Dead Man’s Daughter. Roz Watkins

under her breath, ‘I just thought it was weird.’

      I left it a moment and then said, ‘We still need to know if you were having a relationship with Phil.’

      She shook her head. ‘My husband mustn’t know . . . ’

      ‘There’s no reason your husband need find out.’

      ‘The children. He’d . . . He mustn’t know.’ She put the pen down. Her hand was shaking.

      I waited.

      ‘It’s been over with Phil for ages. Please don’t tell my husband. He . . . He gets angry sometimes.’

      ‘Did you go to Phil’s house last night?’

      She blinked several times and licked her lips. She’d be wishing she’d asked for a lawyer, wondering what we had on her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I know the phone calls look bad. But I didn’t go to the house. I didn’t kill him.’

       *

      I sat at my desk, looking sightlessly at piles of paperwork, deep in thought. Karen Jenkins had been right that her phone calls to Phil in the middle of the night looked bad. And she clearly had been having a relationship with him. It was hard to imagine her slitting someone’s throat, but if he’d finished the affair and she was furious with him, and maybe panicking that he’d tell her husband . . . She seemed the most likely suspect at the moment.

      My mind drifted to her odd comment about Abbie’s dreams. I supposed having someone else’s heart inside you was potentially quite traumatic. It made sense that Abbie could have imagined what might have happened to the donor, and got scared. She wouldn’t actually know how the donor died – I knew that would have been kept confidential, but her imagination could have run away with her. Was she imagining that the donor child’s father had had something to do with her death? And then mixing him up with her own father in her dreams? That could have been horrible for Phil Thornton. Was that the reason for his artwork, the obsession with hearts? Intriguing though it was, it was hard to see how it could have had anything to do with his death.

      Something slammed down on my desk.

      Craig’s backside.

      ‘Jesus, Craig, you gave me a shock.’

      He shoved some papers out of the way and settled down, angled towards me so I could see his flesh straining against his trousers. I needed to stop being so irritated by him – it was like in a relationship gone sour, where every little move sets your teeth on edge. He twisted to look at me. ‘I’ve spoken to one of Karen Jenkins’ colleagues. Karen’s sounding guilty as hell.’

      ‘What did her colleague say?’

      ‘He ended the affair. She has debts, and she’s terrified her husband will leave her. And she has a drink problem. The colleague’s happy to come in and make a statement.’

      ‘Obviously a good friend. I thought I smelt drink on Karen.’

      ‘Her husband might be violent too, this woman said. Maybe Phil threatened to tell him about the affair, and Karen was frightened.’

      ‘You got all the gossip.’ I was about to say more, in an attempt to be pleasant, but caught myself. The last time I’d said Well Done to Craig he’d asked if I was going to pat him on the head and give him a doggie biscuit for doing his job.

      He sniffed. ‘Yeah, she was well up for dishing the dirt. And she said some bloke had come to the office to see Phil. The guy was furious, but no one knew who he was.’

      ‘That’s promising. Could it have been Karen’s husband? Could he have suspected about the affair? Or would her colleagues have recognised him?’

      ‘Not sure. I’m looking into it. And I asked her about the stalker. Phil hadn’t said anything about that. Seems likely it was Karen, but there had been an accident with a kid and Thornton got the blame. So the parents could have had a grudge against him. Apparently it happens quite a bit.’

      ‘What was the accident?’

      ‘The social workers took some kids who were in care to the beach, and one of them slipped on a rock and got badly injured. Phil was supervising when it happened. He wasn’t blamed officially – it was just an accident – but the parents might not have seen it that way.’

      ‘Karen didn’t mention that. She must have known. I agree she’s dodgy. But we need to look at Thornton’s wife as well. If he was having an affair, she’s got a motive.’

      ‘I checked with Rachel’s mother.’ Craig had been quick to start using Rachel Thornton’s first name. I wondered if he’d taken a shine to her. ‘She slept late and when she woke, Rachel had already left, but she woke at three thirty in the morning to go to the loo, and she heard Rachel snoring then. It’s Karen Jenkins. I’ll have a little bet with you.’ Craig leant across my desk, shirt stretching, and held out his right hand. ‘Fifty quid says it’s her.’

      I was relieved Craig was being pleasant (ish), although I didn’t quite trust it, and I wasn’t sure what to do with his outstretched hand. If I shook it, he’d probably tell Richard I’d bet on the outcome of the case. If I didn’t shake it, he’d think I was snubbing him. I was sure other people didn’t put this much thought into every little interaction. I ignored the hand.

      Craig pulled his arm back. The atmosphere stiffened.

      ‘Did you get the name of the parents?’ I said. ‘Of the child who had the accident on the beach?’

      ‘Of course I did. Mr and Mrs Darren O’Brian.’

      ‘She not have a name then?’

      ‘Don’t get all feminist with me – that was what they gave me.’

      ‘Get her name too, please, and check them out. They could have a motive.’

      Fiona poked her head through the door. She caught my eye and a trace of a smile flitted across her face. ‘Craig, your wife’s in reception. With your kids.’

      Craig jumped up, his bulk shoving my desk backwards in a persuasive demonstration of Newton’s Third Law. ‘Oh, Christ.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shit.’ He blundered out of the room.

      I beckoned Fiona over. ‘What are his wife and kids doing here?’

      She moved close and spoke quietly. ‘I got the impression he’d promised to be home early, and he must have forgotten, so she’s dumping them on him.’

      Craig was the kind of father who called it babysitting when he looked after his own children, so this was a fun development for Fiona and me. ‘Good for her,’ I said.

      ‘I suppose a new murder case is quite an excuse for being late though.’ Fiona was so damn reasonable.

      ‘But someone’s got to take responsibility, haven’t they, Fiona, and if it’s always women, nothing will ever change. Look at all the female detectives we know – hardly any of them have kids. And then look at the men – they’ve nearly all got them, but little wifey’s there in the background taking responsibility. Even if she has her own job – even if it’s a good job – somehow it’s always her taking little Johnny to the doctor when he’s got a snotty nose. And if it’s not kids, it’s sick relatives.’

      ‘It does seem to work out that way.’

      ‘Never mind the glass ceiling – there’s another ceiling made of nappies, baby sick, and grandparents’ corn plasters.’ I wondered what it would have been like if I’d had a brother – whether he’d have felt as responsible for Mum and Gran as I did. ‘And nobody questions it.’

      ‘Well, you clearly are. And so’s Craig’s wife.’ She gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘And luckily us two are better than the men here, so we can afford to spend more time on other things and still do a better job than them. That’s why Craig hates you so much.’

      That