?’

The question seemed to surprise him. ‘Mine, I guess. It was eating away at me. Karen thought it might stop me brooding so she agreed to the plan.’

‘Elaine Cauldwell came down to meet you both before Hannah and Lottie arrived. You had dinner in the Fisherman’s Arms?’

‘Yeah.’ A pause. ‘I think she just came to warn us off. She threatened us with some sort of restraining order. It just made us more certain that she knows what happened the night Elizabeth fell, that the incident was more suspicious than the police have let on.’ He paused again, and when he spoke a moment later, his voice was more intense. ‘Why would she come all the way to North Devon if she had nothing to hide? I knew then that it was worth our staying and trying to speak to the girls.’

Venn was starting to realize the depth of the man’s obsession. He was a fanatic about his writing and about finding out the details of his daughter’s accident.

‘You spoke to Lottie at the Millscombe festival?’

‘I did. She called me a dirty old man and told me to leave her alone. Otherwise, she’d scream.’ He turned, so for the first time he was facing Venn. ‘She meant it. So, what could I do but walk away?’

‘It must have made you angry, though.’

‘Sure, I was angry. But I didn’t kill her. I was mad enough to do it, but I was with Karen all that Sunday evening and all Monday morning. We’d only just got up when you came along to talk to Jake.’

You could have got up when Karen was still sleeping. You could have caught Lottie having an early morning swim and hit her when she climbed out of the pool. Hannah could have turned up then from the farm, determined to send Lottie back to London. You could have chased her into the combe and killed her to stop her talking.

All that was possible, Venn thought. It fitted in with the facts, and there was something so tight and hard about the man that he could imagine him killing. Guilt needing a scapegoat, someone else to blame. But he had no proof. No evidence to stop a pair of prominent American citizens from leaving the country. It came to him then that they might never get a resolution to this investigation. The Kinzalows might disappear to the States, and he’d be left with the same sense of unfinished business that seemed to have haunted Karen.

‘There’s something you should know.’ Geoff paused. His attention seemed quite caught by the dipper that broke the water’s surface and came to rest on a rock.

‘Yes?’

‘Before I started writing my book on British up-and-coming politicians, I researched all the individuals. I mean, a deep dive. That’s my USP. Research, it’s what I’m famous for. I need my readers to trust me in an age of fake news and invented social media.’ He paused again.

‘You researched Armstrong’s background?’

‘Of course. I spent a week in Newcastle, getting a feel for the place, walking the streets, drinking in the pubs where he’d drunk. Talking to former colleagues. You know he was on the city council before he was an MP?’

Venn shook his head.

‘Yeah, when he was a student and then briefly as a junior doctor working at one of the hospitals there. The man must have had some energy.’

This time Venn didn’t prompt him. He sensed that Geoff wasn’t given to talking much and he had his own timing, his own rhythm.

‘There were rumours,’ Geoff said. ‘There’d been one of those elections when voters just want change, and the council was finely balanced afterwards. One man could swing things. Occasionally, Armstrong voted against his party, pushed through measures that he might not otherwise be expected to support.’ The journalist allowed himself a dramatic pause. ‘The development of a big retail park on a green field site, for example.’

‘Rumours of corruption? Backhanders?’

‘Yeah. I never found any proof, though. And nobody would go on the record. So, it never went in the book. But I believed it.’

‘Did you ask Armstrong about the rumours?’

‘I tried to get him to talk to me. I emailed and contacted his office. In the end I gave up. Of course, he’d deny it and, as I say, I had no proof.’

Venn considered how this might be relevant to the current investigation. This could be Kinzalow throwing up a smokescreen, a distraction. Matthew could see how Armstrong might have been tempted to take cash in return for supporting the development. Not just because it took money to fund a good election campaign, and he’d have had ambitions to be an MP by then. But because he was obviously a man who loved the good things in life. It was clear that he still wasn’t prepared to live off his MP’s salary alone – there was the podcast, the magazine articles, the public speaking. Matthew couldn’t see, though, how this could have any bearing on Hannah’s murder. And if Kinzalow were right, wouldn’t Appleyard’s friends in Whitehall know about the rumours too?

Geoff was speaking again. ‘Elizabeth knew about my suspicions. If I was home, we always had dinner together and I remember discussing Armstrong’s case in front of the family. I didn’t know that Elizabeth was friends with Hannah Armstrong then, or I would have been more careful.’

‘You believe that Elizabeth told Hannah that her father might be a crook?’

‘No!’ Geoff was certain. ‘That would have been unkind. Elizabeth was gossipy and unreliable, but she was never unkind.’

‘But she might have told Lottie?’

The man nodded. ‘According to Karen, Lizzie and Lottie were best buddies. Never apart. Egging each other on. Hannah was a little quieter and more reserved, there on sufferance maybe.’

And as we’ve discovered, Matthew thought, Lottie wasn’t above a bit of blackmail. Rumours of corruption could ruin Armstrong’s career, and Lottie would have enjoyed having that power over him. Daniel had described Lottie as sad, but she was dangerous too. Even if there were no concrete proof of Armstrong’s corrupt behaviour, the girl wouldn’t have had Geoff Kinzalow’s scruples. She’d have been happy to distort rumour into fact, as she’d distorted the videos of the music festival. That would give Paul Armstrong a motive for killing Lottie Cauldwell. But surely, Matthew thought, he’d never have killed his own daughter? Besides, the idea was ridiculous, impossible. The Armstrongs were in a car on their way from London to North Devon when the girls were killed.

‘I’ve got nothing else to tell you.’ Kinzalow got to his feet, his eyes still on the riverbank. He seemed old and tired.

‘Thank you for your help.’ If it is help, and not a clever piece of misdirection.

‘Like I said, we got so angry, so fired up, because we felt guilty,’ Kinzalow said. ‘We should have kept our Lizzie safe.’ The dipper had flown off and the river was calm, drifting slowly towards the sea. ‘But the girls’ deaths haven’t made us feel any better. At least our daughter is still alive.’

‘You’ll be seeing her soon.’

‘Yes,’ Kinzalow said. ‘We’ll be seeing her soon.’

Matthew pulled away from the cottage. He’d shouted goodbye to Karen, who’d been standing in the doorway, waiting for the men to finish talking. He hadn’t wanted to sit in his car to process his thoughts. They’d think he was watching them, still suspicious, and his suspicions had faded now. The tea shop in the village was just opening for breakfast and coffee and he pulled in there, ordered a coffee to take away, and phoned Appleyard from the car. It was seven-thirty and he didn’t think the chief would be someone who’d sleep late.

The man answered almost immediately ‘Yes? What have you got for me?’ His voice hopeful.

‘I’ve spoken to the Kinzalows.’

‘Ah, you tracked them down.’

‘Karen came into the police station in Barnstaple, and I’ve just talked to the husband. We don’t have anything to hold them.’

‘You don’t think they’re involved?’ Appleyard was too professional to sound disappointed.

‘I’m not sure about the man. He’s angry enough to have done it. He blamed Lottie and Hannah for his daughter’s accident. He claimed he was in North Devon to find the truth, but he was already convinced that he knew what happened that night.’ A pause. ‘Who was to blame, at least. I don’t think the wife is involved. After all, with the girls’ murders, she’s lost the possibility of finding out exactly what happened the night that Elizabeth fell. I have no evidence to hold the man, though.’

‘So, we’ve lost our main suspects.’ Now, Appleyard did allow an edge of disappointment into his voice. ‘Unless you can come up with any evidence against Kinzalow in the next couple of days.’ Venn remembered the phone call from the Home Office civil servant. Appleyard would be under even greater pressure than him to get the case sorted.

‘The husband did pass on a piece of information that might be useful. He claims that when he was researching his book on the new generation of British politicians, he came across rumours that Armstrong took bribes from a developer when he was a city councillor.’ There was no immediate response and Venn added, ‘I wondered if your friends in the Home Office knew anything about that?’

Now, Appleyard did come up with an answer, which was diplomatic and discreet. ‘I suspect that even if such rumours had flagged up on their radar, they wouldn’t have considered them relevant to this particular investigation.’

‘Except that Elizabeth Kinzalow was aware of her father’s suspicions, and he thinks she might have gossiped to her friend Lottie Cauldwell. We’ve discovered that Lottie enjoyed a bit of blackmail. Small scale. Nothing to suggest Armstrong was her target. Interesting, nonetheless. We do know that Lottie was a pretty mixed-up kid, who enjoyed a little power.’

More than a little power.

‘Ah.’ The silence stretched. Venn checked his phone to make sure that he still had signal. ‘I suppose you’re not suggesting that Armstrong killed his own daughter to save his reputation. That would be somewhat’ – Appleyard searched for a word – ‘gothic. In a rather gothic case.’

‘No,’ Matthew said. ‘The Armstrongs couldn’t have had opportunity. They were travelling from London when the girls died. The satnav on their car proves it.’

‘Who are we left with?’

‘The Hoopers at the Fisherman’s Arms, the Brennans at Millscombe Farm. Daniel Miller is still in the mix, though I believed his explanation. I’ve asked one of our officers to check online stalkers of Lottie Cauldwell. You might get your people to do the same. She was the sort of woman who might attract obsessives and anyone who followed her on social media would know where to find her.’

‘So, you’re thinking someone random. Some screwed-up madman with an obsession or a grudge?’ Appleyard was sceptical.

‘Well, maybe someone so disturbed that he believed he had a real connection with the girl and would find it impossible to understand rejection.’

After all, Venn thought, there were those murderers. Psychotic men with violent fantasies. Mixed-up kids with delusions of fame. Venn wondered if they should have taken more notice of the group of rubberneckers who’d been hanging around Tide House with their phones and their cameras.

‘The press would, of course, love a random lunatic,’ Appleyard said. ‘Preferably one with an immigrant background.’

It was as close as he’d ever get to a political statement.

‘Of course,’ Venn said, ‘Vicki Robb has been checking seasonal casual workers with a record of violence or sexual assault. But by their nature, they’re not easy to track down. And there’s the usual gang of ghouls hanging round outside the house.’

‘Okay if I get my chaps on that too?’

‘We’d be delighted for any help you can give us.’ Venn paused. ‘Could you look too at Jim Hooper, the landlord of the Fisherman’s. No criminal record since he was a juvenile but he has a very short fuse and a definite antipathy towards the police. I wondered if your friends might know something which would explain the hostility.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ Appleyard said, ‘and get back to you as soon as possible.’

‘I’m taking some time off.’ Venn tried not to sound too apologetic. ‘An important family matter. I’ll have my phone with me, and I’ll be back on the ground by lunchtime tomorrow.’

‘Of course. You have a good team. None of us is indispensable.’

Venn finished his coffee and drove home through the early morning streets.

Chapter Thirty-Four

WHEN CATH WOKE, THE SUN WAS already pouring into the room. This glorious weather taunted her. Perhaps it was growing up in the North East with the wild grey sea and the sleet and the wind, but she’d always dreamed of hot places. As students, she and Paul had headed for Greece when they had any cash at all. They’d travel by bus and stay in small tavernas, surrounded by olive groves, and swim in warm water. For weeks, she’d been looking forward to getting away from a sweltering London, to sit by their pool at Tide House, relaxing. Her only anxiety had been that the weather would break. She had thought that nothing worse than that could happen to them, not after all this time and any scandal and rumour had faded. But now Hannah was dead, and their world was upended, and this was worse than anything she could have imagined.

Of course, Paul was awake and up, dressed in his gym clothes, on the phone. She wasn’t sure if he’d already been for a workout or if he was planning to go soon. He must have sensed her moving because he turned and blew her a kiss, apologetic and tender. Immediately afterwards, he walked onto the balcony and continued talking. Scraps of conversation floated into her.

‘Yes, I’ll definitely be in the office on Monday afternoon … Thanks, but we’re hoping to travel back soon. Either later on Sunday or first thing on Monday.’

So, she thought, it was all arranged. They were heading back to London. The boys would be pleased to be home. She supposed it was for the best. All the same, she felt that she was betraying her daughter. Leaving her behind.

She sat up in bed and pulled her laptop onto her knee. She didn’t have the contact details for the Brennans on her phone. They’d met a few times when she’d gone to the farm shop for meat, but there wasn’t any kind of friendship between them. She’d never been sure if Hannah’s relationship with Jake would last, if it was more than a holiday fling. Neither she nor Paul had taken it seriously. Perhaps they should have done.

She googled Millscombe Farm and clicked onto their website to find their contact details, groped for the mobile by her bed, and dialled the number before she had time to change her mind.

‘Hello!’ A woman’s voice. A familiar accent that gave her a jolt. ‘Tessa Brennan. How can I help you?’

‘This is Cath Armstrong.’

‘Oh Cath, my dear. How are you getting on?’ The voice was familiar and reassuring after the first shock. ‘I’m sorry. That’s a stupid question. What can we do to help?’

‘I wondered if I could come and see you,’ Cath said. ‘Not for any real reason. But we still can’t get into Tide House, and I suppose I wanted to see where Hannah was happy. Perhaps meet Jake again. Before we head home this weekend.’

‘Oh, of course, my love. You’d be very welcome.’

‘Would it be okay if I brought Alex, my eldest son?’ A pause. ‘We’re not sure we’ll be able to face Tide House again, even when we’re allowed in.’ She hadn’t discussed this with Paul, but she would put her foot down. How could they keep the house now? It had been a very special place, full of laughter, but all those memories had been spoiled, shredded. ‘We’ll probably put it on the market.’

‘We’d love to see you all. Why don’t you come for lunch?’

‘It’ll just be Alex and me.’ Cath wasn’t sure Paul would understand why she needed to visit the farm. He’d always been able to compartmentalize. He was back in work mode now. ‘Gilbert’s too little. He probably wouldn’t understand. I’ll leave him at home with my husband.’

Gilbert was independent and not at all needy. He’d not make any demands on Paul.

‘But I’d like Alex to see where Hannah spent her last days.’

‘We’ll look forward to seeing you. We’ll be here all day. Come whenever you like.’

Cath looked up from her mobile. Paul had finished his call and was looking at her. She wondered how much he’d heard. Perhaps she should have discussed selling Tide House with him before starting a rumour which would probably spread around the neighbourhood and become a certainty.

‘What was that about?’ His voice was kind now. He sat beside her on the bed and put his arm around her shoulder.

‘I’m going to take Alex to Millscombe Farm at lunchtime. I want to see Jake and his parents. They made Hannah very happy. It feels like a sort of connection …’

‘Of course,’ he said, as if he did understand.

‘Would you like to come?’

Paul shook his head immediately. ‘Gil and I will go back to the beach, have a disgusting burger and an enormous ice cream. The last day of treats before heading back to town.’ He laughed. Gilbert with his energy and fearlessness had always been Paul’s favourite son, though he’d never have admitted it.

‘Sounds brilliant,’ she said. ‘You’ll be making good memories too.’

There was a huge trail of traffic snaking its way down the hill into Torr. A sunny Saturday and the tourists were on the move. Cath was driving in the opposite direction, but still it took longer than she’d expected to arrive at the junction to the single-track road for Millscombe. Alex was quiet all the way – he’d always been the dreamy one – until he recognized the pub and the track towards Tide House.

‘Why can’t we go there, Mummy? Why can’t we go home?’ A strange cry of longing, for things to be back as they were.

‘The police are still working there, pet. We’re going to see Hannah’s friend Jake. He lives on the farm. Perhaps he’ll show us round.’

He didn’t answer. She could tell that a trip to the farm couldn’t compensate in any way for the familiarity of the house. His room. His stuff. She wondered now if she’d been wrong to believe that they should sell the place. Perhaps this whole visit was a mistake. Now, though, she was bouncing up the farm track, and it was too late to turn back, to make some excuse to the Brennans.

Tessa and Bob were waiting for them. They’d been watching for their arrival and came out to the yard to greet them. They were a little nervous, not sure what to say. Cath didn’t blame them. She’d always struggled to find the right tone around grief and bereavement. How much worse if the dead relative were the victim of violence.

In the end, she took the lead in the conversation. ‘Thanks so much for allowing us to come.’

‘Oh, my love, it’s a pleasure.’ Tessa Brennan was wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, an incongruous flowery apron over the top. Clogs on her feet.

If Hannah and Jake had hooked up, we’d be relatives of a kind. The boys would get to know this place, have a real experience of country living.

Cath felt the lack of that future as another personal loss. She found herself close to tears.

‘We thought Alex might like a barbecue.’ Tessa seemed to sense Cath’s emotion. ‘We’ve even found some marshmallows to toast. Not really the weather for it, but …’ Her voice tailed off as awkwardness took over again.

What a lovely woman she is, Cath thought. We could have been in-laws, good friends.

‘Jake is organizing it for us. I hope you’re hungry, Alex. We’re using one of the glamping pods. You can paddle in the river there, if you like. And there’s a hammock, and Jake’s hung a swing from one of the trees. It’s cooler, shadier at that end of the farm.’

‘That sounds amazing,’ Cath said. And really it did sound idyllic. Again, she thought that a brilliant future of countryside adventures for the boys had been ripped away from her. Even Alex seemed a little excited.

They walked across the meadow towards the line of eccentric buildings. Cath felt the need to break the silence with polite conversation.

You’re still playing the politician’s wife. Even now.

‘This must be where you held the music festival?’

Bob answered, with enthusiasm, relaxing for the first time. He talked about the bands, the response of the audience. Cath started to zone out. She’d done a lot of that as an MP’s wife too.

‘We’re thinking of making it a regular event,’ he said.

‘If that wouldn’t be insensitive,’ Tessa broke in quickly. ‘Obviously we wouldn’t do it on the same weekend.’

‘Not insensitive at all!’ Because, Cath thought, what else could she say? These people had to make a living.

They’d arrived at the line of glamping pods, the trees behind them, glimpses of sunlight on the river breaking through the shadow. It was an old-fashioned barbecue with charcoal, and wood and wisps of smoke. A grill placed on breeze blocks. At Tide House they had a fancy affair with propane gas, but this felt more fitting for the setting.

Alex seemed entranced. ‘It’s like Bilbo Baggins’ house!’ She’d been reading him The Hobbit as a bedtime story.

Jake looked up from the fire. ‘That was what we hoped for.’ He smiled. ‘I’m Jake. I was a friend of your sister’s.’ He seemed a bit wobbly, but he just about held it together. It seemed to Cath that this was harder for him, even than for her. If she was mourning a future that was no longer possible, how much worse must it be for him?

Alex looked directly at Jake. ‘Hannah told me she might marry you one day.’ Before he could see the effect of his words, the boy continued: ‘Is it okay if I go on the swing?’

The swing was a tyre, tied to a branch by a long piece of strong baler twine. He’d be able to push himself out, right over the river. Just in time, Cath stopped herself from telling him to be careful. She couldn’t spend the rest of his childhood passing on her anxiety, the strange superstition that something dreadful would happen to him too.

‘Of course,’ she said.

None of them referred to Alex’s comment about marriage. Jake had turned away for a moment. She thought that he might be crying.

There were five rickety chairs in the shade. Cath sat there with the Brennans, leaving Jake to take care of the fire. She thought she’d make time to talk to the young man, just the two of them, later, but now she was content to sit here, listening to birdsong, watching Alex become more and more adventurous. It felt as if she’d handed over all responsibility to the Brennans. She had no real decision to make.

She turned down the offer of wine or beer. ‘I have to drive back.’

‘You could stay!’ Tessa said. ‘There’s a room in the house, or you could camp out here. It’s all made up and ready.’

For a brief moment she was tempted. But Paul wanted to get back to London as soon as possible, and besides, he’d never had to look after either of the boys on his own overnight. So, she thanked Tessa and shook her head with a little laugh and said it wouldn’t be possible.

There was a fridge in the outdoor kitchen with lemonade and ginger ale. She took a can, without remembering what she’d chosen. Everything seemed like a dream.

When the food was ready, Jake joined them at the chairs, carrying plates of meat. Tessa laid out salads on a trestle table, and there was steak for the adults and sausages for Alex. Good bread. Cath called her son to eat, and he came a little reluctantly because he’d been having such a good time, but then he seemed ravenous. He’d been picking at the hotel food, but here, in the fresh air, he devoured everything put in front of him. Tessa and Bob looked on, pleased; it was clear to them that the lunch was going well. Their awkwardness seemed to have faded.

‘An American couple were staying in this pod.’ Bob’s words jolted Cath back to reality, to that hyper-vigilance that seemed to have been part of her life for so long. ‘The Kinzalows. They just up and left at the beginning of the week. I suppose they thought they were being tactful.’

Jake seemed to start at the Americans’ name too. Cath wondered if Hannah had talked to him about Elizabeth, and if so, what story had been told.

‘It would be a lovely place for a holiday,’ Cath said. Her tone bland. She could do this. She’d had a lot of practice.

‘Oh, my dear, you’d be very welcome any time. If you do decide to sell Tide House. As our guests of course.’ Tessa Brennan got to her feet and started clearing plates. Cath noticed that she was still wearing the flowery apron. It seemed such an unlikely garment for the farmer that she couldn’t help smiling.

Tessa invited Cath into the farmhouse for coffee.

‘I thought you might like to see it. Hannah spent a lot of time there.’

Cath could have spent all afternoon in the sun by the river, but she was curious too, to get a glimpse of these lives, and she knew that Paul could only cope with a child for so long. Soon, he’d need to get back into work mode, his eyes on a screen, his phone to his ear.

She walked back to the house with Jake. Tessa and Bob went ahead with Alex, telling him about the farm, each holding a hand and swinging him between them, treating him as if he was a much younger child, but making him laugh. The sound raised Cath’s spirits.

She was glad to have a few moments alone with Jake. ‘Thank you for making Hannah so happy,’ she said. ‘It’s good to know that she had someone to talk to, to confide in.’

‘I loved her.’ Jake stopped for a moment. ‘I would have asked her to marry me, you know. If I’d had the chance.’

She reached out and took his hand briefly, before quickening her pace to catch up with the others.

They sat at the kitchen table. The window was wide open, letting in a faint smell of cow and hay. Cath was feeling more relaxed than she had since Hannah’s death – she could imagine Hannah here in this big, cluttered room so different from the sleek kitchens in London and Tide House. Alex, though, was bored and restless. He wriggled away when she sat him on her lap. Cath was about to change her mind about the coffee and take the boy straight back to Torr, but Jake swept him away with a promise of computer games in his room or hide-and-seek in the barn.

Cath watched them go. ‘What a lovely boy! You must be so proud of him.’

Now they were properly alone, it seemed the Brennans had questions for her. They too were curious. She couldn’t resent their gentle probing. She’d be interested in the investigation too, if it weren’t so close to home.

‘Have the police got any closer to finding out who did it?’ Tessa was pouring coffee, her back to Cath. Perhaps that seemed less intrusive, less like an interrogation.

‘They don’t tell us much,’ Cath said, which was true enough. ‘There are lots of questions but not many answers.’

‘They seemed very interested in that American couple, the Kinzalows.’

‘Yes,’ Cath said. ‘They asked us about them too.’

She was relieved when Alex came rattling down the stairs, ready, it seemed, to go back to the hotel. They all walked out into the yard, and hugged, before she got the boy into the car to drive back to Torr.

As Cath approached the Fisherman’s Arms, she had to stop to let a vehicle into the pub car park. The garden was full of holidaymakers, their faces greasy with sun cream or pink with peeling skin. The car drove to the side of the pub, to a place of overspill parking, and she watched the driver get out and open the back door for a woman who looked very different from the drinkers in their shorts and skimpy skirts.

The woman wore a yellow and white cotton dress, pinched in at the waist, and she carried a yellow handbag over one arm. Cath couldn’t see her face, but the style and the car identified her at once. This was Elaine Cauldwell, and Cath could only believe that she was here to cause trouble. She waited until Elaine had walked into the pub and then she drove into the car park.

‘What are we doing here, Mummy?’ Her son’s voice was lazy, untroubled. His hours in the fresh air had made him sleepy.

‘We’re just popping into the Fisherman’s to see Mag, pet. To say goodbye before we go back to London.’

He didn’t answer. He had a comic on his knee, but his eyes were almost shut.

Chapter Thirty-Five

VENN ARRIVED HOME IN PLENTY OF time to set off for Cornwall. He could tell that Jonathan was grateful to see him. His husband, usually so chilled and relaxed, had been looking out for him from the kitchen window. Matthew had seen his face as he drove in, though the man moved away as soon as the car came into view, not wanting Matthew to notice his anxiety. Jonathan had already packed overnight bags for them both and Matthew almost fell over them when he opened the front door. Jonathan was there in the hall, fidgety and excited.

‘We could set off now and stop for lunch on the way.’

Matthew would have preferred to stay home a little longer, in case he was needed or something broke in the investigation, but he could tell that waiting would be torture for Jonathan. He wanted to feel that he was moving. He’d be happier once they’d arrived at the hotel they’d booked for their overnight stay. It was only a couple of miles from the village where he’d arranged to meet his mother. Matthew tried to remember that he wasn’t indispensable at work.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s go now and take our time.’

They took his car, and he drove. Braunton was clogged with traffic and the ring road round Barnstaple took longer than usual.

All the way, Matthew could sense Jonathan’s tension. The man fiddled with the radio to find music he liked, then turned it off altogether, so they sat for most of the journey in silence. Until today, Venn hadn’t realized quite how much this meeting would mean to him.

When they were out of the town, the traffic eased, but Matthew was still driving slowly. They took roads that were just inland from the coast, down lanes with high hedges, threaded with red fuchsia, bent by the prevailing westerly winds. They stopped for lunch in a pretty village, in an old-fashioned tea shop, where the waitresses wore lace aprons, and the sandwiches were cut into triangles with the crusts removed. Usually, Jonathan would have enjoyed it, mocking the kitsch design, devouring the scones and cream. Today, he ate quickly and insisted that they set off again at once.

They arrived too early at the smart, boutique hotel he’d chosen, before the check-in time, and that only added to his impatience. He was almost rude to the older woman at reception, and Matthew had never before known Jonathan to be rude to anyone.

‘There’s no rush at all,’ Matthew said. ‘We’re only five minutes from where you arranged to meet the woman.’

‘My mother!’ Jonathan snapped back. ‘Where I arranged to meet my mother.’

Matthew felt as if he’d been slapped. He didn’t recognize this man at all. He couldn’t work out the best way to deal with him. They’d walked out into the hotel garden, with its view down a narrow valley to the sea, while they were waiting for their room to be ready. Matthew was reminded of the combe below Tide House but tried to push the image from his mind. The garden was beautiful. They were walking down a path, between lavender hedges that hummed with insects and smelled of elderly women. Matthew’s grandmother had made lavender bags that lived in the tall chest of drawers in the room where he’d stayed occasionally as a small boy. He was lost in that memory, of prayers before bedtime and watery hot chocolate, when Jonathan stopped suddenly and held Matthew tight.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be such a dick.’ A pause. ‘I’m just so scared.’

Again, they left before they needed to meet Jonathan’s mother. He’d changed into a linen shirt and smart trousers, clothes he’d bought to wear to a fancy wedding before Matthew had known him. At the last minute he changed back into his habitual shorts and T-shirt.

‘She needs to see me as I really am, doesn’t she?’ A kind of plea. ‘I can’t pretend.’

‘Honestly, I don’t think she’ll care what you’re wearing.’ Matthew had been on the phone checking on news of the case while Jonathan was in the bathroom changing. There was nothing that could bring about any sort of breakthrough. No message from Appleyard yet on information about Jim Hooper, and Venn didn’t want to press him.

Jonathan’s mother was called Ellen. They’d agreed by email to meet her in a pub in Sentock, the village where she lived. It was a few miles inland, so not flooded with tourists, but attractive enough, built around a river. A brooding country pile stood on a hill looking down on the place. Once, Matthew thought, the big house, with its Georgian splendour, would have owned it all – the village and the surrounding farms. Now it would be invaded every weekend by National Trust members with a taste for history and a decent cafe.

In the village, there was a narrow stone bridge, a church, a couple of streets of grey stone houses, with a general store and a gift shop to pander to any visitors who might make their way in. On its edge, a little 1930s council estate, the homes now presumably all in private ownership. In the main street there were two pubs. One was rather grand, a clone of the Fisherman’s Arms in Millscombe. The other was small, shabby, with windows so dirty that they could hardly see inside, and peeling paint. This was where Jonathan’s mother had suggested that they meet. Matthew wondered if she worked there and hoped that she would find time to give her full attention to her son.

Again, they were far too early, and they took a footpath up the hill towards the big house, through an established beech wood. It seemed that the grounds surrounding the house were open to the public, and when they emerged into the open, there was a wide sweep of parkland running towards the building. Behind them, a view across the village and the estuary to the sea. Jonathan spoke in quick bursts and then had moments of silence. They sat on a bench looking down at the village, passed occasionally by dog-walkers.

‘Tell me about the Armstrong investigation,’ Jonathan said. ‘I need distracting.’

So, Matthew told him, ordering his thoughts as best he could, looking for a pattern that might make some sense. He thought that Jonathan was so preoccupied with the forthcoming meeting that he wasn’t even listening, but at one point the man interrupted.

‘You’re saying that Paul Armstrong’s corrupt?’

‘I’m saying that he was accused of corrupt dealings that might have taken place years ago.’

‘And Lottie Cauldwell was aware of the accusation?’

‘She might have been. It’s all pretty tenuous.’ Matthew paused for a moment. ‘Besides, Armstrong can’t be the killer. He was driving down the M5 with his wife and kids when the girls were murdered.’

‘Someone that powerful can always find someone else to do their dirty work.’

For a moment, Matthew thought his husband was joking – Jonathan had always despised conspiracy theories – but he seemed quite serious. The idea took root in Matthew’s brain and a few what ifs started growing from it. It was unimaginable that Armstrong would have arranged for his daughter to be murdered, but nobody knew that Hannah would turn up at Tide House early that morning. She could have disturbed the killer. Was it at all possible that Armstrong had arranged for a local contact to intimidate Lottie, even to stop her talking for ever? Because Matthew still thought that the murderer was a local. He couldn’t quite believe in Appleyard’s idea of an outsider.

There was something ruthless about Armstrong that didn’t make the notion entirely ridiculous. Matthew would have liked the time to concentrate, to discuss his ideas with his husband, but Jonathan looked at his watch.

‘Come on. It’s almost time.’ He jumped up and they walked in silence back through the wood, their feet crunching on the fallen beech nuts.

When they got back to the pub, the door was open, and music was spilling out into the street. Matthew stood on the pavement and looked in. They’d already decided that Jonathan would go to the meeting alone, but the man hesitated now. The place was exactly what Matthew had been expecting from the venue: a village bar for locals. Tables with dominos and cribbage, a dart board. It tied in with the image he’d created of Jonathan’s mother – one of the hapless hippies who drifted to Cornwall looking for casual jobs in hospitality, or one of the rural working poor. He imagined she’d either be behind the bar serving the regulars, or a regular herself, there for the company.

The music came from a shanty band, a small group perched on stools in one corner. The other drinkers joined in with the song’s chorus. The drinkers were loud and tuneless, but the band themselves were competent. There was an elderly man playing a guitar and a younger guy with an accordion. The female singer had long grey hair, clipped back with tortoiseshell slides. Her face was hardly lined, almost youthful. Although the room was gloomy, the open door let in a shaft of sunlight, and it caught her face. Matthew could tell at once that this was Ellen, Jonathan’s mother.

She had Jonathan’s startling blue eyes and there was something familiar in the shape of the face, the slightly crooked smile when she nodded to the drinkers to join in the chorus.

Jonathan took a deep breath. He must have recognized the likeness too, because he couldn’t stop staring at the singer. This woman looked very different from his adoptive parents, the couple who’d looked after him since he was a tiny baby. She looked much more like him.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Matthew said. ‘At the bench up the hill where we were sitting earlier.’

Jonathan nodded and stepped inside. Matthew stood for a moment, watching.

The woman had obviously been looking out for him. Any stranger would be noticed walking into the pub, but there was the same start of recognition on her face as on Jonathan’s. She finished the song and then whispered to the band members, before speaking to the room.

‘We’re going to take a break now,’ she said. ‘We’ll be back later for more tunes.’

The voice shocked Matthew. He’d thought that a woman who’d give her child up for adoption must be feckless or unhappy, without family to support her. When they’d walked into the pub, he’d revised his assumption about her, just because she was a shanty singer. She wouldn’t be an incomer, someone who’d drifted in, she must be Cornish, loyal to the place and its traditions, still based where she’d been born.

This woman’s voice was educated, though, clear and confident, without a trace of a Cornish accent. Once again, he thought, he’d jumped to judgement without sufficient evidence. He needed to keep an open mind.

He stood for a moment longer to catch the encounter between the two people. Jonathan was still standing not far from the door and Ellen pushed her way through the busy room to meet him. They stood, a little apart. Jonathan had his back to Matthew, but Matthew could see Ellen’s face – open and welcoming. She was entirely in control of herself and the situation. He wasn’t sure what he felt about having this woman in their lives. He’d prepared himself for someone who might need to be taken care of, not someone who seemed quite able to take care of herself and of her son. Despite the grey hair, she was younger than he’d been expecting, much younger certainly than his own mother. She wore green dungarees and Doc Marten boots and didn’t look at all ridiculous in them.

She led Jonathan to a small table in a corner. Matthew didn’t want to stand there, watching the exchange, watching the pair become closer. The worm of jealousy was growing, feeding the anxiety that he would be shut out, excluded, no longer needed. He remembered his mother’s words and haunted face and he hated himself for thinking that way.

He turned and walked away down the street, back through the woods to the bench with the view. From here, he’d be able to see Jonathan leaving the pub. He’d go down to meet him, and hold him, and offer him his support.

He took out his phone, glad to focus on something other than the conversation that was happening in the bar.

There were missed calls from Christopher Appleyard and Jen Rafferty. He called Appleyard first.

The Chief Constable picked up his phone immediately. It seemed he was outdoors. At some sort of family garden party perhaps. Venn could hear the summer sound of wood pigeons and far-off teenage voices.

‘I’m sorry to have missed your call, sir.’

‘You asked me to dig into the background on Jim Hooper.’

‘Anything?’

‘As you said, no criminal record since he was a boy.’ Appleyard broke off. It sounded as if one of the party was asking if he’d like a Pimms. ‘God, no, dreadful stuff. I’ll have a beer.’ Then he continued his conversation with Venn. ‘But he’s been on their radar for a while.’

‘Oh?’

‘He was a horrible youth. One of those unhappy kids who hate the world because they think they’re not getting what they’re entitled to. Bright enough, but he definitely had anger management problems. He got excluded from school for fighting other kids and abusing the teaching staff. Seems to have slipped out of the education system when he was about fourteen. He grew up in Plymouth with civilian dockyard parents who were embarrassed by him. These days he might be diagnosed with autism or ADHD, but then there was no real intervention. As he got older, he blamed the usual suspects for his unhappiness – immigrants, liberal lefties, any woman who wouldn’t sleep with him.’ A dramatic pause. ‘Then he discovered cooking. That was his salvation.’

Appleyard spoke the last sentence as one of Matthew’s mother’s friends would have described religious conversion. Venn was tempted for a moment to respond with Hallelujah but managed to hold his tongue.

Appleyard was still talking. ‘He went off to catering college, got an apprenticeship in some fancy fish restaurant on the Cornish coast, met his wife Marigold who lived in the same town, and apparently he’s been a good boy ever since.’

‘Apparently?’

‘Our chaps lost interest in him when he seemed to straighten himself out, but I asked them to dig around in his more recent online adventures.’

‘And?’ Matthew felt like a stooge in an old-fashioned comedy double act.

‘He’s mixing with some rather unpleasant online groups. He shares misinformation whenever he gets a chance, if it fits in with his world view. It seems that he’s pretty tech-savvy.’ Appleyard paused, and again Venn felt the need to prompt him.

‘What sort of groups?’

‘The sort that play at planning revolt and revolution. Any shooting or knife attack with even the rumour that an immigrant might be the perpetrator, and they think they can mobilize a militia force onto the streets.’

‘Dangerous,’ Venn said. He was wondering how this might be relevant. How many stabbings or shootings occurred in Devon or Cornwall? Then he decided that it must be relevant, because Hannah was the daughter of a liberal politician. They’d assumed that Hooper had disliked Lottie because of the way she’d disrespected him, but perhaps Hannah had been the real target of his anger.

‘Pathetic.’ Appleyard spat out the word.

‘Any reference to Armstrong in any of his postings? I wondered if he’d come across the rumours of corruption when he was a councillor in the North East and spread them around his groups. More ammunition for his antipathy.’

‘Nothing like that. But it makes it clear that Armstrong isn’t his favourite person.’

Matthew remembered the words the politician had used about the people who posted online bile against him: Ignorant, left-behind folk letting out their frustration on the wrong people. Hooper, with his fancy gastropub and his warm and friendly wife, had hardly been left behind. This felt more political. More radical. Perhaps Hooper enjoyed manipulating the left-behinds and it was the power that he enjoyed.

Venn was trying to reconcile these groups and their hateful posts with the locals Jim Hooper gathered around him in the Fisherman’s Arms to discuss politics. These were businesspeople who got together in winter to press for lower council rates and to get more locals voted onto the council – described by the elderly drinkers Ross had interviewed as suits. Perhaps Jim Hooper was living out his fantasies online while his real-life activism was very much tamer.

‘Anything on Marigold, the wife?’ Venn asked.

‘Nothing that would bring her to their notice. She has a different background. Parents both teachers. She went to university, then did a social work diploma. I’m not sure what she saw in Hooper. You’d think they’d have two very different world views.’

Perhaps, Venn thought, she was looking for someone to save. People with a saviour complex could be dangerous too.

‘I’m not entirely sure how much further forward this takes us,’ he said, ‘but it’s useful. Hooper had opportunity for the killings – his wife is his only alibi – but I’m not sure about motive. I need to think about it.’

Matthew’s mind returned to the conversation he’d been having with Jonathan. ‘Did you find out any more about the rumours of corruption surrounding Armstrong?’

‘According to my sources they were no more than that – rumours.’

Venn was about to finish the call, when he came up with another question. ‘There was no connection online between Hooper and Lottie Cauldwell?’

‘Not that I’ve been told.’ Appleyard paused. ‘I can’t see them as likely allies. Do you think that they might have been members of the same virtual groups?’

‘No,’ Venn said. ‘I didn’t mean that. It had occurred to me that he might have come across her online and become fixated by her.’

Then he wondered if after all, the two might have something in common. A kind of arrogance. A belief that the normal rules didn’t apply to them. A sense of entitlement. A need to feel important. Could she have been one of Hooper’s virtual supporters? The dispute about underage drinking could have been a charade. A game. It was clear now that Lottie had liked playing games. But if Hooper and Lottie had been cronies, members of the same tribe, that would give the landlord even less of a motive.

Now he did finish the call. A woman was being pulled past his bench by a large, grey dog that looked like a wolf. Matthew waited until they’d passed before calling Jen Rafferty. He’d been bitten by a dog when he was a kid and was still wary. Jonathan teased him about his anxiety around even the most well-behaved dogs.

‘Hello, Jen!’ He was expecting a routine update on the actions of the day, and hoped he sounded encouraging.

But Jen sounded flustered, almost panicky. ‘Oh, thank God you called back.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Paul Armstrong got in touch an hour ago. It seems that Alex, his eldest son, has gone missing.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Matthew considered sending Jonathan a text and leaving immediately. It wasn’t so far back to Barnstaple. They’d taken slow roads down, the pretty route, and he could get back much more quickly if he needed to. Jonathan could get a taxi back to the hotel and Matthew would collect him early the following morning. But, in the end, it seemed cowardly and rude to leave without saying goodbye. It would only take ten minutes to go into the pub and explain what had happened.

The place was busier now, packed with Saturday night drinkers, but he could see Jonathan and Ellen as soon as he entered. They were still sitting at the small table at the far side of the bar. Both had pint glasses in front of them. The band was setting up again. Perhaps the musicians planned to continue without Ellen, because she and Jonathan seemed deep in conversation.

Matthew made his way across the room, pushing his way through the crowd. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to go back to Barnstaple. Something important has turned up at work.’ He turned to the woman and held out his hand. ‘Please forgive me. I’m Jonathan’s husband.’

Now he was closer, he sensed there was something uncomfortable about the scene being played out in front of him. He’d thought the intensity was intimate, but now he wondered if the conversation was verging on an argument.

Jonathan stood too. ‘I’ll come with you. We can collect up our stuff from the hotel on the way.’ The tone was brisk, almost formal.

‘Oh no!’ Matthew said. ‘I can organize a car for you in the morning. Or pick you up myself.’

‘No need for that!’ Jonathan was already on his way to the door.

The woman looked out at them both. Cool. Unflustered, despite Jonathan’s insistence that he should leave. His lack of grace.

She gave that crooked, slightly ironic smile. ‘Of course. If you feel you should go, then you must.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.’

‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

Jonathan was on his feet but seemed reluctant to walk away now. Matthew wondered if he was going to change his mind and stay. ‘There’s a lot to think about.’

‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘You must take your time.’ She stood up and walked back to the band, taking her place once again on the stool. She gave a little wave as the couple walked out of the bar.

Chapter Thirty-Six

JEN RAFFERTY SAT IN THE HOOPERS’ flat at the Fisherman’s Arms. She’d tried phoning Venn as soon as she got the news about the child’s disappearance, but the call had gone to voicemail. He’d got back to her eventually and now she was waiting for him to arrive. She was still taking painkillers, but her arm hurt, her thoughts were blurred, and she definitely wasn’t as sharp as she should be. She’d persuaded Paul Armstrong to stay in Torr with his youngest child, but Cath had refused to leave Millscombe and was sitting beside her.

Jim Hooper was out looking for Alex, with other volunteers – an informal search party of locals who’d been in the bar when the news of the disappearance had come in. They’d already set off by the time Jen arrived, and anyway, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to stop them tramping over the combe, destroying any possible evidence, even if she’d got there in time. Mag was holding the fort in the pub.

‘I only left him for a minute.’ Cath had been repeating the same mantra since Jen turned up. She couldn’t imagine what the woman was going through. To lose a child so close to where her daughter had died must be horrifying.

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ she said. ‘Slowly, from the beginning.’

Jen had been trying to get a coherent story from the woman since she’d arrived, but Cath had been hysterical, incoherent and it had been impossible to pull together the full narrative.

‘We’d been at the farm.’ Cath had stopped shaking at least. ‘I wanted to see the place because Hannah had raved about it and had been so happy there. I always thought it was a city girl’s romantic notion of the countryside, but Alex and I had a great afternoon. Jake did a barbecue and the Brennans were kind, you know. They’d have made lovely in-laws. I could see why Hannah had liked the whole family.’

‘I suppose it was very different from being the daughter of a politician,’ Jen said.

Now that Alex had disappeared too, Hannah being related to a minister became more important, she thought. They had to think again about motive. Perhaps the killer was someone strange and radicalized with an obsession with Armstrong. Jen couldn’t think of an occasion when an MP’s family had been targeted, but there had been hate attacks against politicians themselves. People on all sides of the political spectrum had died.

Cath was still talking. ‘Alex had a great afternoon. When we went inside for coffee, Jake took him to play, so I could chat in peace to Tessa and Bob. For a moment, I think, he almost forgot about Hannah’s death.’

‘Then you started driving back home?’ This was the part of the story that Jen had found confusing.

‘Yes, but when I came to the end of the farm track, where it joins the lane, I saw a vehicle pull into the pub car park. I recognized Elaine Cauldwell as she got out. She’d been in the back seat.’

‘Are you sure it was Elaine?’ Jen kept the question gentle. The last thing she needed was for Cath to feel undermined. Not believed. Jen knew how that felt. ‘As far as we know she left North Devon on Thursday.’

‘We know she left the Victoria Hotel in Torr.’ Cath’s voice was sharp. ‘And that she didn’t want to answer any more of your questions. But she could have been anywhere.’

That at least was true. After their last conversation with her, they’d been treating Elaine as a bereaved mother. Not any sort of suspect. There’d been no surveillance. Nobody had checked that she’d arrived back in London.

‘She was going into the Fisherman’s Arms?’

‘I didn’t see her go in, because I had to find a parking space, but where else would she have gone?’ How many times do I have to tell you? The implication was clear.

This was the part Jen was struggling to understand, because by the time she’d got there, Elaine Cauldwell had disappeared. If the woman had been there at all and her presence wasn’t a figment of poor Cath’s imagination. When Jen had asked Jim and Mag about Lottie’s mother, they’d just looked bewildered, and why would they lie?

‘It had been so busy over lunchtime,’ Mag had said, ‘Jim cooking, and me in the restaurant, that later in the afternoon we needed to catch our breath. The bar was still rammed, but that might have been the time we took our break. We just went up to the flat for a cuppa.’

‘You have to find her,’ Cath said now. ‘She might have Alex. You do see.’ Now, the woman was almost hysterical again. ‘She was with her driver. Steve. In that swanky car with the tinted windows. She’d been at our house a few times when she was dropping off Lottie and Alex saw her at the hotel. He might have gone with her, if she told him some story.’

‘We’re trying to track down the driver,’ Jen said. ‘Checking CCTV.’

Cath seemed not to hear.

‘Why might she take Alex?’ Jen tried not to sound judgy, but really, she thought, Cath was losing her shit altogether now.

‘She might blame us for Lottie’s death.’ Cath was almost screaming. ‘She might be paying us back.’

‘You lost your daughter too,’ Jen said. ‘How could she possibly think that you were to blame?’

But Cath was weeping into a tattered paper handkerchief, and snot and tears were running down her face.

‘Tell me what happened after you saw Elaine.’ Jen made sure her voice was calm, not a hint of impatience. ‘You got out to speak to her, leaving Alex in the back of your car?’

‘Yes, he was strapped in the child seat.’ Answering questions of fact seemed to calm Cath. ‘He was almost asleep – all that fresh air had tired him out and I didn’t want to disturb him.’

‘Did you lock the car door?’

‘No. I thought I’d speak to Elaine very briefly, standing on the edge of the garden, close to the combe and the path down to the beach. There, Alex would have been in my sight all the time. I just wanted to understand why she was there. It seemed so odd. Did she know anything? Did she think that Jim and Mag were involved in some way?’

‘But she didn’t wait for you to speak to her?’

‘No. I’m not even sure that she saw me. By the time I’d found a parking space, she’d disappeared. I looked back at Alex. He’d woken up a bit and was reading a comic that I’d bought for him in Torr. I gave him a little wave and went into the Fisherman’s. It was full. A bunch of rowers, I think, on their way back from some regatta in Cornwall. A couple of bar staff I didn’t recognize. No sign of Mag or Jim. It was early evening then. Five-ish. A quiet time for the restaurant if not for the bar. I couldn’t understand where Elaine might be. I tried the ladies’ loo, but she wasn’t there.’ The words were gushing from Cath’s mouth now, so fast that Jen had to concentrate to make out what was being said.

She raised her hand to stop the flow for a moment. ‘When did you realize that Alex was missing?’

‘I went outside in case Elaine had gone back to her car. I thought the driver might know where she was, even if she wasn’t there. I looked across towards my car to wave at Alex again, but a big SUV had parked between it and the pub, so I couldn’t see it. I should have checked of course. I’d told Alex that I’d only be a couple of minutes. But I was focused on Elaine then, and where she might be. It took me a little while to realize that her car had disappeared. It just seemed very odd. If Steve had dropped her off, where was she?’ A pause. ‘I decided I’d just get back to our hotel in Torr. In the end, what did it matter what Elaine was playing at? If anything had happened with the investigation, Paul would know.’

‘And when you got back to your car,’ Jen said, ‘Alex had gone.’

‘Yes! I didn’t panic at first. I thought he’d got bored, climbed out of the car and followed me into the pub. And I hadn’t seen him because of the crowd of drinkers. Then I thought perhaps he’d wanted a wee. I asked one of the guys to check the gents’. But he wasn’t anywhere!’ She was crying again. ‘He wasn’t anywhere.’ She turned to Jen. ‘There were so many people drinking outside. Surely someone saw what happened?’

‘Of course,’ Jen said, ‘we’re asking.’ But by the time she’d arrived from Barnstaple, the drinkers Cath described had moved on. The rowers were no longer in the bar. A different set of families was sitting in the garden with their chilled white wine and their European lager. Their Cokes and their packets of crisps. Besides, according to Cath, Elaine’s driver had parked by the side of the pub, and it was quieter there. Now, the shadows were lengthening. Soon it would be dark.

‘The SUV that parked in the way,’ Jen said. ‘Can you describe it?’

‘Not really. Big and black. Why? Do you think Alex was taken in that?’

‘I’m just looking at all the possibilities.’ Jen tried to keep her voice calm and slow. ‘I don’t suppose you noticed a sticker for a rental company in the back window?’

Cath shook her head, bewildered, it seemed, by the questions.

‘Alex could have gone down to Tide House,’ she said. Her voice was loud and sharp and cut through Jen’s thoughts. ‘He wanted to go there when we drove past on our way to the farm. It’s a second home for him. Familiar. He’d left stuff in his room. He could have tried to get in.’

‘We’ve already looked there,’ Jen said. ‘There’s been an officer on site since the girls died. He didn’t see anyone go into the house, but he checked all the same. Alex isn’t there. We’ll spread out our search.’ But even though this was a minister’s son, and they’d been promised extra resources, and the Home Office was piling on the pressure, they couldn’t conjure manpower out of thin air.

‘I need to look! You don’t know all his hiding places!’ Cath was on her feet and was running across the room, when the door opened, and Venn was standing there, solid and calm. Jen, who’d felt her panic building throughout the confused conversation with the woman, was aware of the tension draining from her body.

Cath had been moving so fast that she collided with Venn. She tried to push past him, but very tenderly he took her into his arms and led her back into the room.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘What a dreadful time you’re having! I’ve asked Mag to come and keep you company here, and Jen and I will go outside and make sure that we find your son.’

Jen turned and saw that Mag was already there, in the doorway. Venn handed Cath into her care, before leaving the room and making for the outside stone steps into the garden. Jen scrambled to her feet and followed, out of balance because of the sling on her arm, worried at one point that she might trip and fall.

They sat in Venn’s car to talk. A search team had been brought in, and were standing in a huddle in the car park, preparing to start.

‘Where’s Ross?’ Venn asked.

‘I sent him to the farm in case Alex went back there. According to Cath, he had a brilliant time there this afternoon. They’re searching all the barns and outhouses. It’s a long way for a kid of that age to walk, and I can’t imagine him setting off without asking his mum first, but honestly, I can’t think of anywhere else he might be.’

‘Worth checking, though.’

‘Cath thinks the boy might have gone down to Tide House. Maybe to get a toy or a game from his old room, but that’s been thoroughly checked out.’ Jen paused, suddenly remembering something important. Her brain, she thought, had turned to mush. ‘Daniel Miller’s back at work. He’s holding the fort in the bar while the rest of the staff are looking for the boy.’

‘Is he? The Hoopers relented then and took him back?’

‘I guess.’

‘Interesting.’ It was hard to know what Venn thought about the information, if he believed it was of any significance at all. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.

So, Jen retold the story. ‘Cath’s in bits, though. I’m not sure how reliable she is.’

‘Do you really think she saw Elaine Cauldwell?’

‘I don’t think she could mistake the woman for anyone else. She had all the detail. The driver. The car. She even described the dress Cauldwell was wearing. And why would she make it up?’

‘Why indeed?’ Venn sat for a moment apparently deep in thought. ‘I had an interesting call from Appleyard earlier this evening. Jim Hooper has something of a history.’ Jen listened while he described the social media posts. ‘Apparently, he has quite a following among the crazy dispossessed.’

Jen was going to call Venn out on the term crazy: Is that a bit of a chip on the shoulder you have there, sir? But she realized in time that he wouldn’t find it funny. Not with a child missing.

‘You think Elaine Cauldwell might share some of Hooper’s views?’

‘It hadn’t occurred to me,’ Venn said. ‘It seems a little far-fetched. I suppose it’s possible.’

‘I don’t know.’ Jen was sceptical. ‘Are we considering that our killer might have political motives after all? That Lottie was collateral damage?’

‘I’ve been considering scenarios,’ Venn said. He was silent for a moment. She could tell that he was ordering his thoughts, but she willed him to hurry. Time was passing. How could they find the boy, even if he’d wandered down the combe, tripped and twisted a leg, broken an arm, if it was dark?

‘There might have been a kidnap attempt on Hannah,’ he said at last. ‘Or perhaps some sort of confrontation that was less serious. Honestly, I don’t think Jim Hooper or any of his associates would plan to kill her or cause her real harm. They don’t have a history of direct action. It seems more like a fantasy, a game. A performance to replay online to impress his followers. But perhaps Lottie came across any encounter between Hooper and Hannah on the path outside Tide House. Some sort of argument and Lottie threatened to expose him. We know from the post-mortem that her death could have been accidental. A push that smashed her head on the side of the pool. And if Hannah was a witness …’

‘And now they’ve taken Alex?’ Jen was struggling to believe any of this. It was too far-fetched. Like a very bad thriller. ‘And they’re out there, covering their tracks, pretending to look for him?’

‘At the very beginning of the investigation, you did talk about some stranger lunatic. It could be someone on the fringe of Hooper’s group. Someone we haven’t even met yet. All along, we’ve been looking for a personal motive, not a political one.’

‘What do we do then? Just wait for a ransom demand?’

‘If this is a political abduction, I suspect the demand won’t be for money, but for some kind of gesture. Armstrong is a minister in the Department of Health. Maybe our abductor has a grievance. But that’s all speculation.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘We carry on searching. And hope that the boy wasn’t taken by someone with a vehicle. I suppose this place has CCTV?’

‘Yeah, Vicki’s on it. Cath described a big SUV parking between her car and the pub entrance. I wondered if it could be the Kinzalows’ rental. I asked her to check.’ Jen thought for a moment. ‘Jim Hooper’s leading the search party down the valley. Should we pull him back? Bring him in for interview?’

Venn shook his head. ‘Let’s not show our hand. We’ve no evidence. And he knows this place. If he’s not involved, he might be our best chance of finding the child.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

MATTHEW VENN TRIED TO FIGHT THE helplessness that had descended since he’d heard that Alex Armstrong was missing. Helplessness and guilt. And a sneaking resentment towards Jonathan. If Jonathan hadn’t insisted that Matthew should be with him for his first meeting with his mother, Matthew would have been here, able to take charge as soon as news of the boy’s disappearance had come through. He knew that he’d have done nothing differently from Jen, but that hadn’t stopped him blaming his husband in a strange, illogical way.

It hadn’t helped that Jonathan had refused to discuss Ellen on the journey back. Matthew had driven fast, towards the limit of safety, while Jonathan had sat, brooding and silent. When Matthew had asked what had happened to make him miserable, Jonathan just said nothing had gone wrong, but he didn’t want to talk about it, so Venn had just focused on getting back as quickly as possible. Fuming a little too.

Now, Jen had gone back to the Hoopers’ flat to be with Cath and Venn made his way to the bar. Most of the drinkers had been persuaded to leave before closing time, but Daniel was still there, clearing up, and Matthew saw the two elderly drinkers, the former farm labourers Ross had interviewed at home. They were the last customers left, an inch of beer still in each glass to give them an excuse to stay and watch. Venn was going to speak to them, then thought Ross should be the person to do it. The DC would get more out of them. Besides, Venn was restless. He’d spent too long driving, too long sitting, too long waiting.

He got on the phone. Ross answered straight away. ‘Nothing here at the farm. I’ve been with the Brennans. They haven’t seen the boy, and we’ve searched all the possible hiding places, the barn and the outhouses.’

‘If you’ve finished, can you get back to the pub. Ask your old drinking mates what they know about Hooper. And if they’ve seen any strangers hanging about the place. Not just recently, but over the past few months.’

Then he set off towards Tide House. There was still just enough daylight to see. The sky was cloudless, faded pink and grey at the horizon. The holiday home was lit by security lights and the fairy lights around the empty pool must have come on automatically at dusk. In any other circumstances, it would have been idyllic. Exactly a week ago, the girls had been swimming here at midnight. Daniel had watched them, entranced. And the Kinzalows had watched them too, had driven halfway down the track in their SUV in the hope of finding out what had happened to Elizabeth. This was where it had all started.

The uniformed officer standing guard at the entrance must have recognized Venn because he came across and nodded.

‘We’ve been over the house and no sign at all of the kiddie. Besides, we had to unlock it, and the alarm was set. Nobody could get in.’

‘You didn’t notice anyone earlier? Maybe in the combe?’

‘I thought I heard someone earlier, but that was before the boy went missing. Some days, it’s like Picadilly Circus round here despite the cordon. We’ve had press coming through the trees from the Fisherman’s car park with their long lenses and ghouls who think they can solve the case just by walking all over our crime scene.’

‘We’ve kept someone at the old mill where Hannah was found?’

The man nodded. ‘The crime scene tent is still there, and we have a PC manning it twenty-four/seven. A drain on manpower, though. Especially at a time like this.’

‘The local search team is still in the combe?’

‘If that’s what you can call them. Bloody pointless. And they’re getting in the way of the professionals now. They’d scare a child shitless with their shouts and their dogs. And if someone is hiding out with the kid, he’d hear them crashing through the undergrowth a mile off. You’d think they deliberately wanted to warn the bastard.’ A pause. ‘That’s the trouble with civilians. But Jim Hooper started them looking before any of us got here.’

‘Can you call them off now? Thank them and get them back to base? As you say, they’re doing more harm than good.’ If the boy was alone in the woods, the searchers would be terrifying. Venn couldn’t quite believe in a kidnapper. If this was a crime, it was opportunistic. Cath hadn’t planned to follow Elaine Cauldwell into the car park. Nobody would have known in advance that Alex would be left in the car alone. And Venn still wasn’t sure that Cath hadn’t dreamed Elaine, conjured her up in a fevered, grief-stricken imagining. She might have seen another well-dressed woman stepping out of a grand car.

‘Sure.’ The officer seemed relieved.

Venn walked on, taking the path that Cath Armstrong had followed that first day, when she was looking for her daughter. When she’d still believed that Hannah might be alive. This was ridiculous of course because Hooper and his people would already have searched here. But Venn continued walking just the same. He needed the exercise and the time alone to think.

In the distance, through the shadowy trees, he heard voices. People shouting that the volunteers’ search was over until first light tomorrow. The sound of boots walking away from him. He stood for a moment, waiting for silence. Listening. For a child crying. For quiet movement. There was nothing, except far away a tawny owl calling. A little later, vehicles rumbling away. The locals would be heading home to share the excitement of the night with their loved ones.

It was completely dark by the time he approached the shore. Perhaps he should have been more prepared and brought a torch, but his eyes were quite used to the shade now and there was a moon. The Lundy lighthouses were flashing to their familiar beat in the distance, and there were other lights – buoys and small boats – in the bay. Life continuing. He felt the beach under his feet and stood to listen again.

This time there was a noise. Someone was crying. Matthew walked slowly and quietly over the soft sand, stopping after every couple of steps to pinpoint the sound. He didn’t want to frighten away the weeper. In the dark, it would be easy for a small boy to fall and to hurt himself. It occurred to him that Alex might have arrived here just as the tide was coming in. He could have been exploring the rockpools on the edge of the cove and become trapped when the water reached its height. If the tide was full when the searchers came to the beach, they wouldn’t have known he was there. The water had receded now, and Matthew crossed the wet sand and made his way towards the sound.

There was sufficient moonlight to make out a figure, no more than a shadow, sitting on one of the rocks. But this wasn’t a child. Matthew’s shoes were making sucking sounds as he pulled them out of the sand, and at last his approach was noticed.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ The voice at once frightened and imperious. He thought of Daniel’s description of this woman’s daughter. Dangerous and sad.

Suddenly, Matthew was blinded. The woman was using the torch on her phone and shining it straight into his eyes.

‘Elaine,’ he said. ‘It’s Matthew Venn. Shall we go back? We need to talk.’

There was a moment of silence before she answered, and then her voice was needy, almost pleading. ‘Can we go into Tide House? I wanted to see where Lottie died. But I couldn’t get in.’

Matthew had to help her up the steep path from the cove. She wasn’t dressed for the scramble. She’d put a light wrap over the dress and it kept slipping from her shoulders. Her shoes were suitable for a business meeting in town.

‘I can’t take you into the house, but we can sit on the terrace and see where we found Lottie’s body. Would that help?’

‘Yes.’ A pause while she caught her breath. ‘Thank you.’

When they emerged into the light, Matthew sat her in one of the white wicker chairs on the terrace and told the officer on duty what they were doing.

‘Can you get word to Jen Rafferty that I’ve found Elaine Cauldwell, but there’s no sign of the boy?’

He could see Elaine from where he was standing. He watched her light a cigarette, and pull the wrap closer around her, although it was still warm. She hardly seemed to notice when he sat beside her. She was staring over the pool.

‘She drowned in there?’ she said at last.

‘Yes. That was where the Armstrongs found her. They pulled her out, hoping they might save her. We had to drain it, looking for evidence.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘You didn’t go back to London on Thursday?’

She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t stand that hotel in Torr. It was like going back to the fifties. Crap facilities. Dreadful food. The only room they had for me was a gloomy single the shape of a coffin. And I had to see the Armstrongs treated like visiting royalty. But I didn’t want to leave North Devon. Just because I wasn’t a nervous wreck like Cath, it didn’t mean I could just go home and forget about Lottie. Start work again as if nothing had happened.’

Matthew thought that Elaine had probably been a nervous wreck too. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been drinking gin for breakfast.

Elaine was still talking. ‘Lottie was all I had. Nobody seems to realize that. The Armstrongs have other children. They have each other. My husband, the love of my life, left me for a mousy little woman with no style or substance. Now I’m entirely alone.’

Matthew was starting to think that the tears on the beach had been about self-pity, not grief, but that seemed like a judgement he had no right to make. Besides, wasn’t most grief more about the effect of loss on the people left behind?

‘Where did you stay?’

‘One of my clients has an Airbnb in Braunton. I stayed there. It was comfortable enough and at least I had my own space. Steve put up in a guest house somewhere.’ She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I knew I couldn’t be here for ever. I do have work commitments. My business. We’re going to drive back tomorrow so I can be in the office on Monday morning. But I wanted to see this place before I left. You do understand?’

‘If you’d asked,’ Venn said, ‘we would have arranged it.’

‘Would you?’ She seemed surprised by the idea, then she smiled. ‘Yes. I think you would.’

She turned so she could look at the house with its curved white lines and its glass.

‘What a beautiful place!’

This time Matthew didn’t answer. He thought the woman might want to speak and he was in no hurry. He was a patient man.

‘I always thought they might invite me to one of their weekend parties,’ Elaine said. ‘They should have done. After all, they owed us.’

He waited again, but this time she seemed lost in thought.

‘Why did the Armstrongs owe you?’

She leaned back in her seat and didn’t answer directly. ‘God, I could do with a drink.’

‘Why did they owe you?’ Matthew repeated.

‘Because we saved their reputation. Probably saved their daughter from prosecution.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Elizabeth Kinzalow.’

‘You know about that?’ She’d been languid, reflective, but now she sat upright, and her voice was sharp.

‘Most of it.’

‘They blamed Lottie of course. They always blamed Lottie. But Elizabeth was wilder than she was. Just not so clever.’

‘What happened that night?’ It made it sound like mild curiosity, but he needed to know. That incident had started it all.

‘The girls were so bored. It took Lottie to bring a bit of excitement to their lives.’

Matthew thought about that. He’d never really needed excitement.

‘They’d formed a club,’ he said. ‘A tribe.’

These girls had more going on in their lives than he could ever have imagined as a child – Lottie had grown up in a world of theatre and film, Hannah surrounded by politicians with power and influence, Elizabeth with parents who understood journalism and literature. None of that sounded boring. But again, he thought, he shouldn’t judge. He, after all, had been the centre of his parents’ world. In the end, he couldn’t share their beliefs, but he’d known that they loved him.

‘They’re so intense at that age,’ Elaine said. ‘So self-absorbed.’

Pots and kettles, he thought, then regretted the notion and pushed it away.

‘They met up in that shed next to the railway embankment,’ Venn said.

‘I could never understand that! They could have gone anywhere. There are cafes, clubs even if they wanted to risk being underage drinkers. But a cold little ruin. It was like camping out.’

‘They were drinking?’

‘Oh.’ Elaine waved her arm in the air. ‘Weren’t we all drinking at that age?’

Matthew didn’t answer.

‘Elizabeth was reckless. She dared the others to jump down the embankment. It wasn’t so high, you know. Lottie took me to see it. Lottie was too sensible, and Hannah didn’t have the nerve, so Elizabeth said she’d do it. I think she was bluffing, messing around. She stood on the edge looking down. Then Hannah decided she needed to save her. Those Armstrongs have always seen themselves as saviours. She tried to pull Lizzie back, but they were closer to the edge than they thought, and, in the struggle, Lizzie fell. If she’d prepared properly for the jump, she’d probably have been fine, but she had her back to the edge. Hannah was the person who caused the accident. It was her fault that Lizzie had brain damage. Lottie has covered up for her all this time.’

‘Did the Armstrongs know that Hannah was responsible?’

Elaine shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell them. Not in so many words.’

‘After all,’ Venn said, ‘there was no real proof. Why would they believe you?’

‘Hannah was grateful, though. She knew Lottie was a real friend after that. She was never going to walk away from my daughter.’

‘Even though Hannah had met Jake? Even though Lottie had been rude online about his parents’ festival?’ He hesitated. ‘You do know that the girls fell out about that? Hannah had asked Lottie to leave early.’

Elaine shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. It must just have been a schoolgirls’ tiff.’ There was a pause, then a kind of confession. ‘I never had many real friends. Business colleagues. Kitty in the office. I was so glad that there were girls Lottie was close to. That she had real friends.’

‘Alex Armstrong went missing this afternoon,’ Venn said. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Hannah’s brother? No.’ She didn’t ask about the boy’s welfare.

‘Where were you dropped off?’

‘In the pub car park,’ she said.

‘That’s where he disappeared from, at around the time that you arrived.’

‘I didn’t see him!’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you. It was a whim. I wanted to see Tide House before I go back to London. Then it was all cordoned off, so I made my way down to the beach. Lottie could have been here, couldn’t she? Then I got trapped by the tide. I knew I wasn’t in danger, but I was quite alone.’ A pause. ‘It seemed like a kind of metaphor. That was how my life would be from now on.’

So, that was why you were weeping.

‘What will you do now?’

‘I’ll phone Steve and ask him to bring the car to pick me up. I’ll collect my things from Braunton, and we can head straight back to London. I’ll get back to work.’

‘Kitty will be pleased to see you.’

The thought seemed to cheer her. ‘Yes, I expect she will.’ She got to her feet. She was already texting the driver. ‘He’s only down the lane. He’ll be at the Fisherman’s before I walk back there.’ Matthew stood too. This was fascinating but he was no closer to finding the boy.

At the cordon, she turned to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This has helped. Really.’

Then she flitted away. In the distance, Matthew saw the headlights of the smart car approaching. He had a sudden idea and ran after her. He needed to speak to the driver to confirm her story, but he had other questions too. They walked together towards the car. After all, perhaps she had given him an idea about where the boy might be.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

THE THREE DETECTIVES MET IN THE pub. It was late on Saturday, gone eleven, and all the drinkers had left. Cath was still in the flat with Mag Hooper and Jim was backstage somewhere. He’d returned from the search and gone straight into work mode. He said he had baked goods to prepare for the following day’s service, but when Venn glimpsed through the door that led behind the bar, he saw the landlord not in the kitchen, but in a tiny office, sitting in front of a laptop. Perhaps he was dealing with admin. Perhaps he was communicating with his weird and damaged friends. Perhaps he was describing the search for the politician’s son, making himself out to be a hero.

Venn was planning. He couldn’t rush this, but his thoughts were racing and different scenarios dropped in and out of his mind, tangled and confusing. He needed information. He needed to be sure.

Venn was running through all the possibilities. This could be something simple, not serious at all. But it had been hours now and even inexperienced searchers like Jim’s team of locals would surely have come across the child?

‘Do we know where Daniel is? Do we know when he left the pub?’

‘I’ve just tried his mobile,’ Jen said. ‘It went straight to voicemail. He left at normal closing time, once he’d got rid of the last drinkers. He came up to the flat and asked Mag if it was okay. I didn’t think there was any reason to stop him.’ Now, she sounded anxious, worried that she’d cocked up by not keeping Daniel on site.

‘Could you get hold of his parents?’

‘They’re not answering either.’

Venn thought then that he should have asked Appleyard to check out Daniel’s parents, the ambitious Londoners who’d escaped to the coast. It was easy to be taken in by respectable people. Police officers did it all the time. He thought he’d made too many mistakes during this investigation. He’d made snap judgements and trusted his instincts too often. He wondered if Daniel’s parents might be described as ‘suits’ then thought that they represented everything Jim Hooper despised, so were hardly likely to have been invited to his winter gatherings.

Venn turned to Ross. ‘So, there was no sign of the boy at the farm?’

‘Nothing, and the Brennans were there all afternoon.’

‘How did you get on chatting to your old guys, the regular drinkers? Did you get back before they left?’

‘Billy and Joe. Oh yes, they’d still be here if Daniel hadn’t sent them on their way.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘Not really.’ Ross shrugged. ‘They said the pub was really busy late afternoon. A minibus full of gig racers celebrating after a competition in Cornwall. They didn’t see the boy in the bar, but then they might not have done. A bunch of tall rowers and you’d easily miss a small child.’

‘Your men were sitting in the window. Did they see Cath Armstrong leave her car?’

‘They say not. Billy’s as blind as a bat and they’re wrapped up in their gossip. Nothing unusual, they said. Everyone going about their business just as normal.’

Venn wondered what that meant. ‘Do you think they’ll still be awake?’

‘Yeah, they were here until they got chucked out and they’ve got a bit of a way to stagger back.’

‘Can you give Joe the drinker a ring and ask him this question?’

Ross listened, nodded, and went to the end of the bar to make the call.

Venn turned to Jen. ‘Has Vicki checked out the Fisherman’s CCTV?’

‘Yes. No sign of the boy. You can see Cath’s car pull in, then the camera view’s blocked by an SUV, which follows her.’

Venn looked up sharply. Now, he was riddled with uncertainty. That did sound very like the Kinzalows’ hire vehicle. Perhaps he’d been wrong about them too. Perhaps, like Elaine, they’d decided to stay in North Devon. If Elaine’s story about Elizabeth’s accident was true, and if the girl had been able to tell them what had really happened, Hannah could have been their target. It was possible that they wanted the Armstrongs to suffer as they had done, and taking the boy was certainly making the family suffer. ‘Can we see the number plate?’

‘Nah, apparently the angle’s all wrong. Not possible to see if there’s the rental sticker either.’

‘Does anyone get out?’

‘If they do, it’s not caught on the camera. But you can’t see the driver’s door, so someone could have left the vehicle. It was so busy then that they could have been hidden by the crowd in the garden before heading for the pub.’

‘Or gone towards Cath’s vehicle, still masked by the SUV?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’ Jen understood the implication of the question and looked up, startled. ‘Want me to get Vicki to check CCTV on the roads into Barnstaple? See if the Kinzalows stayed local after all?’

Venn thought again that he could have made a terrible mistake. He nodded.

Ross came back. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was just as you thought.’

Venn relaxed, suddenly certain. He explained his idea to his colleagues, the words coming easily, then he fired out his questions. No recriminations. No blame. This wasn’t the time. ‘We take it slowly,’ he said. ‘If the boy was going to be harmed, it would already have happened by now. We want no more violence.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

CATH WISHED THAT SOMEONE WOULD COME and tell her what was going on. Mag had offered her a drink, and suddenly that was what she wanted. Good red wine. Something to take the edge off her fear. So, they sat together in the flat over the pub as they often had in the past. The curtains hadn’t been drawn but Mag had switched on two small lamps, so they rested in shadow. Not close friends, exactly, but two women easy in each other’s company, chatting about nothing very important. Because now, Cath didn’t want to think about the important things. The death of her daughter. The possibility that her son might be dead too.

‘Where’s Jim?’ Cath asked. She’d never cared for Jim. There was an air of repressed aggression about him, even when he was being perfectly pleasant to her.

‘He’s working,’ Mag said. ‘He’s driven, you see. He’s always working on something. Making plans.’

‘Like Paul.’ Because Gilbert would have long gone to sleep, and Paul used work as she used red wine. As a distraction and a way to take the edge off anxiety, off his worry that somehow his past would come back to bite him. In those early days in Newcastle, he’d taken too many risks. He’d cared more about holding power than keeping to his principles, and she knew that the fear of exposure still haunted him. He justified those bad actions still. Some late nights after a long day in the House, they would lie in bed and talk.

Sometimes the end does justify the means. Doesn’t it, Cath? Doesn’t it? I needed that money to do all the good things.

And she would agree with him, because she loved him, and she hated these moments of self-loathing. But she’d never really thought that the end justified the means. There were times when she suspected his night terrors were all about fear of getting caught and had nothing to do with remorse.

The next morning, it would be as if the conversation had never taken place. He’d get up, as confident and cheerful as always, put on his suit and his professional manner, and head into Westminster to fight for the things they both believed in.

They’d been in touch of course, over the afternoon and evening, but she’d found his more frantic demands for information distressing, and on the last call she’d said a little tetchily, ‘If there’s any news, I’ll tell you. Of course I will. Straight away. No need to keep phoning.’

It was natural, she thought now, that they were both on edge and she’d regretted the tone as soon as he’d ended the call. It was her fault after all that Alex wasn’t in his bed in the Victoria Hotel. She should never have left him alone.

Mag was still talking about Jim’s plans for the pub.

‘Why did you marry him?’ Cath’s words came out before she could stop them. ‘I mean, you and Jim, you seem so different.’

She thought that Mag would refuse to answer. After all, the question was so blunt, so rude.

But the woman seemed to be considering the matter carefully.

‘Because he needed me,’ she said at last. ‘There’s something heady about being needed like that. He was so mixed up when we met. Lost. And so grateful when I listened to him. He loved me in a way I’d never been loved before.’

‘And now?’ Cath asked. ‘Does he still need you now?’

‘Oh yes.’ Mag turned to her with a little smile. ‘Now, more than ever.’

Cath wondered if Paul needed her. Perhaps he did. Perhaps that’s why she stood by him and went along with his wishes. Because he made her feel needed. She felt suddenly restless. She got to her feet and walked to the window on the far side of the room. It looked down the combe towards the sea. Now, there was nothing to see, except one of the Lundy lighthouses flashing through the trees. Earlier, she’d stood there for what had seemed like hours. She’d watched the pinpricks of light – the searchers with their torches or headlamps – flickering like fireflies or the phosphorescence that sometimes shimmered in the water when she and Hannah had gone swimming at night. That had been their special thing to do together when they were in Tide House in the summer. They’d leave Paul in charge of the boys and take the footpath down to the sea, then gasp at the cold of the water and the beauty of the place. Overwhelmed by their good fortune.

At the memory, Cath found herself sobbing. Huge tears were rolling down her cheeks. Mag ran over to her and put her arm around Cath’s shoulders, holding her tight. Holding her up. Trying to save her too.

* * *

They’d returned to the sofa and Mag had poured more wine, when Cath became aware of activity in the pub car park. There was no sound of vehicles yet, but the windows of the flat were open now, to let in the cool of the evening, and she heard the main door to the building open and shut. She tensed.

‘It’s probably Jim,’ Mag said easily. Perhaps not wanting to cause more anxiety. Or to raise false hope. ‘Checking everything’s okay before he locks up and comes upstairs.’

Both women went to the window to look out, and they saw the three detectives standing in a group. They were talking but their voices were low, and Cath couldn’t make out what they were saying. They all got into one car, and it drove slowly away.

‘Where are they going?’ Cath could hear that her voice was a shriek. She could feel it at the back of her throat. ‘Are they going home? Have they given up?’

‘No, my love,’ Mag said easily. ‘They wouldn’t do that. They must have some news.’

But Cath could tell that, really, Mag was worried too that they’d just been abandoned, and that Alex had been left to his fate.

Chapter Forty

VENN WAS DRIVING. HE HADN’T SWITCHED on his headlights, and they didn’t go very far, just into the lane, and across the cattle grid onto the Brennans’ land. He stopped there and they went the rest of their way on foot. Quietly. No need for words because they’d planned this out in advance. Ross had suggested they should wait until they could get back-up, but Venn had given a little laugh. There were occasions when Ross still thought he was an actor in a cop show. Or perhaps he wanted to think the Brennans were more dangerous than they really were, because he’d been taken in by them. He’d believed everything they’d told him, glad of the excuse to leave them and cut short his search, as soon as Matthew had phoned. Glad to get back to the centre of the action. Now, he was sheepish.

‘What sort of back-up would we get at this time of night?’ Venn said. ‘How long would it take them to get here? And really, I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Ross said. Over and over again. ‘I should have checked.’

They didn’t need torches. The moon was up now and provided light enough for them to see. Their shadows were faint, ghostly. They didn’t walk on the drive, with its gravel-filled potholes. Instead, they crossed the dry grass. Venn could hear it cracking under his feet like stubble after a harvest.

When they reached the house, they had to cross the yard to get to the back door. There was no point going to the front. Venn knew that it was always locked. There was a light in the kitchen. Venn could see Tessa through the window. She was just sitting at the table, as if in a dream. He’d never seen her sitting still before. She’d always been active – preparing a meal, or folding washing, or making coffee. Now, in the cruel overhead light, she seemed older and very, very tired. There was no sign of the child, and for a moment he panicked. Perhaps he’d misjudged this too and been over-confident in his reading of the situation.

Then he saw a comic on the table beside her. Hadn’t Cath said that Alex had been reading a comic when she left him in the car?

He knocked at the door and went in before there was an answer. Jen and Ross followed him.

‘This isn’t about confrontation,’ he’d said to them when they’d been making their plans in the bar of the Fisherman’s Arms. ‘There are no monsters here.’

Tessa looked up.

‘Where’s the boy?’ Matthew kept his voice light, without a trace of accusation. ‘We just need to take him back to his mother. You understand, don’t you, what she must be going through?’

She didn’t reply. Matthew waited. He could sense Ross behind him, desperate for action, to redeem himself, but Venn knew the value of patience. He was happy to wait.

Tessa stared at him, stared through him. He supposed it was stress, this lack of communication. And exhaustion. She had no energy left.

‘You do realize,’ he said when he decided she wouldn’t respond, even if he waited all night, ‘that we’ll have to search for Alex. We have to know what’s happened to him.’

She nodded across at Ross. ‘Your chap’s already been here. He came with us. We looked everywhere.’

‘Not everywhere,’ Venn said.

Now, it seemed she was ready to speak, but the door behind her suddenly opened and Bob Brennan was standing there, framed like a character in a film or a photograph, the kitchen light hitting him. He was carrying a shotgun. It was hooked over his arm, not pointed towards them, but there was something threatening about his posture, tall and straight, legs apart. He could have been the sheriff new to town in an old-fashioned Western. Or a gangster in a different kind of movie.

‘This is none of your business.’ Each word weighed out. Heavy as stone.

It occurred to Venn in the moment before he replied that he’d been wrong about this man too. He’d been taken in by the buttery local accent, the ageing hippy clothes, the love of music. He’d thought no man like that could pose a threat. Yet here Brennan stood, resentful and angry. Armed. He could be one of Jim Hooper’s crazy online followers.

‘I’m afraid that it is.’

Brennan stared at Venn. Tension flickered like lightning between them.

‘Let us deal with this.’ His voice was a growl, deep and not quite human. ‘We’ll make it right.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Tessa spoke. They’d almost forgotten that she was there.

‘It’s over, Bob.’ She stood up now and stood between Venn and her husband, between Venn and the shotgun.

‘No! We can make it right.’

‘Oh pet, we can’t control it. Not now. This isn’t something we can fix. Let’s get it sorted. Let the little boy go home to his mother. What good was this going to do? You never thought it through when the little one arrived.’ Now, she sounded like a mother, talking a child down from a tantrum.

Her feet were bare. She walked to the kitchen door and slipped on a pair of Crocs.

She turned to Venn. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘The rest of you stay here. No need to go in mob-handed and scare the poor kid.’ She moved back to her husband and touched his arm. Her voice softened again. ‘Put away that gun. That’s not who you are.’ Then suddenly she was a farmer’s wife again, and her voice picked up more of the North East twang: ‘The kettle’s not long boiled if you want to make a brew.’

She didn’t wait to watch Bob put down the shotgun, but Matthew heard it being propped up against a wall, and as he was leaving the room, he saw Ross take it and remove the shot. Tessa led Venn out into the still, dark night.

‘When did you know?’ Matthew asked. She was walking a little ahead of him. There was moonlight but he thought she would find her way, even blindfolded. She might have been born at the other end of the country, but she was rooted here now.

‘I only knew today. Suspected days ago. But didn’t want to believe. Couldn’t believe.’

Matthew had a string of questions, but he couldn’t ask them. That would have to wait for more formal interviews. For the morning when he was clear-headed and professional. Not uncontrollably sad, as he was now.

He knew where they were going. Ross had searched for Alex in the farm and the outbuildings with the Brennans, but he hadn’t been to the glamping pods, out of sight, surrounded by trees. He’d only been there once, and he’d been in a hurry to get back to the pub and the search down the valley, so he might have forgotten about them. Or perhaps he’d thought it would have been a long walk, without any real hope of a result. He hadn’t picked up the anxiety that Bob and Tessa must have been feeling when he turned up to look for the boy, hadn’t wondered why Jake made a brief appearance and then left his parents to it. They’d discuss the mistake later, but Venn thought Ross wouldn’t be so careless again.

Now, there was a light ahead of them. Flickering and unstable. Venn imagined a disaster, arson, being this close to rescuing the boy and losing him, just as he’d thought he’d found Hannah alive and well on the farm almost a week ago only to realize that she was dead. He quickened his pace and tried to race past Tessa Brennan, but she took his arm to slow him down.

‘It’s the firepit,’ she said. ‘No need to hurry. We don’t want to scare them, do we?’

They were closer now. Tessa led him to the glamping pod where the Kinzalows had been staying. He could smell woodsmoke. Jake was sitting on one of the driftwood chairs staring into the fire. There was no sign of Alex. It took all Matthew’s patience not to run across, to shout, to shake the young man. Instead, he squatted next to Jake. Jake must have heard them coming, the crunch of their footsteps on the dry grass, but he looked up suddenly, as if he’d only just realized that they were approaching.

‘Where’s Alex, Jake?’ Not a shout or a demand. A quiet question. When there was no answer, Venn added, ‘His parents are frantic.’

‘He’s inside. I couldn’t wake him.’

Matthew felt a stab of panic, but still, he didn’t rush. ‘I’ll go and look, shall I? That is okay?’

‘Sure,’ Jake said. ‘I don’t think you’ll wake him, though.’

Matthew got to his feet. Tessa stood behind her son and wrapped her arms around him. In the firelight, Matthew could see that she was crying.

Alex was lying on the high bed, with its colourful quilt and carved headboard. He lay on his back and his eyes were shut. He seemed fast asleep, but Matthew couldn’t see any signs of him breathing. The boy didn’t move. When Matthew touched his bare arm, though, the skin was warm. He shook him gently.

‘Alex, we’ve come to take you home. Your mother’s wondering where you are.’

The eyes opened and the boy smiled. ‘I’ll be able to tell her, won’t I, that I’ve had such a big adventure.’

‘I’m sure she wants to hear all about it. I’ll carry you, shall I? If you’re still very tired.’

The boy sat up, pushed the quilt away and turned towards Venn. His feet didn’t reach the floor, so Matthew took both his hands as he slid off the bed.

‘I’d like Jake to give me a piggyback,’ Alex said, ‘if he wouldn’t mind.’

So, they walked back to the farmhouse, with Matthew and Tessa on each side of the pair, and Alex on the shoulders of a killer.

Chapter Forty-One

IT WAS SUNDAY NOW. BUT EARLY morning, not yet dawn. Cath had fallen asleep on the Hoopers’ sofa. It was the red wine and the fresh air earlier in the day, the excess of emotion. Mag was still there too, watching, like a tender mother. Or a social worker. Even asleep, Cath knew she wasn’t alone.

Suddenly, with a start, Cath was awake. She wasn’t slowly sliding out of sleep. Something had woken her. Not Mag, who hadn’t moved, nor Jim; Cath was aware of his absence without looking around. He must still be in the kitchen or perhaps he’d taken himself to bed. She felt her heart racing, skipping, irregular.

Immediately, she realized that she’d been disturbed by light, not sound. Car headlights were shining through the uncurtained window. Then Cath could hear a vehicle drawing up outside, the engine stopping. Mag was sitting at that side of the room now, so she had a view outside.

‘It’s Venn’s car,’ she said. ‘So, they didn’t go home then.’

Cath was still woozy with drink and sleep, but she got to her feet and stood to look out. Venn got out of the driver’s seat. A security light had been triggered, and she could see him, looking unfamiliar from this angle. His hair was thinning a little on the top of his head, and his shirt looked very white. The light bounced from his polished shoes.

He opened the back door of the car and Jen Rafferty climbed out. There was no sign of the young officer, Ross May. Why wasn’t he there?

Jen tilted her head and looked up at the window. Perhaps she guessed that they’d be looking out, because she waved and then, joyously, she stuck two thumbs in the air and gave a triumphant grin. Cath couldn’t work out for a moment what that meant. Or she couldn’t quite believe it. Then the detective turned back to the car and miraculously Alex appeared. Her son, the love of her life. He stood, blinking in the bright security light, but standing on his own, quite well. Jen whispered something to the boy, and he waved up at the window too.

Cath ran out of the room and clattered down the outside stone steps to the garden. She held Alex very tight and kissed his hair and his face, until he told her to stop making such a fuss.

‘Oh Mum!’ But he was laughing. He seemed bright and cheery and wide awake.

She looked over his head at Venn. ‘Where was he?’

‘He’s absolutely fine. We’ve checked him over.’

That wasn’t any sort of answer, but she could tell it was all she was going to get for the time being. Besides, nothing else mattered now.

‘Perhaps you should let Paul know,’ Venn said. ‘We thought you might want to do that, so we haven’t been in touch with him. Then you should get Alex back to Torr.’

‘I can’t drive!’ She realized how irresponsible she’d been. ‘I’ve been drinking.’

‘Why don’t I take you back in your car?’ Venn said. ‘Jen can’t drive either with her arm in plaster and yours has the child seat. I can sort a lift back here later to pick up mine and get us both back to Barnstaple.’

It was all very relaxed and easy. Since she’d arrived at the Fisherman’s Arms in the afternoon, Cath’s day had been full of drama, tension. Now, everything was taken care of, and the following day they’d go back to London. Home. Finding Hannah’s killer seemed almost unimportant. The details could wait.

She phoned Paul, and he took the call immediately. After she’d told him that Alex was safe, she heard him sobbing.

Chapter Forty-Two

THEY WERE IN BARNSTAPLE POLICE STATION. Venn had gone home briefly to shower and to grab a couple of hours’ sleep, but he’d still got here early, arriving at almost exactly the time that the girls had died the Monday before. It was low tide, and he had a whiff of the nearby River Taw when he got out of the car, that estuary smell of mud and rotting vegetation. It was already hot.

Jake had been in the police cells overnight. Ross had stayed in the farmhouse with him until the van arrived to bring him in. Bob and Tessa Brennan were still there. They might face lesser charges, but Venn had no fears that they’d abscond. Where would they go? Besides, there were cows to be milked, and even without that responsibility, they’d want to be close to Jake. From the start, they’d been protecting their son. Trying to save him.

Venn had spoken to Ross on the phone in the early hours of the morning, after dropping Cath and Alex at the hotel. According to Ross, Jake had been compliant, almost relieved while they were waiting for transport. His mother had packed a bag for him, as if he were a boy about to go on a school trip or a stay in hospital. They hadn’t spoken. Not about the girls’ deaths. Even Ross knew better than to question a suspect informally when he was the only officer in the room and there was no solicitor present.

Jen Rafferty arrived into the briefing room next. She was still buzzing because they’d found the Armstrong boy unharmed. It was clear at once that Alex hadn’t been physically harmed, and he’d seemed emotionally unaffected too. Venn thought that might come later, when he was older, when he understood what had happened to his sister. Venn couldn’t share in Jen’s euphoria. He was still thinking of the dead young women.

They decided that Matthew and Jen would run the interview. Ross would be looking in, watching and making notes. The Brennans had hired a solicitor, a local man who was stocky and square, with a red face, who looked more like a farmer than Bob Brennan did.

Jake seemed very tired. He couldn’t have had much sleep, perhaps even less than Venn. He was wearing shorts and a clean white polo shirt, flip-flops on his feet.

‘Why don’t you tell us what happened that morning?’

The solicitor had said that Jake would plead guilty to manslaughter. Venn thought he knew the story – in the end it was the only narrative that made sense – but he needed it in Jake’s own words. It took the young man a little while to start speaking, and Venn had to prompt him.

‘You saw the note Hannah left for you, didn’t you? And you followed her to Tide House?’

Jake nodded. ‘I’d come back to the house for a coffee. It was still very early, and my parents weren’t around. I went to take a mug of tea up to Hannah, but she’d already gone. I saw the note. I could tell she was angry about the way Lottie had behaved, posting those videos, mocking the festival. I thought she might need some help. I wanted to support her, but mostly, I went to tell her that Lottie wasn’t worth making a fuss over, that Mum and Dad were cool about it. They could see that Lottie’s posts wouldn’t affect the business.’

He paused for breath and Matthew waited for him to continue.

‘I could hear the girls before I saw them,’ Jake said. ‘Lottie must have woken up early too. They were on the path that led to the beach.’

He paused and it seemed to Matthew that he was still trying to make sense of what had happened that morning. Perhaps he’d spend his life trying to make sense of it, because they could never know how things had played out for certain.

‘Maybe Lottie had wanted to swim in the sea,’ Jake went on. ‘She was a swimmer apparently. Or Hannah had suggested they go to the beach together, thinking it would be a good place for them to talk. When I got close to them, they were on the path near the old mill. They were standing still then, yelling at each other. I mean really yelling. Screaming. I’d never seen Hannah get that angry. It was as if she was seeing Lottie for the first time.’ He stared across the table at Jen and Matthew. ‘As if she hated her.’

‘Could you tell what they were fighting about?’ Matthew asked.

‘It was about the Kinzalow girl. The daughter of the American couple who were glamping with us. I knew the story already. Hannah had told me the accident was all her fault. If they hadn’t been drinking and she hadn’t interfered, trying to pull Elizabeth back from the edge, Elizabeth might not have been so damaged by the fall. She’d always said that Lottie must be the best friend in the world, because she’d lied for Hannah about what really happened. She’d covered it up.’ He paused. ‘Lottie took a video of the accident. She said she could have posted it for the world to see, but that she never would, because Hannah was her friend.’

And that was a kind of threat in itself. A reminder that if Hannah stopped being Lottie’s friend, the video would be posted. It would go viral. Paul Armstrong would be implicated.

‘Can you access the video?’ The digital team had been working on Lottie’s phone, which had been in the pool with her, but this had happened more than two years before and she’d taken so much material that they hadn’t found it.

‘Sure, if you have a laptop. Hannah sent me the link.’

The four of them had gathered around the screen and Jake set off the video. The room was windowless, and Jen had switched off the overhead light, so they sat in the gloom, the only light from the glass above the door that led into the corridor.

There was Lottie, her face spotlit by a torch. She looked weird and witchy as, Venn thought, was intended. Her face all sharp angles, her hair white and wild. She was doing the voiceover as she had in the films taken at MillsFest. Her words had a manic energy that suggested that she’d been taking more than alcohol.

The background was misty. When Lottie moved her position and focused the camera and the torch on the other girls, Venn could see drizzle. They were all wearing jackets and hoods. Boots on their feet. After weeks of sunshine, it seemed odd to see them wrapped up against the cold.

The light was back on Lottie, and she was talking.

‘Here we are – the Three Furies – determined that we’ll live a life less ordinary. Less tedious. What game shall we play tonight? What dare shall we dare?’

Neither girl answered. It seemed to Venn that Lottie was always the star of the show. She continued in a loud, sombre, theatrical voice. ‘Elizabeth Kinzalow, my friend and fellow Fury, it’s your turn to devise the challenge.’

For the first time, Venn saw in detail the girl who, despite now being thousands of miles away, had always been at the centre of the investigation. She pushed back her hood, so he could see her face. Dark hair, strong features, lively eyes. A confident young woman in need of adventure. He could imagine her climbing mountains or sailing solo round the world.

‘I challenge you, Hannah Armstrong, to leap down the embankment to your doom!’ The accent was American despite the five years she’d spent in the UK.

The camera and light shifted again to show the steep slope to the railway line below.

‘Hannah Armstrong,’ Elizabeth continued, ‘will you accept the challenge?’

‘No!’ Hannah sounded panicky. ‘No way! You’re crazy. It’s too high, too steep.’

Even on the shaky video, Venn caught a glimpse pass between Lottie and Elizabeth. He thought this had been a set-up, decided in advance. A joke or a piece of mischief. Or a way of humiliating Hannah, putting her in her place. They must have known she would refuse.

‘Then I will undertake the challenge myself!’ Elizabeth threw up her hands to the sky, and stood, posed, triumphant, while Lottie filmed her. She walked slowly and deliberately towards the edge of the slope.

She seemed totally unafraid, and Venn wondered if this too was planned. Again, it felt rehearsed. Did Elizabeth intend to scare Hannah, but to pull back at the last minute? Or perhaps she’d been practising the jump and she knew she could do the stunt safely.

‘No!’ Hannah sounded hysterical now. ‘You’ll kill yourself. Lottie, stop her!’

The camera turned back to Lottie. She must have been holding her phone at arm’s length, because now the film showed not just her face, but a little of the background. A hut made of corrugated iron, moisture dripping from the ragged-edged roof.

‘Elizabeth Kinzalow has accepted the challenge.’ Her voice was slow and firm.

There was background sound, a scuffle, before the camera was fixed on Hannah and Elizabeth again. Hannah was scrambling towards Elizabeth, intent on pulling her back from the edge. There was no commentary at this point. Time seemed to go very slowly. The scuffle between the girls developed like a kind of dance, with each shifting position. Hannah’s arms were on Elizabeth’s shoulders. Although the outcome was known and inevitable, Venn felt unbearably tense. Suddenly, Hannah lost her footing on the damp ground. She slipped so her heavy boots shot forwards, catching Elizabeth’s legs, pushing her off balance, tipping her towards the slope. The film showed the American struggling to regain her footing, before she fell and disappeared slowly from view.

It occurred to Venn that if the film had been edited just to show the last few seconds, it might seem that Hannah’s kick had been deliberate.

There was a moment’s silence and then Lottie said, in her normal, schoolgirl’s voice – a little smug, almost gloating – ‘Oh shit, Hannah. What have you done?’

Back in the room, the laptop was shut down and the light switched on. They sat in silence for a moment, until Venn and Jen moved back to their original position on the other side of the table.

‘I suppose,’ Venn said at last, ‘Hannah was starting to realize that Lottie wasn’t such a great friend after all, and that she had her own reasons for lying about what happened.’

That she was dangerous and sad.

‘Yes!’ Jake seemed pleased that Matthew understood. ‘That morning in the combe, Hannah was screaming that she didn’t care at all if the truth came out. It had been eating away at her. She was going to find the Kinzalows and tell them exactly what had happened. She didn’t mind if they went to the police.’

He looked up at the detectives. ‘She was calmer in the end, more the Hannah I knew. “I was wrong about you all the time,” she said. Not shouting but speaking so softly that I had to strain to hear her. “I thought you cared about me, about the effect the publicity would have on my dad’s career. But that wasn’t it at all, was it? You wanted my gratitude, and a hold over me. It was all about the power.”’

‘Did Hannah say anything else?’ Jen leaned across the table, so her hands were almost touching Jake’s.

‘Yeah, she said she’d come to offer Lottie a lift to Tiverton station so she could get the train back to London, but Lottie could make her own way now. Get a taxi. Hannah just wanted her to pack up all her stuff and leave. Hannah never wanted to see her again.’

There was another silence in the room. Again, Jake seemed to be running the scene in his head. He’d started to cry. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before continuing.

‘Lottie really lost it. I mean, really lost it. Maybe she’d been drinking all night or taking drugs too. Whatever, she was completely out of control. Shaking with anger. Maybe nobody had ever talked to her like that before. Hannah was quite calm then. She turned away from her. She’d been further down the path than Lottie, and Lottie was blocking the path. Hannah had to walk round her, on the edge of that patch of woodland and closer to the mill to get back to Tide House.’

Jake was staring at a point on the opposite wall now, unfocused, lost. ‘I stayed where I was, hidden. I knew Hannah would soon be close enough for me to put my arms around her. I wanted to tell her how proud I was, tell her she’d done exactly the right thing. I didn’t want to provoke Lottie by shouting or joining in the fight. I thought it was all over.’

‘But Lottie didn’t need any provoking?’ This time the question came from Jen.

Venn was thinking of the state Lottie must have been in. She’d asked Daniel to stay with her after their night together, and he’d walked away. She was rejected and lonely, and now Hannah was standing up to her for the very first time.

‘No.’ Jake shook his head. ‘She picked up this rock and she hurled it at Hannah as she was walking past. I don’t know. Maybe it was just frustration. Like a spoiled kid throwing away a toy. Or maybe, she really wanted to hurt her. That was what it felt like at the time. Hannah collapsed to the ground. I ran over to her and saw blood through her hair, and shattered bits of bone. I couldn’t believe she could still be alive, but I had to try to get help. I’d left my phone at the farm, so I yelled at Lottie to call an ambulance, just in case. But she just ran away back towards the house. Hannah’s phone had fallen from her pocket when she fell. I took that. There was no signal there in the combe, so I followed Lottie, looking for signal all the way.’ He was speaking very quickly now, the words spilling out, mirroring his panic and desperation to get help for his girlfriend.

‘And then?’ Venn asked. ‘What happened then?’

When Jake continued the story, he was calmer. ‘Lottie was standing on the terrace close to the pool, just humming some stupid song. The same phrase, over and over. Something one of the bands had been playing at the festival. It was as if the assault hadn’t taken place.’

‘What did you do next?’ Venn’s voice was low and kind.

Jake looked up at him, tears still running down his face. ‘I lost it too. It made me as bad as her. I pushed her into the pool. I was so angry. I didn’t mean to kill her. She could swim, couldn’t she? She was always boasting about how well she could swim.’

‘But she hit her head on the side going down, and as you said, she’d been drinking all night.’

‘I don’t know,’ Jake said. ‘I didn’t wait to see what happened next. I ran back to Hannah. I was hoping it was all a dreadful dream and she’d be alive, and I could hold her and tell her how proud I was of her, just like I’d been planning. But it was all real, and I could tell that she was dead. Nobody could survive a head wound like that.’

The detectives waited in silence for him to continue his story.

‘I went back to Tide House. I still had Hannah’s phone, and I was going to call for help. But Lottie was floating in the pool, her face in the water. She was bleeding.’ Now Jake turned and looked straight at Venn. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to go in and pull her out. She’d killed Hannah and I hated her.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I walked home,’ he said, ‘and started picking up the litter from the weekend. It needed doing.’

The room fell silent.

‘Why didn’t you call the police and explain what had happened?’ Jen asked at last. ‘Why didn’t you talk to us when we turned up with our questions?’

‘At first, I couldn’t believe any of it. Shock, I suppose. None of it seemed real. This whole week has been a kind of dream. And then, when it did become real, and Inspector Venn turned up with his questions about Lottie, all I could think of was my parents, and how ashamed they’d be and what it would do to their business. I’d always been a bit of a failure, dropping out of uni, going a bit mad. I thought I’d have to live with what I’d done. A sort of penance. I’d have to see it through.’ He paused, jolted by a sudden thought. ‘If you’d arrested anyone else, I’d have confessed. Honestly.’

Venn gave a little smile. ‘You took me in,’ he said. ‘It was clear how much you cared for Hannah. I didn’t believe that you could be involved. From the start, we assumed that the girls had been killed by the same person.’

‘We’d had such a wonderful weekend together. At least I have that.’ The red-faced solicitor called for a break then. He seemed as emotional as everyone else in the room. Venn thought he was probably a friend of the Brennans, and this would be hitting him hard.

Chapter Forty-Three

THE DETECTIVES TOOK THEIR BREAK IN the open-plan office, perched around Vicki Robb’s desk, wanting to include her as much as they could, filling her in with the details. Wanting her to share in their success. Matthew brought coffee for them all.

‘Let’s think about the next stage of the interview,’ he said. Jen thought he looked tired, but still sharp. ‘Jen, will you take the lead on the boy’s abduction?’

‘Sure.’ The boss was good at that, sharing responsibility, making everyone feel part of the team. It didn’t happen in other places she’d worked. ‘Can we gallop through the facts, so I know where to start?’ Because at the moment the whole episode was as clear as the mud that lined the Taw.

So, they drank coffee and discussed the disappearance of Alex Armstrong, how and why it had happened. How the boy’s disappearance had clarified Venn’s suspicion that Jake was involved, how it had shifted his perspective.

‘At first, I had no thought that Jake was involved in the case at all,’ Venn said. ‘I jumped to conclusions and didn’t keep a sufficiently open mind.’

‘When did you know?’ Jen wanted to ask why the boss hadn’t shared his suspicions. It was all very well allowing the team to take responsibility in the interview, but pretty shit if he hadn’t trusted them enough to try out his ideas with them.

‘Honestly? Not for certain until Alex had been taken, and then not until he’d been missing for a few hours.’ Venn sounded almost apologetic. ‘But in the end it had to be Jake. Nothing else hung together.’

‘How did you work out where Alex was?’

‘It was Ross’s friends, the elderly drinkers, saying they hadn’t seen anything unusual the afternoon that the boy disappeared. What could be more usual than a tractor coming down the track from the farm?’

‘That’s why you asked Ross to phone them?’

‘Yeah.’ Venn smiled at her. ‘I could have been wrong. I’d been so often wrong in this case. I’d stopped trusting my judgement.’

Jen imagined the scene. Alex had been with Jake all afternoon. He’d been playing in the sun, paddling in the stream. Every small boy’s dream. Then Jake had turned up on a tractor and suggested giving him a ride. Her kids wouldn’t have given their mother a second thought when they were young.

Venn was still talking. ‘Of course, the locals wouldn’t have taken any notice of a tractor, but Elaine Cauldwell’s driver confirmed that he’d seen one at the end of the farm track when he drove in.’ He looked at the clock on the office wall. ‘That’s their thirty minutes. You’d better go back in.’

‘Are you not joining us?’

‘No,’ Matthew said. ‘Ross can partner you. I’ll observe. It’ll be good to get a different point of view. Jen’s the lead, though. Okay?’

Ross had no option but to agree – he was being offered after all a kind of redemption – but Jen was aware of him throughout the interview, tense, twitching and eager, desperate to intervene. Hating having to play second fiddle.

Sitting in the grim interview room, with its table bolted to the floor and its uncomfortable chairs, Jen thought Jake Brennan looked very young, no older really than her son Ben. Young and vulnerable.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘why you felt the need to snatch Alex. He’d been with you all afternoon. He liked you.’

‘I liked him!’ Jake seemed shocked. ‘He was Hannah’s brother. I would never have hurt him. Being with him was the closest I could get to being with her.’

‘But you kidnapped him.’

‘No! It was nothing like that. I just needed to talk to him. We went back to the glamping pod where we’d spent the afternoon, and he fell asleep.’

‘Why did you need to talk to him so urgently?’

‘I still had Hannah’s phone,’ Jake said. ‘I told you. I picked it up the morning she died because I’d left mine in the farmhouse. Cath Armstrong brought Alex to the farm for lunch and later we all came back to the house. I took Alex up to my room to play. I had some old games on my computer. I thought he’d enjoy them.’

‘But while he was there, he found Hannah’s phone?’

‘Yeah. It’s distinctive. A pink case covered in rainbow and flower stickers. It was still in my pocket when your boss came to tell me Hannah and Lottie were dead. I hid it when he next came, worried he might search my room, but he didn’t.’ Jake seemed to be reliving Venn’s visit. ‘He was a good guy, easy to talk to. Not like a cop at all. I nearly told him what had happened. Nearly.’ A pause. ‘I should have done.’

‘Alex found Hannah’s phone in your room?’ Jen prompted.

‘Yeah. Sometimes I’d take it out. Just to hold it, you know. I didn’t switch it on, because I thought that might trigger something, and you might find me. But I knew her passcode. I thought later, when things had died down, I could go in and look. There’d be photos of her and me together. Selfies when we were mucking around. Laughing.’ He lapsed into silence. Jen let it stretch, sensing Ross, impatient beside her. At last, Jake started talking again. ‘I hadn’t planned to bring Alex into my room yesterday afternoon. It was on the bed, and he saw it.’

‘He recognized it as Hannah’s?’

Jake nodded. ‘He didn’t say anything, but he must have done. Then Mum called up to say that Cath needed to get off, and Alex ran downstairs.’

He paused and once more, Jen waited for him to speak. Ross fidgeted by her side.

‘I needed to check the water in one of the fields. I already had the tractor in the yard. I didn’t mean to follow the Armstrongs’ car. How would I know that they’d stop at the pub, that Cath would get out and leave Alex on his own? Nothing was planned.’ He looked at Jen, begging her to believe him. She thought she probably did.

‘So, you left the tractor at the end of the track, and you went to speak to him?’

‘Yeah. That’s all I was going to do, but Alex had seen the tractor. “Can we go for a ride?” he said. I could tell he was desperate. He had this breathless kind of voice. I thought it would be easier to talk to him if he was in the cab with me. Besides, he’d asked for a ride, and I couldn’t say no.’

Now Ross couldn’t stay quiet. He’d jumped in before Jen could ask a question of her own. ‘Had he told anyone about the phone?’

Jake shrugged. ‘I couldn’t find the words to ask. I lifted him up and he was so excited. So happy. I drove on across the meadow to the river with him at my side. It reminded me of the times I’d used to ride with my father.’

‘Why didn’t you just take him for a ride and drop him back at the pub?’ Jen asked before Ross could jump in again. Her voice was kind, though. She could picture the two of them laughing together.

‘I’m not sure.’ Jake looked at her, begging her to believe him. ‘It just felt good being with him. Peaceful, I suppose, and we carried on into the shade of the trees. And then I realized how long we’d been away and that there’d be a fuss, and I couldn’t face it. And I still hadn’t asked Alex about the phone. I felt I was losing it. The stress of having had to hold it all in. I’m not very good at pretending.’

Jen shot a look at Ross. The last thing they needed was some sarky comment from him. He must have got the message, because he kept his gob shut, and Jake continued speaking.

‘When we got to the glampers, I told Alex I’d phone his mum and tell her to get him when she was ready. After that, we seemed to lose any sense of time; he was just playing and chatting. I suppose he’d been stuck in that hotel with not much to do for days. Maybe I was helping him to forget that Hannah was dead. We lit the fire pit, and we found some leftover marshmallows to roast. He didn’t mention the phone and so I didn’t either. I knew then that it was all over, that I’d have to tell you what happened, but it was so peaceful and easy there. It got dark, and he climbed onto the bed in the pod and fell asleep.’

‘Your mother must have known you had the boy,’ Ross said. ‘When I came looking for Alex, she kept me away from that end of the farm.’

But you didn’t think to look, Jen thought.

‘She was trying to protect me,’ Jake said. ‘She was always trying to protect me. Mum saw me drive across the meadow. When she found us in the glamper, I told her what had happened with Hannah and Lottie. She didn’t seem surprised. She said I should go to the police, but not now. Not with everyone out looking for the boy. It would be a nightmare. Jim Hooper and his mob were out in the combe playing war games, and they’d string me up if they found out I’d taken Alex.’

Jen thought of Jim Hooper, his anger, his air of barely suppressed violence, his need to find someone to blame, and thought that if she’d been Jake’s mother, she’d have wanted to wait until the search party had disbanded too.

‘What did your mum suggest?’

‘She said we’d have to make sure the kid was found before I gave myself up, but it couldn’t be on the farm. They couldn’t be involved. She thought we might just drive him back to the hotel in Torr and leave a message with reception. But Alex was so calm, so deeply asleep. I didn’t think we should move him.’ He looked up. ‘You know what happened next.’

‘Inspector Venn came and found you,’ Jen said.

‘Yeah. I think Dad wanted to keep up the pretence. He was worried about the farm and the business and what people like the Hoopers would think if they knew I’d abducted a child, but Mum could tell that it was over.’ Jake looked up. ‘And I didn’t abduct him. Alex came because he wanted to ride in a tractor, because he wanted to be with me.’

‘His mother was frantic,’ Jen said.

‘I know. I should have thought about that.’ Jake paused for a moment. ‘Tell her, will you, how sorry I am.’

They were back in the big office, the whole team celebrating a victory now, planning a night in the pub. They clapped Jen and Ross when they came in, but Jen found it hard to feel very much joy. As Venn had said, there were no monsters in the case.

Venn took her to one side. ‘You’re the nearest thing to family liaison. The Armstrongs are still in Torr. They’ll head back to London later today. Will you go to the hotel and fill the Armstrongs in on the details, before Appleyard releases a statement to the press.’

‘Sure.’

‘You can tell them that Jake Brennan confessed to causing Lottie’s death and we believe that she murdered their daughter.’

‘And I can explain where you found Alex?’

He nodded. ‘I can’t imagine them landing up at Millscombe Farm spitting bile at the Brennans. Causing a fuss. Not their style. Besides, they have a right to know.’

Jen thought of Jake’s last words to her in the interview room. Tell her how sorry I am.

The Armstrongs were waiting for her on the terrace. A parasol fixed to the table kept off the worst of the sun, and it was quiet. Still a little early for pre-lunch drinks and too late for mid-morning coffee. They were, it seemed, all packed up and ready to go home. Jen knew the suitcases would already be in the car. She could tell from the start that Paul was impatient and eager to set off. He jumped to his feet as soon as she approached.

Cath had been chatting to the boys, but when she saw Jen, she set up their iPads and told them to put on headphones. A good plan, Jen thought, to keep them entertained and so they couldn’t overhear the conversation.

‘I wanted to tell you we have someone in custody for the manslaughter of Lottie Cauldwell.’ It would be for the CPS to decide on the charge, but Jen hoped that this would be the outcome. Lottie’s death hadn’t been planned, and Jake hadn’t meant to kill her.

‘What about Hannah? Won’t you charge someone for her death?’ It sounded almost as if Paul thought there was some competition, that his daughter was being treated unfairly, left out. ‘And why manslaughter and not murder? Hannah’s death was violent. Horrible.’

So, Jen told Jake’s story, almost word for word. She started with Elizabeth Kinzalow’s accident and the toxic relationship between the three girls. ‘I think they were all a bit sad,’ she said. ‘But they were bad for each other. They wound each other up. Hannah thought Lottie must be the best friend in the world because she lied for her about Elizabeth’s accident and covered her back.’ Jen glanced across at Paul. She was looking into the sun and couldn’t see his face. Perhaps it was just as well. ‘She wanted to protect your reputation. She knew how it would be if her name was plastered all over the press as the cause of life-changing injuries in an American lass.’

Then she described the early morning at Tide House, and the frantic attack on Hannah.

‘Lottie killed her!’ Paul said. ‘That’s not sad. That’s evil.’

Dangerous and sad, Jen thought.

‘We’re not charging Jake with murder,’ she said. ‘We don’t believe he meant to kill Lottie. If the CPS agrees, there’ll be a manslaughter charge.’

‘I think I would have killed her and meant it.’ Cath’s voice was very small. ‘I would have liked to see her die.’ A pause. ‘We’ll help Jake in any way we can.’

Jen was shocked. ‘Jake was the person who took your son.’ She wondered if that might change Cath’s mind. And she launched into that part of the story, keeping it flat, staying with the facts.

‘Alex told me he had the best adventure ever,’ Cath said. ‘We won’t be pressing charges.’

Jen noticed that the woman hadn’t consulted her husband before either statement; in her head she was cheering.

‘That might not be your decision.’

‘I’ll say that I gave Jake my permission to have Alex,’ Cath said. ‘Or that it was all a misunderstanding.’

Paul looked as if he was about to contradict her, but she glared at him and there was an awkward silence.

Jen reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic bag with Hannah’s phone inside. ‘We thought you might like this.’ They stared at it, at the pink case covered in flowers and rainbows, and they both started to cry. The boys looked up from their devices, anxious, and took off their headsets. Cath pulled herself together first. She smiled at them.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’re going home.’

‘The crime scene officers have finished their work on Tide House,’ Jen said. ‘You’re welcome to go in now and take anything you might need.’ She looked across at the boys. ‘The pool’s still empty, though. No chance of a swim.’

‘Perhaps we’ll do that,’ Paul said. ‘A last visit before we go back to London.’

Cath reached across the table and took his hand.

Chapter Forty-Four

MATTHEW AND JONATHAN SAT AT THE back of the house to get most shade. They were looking inland across the garden to the river and watched a heron fly, wide-winged, towards the water. They’d both come home early and had started with tea, and a piece of the fruit cake Matthew’s mother Dorothy had left the last time she’d come for Sunday lunch. A peace offering of a sort. Now, Jonathan had opened a bottle of wine.

They’d been gearing up to a proper discussion about the important things that had happened in the past week, but now they were still on smaller, more domestic details. And those, Venn decided, were important too, the glue that held them together.

‘How’s Lucy Braddick getting on without her dad?’

‘Of course she’s sad, but she’s coping really well.’ Jonathan gave that wide, generous smile that had pulled Matthew in from the start. ‘She’s back at work. There’ve been a few weepy moments, but her friends have been looking out for her.’

They sat for a moment in silence.

Now, with the wine poured, the more important discussion started.

‘So, the Armstrongs have gone home,’ Jonathan said. ‘Back to London. Paul’s political reputation untarnished.’

‘We don’t know that he did anything wrong when he was on the council in Newcastle.’

‘Well,’ Jonathan said, ‘there’s no proof at least, or Geoff Kinzalow would have published the rumour.’

‘And the Kinzalows are on their way back to the States to reconnect with their daughter.’

‘Do you think Elaine Cauldwell knew what really happened on the evening of Elizabeth Kinzalow’s accident?’ Jonathan asked. ‘Did she realize that her daughter was into a sort of blackmail?’

Venn shrugged. ‘She might have guessed. Just like Tessa Brennan suspected that Jake might have been at Tide House the morning that the girls died. He’d always been emotionally frail, and perhaps she thought she could protect him. Besides, she didn’t want to believe that he was involved.’ Matthew paused and sipped the wine. ‘Elaine Cauldwell was pretty screwed up herself. I’m not sure she would have cared that Lottie was lying, manipulating Elizabeth’s accident for her own ends.’

‘Do you think Lottie might have inherited some kind of dysfunctional gene?’

Venn shot a glance at his husband. ‘Really, I don’t think it works like that.’

Jonathan seemed not to have heard. ‘What do you think I inherited from my mother?’

‘Tell me about her,’ Matthew said. ‘What happened when you met her?’

In the silence that followed, Jonathan refilled their glasses.

‘I liked her at first,’ Jonathan said. ‘I really liked her. I mean, the whole vibe. The shanty band, the fact that she obviously belonged to the village. I had this story in my head that she’d been taken advantage of by some entitled twat who hadn’t stuck by her. That she couldn’t afford to look after me and that’s why I’d been given up for adoption.’

Venn remembered the cultured voice. The confidence. ‘Then you realized that she was the entitled twat.’

‘How did you know?’ There was an edge of anger in Jonathan’s voice. ‘Have you been prying? Did you check her out on your system?’

‘No! I guessed. The voice. I don’t know, the way other people treated her.’

‘She owns that great mansion on the hill in Sentock. The place we walked to when we were waiting in the village,’ Jonathan said. ‘She has some sort of title.’

‘I don’t see,’ Matthew said, ‘how that should affect the way you think about her.’

‘Really?’ A pause, and then he let out a howl of grief and rage. ‘She could have kept me! What was stopping her? It certainly wasn’t a lack of money. Or space. Did you see that place? She even told me that her parents would have supported her. But apparently, she wanted her freedom. To travel. To explore the world. She’d had a fling with some guy she didn’t really care about and decided too late that she was too young to be tied down by a baby. She said she didn’t think she’d be a very good mother, but that was an excuse, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Venn said. This felt like some sort of minefield. Each statement might set off an extreme reaction, like a boot on a bomb. He’d never known relaxed and easy Jonathan be as edgy, as furious as this. ‘It sounds as if she’s been incredibly honest about everything else. Why not about that?’ He wanted to support the man, but he thought he had to be honest too.

They sat again in silence. In the hedge that ran down the boundary of the garden, separating it from the marsh, a blackbird was singing its heart out.

‘What will you do?’ Matthew asked. ‘Will you see her again?’

‘I don’t know. What will she expect? Will she want me to go for afternoon tea in the stately home? Can you imagine me sitting making polite conversation in a drawing room with her grand friends? She holds the sort of position I’ve always despised.’

Now Matthew couldn’t help laughing. ‘She seemed more like a beer and pasty sort of woman to me. Don’t you think this is about your prejudices and not about her? You had an idea in your head about who she might be, and she didn’t live up to your expectations. You can hardly blame her for that.’

He thought that was why the Tide House case had taken so long. He’d jumped to judgement too quickly and assumed that he could trust his instincts.

‘So,’ Jonathan said at last, ‘what do you think I should do?’

‘Absolutely not my call!’

‘Ah, I’m not asking you to make the decision. I want your advice.’

The shadows were lengthening now. Soon there would be a beautiful dusk. Matthew thought they might walk together over the dunes to watch the sun set over the sea, sit at the end of the golden path to the horizon. He took a breath. He hadn’t wanted this woman to be a part of their lives. He’d thought they were managing very well without her. The conversation with his mother had made him shift perspective, be more sympathetic. And he could see this was unsettling Jonathan and throwing him off balance.

‘Okay. I think you’ve spent your life looking out for other people. Maybe you find it hard that this woman doesn’t need saving. You’re meeting on equal terms. That’s not what you were expecting, and it’s tough.’

Jonathan nodded to show he accepted there was some truth in Matthew’s words. ‘So, what should I do?’

‘I think you should ask her here. Then it’ll be your territory, not hers. Show her your life and the magnificent work you’re doing at the Woodyard.’ Matthew looked out at the heron, upright and elegant on the edge of the river. ‘Be generous.’

About the Author

Ann Cleeves is the author of forty critically acclaimed novels, and in 2017 was awarded the highest accolade in crime writing, the CWA Diamond Dagger. She is the creator of popular detectives Vera Stanhope, Jimmy Perez and Matthew Venn, who can be found on television in ITV’s Vera, BBC One’s Shetland and ITV’s The Long Call respectively. The TV series and the books they are based on have become international sensations, capturing the minds of millions worldwide. Ann worked as a probation offificer, bird observatory cook and auxiliary coastguard before she started writing. She also spends her time advocating for reading to improve health and wellbeing and supporting access to books. In 2021, her Reading for Wellbeing project launched with local authorities across the North East. In 2022, she was awarded an OBE for her services to reading and libraries. She lives in Northumberland.

BY ANN CLEEVES

The Sleeping and the Dead    Burial of Ghosts

The Killing Stones

The George and Molly Palmer-Jones series

A Bird in the Hand    Come Death and High Water

Murder in Paradise    A Prey to Murder

Another Man’s Poison    Sea Fever

The Mill on the Shore    High Island Blues

The Inspector Ramsay series

A Lesson in Dying    Murder in My Backyard

A Day in the Death of Dorothea Cassidy    Killjoy

The Healers    The Baby-Snatcher

The Vera Stanhope series

The Crow Trap    Telling Tales    Hidden Depths

Silent Voices    The Glass Room    Harbour Street

The Moth Catcher    The Seagull

The Darkest Evening    The Rising Tide    The Dark Wives

The Shetland series

Raven Black    White Nights    Red Bones

Blue Lightning    Dead Water    Thin Air

Cold Earth    Wild Fire

The Two Rivers series

The Long Call    The Heron’s Cry

The Raging Storm

The Dying Light

First published 2026 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2026 by Macmillan

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ISBN 978-1-5290-7781-0

Copyright © Ann Cleeves 2026

Cover images © Rachael Fraser/Arcangel Images (woman); Silas Manhood/Trevillion Images (man); Shutterstock (other images)

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