She supported herself against the counter top, got her breath and her balance back. Checked her watch. Four hours until Graeme came home. She should have something prepared for dinner. She sighed again, too tired to stand upright let alone cook. Lucky she had remembered to call in at M&S. Roast shank of lamb plus prepared vegetables. Wouldn’t take too long to heat up. And if Graeme complained, she would tell him to make dinner himself.

The kitchen gleamed, all beech and granite and matching appliances. Another sigh. At least she hoped it would be four hours until Graeme arrived home. Lately he had been coming back later and later. Working longer hours, he said. Getting in the overtime before the baby came along. Because they would need the money then. Babies were expensive, had she forgotten? And when he did arrive home he was tetchy and miserable. Jumping on the slightest thing she said or did. And he never wanted sex any more. Admittedly at the moment she was too tired for it, but even in the first stages, when she was feeling really horny, he hadn’t wanted it. In fact, the last time they had made love was when she got pregnant. She would remember something like that.

And the kids were no help. Coming in straight from school, upstairs to their rooms, on the internet, watching TV. She may as well be by herself.

She sat down again on a bar stool. If this was her life and it was all so perfect, why did she feel so unhappy?

She wanted a bath. A long, lovely, luxurious soak to ease away all the aches and strains she carried round with her. But she couldn’t do that while she was in the house alone. What if she got stuck? What if someone came to the door and she couldn’t get out? No. Too risky. She would have to settle for a shower instead. Again.

She went up the stairs, one step at a time, supporting herself heavily on the banister, into the bathroom, where she ran the water, began to slowly strip away the layers of her clothes.

At least all I have to do is stand there, she thought. I don’t have to move.

She stepped into the shower. Closed her eyes.

Stood there until her legs ached. Then towelled off, went into the bedroom and changed into her pyjamas and dressing gown. She only meant to have a few minutes’ rest. Just a quick lie-down on the bed. But as soon as she closed her eyes she was gone.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that it would all sort itself out. When the baby was born.

15

Chrissie Burrows had, Anni thought, been very eager to help but didn’t have much to contribute. She had come across her type quite often. It was a common enough response in situations like this, to feel that you had to do everything possible to assist, even when you had exhausted your knowledge.

The woman was in her thirties, plain and round. But she had eyes that, under different circumstances, would have indicated a lively, fun companion. Not these circumstances, however.

The empty classroom they were talking in felt hot and cloying. Like the boiler was turned up too high to keep the children drowsy. Anni tried to ignore it, set to work establishing a timeline for the party.

Chrissie Burrows sat fidgeting with one paper tissue after another, dabbing her eyes, blowing her nose, reducing them to shreds with her fingers. ‘Well, I . . . I left early.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘Around nine. Nine thirty at the very latest. But nearer nine, I think.’

‘Any particular reason?’

She thought, shook her head. ‘We . . . we were all having a good time. I’d given Claire her present, some Babygros . . .’ The tears threatened again. She plucked another paper tissue from the box. Anni waited for her to ride the moment out.

‘And you went home.’

She nodded. ‘Still had some work to do for today. And I have a long drive, so I only had one glass . . .’

‘And did you see anyone suspicious as you left? Anyone loitering outside or on the stairs?’

She shook her head. Her brow was furrowed, as if by concentrating hard enough she would be able to make the memory, or even the person, Anni wanted appear before them.

‘So who else was there, apart from yourself?’

‘Claire, Julie, Geraint . . . that’s it.’

‘No one from outside school?’

She shook her head.

‘Not Claire’s boyfriend? Ryan Brotherton?’

Chrissie Burrows sat up, something else in her eyes besides tears. ‘No. Not him. Claire never wanted to see him again.’

Anni kept her expression professionally blank. ‘Why not?’

‘He was a . . . oh.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t say it. But he was bad for Claire. Very bad. Getting rid of him was the best thing she ever did.’

‘What about Julie? Was there anyone in her background who might have wanted to harm her?’

Chrissie Burrows looked up. ‘Julie? No. No one. No one wanted to harm her. She was, she was . . .’ The tears started again.

Anni was beginning to see a pattern emerging.

She regarded the weeping woman intently, doubting there was anything more she could tell her. She was just a normal woman who couldn’t believe that something horribly extraordinary had invaded her life and taken away two of her friends in the most brutal way imaginable.

Anni stood up, handed her a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please call.’

Chrissie Burrows took the card without looking up.

With a uniform stepping in to take a statement from the distraught teacher, Anni went on to question Geraint Cooper. Relieved to be out of that hot room.

The police had requisitioned the nurse’s room for questioning and he was waiting for her there. At least it was slightly cooler than the classroom. Geraint Cooper was black and, she surmised, in his mid to late twenties. Neatly dressed, he sat with his hands in his lap. Anni didn’t believe in jumping to conclusions, and certainly not in stereotypes, but from his demeanour and attitude, she was sure Geraint Cooper was gay.

She sat down opposite him and introduced herself.

‘Mr Cooper, I’m DS Hepburn.’

They shook hands. She felt from his loose grip that he was shaking slightly.

‘I’ll try and make this as painless as possible,’ she said with a small smile. ‘You were at Claire Fielding’s last night along with Julie Simpson and Chrissie Burrows.’ Not a question, a statement.

He nodded.

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Around ten. Something like that.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘Dutch Quarter. Just up the road from Claire.’ His voice caught as he said her name.

‘How did you get home?’

‘Walked.’

‘And what would you say the mood was like when you left?’

He shrugged. ‘We were all having a good time. A good laugh.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Claire was enjoying herself. We all were.’

‘No arguments, nothing like that?’

He looked as if the question offended him. ‘No. Just having a laugh.’

‘And it was a baby shower?’

He nodded. ‘A baby shower. We brought our presents, opened some wine, had a laugh. God knows, she needed it.’

‘Claire? Why d’you say that?’

He sat back, his body language defensive, arms wrapped over his chest. ‘Because of him.’

‘You mean Ryan Brotherton?’

He nodded.

‘What did he do?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘He didn’t want the baby. Wanted her to get rid of it. She wouldn’t. She dumped him.’

Anni waited. He said no more. ‘And that’s it?’

He nodded, arms still wrapped tightly round his chest.

She changed her approach. ‘When you left, at around tenish, did you see anyone suspicious hanging about?’

He said nothing, thinking.

‘Either outside the flats, in the street, or even inside, on the stairs. Anyone. Anywhere.’

He sighed. His arms dropped, his posture relaxed. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day. Over and over in my head. Trying to think . . .’