‘I’m at the Rotunda in Kingston. I think I’ve made contact with—’

Again, she heard a woman calling Patrick at the other end of the phone line, saying something about a door. Wendy felt a flash of embarrassment. She shouldn’t be calling him, spoiling his birthday dinner.

‘I’m really sorry, Wendy. Can I call you back in thirty minutes?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry to disturb you, boss.’

‘No problem. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Happy birth—’

But he had hung up. While she was talking to him, a teenage boy had come out of the car park, fiddling with the waist of his low-hanging trousers, a cat-that-got-the-cream look on his face. He smirked at Wendy as he walked past her and she turned to see him swagger towards the road.

Fuck this, she thought. The car park was reasonably well lit and Wendy knew how to handle herself. She wanted to talk to Mockingjay, find out if the girl was a complete time-waster, and head home to that bubble bath and bottle of wine. She strode towards the car park and squeezed around the barrier.

‘Hello?’ she called.

No response.

She walked farther into the car park. Where the hell was the stupid girl? She took her phone out of her pocket again and started to tap out a message to Mockingjay.

A noise came from beside the far wall, where it was almost pitch dark. Broken glass crunching under her feet indicated that there had once been lights above her. Wendy strained to see, imagined her mum saying that if she’d eaten her carrots, she’d be able to see in the dark. She took another step forwards.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Mockingjay? What are you playing at?’

A shape appeared from behind a car, moving fast and, at the same time Wendy registered that this was no teenage girl, this wasn’t the person she’d been chasing, she felt a sharp, hot pain close to her heart. Then another.

And then she was falling, her palms clutching her chest, her dying mind refusing to process the facts, that the warm liquid on her hands was her own blood, that the person who had stabbed her stopped for a moment to look down at her. They had crouched and taken the phone from her hands before running away.

As her life slipped from her she was vaguely aware of another figure – brown skin, wide eyes, a teenage girl; Mockingjay? – crouching beside her, saying ‘OhJesusohJesusohJesus’ while Wendy tried, and failed, to ask for help. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes. All she felt was disbelief, and then nothing.

PART TWO

Chapter 33

Day 10 – Carmella

Carmella and Jenny stood hand in hand outside the Lennons’ front door. In their spare hands Jenny held a bunch of white roses and purple sweetpeas and Carmella a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet, the sweat from her palm making the cold bottle’s condensation even more slippery.

‘I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? Are we late?’ Carmella said in a low voice, tucking the bottle tightly under her armpit so she could fish her phone out of her pocket and check the time – 8.25 p.m. They weren’t late.

Whenever she felt tense, the scar at the side of her belly where the bullet had grazed her began to feel stretched and achy, and it was really taut now, even though it was a year on. To take her mind off it, she surveyed the small, modern house, Patrick’s bronze Prius in the driveway the only feature distinguishing it from the other identical houses in the cul-de-sac.

‘Why are you nervous?’ Jenny grinned at her. ‘I’m not nervous, and I’ve never met any of these people before.’

‘I think I’m just worried that Pat will freak, having us all over for dinner when he didn’t know about it. It’s just so not—’

‘Hey,’ Jenny interrupted, as a shadow loomed towards the other side of the frosted glass panel front door. She leaned across and hastily kissed Carmella on the lips. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, wife,’ she whispered.

‘Happy’ – Carmella, smiling, was about to say the same – even though they had already exchanged cards and handmade gifts when they got in from work – but when Patrick opened the door, slipping his mobile into his pocket as he did so, she changed it – ‘birthday, boss!’ She thrust the bottle towards him. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Um, hello? Are you OK?’

He snapped out of the trance he was in. ‘Sorry. Thank you, Carmella. I think I’d have been able to figure out what it was anyway,’ he said, taking it from her. He held out his hand to Jenny. ‘You must be Jenny. Lovely to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Jenny, shaking hands with him and handing over the flowers with a smile. Carmella had pre-warned her not to go in for the kiss on the cheek. Patrick wasn’t much of a kissy person, she said – although obviously Carmella didn’t see that side of him at work anyway. He just didn’t strike her as very tactile. He looked very different to how he’d looked at work earlier, in a bright blue shirt that clung to his body, tucked into the sort of jeans that cost about a hundred and eighty quid. Carmella wondered if Pat had bought them, or whether Gill had.

‘So, when did you find out we were all turning up?’ she asked as they followed Patrick into a small hallway, squeezing past a pushchair and a small pink tricycle. Voices from the back of the house indicated that the other guests had already arrived.

‘About half an hour ago.’ Pat grinned ruefully. ‘Gill told me she was cooking the lamb to make some shepherd’s pies and that we were going out for a curry. I was getting narky with her for insisting I had a shave and put on a smarter shirt. For a curry? I should’ve known something was up. Let alone that she’d bought a great big leg of lamb just to mince up for shepherd’s pies . . . you wouldn’t guess that I’m a detective, would you?’

‘I won’t tell Winkler,’ Carmella said.

‘You’d better bloody not!’ He nudged her affectionately. ‘Come and meet Gill and everyone.’

This, if Carmella thought about it, was the bit that was making her nervous. Although normally fairly unshockable, she’d been very taken aback to hear Patrick’s wife’s message on the voicemail of her mobile a week ago, inviting her and Jenny round for Pat’s birthday. Even though she had worked with Pat for over three years, she had never met his wife, and Carmella and Jenny had indulged in a fair bit of curious pillow talk about what she was like.

They both felt deeply sorry for her, of course, and for Pat – what a nightmare, to suffer so badly from post-natal psychosis that you almost kill your baby, and then end up in a secure hospital for over a year and a half!

When Carmella had confessed her dread about this event to Jenny later as they lay in bed, Jenny had laughed and kissed her and said, ‘Speak for yourself – I can’t wait! Your boss, his wacko wife, his boss – that he’s clearly got the hots for – her husband, who probably has no idea . . . What could possibly go wrong?’ She had then cackled annoyingly, until Carmella whacked her with a pillow to make her stop.

Now, Patrick took their coats and showed them through to a surprisingly spacious kitchen-diner in which Suzanne Laughland sat on a sofa with a man who Carmella recognised, from the photo on the DCI’s desk, as Suzanne’s husband, Simon. Another woman – Gill, obviously – stood near the counter with a sleepy toddler in her arms, swaying gently from foot to foot.

Bonnie had her thumb in her mouth and her head on her mother’s shoulder. She wore an all-in-one flannelette jumpsuit thing with feet, and for a moment Carmella suddenly felt like her ovaries would explode. She and Jenny had talked about having kids, but neither of them thought the time was right; not yet. She was so busy at work, and Jenny wanted to better establish herself in her new role as deputy head in a local comp, before thinking about motherhood.