In the front seat, Vincent looked at his father’s tight but composed face, and couldn’t help but admire his old man. He himself felt distinctly shaken. Never in his life had he ever thought that he would sit in a room with a killer and hear her confession – let alone feel genuinely sorry for her. Even though, at times, he’d felt chilled to the bone by what she’d said.

At the station, once they’d all trooped in, Trudy saw at once that Sergeant O’Grady was back at his desk. The door to Inspector Jennings’s office also stood open. Relieved that both men had dealt with the Vanders and Phyllis – who were probably booked and in cells by now – she led Katherine gently but firmly to the sergeant’s desk and sat her down.

O’Grady regarded his visitor with sharp, assessing eyes, then looked up questioningly at Trudy.

‘Sergeant, this is Miss Morton. She’s just confessed to the murder of Mr Terrence Parker,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve taken down her preliminary statement and she’s signed it.’ She handed over her notebook, knowing that she’d have to type it up later.

The sergeant’s eyes, which had been widening more and more throughout her short report, flickered to the suspect, who gave him a brief smile and an even more brief nod of her head.

‘I see,’ O’Grady said calmly, beginning to read Trudy’s neat longhand. ‘You’d better report to Inspector Jennings,’ he ordered her, without looking up.

With not a little trepidation, Trudy got up. Whilst she couldn’t help but feel proud of herself and happy to have solved the case, she wasn’t expecting any rosy congratulations or heartfelt thanks from her boss.

Clement and Vincent, she noted with an inner smile, were wisely nowhere in sight as she headed through the open door!

*

Later that night, Clement stood at the sink washing up the supper dishes. He wished he’d been able to see Harry Jennings’s face when Trudy had told him they’d just brought in the killer, a confession already in hand, but he was pretty sure his imagination was up to the job!

He was still grinning widely at his mental image of Harry Jennings spluttering, as he wiped up one of the glasses. Then his hand began to tremble uncontrollably, and before he could prevent it, the glass slipped through the folds of the tea towel and onto the kitchen floor, where it broke noisily.

‘Damn!’ Clement growled. Behind him, he heard his son approach and turned around quickly. ‘Pass me the dustpan and brush, will you?’ he asked casually.

‘Later,’ Vincent said firmly, taking the towel from him. Quickly Clement turned away, hiding his hand between his side and the kitchen sink.

But Vincent calmly reached around him, took his father’s still-trembling hand in his and pulled it out into the light. Clement stiffened.