‘An epileptic fit, a rebleed, swollen brain tonsils. And he’s been having small but regular epileptic fits ever since. It’s not looking good.’ Gibbs shook his jacket off his shoulders and took a sip of his pint. He and Sellers were in the Brown Cow, not the nearest pub to work, but the only one in Spilling that served seven different kinds of Timothy Taylor beer. The walls and ceiling were covered in dark wood panelling, and there was a no-smoking room to the left of the front door, with a framed portrait of the eponymous brown cow on the wall. No bobby or detective would risk sitting in there, even the ones who didn’t smoke, in case someone saw them. The sarge, who did, thought it wasn’t fair that the non-smokers got the picture of the cow in their room, the pub’s only painting. ‘All we get is the crappy menu boards,’ she often complained. A sign to the right of the bar warned customers that, from Monday 17 April, the entire pub would be a smoke-free zone.

‘Status epilepticus,’ said Gibbs, in a hard, bitter voice. ‘Just our fucking luck. What did you order me?’ He took another large gulp of his pint, and belched.

‘Steak pie and chips. I haven’t ordered for Waterhouse.’

‘He’ll have a pint, no food. He’s got some fucking weird hang-up about eating in front of other people. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’

When all was well, Sellers and Gibbs sometimes discussed Simon Waterhouse’s peculiarities, but Sellers was reluctant to do so with Gibbs in this mood.

‘I bet you’re having chicken with something fancy stuffed up its arse, fruit or some shite like that.’

‘Where’s the sarge?’ Sellers ignored the sneery tone. In fact, he had ordered a perfectly respectable haddock and chips.

‘At the hospital, brushing up on boffin jargon.’ Everything Gibbs said sounded like an excellent way to end a conversation.

Sellers tried again. ‘I see we’ve got some extra bodies drafted in to help with the donkey work. How did Proust wangle that?’

‘Waste of time. Half of them are on to the theatres, half are ploughing through rape porn sites on the Net, but so far, nothing. That cunt Juliet Haworth’s still not talking, and we can’t do a fucking thing about that, can we?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, she smashed her husband’s head in with a rock. She’s made it pretty clear our words will never hurt her, the cocky bitch. Time for some sticks and stones.’

‘You want to start beating up women now? Look good on your CV, that will.’

‘If it stops innocent women getting pulled off the street and raped . . .’

‘How can that be down to Juliet Haworth?’

Gibbs shrugged. ‘She knows something. She knew what had happened to Naomi Jenkins, didn’t she? Know what I reckon? Haworth’s our rapist, whatever Jenkins is saying now. And his cunt of a wife helped him.’

So why are you looking at me like it’s my fault? Sellers wondered if he was getting paranoid in his old age.

‘I spoke to the people at SRISA about Tanya from Cardiff,’ said Gibbs. ‘They had her details.’

‘And?’

‘Killed herself. Overdose.’

‘Shit. When?’

‘Last year. Want some more good news? Speak Out and Survive were a wash-out. They had nothing. New computers, very little paperwork. I’ve got someone on it, but I doubt we’ll be talking to survivor thirty-one any time soon.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. It is, really. Still, don’t let it get you down.’ Gibbs faked a sickly smile. ‘You’re off away with Suki soon, aren’t you? Sun, fun and sex. You won’t want to come back.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Sellers murmured, ignoring the snide delivery. He was already getting worried about what he’d do when the holiday was over, when he no longer had it to look forward to. He was of the view that it was the anticipation of the sex more than the sex itself that made adultery and infidelity well worth the risk.

‘If Stacey finds out where you are, you won’t have the option of coming back, even if you want to. Maybe I could invite Suki to my wedding. That’d be a nice surprise for Stacey, wouldn’t it?’

It took a lot to make Sellers lose his temper, but Gibbs had been putting in the hours recently. ‘What the fuck’s your problem? Are you jealous, is that it? You’ve got your honeymoon coming up. Where is it you’re going? Seychelles?’

‘Tunisia. My honeymoon. Of course—an age-old tradition. If you get married, you have a honeymoon.’

‘What?’ Sellers couldn’t grasp the implication, if there was one.

‘Traditions are important, aren’t they? Wouldn’t want to miss out,’ said Gibbs. The last two words sounded clipped, exaggerated. Foam from his pint coated his upper lip.

Hearing the song that had begun to blare from the jukebox, Sellers realised that every day he liked Chris Gibbs less and less. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ he asked.

‘Second thoughts about what?’ contributed a voice from behind them.

‘Waterhouse! What are you . . . Oh, you’ve got one.’ Sellers was pleased to see him. Anything to avoid a heavy conversation with Gibbs about feelings. Was Gibbs even capable of such a feat?

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Simon. ‘There’ve been some developments. I just got off the phone with forensics.’

‘And?’

‘The stain-remover on the Haworths’ stair carpet. There’s blood underneath it—Robert Haworth’s.’ Sellers opened his mouth, but Simon answered before he had a chance to ask. ‘The stairs are visible from the front door. The master bedroom isn’t. Anyway, there was too much blood in the bedroom. There’d have been no point even trying.’

‘What other developments?’ asked Sellers.

‘Robert Haworth’s lorry. Traces of semen all over the floor. Not his.’

‘I bet loads of lorry drivers have a wank in the back of the van when they stop at services,’ Gibbs mused.

‘Not his?’ Sellers echoed. ‘Definitely?’

Simon nodded. ‘That’s not all. The keys to the lorry were in the house, and they’ve got Juliet Haworth’s fingerprints on them as well as her husband’s. That in itself might not be significant. All the keys in the Haworths’ house live in a pottery bowl on the table in the kitchen, so Juliet could have touched the ones for the lorry when she was replacing her house keys, but . . .’

‘The long, thin room Kelvey and Freeguard mentioned . . .’ Sellers thought aloud. ‘Haworth’s lorry.’

‘That was my first thought too,’ said Simon. ‘But where’s the mattress? It wasn’t in the lorry, and forensics got nothing from the one Robert Haworth was found lying on in his bedroom, just Haworth’s DNA and Juliet’s.’

‘Naomi Jenkins mentioned a plastic cover on the mattress in her statement,’ Sellers reminded him.

‘Kelvey and Freeguard didn’t,’ said Simon. ‘I rang Sam Kombothekra, asked him to check. There was no plastic cover in either case. Just a bare mattress. Which, let’s face it, was probably taken to some tip and dumped.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘You’re right, though. Kelvey and Freeguard were raped in Haworth’s lorry. One of the long sides isn’t metal—it’s made of a sort of thick canvas. It’s just a huge flap of material, basically, with ties all along the bottom to attach it to the side of the floor. Freeguard said something about a cloth wall. It’s got to be the lorry.’

‘I reckon Juliet Haworth’s the driving force behind the rapes,’ Gibbs tried his theory out on Simon. ‘She’s got a male accomplice, the one who’s been dripping his cum all over the back of Haworth’s lorry, but she’s the brains behind it. She’s been using hubby’s lorry as a venue, selling tickets to live rapes. Nice little earner. So much for her not working.’

‘Naomi Jenkins looks down on her for being a kept woman,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘She’s always making jibes about it.’

‘Kept, my arse.’ Gibbs snorted. ‘She probably makes more money from her little business than Haworth does from his driving.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sellers. ‘We only know of four definites: Jenkins, Kelvey, Freeguard and survivor thirty-one. And only two of those were in the long, thin room. The others were in this theatre place, wherever the fuck.’

‘Why the change from theatre to van?’ said Simon.

‘There might have been a lot more who didn’t report it,’ said Gibbs. ‘Jenkins, Kelvey and Freeguard all said the rapist threatened to kill them. And if that wasn’t enough of an incentive to keep quiet, let’s face it, a lot of women wouldn’t want to go public and be seen as damaged goods, and a lot of men would see them that way. Whatever they say.’

‘All right,’ said Sellers wearily. ‘But assuming you’re right about Juliet and her accomplice, did Robert Haworth know? Was he in on it?’

‘My gut feeling is that he didn’t. Maybe he found out, and that was why Juliet went for him with the doorstop,’ said Simon. ‘Here’s something, though: when Charlie spoke to Yvon Cotchin, Cotchin told her that Naomi Jenkins had said Robert didn’t do overnight jobs any more. Apparently Juliet didn’t like him being away from home—that was the reason he gave Jenkins, anyway . . .’

‘But you’re thinking maybe she didn’t like the lorry being away from home, because she needed it for her own work,’ Sellers completed Simon’s hypothesis for him. ‘If you’re right, it’d explain a few things. Robert Haworth started going out with both Sandy Freeguard and Naomi Jenkins after they were raped—three months after, in Freeguard’s case and two years after in Jenkins’. Maybe Juliet fixed him up with them somehow.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Gibbs sneered. ‘How exactly would she have managed that?’

‘How, and why?’ Simon chewed the inside of his lip, thinking. ‘And even if she tried to, would Haworth really go along with it? I wondered about that, and decided it was impossible. Unlikely, at least.’

‘I can answer the why,’ said Gibbs. ‘She’s a pervert. She gets a sexual kick out of knowing her husband’s knobbing these women who have already been knobbed by the rapist. Whoever he is.’

‘But then Haworth’d have to contrive to meet them and strike up a relationship with them—it’s too much effort. What’s in it for him? Is he also a pervert? And who’s to say the women’d want to get involved with him?’

‘That’s the kick, for both of them,’ Gibbs persisted. ‘Her arranging the rapes, then him fucking the victims. Spices up their sex life. That’s why Robert Haworth isn’t doing the rapes himself. The women’d hardly go out with him if they recognised him as the man who raped them, would they?’

Sellers couldn’t see it. ‘Kombothekra said Sandy Freeguard never had sex with Haworth. She wanted to, he didn’t. And he’s been seeing Naomi Jenkins for a year. Why so long, if it’s just so he and his wife can get their rocks off?’

‘Is it possible for a couple to suffer, jointly, from Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy?’ Simon wondered aloud. He wasn’t hopeful, but it was a theory. Sometimes the bad ones led on to good ones. ‘If it is, perhaps the idea’s that Juliet arranges the ordeal, then Robert comes along afterwards and looks after the women, helps them recover, rebuilds their confidence. Kombothekra said Sandy Freeguard complained about Haworth trying to mollycoddle her. He didn’t want her to do too much too soon. Wouldn’t have sex with her, for that reason.’

He frowned, seeing the flaw in what he was putting forward. ‘But Naomi Jenkins didn’t even tell him she was raped, and from what she’s told us, it sounds as if he treated her completely differently, not like a victim at all. The two of them went to bed together within a couple of hours of meeting.’

‘It’s bollocks.’ Gibbs yawned. ‘I’ve never heard of couples having Munchausen’s by proxy. It’s an individual thing. You wouldn’t talk about it, would you? How would they find out they both had it?’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Simon. ‘I might check with an expert, though.’

‘Expert!’ Gibbs scoffed.

‘It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever come across,’ said Sellers, his forehead creased with concentration. ‘Robert Haworth’s got to be the link—Juliet knew the MO for the rapes, and two of the victims went on to be Haworth’s girlfriends . . . but that’s it, isn’t it? They went on to be his girlfriends. Does it make sense to say he’s the link when he only met Freeguard and Jenkins after they’d been kidnapped and raped?’

Simon ran his finger around the circumference of his pint glass. ‘“Human uncertainty is all that makes the human reason strong. We never know until we fall that every word we speak is wrong.”’

‘What the fuck’s that?’ Gibbs snapped.

‘Juliet Haworth wrote it down for us,’ said Sellers.

‘It’s by a C. H. Sisson,’ said Simon. ‘He died recently. The poem’s called “Uncertainty”.’

‘Great. Let’s set up a fucking reading group,’ said Gibbs.

‘Do you think it means anything?’ asked Sellers. ‘Was Juliet Haworth trying to give us some sort of message?’

‘Loud and clear.’ Gibbs looked disgusted. ‘She’s taking the piss. Give me ten minutes alone with her . . .’

‘She’s implying that we’re wrong about everything.’ Simon tried not to sound as depressed as he felt. ‘That we’ll only realise how wrong when it’s too late.’ Or perhaps that she herself had only realised, too late, that she was wrong about Robert, and that was why she tried to kill him? No, that was reading too much into it, surely.

Simon changed the subject. ‘How did you do with the backgrounds? Is there anything in Juliet Haworth’s that looks like it might lead us to her accomplice, assuming she’s got one?’

‘I’ve got a list of names of old friends, one or two business contacts, ’ said Sellers. ‘Her parents were helpful.’ And distraught to hear that their only child had been charged with attempted murder. Telling them that hadn’t been a pleasant task.

‘Business as in making and selling her pottery cottages?’

‘Yeah. She did pretty well with it. Remmicks stocked some of her stuff for a while.’

‘So she’s got a head for business.’ Gibbs looked pleased with himself. ‘Tell him the interesting bit.’

‘I was just about to.’ Sellers turned back to Simon. ‘She’s not seen them for years, the names on the list. She’s not seen anyone but her husband, basically, since she had a nervous breakdown in 2001 due to overwork.’

‘She doesn’t seem the nervous type,’ said Simon, remembering Juliet Haworth’s confident manner; regal, almost. ‘The opposite. Are you sure?’

Sellers gave him a withering look. ‘I’ve spoken to the woman who was her doctor at the time,’ he said. ‘Juliet Haworth didn’t get out of bed for six months. She’d worked like a maniac for years, apparently, without a break, no holidays. She just . . . burned out.’

‘Was she married to Robert then?’

‘No. She lived alone before the breakdown, then moved back in with her parents after. She married Robert in 2002. I spoke to both her parents this morning, at length. Norman and Joan Heslehurst. Both say there’s no way Juliet would harm Robert. But then they also insist she would want to speak to them and have them visit her, and we know she doesn’t.’

‘They won’t be lying,’ said Gibbs. ‘They want to feel needed. Parents, aren’t they?’

‘Juliet and Robert met in a video shop,’ Sellers continued to fill Simon in. ‘In Sissinghurst, Kent. Blockbuster, on Stammers Road, near where the Heslehursts live. It was one of Juliet’s first trips out, after the breakdown. She’d forgotten to take her purse and got upset when she got to the counter and realised. Robert Haworth was in the shop, in the queue behind her. He paid for her video and made sure she got home safely. Both parents seem to regard him as a bit of a saint. Joan Heslehurst’s as upset about Robert as she is about Juliet. She says they’ve got him to thank for getting Juliet back on her feet. He was brilliant with her, apparently.’

Simon didn’t like the sound of any of that, though he wasn’t sure why. It sounded a bit too neat. He’d have to think about it. ‘What was Haworth doing in a video shop in Kent? Where did he live at the time?’

‘He bought the Spilling house just before his and Juliet’s wedding,’ said Gibbs. ‘Before that, who knows. Fucking black hole’s all the background we’ve got on him so far.’

‘Was it something specific about Juliet Haworth’s work that caused the breakdown?’ asked Simon. ‘Some change in her situation or circumstances?’

Gibbs leaned over to growl at a passing waitress about the food and why it was taking so long.

‘She was becoming more and more successful,’ said Sellers. ‘Her mum said she was fine at the beginning, while the business was still struggling. It was when it started to do well that she fell apart.’

‘Makes no sense,’ said Gibbs.

‘Yeah, it does,’ said Simon. ‘When things start to go right, that’s when the pressure’s really on. You’ve got to keep it up, haven’t you?’

‘Juliet’s mum said she ran herself into the ground, worked day and night, stopped going out. She was completely driven. Always had been.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Simon.

‘She was a high-flier all her life, before the breakdown. She was head girl at both her primary school and her secondary. An athlete too—she competed at county level, won bucket-loads of prizes. She was in the choir, got a music scholarship to King’s College, Cambridge, which she turned down, went to art college instead . . .’

‘She’s still a high-flier,’ said Gibbs, his face brightening at the sight of his steak pie emerging from the pub kitchen. ‘Except now she’s in the kidnap-and-sexual-assault business.’

‘What sort of impression did you get of her personality?’ asked Simon. The smell of Sellers’ fish and chips was making his mouth water. He’d have to buy himself a sandwich on the way back. ‘Manipulative? Devious? Defiant?’

‘Not really. An extrovert, lively, sociable. A bit manic, though, her dad said, and when she was stressed about work she could get ratty and unreasonable. He did tell me she had a temper, before the breakdown. The mum was pissed off, as you can imagine. Thought he’d landed Juliet in it. I didn’t point out how deep in it she was even before he opened his gob. The strangest thing was that both parents—everyone I’ve spoken to—talks as if there have been two Juliets, almost like two separate people.’

‘Pre- and post-breakdown?’ said Simon. ‘That can happen, I suppose.’

‘Her mum described the breakdown—what happened, you know.’ Sellers rubbed his eyes and swallowed a yawn. ‘Once she got going, I couldn’t stop her.’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Simon ignored the dismissive grunt that came from Gibbs.

‘One day Juliet was supposed to go round to her parents’ place for dinner, and she didn’t turn up. They phoned and phoned—nothing. So they went round. Juliet didn’t answer the door, but they could tell she was in—her car was there, and loud music was playing. In the end her dad broke a window. They found her in her work room, looking like she hadn’t eaten, slept or washed for days. She wouldn’t speak to them, either—just looked through them, like they weren’t there, and carried on working. All she said was, “I have to finish this.” She kept saying it, over and over.’

‘Finish what?’ Simon asked.

‘Whatever she was working on. Her mum said she used to get loads of commissions, and customers often wanted a fast turn around—presents, anniversaries. When it was done—in the early hours of the morning, after her mum and dad had sat and watched her half the night—they said, “You’re coming home with us,” and she didn’t resist or anything. It was as if she didn’t care what she did, her mum said.’

Gibbs nudged Sellers with his elbow. ‘Waterhouse is starting to feel sorry for her. Aren’t you?’

‘Go on,’ Simon said to Sellers. ‘If there’s more.’

‘Not much, really. Her parents asked her who the model was for, the one she’d been working on until three in the morning—they thought, if it was that urgent, maybe they could deliver it, you know—but Juliet had no idea. All that frantic work, saying she had to finish it, and she couldn’t even remember who it was for.’

‘She’d flipped,’ Gibbs summarised.

‘After that night, though, she wanted nothing to do with work, couldn’t even be in the same room as any of the stuff she’d made. She’d done a few for her parents, and they had to put them all in the cellar, so she didn’t see them. And all the ones from her own house went in the parents’ cellar too. And that was that—she’s not worked since.’

‘Yes, she has; she’s just had a change of career,’ said Gibbs. ‘She’s a workaholic, capable of driving herself mad—maybe that’s what happened this time as well. The kidnap-and-rape business was a runaway success, she couldn’t handle the pressure, so she lost it and went for her husband with a rock.’

‘Her mum said she knew something was wrong,’ Sellers spoke into his pint glass. ‘Now, I mean. Before she found out what’d happened to Robert.’

‘How come?’ Simon asked.

‘Juliet phoned out of the blue and said she wanted all the stuff back, all her pottery models.’

‘When was this?’ Simon did his best to conceal his annoyance. Sellers should have told him this first, the rest later.

‘Last Saturday.’

‘Two days after Haworth failed to show up for his meeting with Jenkins at the Traveltel,’ said Simon thoughtfully.

‘Right. Juliet didn’t explain, just said she wanted it all back. She went and got it on the Sunday. She was in a good mood, according to her mum—better than she’d been for a long while. That’s why her parents were so surprised when they heard—’

‘So the little houses that Naomi Jenkins saw in the Haworths’ lounge on the Monday . . . they’d been there less than twenty-four hours?’

‘So what?’ said Gibbs.

‘I don’t know. It’s just interesting. The timing.’

‘Maybe she was going to go back to it, making the models,’ Sellers suggested. ‘If she and Haworth had been involved in the rape thing together, and now he’s in hospital, and maybe never coming out . . .’

‘Yeah.’ Gibbs nodded. ‘She was planning to pretend all that never happened, and take up pottery again. She’s a real charmer.’

‘What about background on Haworth?’ said Simon. ‘And Naomi Jenkins?’

Sellers looked at Gibbs, who said, ‘Nothing yet on Haworth. And nothing on his sister Lottie Nicholls. I’ve been busy with the websites this morning, but I’ll chase it.’

‘Naomi Jenkins is straightforward,’ said Sellers. ‘Born and grew up in Folkestone, Kent. Went to boarding school, did very well. Middle-class background, mother a history teacher, father an orthodontist. Studied typography and graphic communication at Reading University. Plenty of friends and boyfriends. Lively, an extrovert . . .’

‘Just like Juliet Haworth,’ said Simon. His stomach rumbled.

‘Why don’t you order something to eat?’ Gibbs suggested. ‘Is it some kind of Catholic guilt syndrome? Punish the flesh to purify the soul?’

The old Simon would have wanted to floor him. But personality could change, in response to a traumatic or significant event. For ever after, you saw your life as divided into two distinct time zones, pre and post. At one time everyone, Gibbs included, was wary of Simon’s temper. Not any more. It had to be a good thing.

Simon had decided not to phone Alice Fancourt. It was too much of a risk. He’d be crazy to allow his feelings for her to destabilise him again. Avoid complication and trouble—that was the rule he tried to live by. His decision had nothing to do with Charlie. What did Simon care if she was pissed off with him? It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before.

He saw a fleeting panic in Sellers’ eyes at the same time as he felt cold air on the back of his neck. He knew who had swung through the pub’s double doors before he heard the voice.

‘Steak pie and chips. Fish and chips. I remember what it felt like to be unconcerned about cholesterol.’

‘Sir, what are you doing here?’ Sellers pretended to be pleased to see him. ‘You hate pubs.’

Simon turned round. Proust was staring at the food. ‘Sir, did you . . . ?’

‘I got your note, yes. Where’s Sergeant Zailer?’

‘On her way back from the hospital. I said so in the note,’ Simon told him.

‘I didn’t read it all,’ said Proust, as if this should have been obvious. He leaned his hands on the table, making it wobble. ‘It’s a shame the DNA from the lorry doesn’t match Haworth’s. It’s another shame that Naomi Jenkins and Sandy Freeguard are insisting Haworth didn’t rape them.’

‘Sir?’ Sellers provided the required prompt.

‘We have a new complication. I like life when it’s simple. And this isn’t.’ The inspector picked up one of Sellers’ chips and put it in his mouth. ‘Greasy,’ was his verdict. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’ve been answering your phones like a secretary while you lot have all been draped over a pub jukebox swilling ale. Yorkshire rang.’

What, the whole county? Simon nearly said. The Snowman was scared of anything that constituted ‘up north’. He liked to keep it vague, general.

‘I don’t know how much you all remember from past interludes of sobriety,’ said Proust, ‘but their lab’s been comparing the DNA profile of Prue Kelvey’s rapist with Robert Haworth’s. Ring any bells?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon. Sometimes, he thought, pessimists were pleasantly surprised. ‘And?’

Proust took another chip from Sellers’ plate. ‘It’s an exact match,’ he said in a heavy voice. ‘There’s no room for ambiguity or interpretation, I’m afraid. Robert Haworth raped Prue Kelvey.’

It was ten o’clock and she was in bed already. Having a much-needed early night. With Graham, and the bottle of red wine he’d brought all the way from Scotland. ‘We do have wine in England, you know,’ she’d teased him. ‘Even in a hick town like Spilling.’

It had a been a long, hard, confusing day at work, and Charlie had been pleased to get home and find Graham on her doorstep. More than pleased. Thrilled. He’d come all this way to see her. It would never occur to most men—Simon, for example—to do something like that. ‘How did you know my address?’ she’d grilled him.

‘You booked one of my chalets, remember?’ Graham had smiled nervously, as if worried his gesture, his pilgrimage, might be interpreted as over the top. ‘You wrote it down for me then. Sorry. I know it’s a bit stalker-ish to turn up unannounced, but, firstly, I’ve always admired the diligence of the stalker, and secondly . . .’ He tilted his head forward, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of hair. Deliberately, Charlie suspected. ‘. . . I . . . er . . . well, I wanted to see you again, and I thought—’

Charlie hadn’t let him say anything else before she’d clamped her mouth on to his and dragged him inside. That was hours ago.

It felt comfortable having Graham in her bed. She liked the smell of his body; it reminded her of chopped wood and grass and air. He had a first in classics from Oxford, yet he smelled of outside. Charlie could imagine going to a funfair with him, to a performance of Oedipus, to a bonfire. An all-rounder. What—who—could be better, she asked herself rhetorically, making no space in her mind for an answer.

‘I hope you’re not going to cast me aside again, ma’am,’ Graham had said, as they lay among their discarded clothes on Charlie’s lounge floor. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit like a male Madame Butterfly ever since you scarpered in the middle of the night. Mr Butterfly, that’s me. It was pretty scary, I’ll have you know, turning up here uninvited. I thought you’d be busy with work, and I’d end up feeling like one of those doe-eyed wives in Hollywood movies, the ones whose husbands have to drop everything to save the planet from immediate destruction by asteroid or meteorite or deadly virus.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen that film.’ Charlie had grinned. ‘All five hundred versions of it.’

‘The wife, you’ll have noticed, is always played by Sissy Spacek. Why does she never understand?’ Graham had asked, twisting a strand of Charlie’s hair round his finger, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. ‘She always tries to persuade the hero to ignore the meteorite that threatens humanity in favour of the family picnic or the little league game. As forward planning goes, it’s short-sighted. No understanding whatsoever of the principle of deferred gratification . . . unlike me . . .’ Graham bent his head to kiss Charlie’s breasts. ‘What is little league, by the way?’

‘No idea,’ Charlie replied, closing her eyes. ‘Baseball?’ Graham chatted, she realised, in a way that Simon didn’t. Simon said things he thought were important or else he said nothing at all.

Given what Graham had said about being ditched in favour of her work, Charlie had felt bad asking him the questions she needed to ask. She hadn’t told him she’d been planning to phone him solely for that reason, instead of to suggest that they arrange to meet. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she been bursting to see him again? He was sexy, funny, clever. Good in bed, albeit in a slightly overeager-to-please sort of way.

When she’d finally plucked up the courage to ask him, Graham hadn’t minded at all. He’d phoned Steph straight away. They were now waiting for her to ring back. ‘You didn’t tell her I wanted to know, did you?’ asked Charlie. ‘If you did, she’ll never call.’

‘You know I didn’t. You were here when I rang her.’

‘Yeah, but . . . didn’t she know you were coming to see me?’

Graham chuckled. ‘Course not. I never tell the dogsbody where I’m going.’

‘She said you tell her about all the women you sleep with, in graphic detail. She also said a lot of them start out as customers.’

‘The second part’s not true. She meant you, that’s all. She was trying to upset you. Most of my customers are fat middle-aged fishermen called Derek. Imagine the name Derek being moaned gently in the dark—it just doesn’t work, does it?’

Charlie laughed. ‘And the first part?’ Did Graham think he could charm her into letting it drop?

He sighed. ‘Once—and only because it was such an irresistible story—I told Steph about a woman I slept with. Static Sue.’

‘Static Sue?’ Charlie repeated slowly.

‘I’m not kidding, this woman didn’t move a muscle, just lay there, rigid, throughout. My stunning performance had no effect whatsoever. I kept wanting to stop and check her pulse, see if she was still with me.’

‘I take it you didn’t.’

‘No. It would have been too embarrassing, wouldn’t it? The funny thing was, the minute we disentangled ourselves, she started moving again, normally. She got up as if nothing had happened, smiled at me and asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. I tell you, I had a few worries about my technique after that little episode!’

Charlie smiled. ‘Stop fishing for compliments. So . . . why would Steph want to upset me? Just because I used your computer, or . . . ?’

Graham gave her a wry look. ‘You want to know what’s going on with me and Steph, guv?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Charlie.

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s going on with you and Simon Waterhouse.’

‘How . . . ?’

‘Your sister mentioned him, remember? Olivia. No nicknames from now on, I promise.’

‘Oh, right.’ Charlie had done her best to forget that awful moment: Olivia’s outburst from the literal and moral highground of her mezzanine bedroom.

‘Have you two patched things up yet?’ Graham leaned on one elbow. ‘She came back, you know.’

‘She what?’ He’d sounded a little too offhand for Charlie’s liking. Anger rose inside her. If he meant what she thought he meant . . .

‘To the chalet. The next day, after you’d gone. She seemed disappointed not to find you. I told her something important had come up at work . . . Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘You should have told me this straight away!’

‘That’s not fair, guv. You’ve only just given me my mouth back. We’ve been busy, remember? It’s not as if I’ve been twiddling my thumbs. Or, if I have, it was with the best possible intentions . . .’

‘Graham, I’m serious.’

He shot her a knowing look. ‘You haven’t kissed and made up, have you? You thought your sis was still sulking, so you left her to it. Now you feel guilty and you’re trying to pin it on me. An innocent bystander!’ He stuck out his lower lip, curling it over in mock unhappiness.

Charlie was unwilling to acknowledge how right he was. ‘You should have phoned me straight away. You’ve got my number. I gave it to Steph when I booked.’

Graham groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Look, most people don’t appreciate it when the proprietors of their holiday accommodation take an active interest in their family feuds. I know we almost—’

‘Exactly.’

‘—but we didn’t, did we? So I was playing hard to get. Briefly, yes—I admit it, Officer—but at least I had a go. Anyway, I thought she’d phone you. She didn’t seem annoyed anymore. She apologised to me.’

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure? Are you sure this was my sister, not just someone who looked like her?’

‘It was Fat Girl Slim as I live and breathe.’ Graham rolled away so that she couldn’t hit him. ‘We had quite a nice chat, actually. She seemed to have revised her opinion of me.’

‘Don’t assume that, just because she wasn’t laying into you.’

‘I didn’t. No initiative or guesswork was required. She told me. Said I’d be much better for you than Simon Waterhouse. Which reminds me: you didn’t answer my question.’

Charlie was furious with her sister for interfering. She wondered if Olivia’s new approach was a more subtle way of trying to ensure that Charlie and Graham didn’t start a relationship. Was she relying on Charlie’s rebellious streak to kick in?

‘Nothing’s going on with me and Simon,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

Graham looked worried. ‘Except you’re in love with him.’

I could easily deny it, thought Charlie. ‘Yes,’ she said.

He bounced back quicker than most men would have. ‘I’ll grow on you, you’ll see,’ he said, chirpy again. Charlie thought he might be right. She could make him right if she tried, surely. She didn’t have to be another Naomi Jenkins, falling apart because some bastard told her to leave him alone. A bigger bastard than Simon Waterhouse; Charlie was doing better than Naomi on every front. Robert Haworth. A rapist. Prue Kelvey’s rapist. Charlie was still struggling to take in the implications.

Against Simon’s advice, she’d given Naomi a full update on the phone this afternoon. She couldn’t exactly say she’d grown to like the woman, and she certainly didn’t trust her, but she thought she understood how Naomi’s mind worked. A bit too well. An otherwise intelligent woman made foolish by the strength of her feelings.

Naomi had taken the news about the DNA match better than Charlie had expected her to. She’d gone silent for a while, but when she spoke, she sounded calm. She’d told Charlie that the only way she could deal with any of this was by finding out the truth, all of it. There wouldn’t be any more lies from Naomi Jenkins—Charlie was convinced of that.

Naomi was due to talk to Juliet Haworth again tomorrow. If Juliet was involved in some kind of sick money-making scheme with the man who’d raped Naomi and Sandy Freeguard, Naomi was possibly the only person who could provoke her into letting something slip. For some reason that Charlie couldn’t discern, Naomi was important to Juliet. Nobody else was, certainly not her husband—Juliet had made that abundantly clear. ‘I’ll make her tell me,’ Naomi had said shakily on the phone. Charlie admired her determination, but warned her not to underestimate Juliet’s.

‘Well, I’m not in love with the dogsbody, you’ll be glad to hear,’ said Graham, yawning. ‘Though I have . . . taken a dip, shall we say. Every now and then. But she’s nothing compared to you, Sarge, however corny that sounds. I’ve had more than enough of her. You’re the one I want, with your tyrannical charm and your impossibly high standards.’

‘They are not!’

Graham snorted with laughter, folded his arms behind his head. ‘Sarge, I can’t even begin to understand what you require of me, let alone deliver it.’

‘Yeah, well. Don’t give up too easily.’ Charlie feigned sulkiness. Graham had slept with Steph. Taken a dip. She could hardly complain, given what she’d just told him.

‘Aha! I can prove that Steph means nothing to me. Wait till you hear this.’ His eyes twinkled.

‘You’re a ruthless gossip, Graham Angilley!’

‘Remember the song? Grandmaster Flash?’ He began to sing. ‘White lines, going through my mind . . .’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Steph, the dogsbod, has got a white line dividing her bum in half. Next time you come to the chalets, I’ll get her to show you.’

‘No thanks.’

‘It looks as ridiculous as it sounds. Now, you know I could never be serious about a woman like that.’

‘A white line?’

‘Yeah. She spends hours on sunbeds, and as a result her arse is bright orange.’ Graham smiled. ‘But if you were to—how shall I put this?—separate one buttock from the other—’

‘All right, I get the gist!’

‘—you’d see a clear white stripe. You can see it a little bit even when she’s just walking around.’

‘Does she often walk around naked?’

‘Actually, yes,’ said Graham. ‘She’s got a bit of a thing for me.’

‘Which you’ve done nothing to encourage, of course.’

‘Of course not!’ Graham faked outrage.

His mobile phone began to ring and he picked it up. ‘Yup.’ He mouthed, ‘White line,’ at Charlie, so that she didn’t have to wonder who he was speaking to. ‘Uh-huh. Okay. Okay. Great. Well done, mate. You’ve earned your stripes, as they say.’ He nudged Charlie.

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well?’

‘No Naomi Jenkins. Never been to the chalets.’

‘Oh.’

‘But she checked for any Naomis, being the thorough little terrier that she is. There was a Naomi Haworth—H, a, w, o, r, t, h—booked a chalet for a weekend last September. Naomi and Robert Haworth, but Steph said the wife made the booking. Is that any use to you?’

‘Yes.’ Charlie sat up, pushing Graham’s hand off her. She needed to concentrate.

‘Before you get your hopes up . . .’

‘What?’

‘She cancelled. The Haworths never turned up. Steph remembers her cancelling and says she sounded upset. Sounded like she was crying, in fact. Steph wondered if the husband had dumped her or died or something, and that was why she was having to cancel.’

‘Right.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Right. That’s . . . great, that’s really helpful.’

‘Are you going to tell me now what it’s all about?’ Graham tickled her.

‘Stop it! No, I can’t.’

‘I bet you’d tell this Simon Waterhouse character all the details.’

‘He already knows as much as I do.’ Charlie grinned at his hurt look. ‘He’s one of my detectives.’

‘So you see him every day?’ Graham sighed, falling back on the bed. ‘Just my luck.’