‘When would this have been?’

Emma Nicholls thought. ‘About . . . when she announced she was pregnant. Five months ago? Six months. Something like that.’ Her fingers fidgeted again. ‘Everyone rallied round, as I said. And she got over it eventually.’

‘Do you think she wanted him back?’

Emma Nicholls looked surprised at the question. ‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes. I suppose I would,’ Anni said, trying to smile.

‘Yes. Even him.’

Anni leaned forward. ‘Even him? What d’you mean?’

Emma Nicholls did her auditioning thing once more. ‘He . . . I don’t think he did her much good. Not just running out when she was pregnant, but . . .’ She put her head back. Anni felt as if she was about to impart something important. Then she leaned forward, waved her hand. Whatever it was she was going to say, the moment had passed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. You wanted facts. Anything else I could say would be conjecture.’

Anni realised this would be as much as she was going to get on Claire Fielding. She checked her notes once more. ‘What about Julie Simpson?’

‘What about her?’

‘Anything happened to her recently that strikes you as out of the ordinary?’

Emma Nicholls frowned in thought. Shook her head. ‘Nothing . . . No. Nothing.’

‘Any enemies?’

‘Enemies?’ Emma Nicholls looked round the room as if unable to believe what she had just heard. ‘She was a primary school teacher, not a . . . an international terrorist.’

‘No,’ said Anni, ‘but she’s also just been murdered.’

Emma Nicholls’ face fell. Her head nodded forward. ‘No,’ she said to the floor, ‘no enemies. She was liked in this school. Well liked.’

‘No . . .’ Anni tried to be tactful, ‘liaisons? Anything like that? Something that could go wrong?’

‘No. Nothing at all. Nothing.’

Anni nodded. There were at least two people she thought would be able to help her more than the professionally guarded Emma Nicholls. ‘Chrissie Burrows, Geraint Cooper,’ she said. ‘Where could I find them, please?’

Emma Nicholls made arrangements for Anni to see them. Anni put her notebook away, rose to go, thanked the head teacher for her time.

‘Not at all. I just wish I could have been more help.’

‘You’ve been fine.’

Emma Nicholls put her hand on Anni’s arm, stopped her from leaving. ‘There is one more thing. Perhaps you were right.’

Anni frowned. ‘About what?’

‘Ryan Brotherton. I know I said it was over between them. But I got the impression . . . and again this is just conjecture, not fact . . . I got the impression that it may have been over but it wasn’t quite finished. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I do. Some people are like that,’ said Anni.

‘Men in particular,’ said Emma Nicholls.

14

Caroline Eades pointed the BMW 4x4 towards Stanway, drove out of the city centre. As she took it round the roundabout and down the Lexden Road, she felt once again that she wasn’t just driving a car but manoeuvring a tank. She knew all her friends at the gym were jealous, told her how much they loved it, but she hated it. She wished she had never let Graeme buy it for her.

Her lunch had passed in a pleasant enough way, the same as it always did. Her friends were good company and it was always fun to catch up with the gossip. The Life café on Culver Street West wasn’t Starbucks or Caffè Nero, and when it was her turn, she always insisted they went there. Everyone else went to the chains because they thought they were somewhere to be seen. And because they had the same menu all day every day in every branch and you knew what you were getting. But Caroline found that boring, depressing even. She preferred Life. And the others went along with her.

With original art for sale on the walls and iMac internet access, Life was individual, a one-off, and it made her feel like an individual going there. It was bright and airy and the coffee and cakes were good. Not that she allowed herself cakes all that often. She had compromised: a slice of rocky road with the marshmallows removed. Well, most of them.

She turned off the Lexden Road before it became London Road, feeling her arms ache as she spun the wheel - even with the power steering it was a beast to manage - and headed towards her estate. It was starting to feel like home now. She had moved there nearly two years ago from a small but very pleasant house in St Mary’s, an area over the walkway from the Mercury Theatre, just outside the town’s wall. Bordered to the west by Crouch Street, and on the east by the wall, it had the feel of a little village within the town, but the nearness to the centre meant it wasn’t too cut off. Broad Street also had its delis, designer clothes shops, restaurants, pubs and furniture shops, all adding to the feel. However, like so much of the town, it had become choked by new apartment blocks and she took that as her sign to leave. By then it was just another suburban outpost of Colchester, the chi-chi shops of Crouch Street an affectation on what was really a main road off the Queensway roundabout.

The estate in Stanway was further away from the town centre. Secluded, the estate agent had said. Select. And it looked it. Large executive houses, tastefully designed, solidly built. No two the same, and each one with space for at least two cars on the driveway. It was what Graeme wanted. Caroline had loved the house in St Mary’s but was trying to feel content here.

She pulled up in front of her house, the black 4x4 jerking to a halt with a slight squeal of brakes, the front tyre on the pavement. Hating the car once again. Maybe when she’d had the baby she might enjoy driving it more. Get hold of the wheel properly without her huge belly getting in the way.

She climbed out, took her gym bag from the boot, walked to the front door, humming a song she had been listening to on the radio. Let herself in. Put the keys on the table in the hall, went to the kitchen. It was symbolic of everything she had ever thought she wanted in life. A beautiful house. A great car. A childhood sweetheart who had turned into a handsome husband. Two gorgeous kids already and a third on the way. Life, she kept telling herself, couldn’t get more perfect.

She crossed to the fridge, poured herself a glass of orange juice, took it to the breakfast bar. She sat down on one of the stools, took a mouthful, and a wave of tiredness overwhelmed her.

She sighed. Exhausted again. She told herself it was just the baby, that was all. The baby. She and Graeme already had two older children, nearly teenagers. Alfie, twelve, and Vanessa, ten. What was she doing having another baby? Now? At her age?

Thirty-nine wasn’t old, she told herself. Not too old to be a mother again. Not too old to still be a desirable, attractive woman.

She took another mouthful of juice. Felt it travel all the way down her body. She shouldn’t drink it too quickly, she would want to pee again. Especially if the baby decided to lie on her kidneys. Another deep breath as she tried to find a comfortable way to sit. Her mind flashed back to lunch. The girls. All younger than her, all expecting their first baby. They were a good bunch, friendly, fun to be with. But sometimes Caroline thought she saw them looking at her not in a friendly way. Like they were laughing at her. As if she was too old. Trying to look younger, pass as one of them when she should have been past all that. Like being out with their mum.

They had never said this, but it was a feeling she got. Only sometimes.

Caroline finished the juice, put the glass in the dishwasher. As she stood up, stars danced before her eyes. She began to feel light-headed. She had moved too quickly. That started to happen now. More and more often as the baby got heavier and heavier. Natural, the doctor had said, but still bloody annoying.