Prologue

New York, 1996.

~

The black unmarked police SUV rolled down the deserted highway of upstate New York. There were four occupants, the driver in the driver’s seat. In the back sat a young nine year old girl in a pretty pink dress clutching a soft toy teddy bear with a matching pink bow, seated beside her was a female officer in uniform smiling reassuringly at the pale, shaking little girl. In the front passenger, gazing out the window at the brown landscape flashing by, dark sunglasses covering tired eyes sat James Holland. He was 28 years with thick, dark hair, fine features and tanned skin. He was the only adult occupant not dressed in a police uniform, instead he wore dark blue stripped pants, a white paisley patterned shirt and matching blue waistcoat. His jacket sat on the floor by his feet where he had thrown it when they had climbed into the car half an hour before.

The country landscape changed to built up community housing and the SUV turned at a set of lights and drove into a residential estate. A couple of twists and turns later they pulled into a street and the car crawled slowly along. Glancing behind him, James saw the child was peering excitedly out the passenger window at the houses, counting the numbers on the mailboxes. They reached their destination and the car pulled into the driveway.

Before either of them could react, the girl squealed and opened the door, diving out of the car before it had come to a complete stop. James unbuckled his seat belt quickly and was out of the car at the same time as the female officer.

‘Mommy!’ screamed the little girl as she ran up the small path to the door where two adults stood, arms wrapped around each other. At the sight of the girl the woman burst into tears and ran forwards to grapple the girl into a hug, the male a second behind them, dropping to his knees and embracing both of them.

Out of the car, James stood awkwardly by the open door, the support officer by his side.She glanced at him for direction and he nodded, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses not wavering from the happy family before him.

The support officer walked up the path and the father rose, holding out a hand to shake hers. The little girl hugged the officer and James watched their lips moving as they talked but he heard nothing, his mind blocking out the cheerful sounds. The small family invited the support officer in and she followed them into the house, holding onto the little girl’s hand. As they disappeared inside James slipped back into his seat and removed his glasses. He squinted at the change in light until his eyes adjusted.

‘You’re not joining them?’ asked the driver beside him, puzzled.

James shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘How come? You led the investigation. You found her and got her back.’

‘Mmm,’ grunted James, agreeing. He had done that. The girl had been reported missing from her room a week ago, the window open and a note telling the parents instructions on a ransom would come later. The police department had called him and he took over the investigation. The woman’s brother bet his half of his inheritance away and got caught up with dangerous people. The sister refused to loan him anything from the vast amount that she had just come into possession of. The brother got desperate and kidnapped his niece. He had been sloppy and left a paper trail of A4 size sheets across the place. The girl was safe and the brother was in jail and would be for a short period of time. At no time had the girl been in any actual danger, except if the loan sharks had caught up with the brother but they hadn’t and so there was no need to think about that.

‘I don’t like happy reunions,’ said James. He liked to do his job and move on to the next. Focus on the work and not get caught up in the emotion of the cases. He had to stay separate from them otherwise he might break down. That wasn’t wise. Had to keep emotions repressed in these cases.

A short time later he watched the support officer leave the house and walked down the garden path. She slipped into the back seat and buckled up before leaning forwards, poking her head between the two front car seats. ‘They’re really grateful, James,’ she said. ‘They couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to come in but respected the wish to not thank you in person. But they do thank you.’

James nodded, smiling weakly. ‘Thanks.’ He pulled his glasses back on and suppressed a yawn. ‘Alright. Let’s roll this car around and get back,’ he ordered.

New York, 1996.

~

It was a warm morning and James Holland felt the sweat gather beneath his shirt collar and could even feel it begin to drip down his back. It was a strange, humid heat, unnatural for the time of year. It was difficult to think when it was hot, when you were uncomfortable and dreaming of being able to change into a shirt that wasn’t damp. There was another problem caused by the heat, and that was the effect it had on things. Like dead bodies.

The smell was bad. Not bad bad, but if the body had sat undisturbed and unnoticed for any longer than it would be awful. The body in question was a woman, slumped in a sofa. The only sort of identifying feature that told James that he was looking at a woman was the fact that she was wearing a dress. He couldn’t tell from the face because that no longer existed. In fact, her head and face was plastered all over the TV screen and surrounding wall. He drew in a deep breath through his mouth and left the room.

It was July in New York and the weather had only just begun to heat and warm through the pavements of the sidewalks and the streets. Tourists were beginning to flock to New York City and see the sights of Broadway and Central Park. In the outskirts of the city itself, further up north near Syracuse things were quieter and had not yet begun to heat up, as it were, with tourists or even locals heading out to enjoy the warmth in the open countryside.

‘What do you reckon?’ an officer outside the house asked James as stepped out onto the front porch. James exhaled the breath he had been holding, releasing it into the air and drew in a fresh breath through his noses. There were jasmine in garden pots along the front fence of the porch and the scent hung thickly in the air.

‘It’s a mess,’ said James in reply. ‘A big mess.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ the officer said, nodding in agreement. James sneaked a peek at him out of the side of his eyes. The man’s face was white. Not pale from not being in the sun, but sickly.

‘You had a look, huh?’ he asked.

The officer nodded.

‘You throw up?’

The officer frowned at the question, taken by surprise and hastily shook his head. James’ eyebrows raised questioningly and the officer meekly looked at the floor and nodded.

‘It happens to the best of us,’ said James, unbuttoning his coat and flapping the sides to get some sort of breeze circulating. ‘It’s how we know we’re alive and how we know we’re human.’

The officer didn’t reply but simply nodded. James smiled reassuringly, drew another deep breath of jasmine and went back inside.

The house was a rundown three bedroom place with one storey and garage, a bathroom and open floor living area with a tiny kitchen. At the moment the hub of activity was the living and dining area. Various officers stood around watching as the small forensics team examined the body.  

Bile rose in Jame’s mouth as he stared once again at the blood mess before him. There was a shot gun lying on the floor by the chair, the deceased woman’s arm hanging over the edge of the arm rest, fingers barely touching the polished barrel of the weapon. The call out had happened early that morning an hour or so after he had arrived at the office in Manhattan, One Police Plaza.

‘We have a situation we want you to look at,’ the captain said, calling James into his office. He wasn’t even seated before the captain told him. ‘We received a call of a possible break-in by a neighbour who noticed the front door of the house broken in, glass everywhere and no sign of the owner. Police arrived and found who think is the owner deceased in her living room.’

‘Think is the owner?’ asked James, seating himself and bending forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin in his hands.

‘Yeah,’ said his captain. ‘We haven’t got an official ID of the victim yet. I want you to go down and head the investigation. Find out whether it’s a break in gone wrong or something else.’

And that was all the information he was given apart from the address. As he stared at the unknown deceased he wished Captain Ekhart had chosen to share a little bit more detail of the way of death before he got there. But then, James thought as he continued to stare, Ekhart probably knew he wouldn’t have accepted if he had known what awaited.

As he stared at the body the room seemed to spin and change, evolving into another time and place buried deep in his memories. It was another ramshackle room, also a living room, a chair situated in front of a fireplace. An older woman with greying hair, gaunt features and a red apron. She was holding a shotgun in her hand, staring off distantly into the flickering flames. As James watched her fiddling with the safety switch, flicking it on and off, he turned to face the open door of the living room. A just 19 year old boy with a mop of thick black hair and spotty features dressed in school uniform stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame as if scared to enter. He was watching the woman in the chair, unable to see the gun from his position in the door.

James’ face paled and he tried to hurry across the room in an attempt to shield the boy, but in the delusional dream he couldn’t move. His feet were planted on the ground as if his shoes were in dried cement. He couldn’t even scream at the boy to close his eyes and go away as the boy finally let go of the door frame and entered the room, walking slowly towards the woman in the chair. The woman in the chair flicked the safety switch off, place the barrel of the gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Buckshot entered her head, blowing up and out of the back of her head, brains and blood and bone covering the boys face as he stepped up to the chair.

The dream shifted and was replaced with present day. The boy screaming and covered in his mother’s brains dissolved and the older woman was replaced by the 30 year old on her sofa in front of the TV. Swallowing the bile and wincing as it burned his throat on its way down, James coughed to clear his throat and stepped up to  the forensic officer, Craig Flowers, taking photographs of the close up of the deceased’s face.

‘Cause of death, Craig?’ asked James, hoping some light humour would make him feel better.

‘Don’t know,’ Craig said, snapping an extra shot and stepping away to let another forensic officer begin taking samples of substance under fingernails. ‘Shot gun to the head might be a good guess.’

‘Mmm,’ grunted James. ‘That’s what I thought. Ugh,’ he said, face scrunching at the view. He turned around looked around the room. It was open and, frankly, sparse for such a big house for the only occupant. He would have to find out if others lived there. There was the single seat sofa taken by the victim in front of the television, a coffee table littered with subscription magazines to home development and gossip channels, and a couple of containers of Chinese takeaway. One looked old and the other was beyond old.

He turned to the kitchen. There were dishes piled in the sink, but the bench top itself was clear of any personal belongings.

‘Victim’s sitting in front of the TV. TV was not on when I arrived,’ he said, turning back to Craig. ‘Did the officers that called this in say anything about that?’

Shrugging, Craig began packing away his camera into its bag. The other officers were packaging their samples and stacking them in boxes to be taken out to their van parked on the street.

‘Door broken open. But it’s the front door, which is odd. It’s open straight out to the street where anyone could see. Unless…’ James turned back to Craig who had just picked up a box to take to the van.

‘A rough estimate of time of death?’ asked James.

‘Sometime today,’ Craig told him. ‘It’s hard to say without the coroner having a look.’

‘Very helpful,’ muttered James dryly. ‘Why don’t you just take your samples back to the office.’

‘Already on it,’ commented Craig cheerfully, walking away.

It just didn’t feel like a break in, mused James, looking around the home. Things seemed too intact and the body. He took another look. They were preparing to take her away. Her right arm dangling towards the gun. It almost looked like a suicide, except the bullet entry position was off. So was it a break in, like the door suggested, or a suicide like the body placing suggested?

‘All right, listen up,’ said James, raising his voice so all officers still within the house could hear. ‘I want the street checked, door to door, did anyone see anything? A shot gun wet off, so did anyone hear anything? I want this place searched and every item catalogued of what is in here. Does it look like it should be where you find it, does it look like it shouldn’t be there, does it look like something should be somewhere but it’s not. I want to know everything. I want to know who this woman is and does she have family, friends, acquaintances. Have they been to this house and can they help identify if anything has been stolen? Has everyone understood that?’

There were resounding murmurs of affirmation around the remaining officers and James watched them split immediately and disperse, living him alone in the living room with an empty sofa and a bloody wall.

‘Sir.’

James turned, seeing the younger officer he had met outside. The man had more colour in his cheeks and didn’t look nearly as queasy has he had before. ‘Yes?’

‘We ran this house through our database and it’s owned by a Mr Nigel Mole. He owns another house in Cazenovia.’ James took the piece of paper with the address on it handed to him. Cazenovia was south-east of Syracuse, a town built by the lake.

‘He renting this place?’ he asked.

The officer shook his head. ‘He has in the past but according to his history it’s been off the rental market for a year and no payments have come through. By all means it should be sitting empty.’

‘All right.  Thanks. Good work.’

The man nodded in acknowledge left the room just as James heard a shout from upstairs. He rushed up the soft carpeted stairs and into the first bedroom on the left where one officer lay on the floor clutching his head while another stood over him.  

‘What’s going on?’ demanded James, looking at the strange situation. The officer on the floor was swearing and the other had begun to help him to his feet.

‘We moved the bed and Brewster stepped on his doll and slipped.’

James peered at the officer who had spoken name tag. Ming. ‘You okay, Officer Brewster?’ asked James.

‘Cracked my head on the floor. Damn room’s the only one not carpeted,’ moaned Brewster, rubbing the back of his head.

‘If it’s not bleeding, you’ll be fine,’ said James squatting by the bed to take a closer look at the object of Brewster’s fall. ‘A child’s doll,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Ming. ‘We moved the bed and Brewster tripped on it.’

James carefully picked up the doll. He straightened up and turned to the two officers. ‘What’s a Barbie doll doing in this room?’

The two officers exchanged a puzzled look and as one shrugged.

Seeing their blank expressions James sighed. ‘The implication that there’s a Barbie doll in here is big,’ he explained. ‘Because this has to belong to someone and I don’t think it’s the deceased we found. So the question is who does it belong to and where are they now?’

‘We haven’t found any other toys,’ said Brewster.

‘Or any signs of children living in the house,’ said Ming.

‘No,’ agreed James, frowning. It was true. The place was messy, but it didn’t look like a mess caused by children. ‘There are also no photos of kids on the walls or around the house.’

‘Or of the victim.’

‘What?’ James looked up, surprised by the comment. ‘What did you say?’

‘There aren’t any photos anywhere,’ said Ming. ‘It’s why we don’t know what the victim looks like, you know… as a full, bodied…’ his words dragged off silently.’

‘Person,’ said James.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Ming.

‘Show me the victim’s bedroom,’ ordered James.

The two officers led him out of the bedroom and back downstairs to the room near the front door and opposite the door leading into the garage. There was a queen size bed centred in the room with two white side sets of drawers with bedside lamps on them. A table with a mirror sat up against the closed curtains. There were make up brushes and an open jewelry box with a number of chunky bead bracelets and a small box next to it with a couple of gold coloured rings and sets of earrings.

There was a small spot of blue-tack on the mirror in the upper right-hand corner. What ever had been tacked to it had melded to the blue-tack and removing it had tore the back of and left a thin layer of paper attached to it.

‘There was a picture,’ said James, looking closely at it. ‘Maybe. Something was there. The mystery deepens.’

He handed the doll to Brewster who was still rubbing the back of his head. ‘Make sure forensics gets this. They may be able to tell us a little something about it.’

The street outside had less cars on it than when he had first arrived and everything was quiet and still in the humid heat. The trees planted in intervals on the side of the road in intervals between the driveways of the houses stood tall and still. The air was thick to breath and James desperately wished for a cool breeze to whip through and take some of the heat away. His car sat parked on the side of the road but he couldn’t get into it and feel its air conditioning just yet. There were still other things to do before heading down to Cazenovia to speak to Mr Nigel Mole about why his house was occupied and a dead woman living there.

The houses on the street were all similar shapes and sizes, but what caught James’ eye most as he walked up the driveway to the neighbouring house on the left side of the victim’s house was the fact that the victim’s house was the only one with a second floor.

He knocked at the door, peering through the marbled glass rectangle in the centre. It didn’t make sense to him to be there. It looked nice, but he couldn’t understand the point of why you would put glass in a door if you couldn’t look out of it to see who was on the other side. It opened a short moment later revealing a man James put as being late 30s, older than himself, with thinning hair and and an equally thin moustache.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ said James. ‘I’m Detective Holland. I’d like to ask some questions if you don’t mind about your neighbour next at at 47. Did you know her?’

The man looked sideways at the house and then back to James. He nodded. ‘I knew her. Not well, but I knew her.’

‘Can you tell me anything about her?’

‘Well,’ the man drawled, sucking on his lips. He was silent for a moment and then puffed out his cheeks. ‘I could describe her in one word if that would help.’

James smiled politely, lips stretching upwards in a curl, his eyes finding the other man’s. ‘I’m sure it would.’

‘Bitch.’

The smile stayed on James’ lips, only wavering ever so slightly as he processed the word in his head. ‘Succinct,’ he said after a moment’s pause. ‘Can I come in, Mr…’

‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

The smile stayed fixed on James’ lips but the humour in his eyes dripped away to nothing. ‘Very well. Why do you call her a bitch?’

‘She was,’ the man said matter of fact. ‘Up late with her boyfriend, yelling and screaming. He’d park his car in front of my driveway if he couldn’t park in hers and I’d complain and she’d yell at me, defending him, then later I’d hear them arguing. Don’t know why she defended him or anything, he was just as bad as her. But at least he didn’t scream at me any time I looked his way or scream if I told him to shut the fuck up like she would.’

‘Do you know her name? And that of the boyfriend?’ asked James, processing what he had just been told.

‘Something Forrest,’ the man told him. ‘Can’t remember the boyfriend. Dean maybe. What’s up next door anyway?’

‘Next door?’ said James, trading the smile over to a look of nonchalance. ‘Break in by the looks of it. You didn’t happen to see anyone come by the house this morning, or hear anything unusual, did you?’

The man thought about the questions, sucking on his cheeks again and then finally shook his head. ‘Didn’t see anything or hear anything.’

‘Right,’ James drew the word out in a long, unbelieving tone. ‘Sleeping?’

‘I work nights. Only got back this morning and went straight to sleep,’ the man said, voice monotone, his face twitching in an effort to remain blank. ‘Didn’t see or hear a thing.’

‘Well I’m sorry to disturb you from your sleep,’ said James. ‘Thank you for your time.’

He received a nod in reply and then the door closed in his face. And even though he couldn’t see through the marbled glass in the front door James had a feeling the neighbour was still standing there. James clicked his tongue and headed across the lawns to the house on the other side of 47. The man at 49 was clearly lying about a lot of things, and so he couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth in the face their unidentified victim had a boyfriend Dean or if that was also a lie. Either way, the neighbour still had a grudge against Mr Forrest, if that was her name, that was for sure.

James stepped up the path to the next house and pressed the doorbell. He could hear it ring inside, like a big bell getting fainter with each ring. This was the neighbour that made the initial call to police so he had his fingers crossed they would be more receptive to questions and actually answering them.

He rang the bell again and it chimed off inside but there was no sound of anyone rushing to come answer the door. He took a step back, looking up at the house. The blinds in the windows were closed and there was a fence up against the house that prevented anyone from walking down the side of the house. Whoever lived there either didn’t want to answer the door or just wasn’t in. Next on the list was Mr Mole in Cazenovia. The officers would go door to door anyway taking officials statements once they were done anyway.

James climbed into his car, cranking the heat on high as cold as it could go and breathed a sigh of relief at the feeling of something cold washing over his body for the first time in a long time. As he pulled away from the curb he noticed something hanging by the front door of No. 47 and he slammed on the brakes and parked the car. Winding down his window he stared at the little security camera nestled in the corner above the door. It was looking straight into the front yard and the path leading up to the door. ‘Huh,’ mused James. He hadn’t even noticed it when he had arrived. Nor had he noticed anywhere in the house where it was recorded to. But maybe the other officers had found something. He would check with them later.

The town of Cazenovia sat by the Cazenovia Lake. It was approximately 10 miles around and an incredible 45 feet deep. It was a gorgeous view, especially when the sun set and the clouds above it turned bronze red. To have a house situated by the shore of it told James enough about Nigel Mole without having to meet him and so that just made James even more eager to be acquainted.

And just as he imaged the house was impressive. It was brown brick with multiple stories, peaked roofs and stone chimneys. A gravel driveway led up to the front gate that stood open and James made his way to the cul-du-sac at the front door and parked. The grass around the house was lush green and the air had the tiniest hint of the lake on it.

James hated places like this. Not the houses, or the architecture, but the feel. The big, imposing look. The majestic facade of it being better than other places, because if people could afford to live in a place like that, in his experience, they tended to think they were better than other people. So, he mused, as he walked up to the door, perhaps it wasn’t the house he hated so much but the people in them. However, he still couldn’t shift the feeling he felt when he saw places like this.

There was no door bell, but James didn’t have to knock. Instead, when he reached the door it swung open and a middle aged man with a fat nose and balding head dressed up in a red dressing gown with gold creasing on the edges and a fishing rod in one hand and a tackle box in the other emerged. The two men came face to face with each other and stared in surprise, both equally shocked by the other.

‘Oy vey you got the heart pumping,’ the old man said, his had a whine to it with hints of Eastern European. ‘What’cha you want? I ain’t giving no donations to nothing.’

‘Uh, no,’ stuttered James. He composed himself quickly. ‘I’m looking for Nigel Mole.’

‘You found him. What’cha you want?’

‘I’m Detective James Holland, I’d like to ask you some questions about a house you own in Syracuse, No. 47 -’

‘Ah what you coming to me for complaining about Claudia for? I don’t care what racket she’s making with that louse of a boy she’s going with. She rent the place and she keeps it neat and brings no cost to me. What do I care if she disturbs the neighbours? Means nothing to me. You take it up with her.’

The words cascaded over James at overwhelming speed and he had to duck once to avoid being whipped in the face by the fishing rod.

‘I’m not here about noise complaints,’ he said loudly, breaking into the Nigel Mole’s flurry of words. ‘I’m here for another matter entirely.’

‘Eh?’ Nigel Mole’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement, his attention caught. ‘What matter?’

‘A break in at the house was reported this morning by one of the neighbours. A woman was found dead there.’

‘Eh?’ Nigel Mole’s face turned pale and he swayed on his feet and James stilled himself ready to catch him in case he fell. The older man steadied himself against the door post and put his tackle box on the ground and leaned his rod against the wall, moping his forehead with a large red handkerchief he pulled from the breast pocket of his dressing gown. ‘Claudia’s dead?’

‘We don’t have a positive ID on the deceased as yet,’ explained James. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Nigel Mole nodded, a faraway expression on his face as he stood still in the doorway not moving.

James gently guided him back inside and found himself in a massive open room with a high painted ceiling and red cushioned sofas spread around the floor on handwoven rugs. James led the man to one of the couches and helped him down, then found a decanter with a gold liquid inside and splashed some into a glass.

‘Hey not so much. That’s expensive,’ the man exclaimed from the chair. ‘Plus too much sends me tipsy, you know?’

James handed the glass over and Nigel Mole swallowed it in one go, letting out a sigh of acceptance. ‘That’s the good stuff,’ he said.

James took a seat opposite and sat watching the old man who was now staring into the bottom of the glass. He waited. Eventually Nigel Mole stirred and focused on James. ‘Your name again?’

‘James Holland.’

The man nodded. ‘Detective. Yeah. Good. So Claudia, what happened?’

‘We don’t know it’s Claudia,’ repeated James. ‘We haven’t been able to pull ID yet. But perhaps you can help us with that. She was found in the house, the only one in the house. This Claudia you mentioned, who is she? Full name?’

‘Forrest. Claudia Forrest. My tenant. She rents the house at No. 47. Good girl but, eh,’ Nigel Mole tilted his open flat hand, ‘she’s a bit up and down.’

‘She rents the house?’

‘Eh, not so much. I let her reside there rent free for now. She’s between job, what with dumping that no good louse of hers and that kid.’ Nigel Mole focused on James, his eyes narrowing at him, ‘What do you mean you haven’t identified her?’

‘Mmm.’ James shifted in his chair. ‘It looks like someone broke into the house, Mr Mole, and Claudia was shot point blank by a shot gun. Our only means of a proper identification will be from her fingerprints.’

‘Why?’ the question was pointed and frantic and James could see the fear rising in Nigel Mole’s eyes, but the fear was being repressed. He wanted to do.

‘To be blunt, Mr Mole, she was shot through the neck into the head and there is little of her face left.’

James sat in the silence that followed the statement. After a moment he rose and poured Nigel Mole another drink and the old man shot it back, this time without a gasp of appreciation.

‘Some guy broke in and shot her under the chin into the head? That ain’t right.’

‘Murder is almost never right, or make any sense,’ said James. ‘But we can -’

‘I ain’t talking about whether it was right or what,’ snapped the man. ‘I mean if you break into a house you shoot ‘em in the head or the body, but you don’t place a muzzle under the chin or a girl and pull the trigger that way.’

Yes, agreed James, placing a gun under your chin and pulling the trigger was a way to shoot yourself. Not as smooth as a gun in the mouth and pulling the trigger which might blow out the back of your neck and you live, but under the chin the bullet will go up through the hard pallet of your mouth into your brain. And if you use a shot gun … well, the buck shot blows away your jaw front of the face and everything. That’s why the idea of a break in didn’t make sense. Unless - that was an idea, mused James. The break in happened afterwards and the burglar was freaked by the body and left.

‘You mentioned just before Claudia had a kid. Can you tell me about him?’

‘Her,’ corrected Nigel Mole, ‘Marjorie.’

James smiled to himself. It was satisfying to put a wrong proposition to someone and have them unwittingly correct the mistake and confirm the suspicion. It was easier than asking them and having them lie.

‘Marjorie,’ James noted the name and tucked it away for later. ‘Tell me about her.’

‘Well, sweet girl but tough life. She’s 14, you know? Life is hard enough as a girl but as a teen?’ Nigel Mole shrugged. ‘Caught between parents ain’t no life, hey.’

‘No, it’s not,’ agreed James. Neither was being the only child of a single parent. But then from his own perspective it wasn’t easy being a child and he couldn’t imagine it was easy to be a parent either. ‘So Claudia’s divorced?’

‘Never married. The schmuck weaselled into her life, caused havoc and left as much destruction as a hurricane. Marjorie’s the one good thing from Claudia’s relationship to Dean, but it’s not been good. You think he done? I think he done this.’

James shook his head, ‘No, I don’t. We don’t have any suspects yet. We’re still investigating. But can you tell me who this Dean is and where to find him? And Marjorie.’

‘Dean Locke. I don’t know where he is. It’s probably better that way. And Marjorie wouldn’t be with him. Claudia wouldn’t do that. She refused his pleas of joint custody. He don’t have a right. Yeah.’

‘Of course,’ said James. He stood. ‘Thanks for your time. I’m sorry to bring such bad news. But we will be in contact in case we need anything else.’

Nigel Mole rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘You find the one responsible. I tell you it’s Dean and you’ll find it to be true. The sooner you find him the better it will be.’

‘We’ll find the one responsible, don’t worry,’ assured James. ‘By the way,’ he said as the both walked to the front door, ‘the security camera above the front door of No. 47, do you have the recordings here?’

Nigel Mole snorted at the thought and waved it away. ‘Do I look like I’d breach a tenant’s trust by spying on their access to the house? Claudia put that up. She wanted it to see when Dean came round and as she said she’d pay for it herself I agreed, you know?’

‘So the camera films the front yard and passage up to the door?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the recording should be inside the house so Claudia can see it?’

‘No point my having it. Useless. I don’t drive so even if anybody came up to the house that knowledge is useless to me.’

‘Of course. Well thank you so much for you time. Like I said, we’ll be in touch.’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

James stepped over the tackle box and returned to his chair. His car was still cool from his last drive, his visit only being short. There wasn’t much else he could do outside the office so back he would have to go. His stomach was rumbling and he was reminded how he had viewed a crime scene with an empty stomach, which had washed away all feelings of being hungry but now his stomach was reminding him it existed. And then he would have to visit the pathologist and have it confirmed that the dead woman in Claudia’s house was Claudia Forrest.