Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins

‘We’ve got an absolute corker of a lead with those phone calls and texts and – ’

      ‘I saw the photos of that artwork,’ Fiona said. ‘It’s creepy. Hearts doing weird things. Do you think he was on drugs when he did it? It’s not normal.’

      Craig wouldn’t like being interrupted by Fiona. He was tapping his fingers on his knee – that meant he was about to get snide or aggressive. He’d have a dig now.

      ‘Poor bastard’s had his throat slit,’ he said. ‘And you ladies are all over the fact he did a bit of screwed-up art in his spare time.’ There it was.

      I pretended Craig didn’t exist. I even managed to do something weird with the focus of my eyes, so I was staring directly through him at the coughing IT guy behind. ‘The victim’s daughter had a heart transplant last summer. There was a card I think might have been from the family of the donor. But the art suggests all’s not well. And the way the wife talked – it made me think there was something wrong.’

      ‘When you hear hoofbeats,’ Richard said. ‘Think horses, not zebras.’

      ‘Huh?’ Jai said.

      ‘Look at the most likely explanations,’ Richard said. ‘It’s not hard to understand.’

      ‘It could have been the wife. If she found out her husband was having an affair.’ Fiona was clearly not interested in the zebras, and was of the opinion that an affair was good grounds for throat-slitting.

      ‘And she was desperate to get back inside the house,’ I said. ‘I think she may have messed up the scene deliberately. And someone had been in the shower.’

      ‘But her story adds up,’ Craig said. ‘She was at a petrol station in Matlock at nine in the morning.’

      ‘She could have come to the house earlier and then gone back to Matlock. We need to check. There are no immediate neighbours, and there are ways to the house that avoid CCTV altogether, but we can look at the camera on the main road.’ I raised an eyebrow at Richard. ‘And the spouse is always a horse, don’t you agree?’

      ‘Didn’t the little girl see anything?’ Fiona asked.

      ‘She was on sleeping pills for night terrors she’s been having. We haven’t been able to get much sense out of her. It looks like she must have woken up, wandered through to her parents’ room, found her father, tried to wake him and got blood all over her, and then run out into the woods.’

      ‘How horrendous,’ Fiona said.

      ‘She’s a lovely kid too.’ I felt that weight again. The responsibility to solve this, for Abbie. ‘You know this area well, don’t you, Fiona?’

      Craig butted in. ‘Her gran does. She’s on our Blue Rinse Task Force.’

      I smiled at Fiona. ‘Do you know about a folk story associated with that house? There are some statues of children in the woods.’

      ‘Really, Meg.’ Richard wafted his arm as if he was standing over a decomposing rat. ‘What does this have to do with the investigation?’

      ‘His wife said the victim was obsessed with the statues, and something about wanting to do penance. It might be relevant. He’d replicated one of them out of wood, except with its heart ripped out.’

      The door bashed open and Emily walked in and stood as if under stage lighting. ‘Got the trace on that mobile phone,’ she said. ‘It’s a colleague of Phil Thornton’s. Karen Jenkins.’

5.

      Karen Jenkins shuffled into the interview room, bashed her leg on the drab grey desk, and apologised to it. I smiled. It was the sort of depressingly British thing I’d do.

      Craig sorted out the recording apparatus and took her through the formal bits and pieces. Jai was watching from an observation room. It was still only the afternoon of the first day and we had a solid lead. I prayed we could get this one cleared up fast so I could avoid my lie to Richard being exposed. There was no way I could delay my time off, whatever I’d said to him.

      Karen was in her mid to late forties, and reminded me of one of those hairy dogs whose eyes you never see. She cleared her throat a couple of times and licked her lips. Glanced at me and quickly looked away. ‘Sorry. I’m not used to being questioned by the police.’ She gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Can I make notes in my pad? It calms me.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ I leaned back in my deeply uncomfortable chair.

      She shook her head so her hair covered her eyes almost completely. ‘Right. Yes. No. I can’t believe it. Can’t believe it happened.’ She picked up her pen and tapped it against her pad, but didn’t write anything.

      I chatted nonsense for a while to relax her and calibrate – noticing what she did with her hands and face when she was talking about the weather and the traffic.

      Once I’d got the feel of her, I asked casually, ‘Were you close to Phil Thornton?’

      She swallowed and looked down, much stiller than before. ‘We were colleagues. Not close as such.’

      ‘His wife was concerned someone might have been following him. Do you know anything about that?’

      She hesitated. I could see her breathing. Raised voices drifted in from in a nearby room. ‘No. Sorry,’ she said.

      ‘Anything worrying him that you were aware of?’

      ‘Nothing that would get him killed,’ she said, more abruptly. ‘He was worried about Abbie. And about his wife, I think. She’s a bit odd.’ She made a few swoopy doodles on her pad.

      There was a smell in the air, familiar but wrong in this context. I looked up sharply and scrutinised her. Had she been drinking?

      ‘When was the last time you went to Phil’s house?’

      Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘I don’t know. Ages ago.’

      ‘What was the occasion?’

      ‘You should be looking at his wife, not me,’ Karen said. ‘He was worried about his wife.’

      ‘The occasion you went to his house?’

      ‘They had me and my husband round. I can check the dates and get back to you.’

      I glanced at the wedding ring on her hand. ‘Look, you need to be totally honest with me. Nobody’s judging you. But what kind of relationship did you have with Phil?’

      ‘We were close. Nothing ever happened.’ Jagged lines on the pad, deeper now, solid fingers gripping the pen, her body tense and so different to when she’d been chatting earlier.

      ‘Karen, I don’t care if you were having an affair, but you need to tell me the truth.’

      Her voice shook, as if she was about to cry. ‘We were friends.’

      I waited a moment, but she said no more.

      ‘Have you ever watched those TV murder mysteries where the victim’s friend is always forging Dutch masters or stealing prize orchids or something like that?’ I asked. ‘So they lie to the police, and you’re screaming at the telly saying, “Just tell them about the sodding orchids” because it never turns out well. Have you watched any of those?’

      She nodded and licked her lips again, looking on the verge of tears, the skin beneath her eyes beginning to puff up.

      ‘Where were you on Sunday night?’ I asked.

      ‘Me? I was at home. You don’t think I did it? I would never . . . ’ She was crying now, gulping and wiping her hand over her nose.

      Craig dived in. ‘You see, we have these texts and phone calls on Phil’s phone.’

      Karen jumped and looked at