‘This was in the Evening Standard yesterday.’

The report of Eddie’s murder was brief but it was accompanied by a photograph of him and Sadie on their wedding day. The couple were standing on the steps of Finsbury Town Hall, all smiles. He was kitted out in a very Seventies-looking brown suit and she was wearing a short pale dress that might have been cream – it was impossible to tell exactly what colour from the fax – and knee-high boots. Her fair hair was longer than it was now, reaching almost to her waist. He wondered where the London paper had got the picture. From Eddie’s family perhaps? ‘Well, I suppose it might jog someone’s memory.’

‘And Joel Hunter’s alibi pans out. Unless his parents and the vicar are covering for him.’

Gerald smiled. ‘What are the chances?’

‘So what next? Do we go and to talk to Sadie Wise again?’

‘No, not right now. She’s got something on her mind, but she’s not prepared to share it yet. Let’s leave her to stew for a while.’

PC John Turner furrowed his brow. ‘I don’t get it, though. If it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a row about the divorce, that would make sense, but it can’t have been… well, not if the autopsy’s right about the time of death. And if she got someone else to kill him… why on earth would she do that? Surely she can’t have hated him that much? It’s been years since he left her and she’s with someone else now. There’s no life insurance so she wouldn’t benefit financially. I don’t get what the motive is.’

Gerald gave a shrug. Turner was young and enthusiastic, eager to make a mark in his chosen career. He liked the man and knew he was bright, but suspected that he wouldn’t stay long in Haverlea. Once the constable had passed his sergeant’s exams, he’d be looking for bigger challenges than this seaside town could offer him. ‘Just because we can’t see the motive yet, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.’

‘So how do we find it?’

Gerald sneezed loudly and reached for the box of tissues. When he’d finished mopping up his nose, he threw the damp tissues into the bin. ‘We keep digging,’ he said, ‘until we find out where the secrets are buried.’

18

Petra Gissing was on her hands and knees keeping up a stream of muttered imprecations as she scrubbed at the kitchen floor. ‘Slut… bitch… cow… whore…’ How could anyone let this amount of dirt accumulate? The lino was sticky and thick with grime. She had not been able to find any rubber gloves and already her hands were turning red from the bleach.

For years Petra had kept this house spotless and now it was more like a squat than a family home. It was no longer her job to keep the place clean, but what choice did she have? She wasn’t prepared to live in squalor, no matter how much she resented doing Sharon’s job for her. The little tart had gone out first thing this morning and still hadn’t come back. God knows where she was – probably screwing some other poor sucker for whatever she could get out of him. Cash would be tight now that Roy was inside and Sharon wasn’t the type to go without.

As Petra worked her way around the edges of the oven, she reassured herself with the thought that the relationship wouldn’t last. Roy was a pain in the arse when he was banged up – demanding, paranoid and spiteful. She’d give it six months before Sharon bailed and found herself an easier ride. And then… well, Roy would be left high and dry with only Wayne to rely on. And much as she loved her son, he wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. He wasn’t overly keen on prison visiting either, especially when it involved a long slog to Suffolk. Roy would be lucky to see him once a month.

A plan was gradually forming in Petra’s head. Bournemouth was nice enough but she had never really settled there. London was her home, where she belonged, and it tugged on her heart like an old lover. Not that she wanted Roy – that ship had sailed long ago – but she did want her house back and to be closer to her kids. To some the old backstreet semi might only seem like bricks and mortar, but for her it held a thousand memories.

She dunked the cloth in the hot water, wrung it out and wiped down the front of the oven. Her knees were starting to ache and she shifted position, trying to get more comfortable. Roy had given her a decent settlement – it was shortly after the Hatton Garden job – and she’d taken the money and run. She regretted it now. She should have held out for the house and forced him and his fancy piece to find somewhere else to live.

But it wasn’t too late, she thought. With Roy out of the way, there was an opportunity to get back what was rightfully hers. And possession was nine-tenths of the law. All she had to do now was to get rid of the slut and she’d be laughing.

The back door opened and she raised her head, hoping it was Sharon. She was just in the mood for another scrap. Instead it was Wayne who came in, shedding snow from his boots. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Wayne gave her a look. ‘Who else were you expecting?’

‘Take those boots off. I’ve just cleaned that bit.’

He frowned as if the concept of cleanliness was an alien one, but still did as he was told. ‘It ain’t your job to wash the floor.’

‘Oh yeah? And who’s going to do it if I don’t? I’m surprised you lot ain’t dead by now. Filthy this place is, a bleeding disgrace.’

‘How’s Kel?’ Wayne asked, dumping a carrier bag on the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Where is she?’

‘Upstairs, having a lie-down.’

‘You think it’s good for her, taking all those pills?’

Petra heaved herself to her feet and sloshed the bucket of dirty water down the sink. ‘You think it’s good for her, crying all day? She needs some rest. Poor kid doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. The shock’s been too much for her.’

Wayne sat back, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You making a brew then?’

‘Why? You lost the use of your legs all of a sudden?’

‘I’ve been working.’

‘And you think I haven’t?’ Petra glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s only half twelve. What are you doing back so early?’

‘Lunchtime, ain’t it?’ Wayne tapped the carrier bag. ‘Anyway, I need to drop the books off with Stacky.’

‘What are you using him for?’ Eric Stack was a local accountant, as bent as they came and happy to cook the books for a price. ‘The man’s a creep. I’m sure the bastard charges more than he ever saves you. You want me to take a look at them instead?’

‘You?’

Petra put her hands on her hips. ‘Why not? I always used to do them.’

‘Yeah, used to. I don’t think the old man would be too happy about it now. He told me to give them to Stacky.’

‘Your choice, love. I just figured things might be a bit tight now your dad’s inside. No point in throwing money away, is there? Anyway, what he doesn’t know isn’t going to bother him.’

Wayne thought about this for a while, weighing up his father’s displeasure – should he ever find out – against the cash he could save. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.’

Petra turned away to hide her smile. It was just a single step but it was an important one. Over the next few weeks she planned to make herself indispensable in every way. She and Wayne hadn’t always seen eye to eye – unlike Kelly, he hadn’t exactly stuck up for her over the whole Sharon business – but then he’d always been under his father’s thumb. Now Roy was out of the picture, everything was going to be different.

‘Fancy a sandwich then?’ she asked. ‘I was just going to make one for myself.’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’

‘So how’s it going at the yard?’

‘So so.’

Petra got out a loaf of bread and began buttering the slices. Roy’s scrapyard was fifty per cent legit but the other half was decidedly shady – nicked lead, copper and anything else the local opportunists could get their thieving mitts on. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Things a bit slow since your dad went inside?’