What he needed were more facts to go on. But with everything backlogged like it was, the facts weren’t going to be arriving on his desk any time soon. If it did turn out after all that there was something iffy about Parker’s death though, his superiors would come down on him like a ton of bricks for letting so much time pass before he pulled his finger out!

‘Damn it, I suppose you’ll just have to keep digging,’ he capitulated, pretending not to notice the look of delight that crossed her face. ‘Only until we get the autopsy report, mind,’ he admonished, scowling at her. ‘Or the mechanic’s report on the car. That’ll tell us whether there was some hanky-panky done on his vehicle. You did set that in motion?’ He shot her a hard look.

‘Yes, sir,’ she confirmed, knowing that he would have been delighted to catch her out in failing to do something so obvious. ‘But they say it’s going to take some time. They couldn’t even find a breakdown recovery vehicle until—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Jennings interrupted her impatiently. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Isn’t it the end of your shift?’ he demanded testily.

‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said, and wisely scarpered before he could change his mind.

Once outside the door, she realised that she hadn’t asked him if she could continue to use the services of Dr Ryder. Which meant that he hadn’t said she couldn’t, didn’t it?

*

The early edition of the Oxford Tribune was delivered later than usual (due to the inconvenient snow) at Raven’s Rest B&B in Summertown that afternoon.

The woman who was currently occupying Room 4, a corner room on the top floor, read the article about the death of Terry Parker, a car crash victim, as she sat on the edge of her bed.

She felt like crying. Or maybe laughing. Because when life played dirty tricks on you, you had to have a sense of humour, didn’t you? But mostly, she felt like raging. Like stomping about and throwing things, and stamping her feet and ripping something – anything – into tiny little bits.

But of course, she did none of these things. Instead, she forced herself to read the article through twice, meticulously, before closing her eyes for a few moments and breathing deeply.

She was twenty-eight years old, although she believed – with good cause – that she looked several years younger than that. Her thick dark-brown hair was cut in a modern, youthful style, and she wore clothes that she had made herself, copied from the latest fashion magazines. Since she was a good seamstress, she was often admired for her outfits. She walked and sat well, and she was very careful to keep her speaking voice low and clear.