Harry let out a relieved breath. ‘Yes, sir.’ But he was very much aware that he was in a uniquely awkward and unenviable position. He wanted to be able to tell his superiors – and the press – that he’d found the killer of the May Queen; and when a murdered girl’s boyfriend hangs himself a few days later, that’s usually taken to be as good as a confession. Which meant that, normally, he could be confident of closing the case once they’d been able to collect some evidence cementing the hypothesis that her lover had killed her in a jealous rage.

But when the dead suspect was the son of a superintendent of police, and an old acquaintance, it could hardly be business as usual. Especially when dealing with a man who, before now, could claim to have high-ranking friends in both the police force and society in general.

But Harry was well aware that the superintendent would not be able to weather this particular storm unscathed. Unfair or not, the chances were that Keith Finch now faced not only a personal loss, but a professional loss too. For surely the powers-that-be were already making plans to pension him off – the usual fate of anyone who caused them such public embarrassment?

Harry had been careful to make sure that there were no newspapers on his desk that morning, but it was impossible that the Finch family wouldn’t have read the speculation in the local press. He knew David had had a sister, and he could only guess the hell she was going through right now. He suppressed a shudder and sighed gently.

‘The thing is, of course, that I don’t believe for one moment my son killed her, Harry. Of course, I know you have to consider the possibility that he did, but I have every confidence that you’ll find no evidence supporting this. And that you will eventually find out who did,’ the superintendent added hastily, although there was nothing on his face to indicate whether he believed this to be true or not.

Harry swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.

‘So, to get down to brass tacks. I’m here about the inquest on David. It’s set for this Monday, yes?’ Superintendent Finch said briskly. Whatever his personal tragedy, he was determined to keep a stiff upper lip, and for that Jennings was grateful. He wasn’t sure, given the circumstances, what comfort he could give to a grieving father in imminent peril of breaking down.

‘Yes, sir. Starting at 10 a.m.’

‘And it’s the old vulture presiding?’

Inspector Jennings nodded. ‘Yes, sir. He’s the best, as you know.’

‘I agree. I’ve always rated Dr Ryder very highly – even when he’s being the proverbial pain in our necks,’ Keith Finch said heavily but with a wry twist of his lips.