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  They’d only met after she’d arrived here a few months ago and it hadn’t taken him long to move in with her. She’d hated being a single mother, anyway. She’d been in care as a child with no family for support and it was very lonely, particularly once Danny was past the cute, affectionate stage.

  She’d been flattered at first by Jason telling her she could be his muse. He was quite sexy, with a dark, two-day stubble style, and he could be very charming when it suited him. Kayleigh had believed him when he told her he was going to be rich and famous, in that confident, expansive way he had. She didn’t believe him now and he’d mostly stopped bothering to be charming unless he wanted something.

  It would be good for Danny to have a man around as he got older, she’d thought, but he and Jason had never clicked. A couple of weeks ago they’d had a screaming row about something – neither of them would tell her what it was – and now the only way she could keep them both in the same room for any length of time was when she put a meal on the table and wouldn’t let Danny take his plate to his bedroom. Now, when Kayleigh was so worried about her son’s activities, it would have been good to talk it through with Jason; he had good mates in the polis, after all, but when she tried he just shrugged and looked bored. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t even like Jason much any more and Danny might have waited for her to get home if Jason hadn’t been here, not just gone back out again.

  She wasn’t sure about that, though. If she did tell Jason to leave and Danny left home the minute he could, she’d be on her own again. And she hadn’t liked that either. As she put the burgers in the frying pan she heard the flat door open and shut. ‘Danny! In here!’ she called and her son slouched in. ‘Where have you been?’

  He was a nice-looking boy, with reddish-fair hair and blue eyes but his face was set in a sullen expression. ‘Just out. You weren’t here,’ he said in an accusing way.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. It was a busy day at work. You know – I told you it was my boss’s son’s funeral.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’ He went out again and when she called after him, ‘It’ll only be five minutes till your tea,’ he didn’t reply.

  It had felt a long, long day after Kate Graham’s visit. Cassie Trentham had been afflicted by the terrible inertia of grief; there was nothing she wanted to do, yet if she didn’t find occupation all that was left to do was weep. Been there, done that, and now her puffy eyes and smarting cheeks were an active discouragement.

  She’d turned on the radio but music too easily set her off again and she couldn’t concentrate on discussions. There were the phone messages to reply to, but Cassie didn’t trust herself not to break down. Then her eye fell on the pile of personal letters of condolence sent across from the Foundation that she’d left lying on the table in the conservatory after she’d read them, almost all from business contacts she’d had through managing The Brand. None of them were very meaningful – they hadn’t known Felix – but they were well intentioned and deserved a response. There was even one from the star who’d got her big break all these years ago in the movie of Stolen Fire – very sympathetic, very kind.

  That would be something she could do. Once she’d worked out a form of words, copying it as many times as necessary wouldn’t be difficult. She fetched notepaper, envelopes, a pen, and sat down again at the table in the conservatory. But darkness had gathered, the wind was moaning and the naked windows made it feel cold and depressing. She hadn’t sat in the sitting room since it all happened but now she told herself firmly that unless she was going to spend the rest of her life sitting on a hard chair in the kitchen, this was as good a time as any to confront her demons. She could switch on the lamps, draw the curtains, write her letters on her knee and try to adapt to the new normal.

  The room sprang to life as Cassie turned on the lamps. There were flowers she had been sent and barely noticed in vases Marta had placed around the room; the delicious perfume of freesias hung on the air. With the heavy cream linen curtains closed against the night there was at least the illusion of comfort, and as she bent to her task the faint queasiness she had been feeling all day subsided.

  A click – the sound of the garden gate being opened – shattered her peace. She jumped in alarm: there was someone there! Who could it be at this time of night? Living out here, she never had unexpected visitors. She stiffened and the sick feeling came back again. It couldn’t be Kate who had said she was on a late shift. Surely it couldn’t be the press – even they would have the decency to leave the family alone, for today at least? They were hardly known for sensitivity, though, and she hadn’t heard a car, either. When the knock came on the door, she glanced through the peephole then frowned before she opened it.

  The man standing in the little porch, snow falling behind him, was huddled into a parka, stout walking boots on his feet. He was smiling a little nervously.

  ‘Hello, Cassie,’ he said. ‘I … I hope I’m not intruding. It’s just – well, I’ve been thinking about you all day, hoping you were all right. I did phone, but—’

  ‘Oh – Gil,’ Cassie said, her voice flat. ‘Goodness, have you walked all the way up in this weather? You’d better come in.’

  He looked doubtfully at the pale grey carpet in the sitting room. ‘I think I’d better take these off here.’ He gestured towards his boots and she didn’t stop him, watching as he wrestled with the leather laces and set them neatly on the boot shelf in the porch then stepped inside in his socks. As Cassie shut the door behind him, he took off the wet parka, shaking it and sending a misty spray on to a side table. ‘Oops! Sorry!’ He pulled down the cuff of his Aran sweater and rubbed at it.

  Gil Paton was thickset with a swarthy complexion and dark brown hair already retreating; his round face was fringed with a thin beard that somehow emphasised the hint of a double chin. He was her deputy at the Foundation, a relatively new appointment and good enough at his job, but they were often thrown together as a result. She was afraid that he was starting to blur the edges between a professional and a personal relationship and she certainly wasn’t going to encourage that by offering him a drink.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you to bother.’

  He sat down on the sofa opposite. ‘Not at all. You know, I’d have come to the service but—’

  ‘Yes, I know. You said. It was just that my mother felt she could only cope with the small number of people who know her best. We didn’t want to make a big thing of it.’

  ‘No, of course not. How is she taking it, your mother? Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Must be terrible for her. Oh, and you, of course. Were she and your brother very close?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the quickest thing to say and now she just had to get him sidetracked. ‘You all had the day off, of course. What did you do with it?’

  He had no alternative but to answer, though she sensed a reluctance to abandon the subject. ‘Wasn’t much of a day, really, what with the weather, and a couple of the Retreat writers were arriving in the afternoon so of course I had to be back here to welcome them. So I just did some stuff then got in an Asda shop over in Gala. They’ve good ready meals. Do you like Chinese?’

  ‘Not really,’ Cassie said as repressively as she could, before he could suggest that they sample some together. ‘Who’s arrived?’

  ‘Two of the ladies – Sascha Silverton and Marion Hutton.’ He gave a little snicker. ‘Bit of a contrast – can’t really see them hanging out together much.’

  Cassie remembered them both from their application forms. Sascha, apparently a struggling writer of chick-lit but with literary aspirations and a lifelong desire to meet Anna Harper, ‘my idol’, had attached a glamour photo exhibiting luxuriant chestnut hair, a peach complexion and light brown eyes. Photoshopped, Cassie had suspected – and her name had more than likely had cosmetic treatment as well. Marion’s, on the other hand, was one she’d probably had taken for her passport and showed a lad
y of a certain age with untidy grey hair and unbecoming spectacles. As a retired primary teacher, she now apparently had time to pursue her dream of ‘a late blossoming’ like Mary Wesley and Fay Weldon.

  Cassie never knew how Anna picked the writers she did; on the whim of the moment, probably, as she read through the applications. ‘Is everything ready for them?’ she asked.

  ‘Running like clockwork.’ He sounded faintly huffy, as if even asking was an insult. ‘I’ve introduced some new procedures, so that should tidy up some of the loose ends that were cluttering up the system.’

  She tried not to bridle; she’d organised it until this year and it had always run perfectly smoothly, but he went on, oblivious, ‘This is the showcase week so for the sake of our reputation we can’t afford any hitches.’ He was always very proprietorial about the Foundation.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Cassie said. He was right, of course; the Foundation offered half a dozen Writers’ Retreat Weeks throughout the year in the Hub at the back of the building, designed with this in mind – free accommodation, food and quiet working space – but this was the only one where Anna got personally involved and given her reclusive nature it always attracted attention. Virtue-signalling on the cheap, she had often thought, cynically, for just the cost of heating and catering in the Hub, which also offered space for conference talks and local events.

  ‘My one anxiety is that Anna won’t be able to do the masterclass. You said she was very close to your brother – how is she reacting?’

  Again, she sensed an unpleasant voyeurism in his interest and she ignored the question. ‘My mother is always extremely professional. I’m sure it will go ahead as arranged. Anyway, I’ll be in myself tomorrow and we can check through the arrangements together.’

  Gil was taken aback, and quite obviously displeased. ‘Oh, there’s no need to drive yourself, Cassie, after all you’ve been through. I can cope. Take a rest – you look shattered.’

  She seized her opportunity and stood up. ‘I have to admit I am, yes. I’m planning on a very early night, but I want to keep busy. We’ll be at full stretch again when Jacob’s Angel launches.’

  It gave Gil no alternative and once he had struggled into his boots Cassie shut the door behind him with considerable relief. She had to work with the man; it really wouldn’t do to let him get under her skin, but five more minutes and she’d have come out in hives.

  There were three men standing together as PC Kate Graham came into the general office in Halliburgh police station. She had heard a gust of laughter but now there was a sudden silence.

  One of the men was PS Colin Johnston. He was holding a formal-looking letter, which he folded up with a sideways look at her as she came in. DS Grant Wilson was still grinning.

  ‘No problem then, pal,’ he said. ‘Right, boss?’

  DI Steve Hammond said, ‘Right,’ and as Johnston went out saying, ‘Thanks, boss,’ he turned his dark, narrow-eyed gaze on Graham.

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ he said.

  They were an unhealthy trio. She could feel herself stiffening, becoming awkward. ‘How did what go?’

  ‘The Harper funeral.’

  ‘I wasn’t there. Someone else was assigned to it.’

  ‘I know that. Have you checked on the family?’

  As so often, she found herself on the defensive. ‘As you know, Ms Harper has refused help. I did see Cassie Trentham briefly afterwards, but it was really just a short chat.’

  ‘Have you filed a report?’ He raised his eyebrows as she hesitated. ‘Better to keep things formal, don’t you think? Just do it by the book, Kate. All right?’

  ‘Sir.’ She went across to one of the computer stations and began typing. It wouldn’t take long. There was no way she was going to put up any of Cassie’s confidences for everyone to read.

  There had always been an element in the Halliburgh force that she’d been uncomfortable with, grouped around DS Wilson. If you liked red hair and pale skin you might even say he was quite fit and he fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man; she thought he was creepy and even though he was more careful about sexist remarks now with all the new directives, that only meant he didn’t make them to her face. The quiet sniggering with his own little coterie was bad enough, and he homed in on new young officers to groom them too.

  It certainly hadn’t got any better since Hammond had arrived from Edinburgh, an officer very much in the new mould of thrusting careerists. Sharing best practice was a principle in Police Scotland, which meant that senior officers moved regularly – fine in theory, but it spread around other practices too. Wilson had got a lot more cocky since then and there were too many incidents lately that left her uneasy.

  Today, for instance. Before Johnston could fold up his letter she’d seen enough to recognise what it was: a speeding fine. There was only one reason for him to show it to Wilson and Wilson to say, ‘No problem, pal.’ And there was no doubt Hammond was in on it too.

  Graham was just finishing off the report when the inspector came over. ‘You’re down for a conference in Edinburgh tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. About using children as mules to get drugs out into the Borders. Actually, I was going to speak to you about kids here hanging round the bus shelter where Felix Trentham was found. I’ve seen them there several times and I don’t recognise any of them. I wondered if we could have a problem.’

  He considered that. ‘It’s always possible, I suppose. The trouble is we can’t just grab them by the scruff of the neck the way they could back in the day. I’ll keep an eye on it.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe you’ll get all the answers to the problem tomorrow. They know everything in Edinburgh.’

  Graham smiled back, though she always thought he was unusual in looking less pleasant when he smiled than when he didn’t. She went back to file her report with a stifled sigh. Hammond was flavour of the month with the District Commander; he was adept at massaging the statistics so that it looked as if he was doing a terrific job – in Graham’s view, to the point where they were downright lies – so they weren’t likely to get rid of him unless he decided to go for promotion and that could take a while.

  Cassie woke and squinted at the clock, astonished to see that it was quarter to nine. She’d slept so badly of late that she was usually ready to get up by six, despite the winter darkness.

  She made an irritated noise as she jumped out of bed. She had wanted to be at her desk well before Gil came in at nine-thirty to find out from Jess, her PA, what had been going on in the last couple of weeks.

  She looked out of the window at the weather. The wind had dropped overnight, the sleety rain had stopped and with the sun just coming up over the valley the sky was clear, streaked with amber and gold – a bright, chilly winter’s day. Cassie always preferred to cycle down if possible and it didn’t look as if showers were imminent. It would save time too if she just put on her lycra now and had a shower when she arrived; she kept everything necessary to produce the finished product that was the Chair of the Foundation down there in her office. She dressed, buckled on her helmet and went round to the shed at the side to fetch her bike.

  The road was clear though the snow was still lying in the fields and hills – a picture-postcard perfect view, with the stark outline of bare trees and the roofs and spires of the town below sharply etched against the morning sky, the old peel tower on the hill above starkly dramatic. The cold air was exhilarating and after a good night’s sleep she was feeling better, more alive, after those terrible zombie days between Felix’s death and the funeral. Getting back to work would do something towards making her feel she had turned a corner and freewheeling down the hill she felt a welcome surge of energy.

  She was close to the junction with the main road when she heard a car coming down behind her. There wasn’t much traffic on this little road but what there was tended to be of the rugged variety, demanding quite a lot of the space available. It made life less exciting if she tucked herself well in, almost on to the verge.r />
  She only had time to think that it was coming far too close before she felt the impact. The bike spun away beneath her and she flew through the air, landing heavily in the ditch at the side of the road as the vehicle rushed on by. Then – nothing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Marta Morelli had barely slept. When she did doze off, she kept starting awake as if immediate danger threatened. Twice she had tiptoed through to Anna’s room to see if she too was wakeful, but each time Anna was asleep and Marta had silently retreated, thankful that at least for a few hours Anna had respite from her problems. Perhaps the tranquillisers and too much wine hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

  At five she had stopped trying to sleep. For well more than thirty years she had been Anna’s dragon guardian and above all her friend, smoothing away every bump in the path. Their lives had been so intertwined for so long that she could barely have articulated her own interests. They had never counted for much; it was her joy and privilege to serve a genius she believed in with all her heart. She felt that yesterday she had failed. How could she sleep, when she was failing?

  Anyway, Anna would need cosseting today. There was a sweet Italian bread she particularly loved and if Marta put it to rise it would be ready for her breakfast.

  The brilliant lighting in the kitchen had hurt her eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, as she mixed the dough. It wouldn’t start getting light for hours yet and it made her uneasy that to anyone looking in she would be spotlit, as if on a stage. She cupped her hands against one of the windows to peer into the car park. It was empty and at any sign of movement the outside lights would come on. She must stop being paranoid.

  She made herself bustle around, collected a bowl, flour, eggs – anything to take her mind off what had happened. They had made sure of state-of-the-art security – but yesterday someone had effortlessly breached it.