LITMIR.BIZ

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it. ‘You were with the Met for thirteen years, yeah, so you know time’s critical? If this is a spousal murder, and that’s the most likely explanation at the moment, whether we like it or not, it’s crucial we find Josh quickly. For his own protection.’

      Murder–suicide. In cases where one partner killed the other, he or she frequently killed him or herself afterwards, either straight away, at the scene, or days, even months later.

      ‘And if something drove him to it,’ said Patel, ‘if she was having an affair or planning to leave him, he could plead loss of control. That’s allowable as a defence. It would be manslaughter, not murder – you would be help—’

      ‘Jon-Jaques Clinton, 2012,’ Robin said. ‘The Court of Appeal quashed his murder conviction for killing his wife because of the qualifying trigger – she left him for another man, wrote about it on Facebook. They ruled sexual infidelity allowable for a defence of Loss of Control, going against the legislation that had been passed in 2009.’ Teaching her to suck eggs, bloody cheek. Evidently, her right as a woman to be patronized was the one thing that hadn’t expired now she was off the job.

      ‘Where would he go?’ Thomas now. ‘Anything you can think of. Did he have ties somewhere else? Family? Friends?’

      She thought, trying to clear space in her head, but there was nothing. ‘Most of his friends and family are here. There’ll be university mates who moved away after – Josh was at Aston – but a lot stayed local. The Legges are Brummie to the bone, they’ve been here since time immemorial – even the factory’s third or fourth generation.’

      ‘Is there a place he knows well where he might try to lie low? How about holidays? Did they have somewhere they went back to repeatedly? Somewhere they all loved?’

      Did, loved. Past tense. ‘No, not really. They went to Italy and Greece a lot but different places every time. Different islands.’ A wave of frustration. ‘Look, it looks bad, I know, especially the car, but this wasn’t Josh. What other lines are you following?’

      ‘What other lines should we follow?’

      ‘Burglary gone wrong.’ Her turn to teach the egg-sucking.

      ‘Though, of course, most killers are known to their victims.’ Touché.

      ‘Then some kind of misguided kidnapping attempt. They lived in a biggish house, Josh owned a factory – someone who didn’t know better might have come to the conclusion they’re loaded.’

      ‘But they’re not?’

      ‘No. Comfortable, definitely, but not megabucks at all. The factory’s not that big, a lot of the workers are part time. Or maybe they got into some kind of fight – something stupid that just grew until …’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘The sort of thing that could happen to anyone unlucky. Road rage that escalated and the nutter followed them home. Some sort of border dispute about the garden fence that turned nasty.’

      ‘But there’s nothing like that you know of? Or any other possible motive?’

      ‘If there were, I’d tell you.’

      DS Thomas eyeballed her: would you? Robin felt her cheeks flame but refused to break eye contact. Hold on; hold steady.

      Thomas bailed first. ‘Right.’ She glanced at Patel: let’s go. As they stood, Robin realized that neither had taken their coats off.

      ‘We’ll be in touch,’ Thomas said at the door, ‘but if you do think of anything, call us straight away.’ She handed Robin her card then turned to go. The temperature had plummeted since the morning and the air that came in was freezing. Robin thought of Corinna, her bag of Singha beers and potatoes, the warmth she’d used to carry with her into the flat every night. She stood and watched them as they walked away.

      When they reached the car, she shouted, ‘Wait!’

      They spun around, expectation written across their faces: she’d remembered something; seen sense; she was going to tell the truth after all.

      ‘If you haven’t already,’ Robin said, ‘you should speak to Samir Jafferi.’

      ‘Our guv’nor?’ said Patel.

      ‘He’s a friend of theirs, too.’

       Chapter Four

      Rustling overhead then graunching springs. The ladder creaked as feet and calves appeared, just visible in the light round the curtains. Thighs, then the hem of her T-shirt.

      Without saying a word, Robin lifted the edge of the duvet and Lennie slipped in next to her. Robin pulled her close, pressed her nose into her hair. Coconut Milk Herbal Essences these days, flavour of the month, but underneath, unchanging, the Lennieness, the smell of her daughter. She breathed it in, animal comfort.

      ‘I keep thinking about Peter,’ Len whispered. ‘When he wakes up and hears about his mum.’

      Robin squeezed tighter, felt her ribcage expand and contract. A cold foot – how, in the Tupperware sweat lodge? – found her shin and pressed against it. The physicality of having a child, and not just in the early days. Of course, at thirteen, Len didn’t cuddle like she used to – for years, when she was two, three, four, if they’d been in the same room, Lennie had been literally on her – but when it mattered, here they were. There’d never been anyone else whose limbs – platonically – she’d been able to tangle hers up in without thinking, unselfconscious. Even Dennis. When he’d come home this afternoon, he’d held her as tightly as she held Lennie now, but she couldn’t let herself go. She’d watched herself standing rigid in his arms, out-of-body.

      Maggie had collected Lennie from school while Robin spoke to the police, so Len had already known something was wrong, but her face when she’d told her. She’d stared for a moment, aghast, and then – Robin had grabbed her – it hit home. It was the first time she’d ever lost anyone, the first time Robin had ever had to tell her someone was dead. And here, in a house that wasn’t theirs, in a school uniform that she was wearing for the very first time – that she should never have been wearing at all. ‘I’m so sorry, Len. I’m so sorry.’

      She’d sobbed, shoulders shaking. Then, standing away, swiping at her eyes with her sleeve, she’d said, ‘What can we do?’

      ‘I don’t know, love. I’m thinking. I’m trying to think.’

      But her head had crackled with white noise all day. From the moment their car disappeared from view, she’d been waiting for the police to call: they’d made a mistake; Josh had reappeared; been found; there was an explanation for why he’d been doing the bins at ten o’clock but was gone by one thirty when the neighbours called 999. Not a simple explanation, perhaps – as the afternoon ticked past, she’d queasily conceded that – but a reason. Instead, there was radio silence.

      Could he have had an accident? But if it’d been serious, the police would almost certainly know. They’d have checked RTIs, hospital admissions. What else? Some kind of health crisis – a heart attack, a stroke? It ran in the family, his father had had one. What if Josh had had a spat with Corinna and driven off in a huff, blood pressure through the roof? If he’d felt ill, he might have pulled over before it happened. If he was parked on the street somewhere or in a car park, no one would think anything of it. He was young – thirty-eight. They’d glance at him and see a guy having a nap.

      But someone had set the house on fire.

      Not him. Her rejection of Patel’s hypothesis was visceral, straight from the gut: Josh hadn’t killed Corinna, simple as. There were no triggers – Rin hadn’t been cheating or going to leave him, and yes, she would know. But beyond that, even if she had been planning to leave and she’d written a double-page spread about it in the Mail

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