Cheryl Haggard had dark, sleepless eyes, bloodshot from recent tears. Her skin was pale, her hair straw-like. She was probably an inch shorter and four kilos lighter than her buxom sister.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet,’ Clarke said as Haggard settled in the chair across from her.

‘That’s all right.’ It was an automatic response. Cheryl Haggard looked far from all right.

‘I think you’ve talked with my colleague, Christine Esson,’ Clarke said. ‘I’m fairly new to the case, so I thought we should maybe …’

Haggard nodded throughout without making eye contact. She wore a long-sleeved top with the arms pulled down so that her hands could disappear into them. She allowed her right hand some freedom when her drink arrived. Like her sister, she was on white wine. Clarke had sampled her own gin and tonic and was hoping she’d still be able to drive after finishing it.

‘How’s the case going?’ Pelham asked.

‘We’re making progress. I don’t suppose we could have a few moments alone with Cheryl?’

‘Suppose all you like. I’m staying right here.’ She reached towards her sister and clasped her wrist. Again, the look Hendry gave Clarke intimated that there’d be no getting around this, so Clarke yielded with a nod of understanding.

‘Remind me how long you’ve known your husband, Cheryl.’

‘Best part of ten years.’

‘And you’ve been married for six?’ She watched the slow nod.

‘Thank Christ there are no kids, that’s all I can say,’ Pelham added.

‘He never wanted them,’ her sister said quietly.

‘Any particular reason?’ Clarke asked.

Haggard gave a shrug. ‘The way the world was going … he didn’t want kids of ours having to live through it.’

‘A bloody nonsense,’ Pelham muttered.

‘Had he always thought like that?’ Clarke pressed. ‘Pessimistic about things in general?’

‘Job probably didn’t help.’

‘He talked to you about his job?’

‘Not really. I mean, you don’t, do you?’ Her eyes went from Clarke to Hendry and back again, as if seeking acknowledgement of the fact. ‘Maybe it would have done him some good to let it out instead of bottling it up … I don’t know. Most nights he was late home – a few drinks with the lads after work. His way of letting off steam.’

‘The lads being his colleagues?’

‘We didn’t have other friends. It was always nights out with blokes he worked with and sometimes their partners.’

‘You think the job got to him, maybe changed him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Pelham snapped, glaring at Clarke. ‘Sounds like you’re defending him.’ Then, to her sister, ‘I warned you this would happen, Cheryl. Under the bloody carpet it goes.’ Her phone rang and she answered it. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Melinda,’ she barked. ‘Later, sweetheart, mwah.’ She tossed the phone back onto the table. ‘Work,’ she explained.