It had been her idea for him to house-hunt in Keswick. He’d even joined a rambling group. Part of her wanted him to fully retire, but the thought of forging a relationship with a new coroner was something she wanted to put off for as long as possible. Plus, the work kept him sharp, and he was a young sixty-nine; still vital and shrewd. Semi-retirement for Ted actually meant training up junior pathologists, not necessarily a drastic reduction in hours, and so he was generally to be found either at his desk at home or staring through a microscope in Carlisle. His working life hadn’t changed all that much, but his personal life had reawakened. Kelly had made sure of that. His step was lighter, his eyes clearer and his face more open. He’d made new friends in the drinking establishments of Keswick, and he’d been on walks that he’d forgotten existed. Kelly was in fact a little envious of his free time.

She noticed the photograph of her mother on the side. It had been taken forty years ago, before Kelly was born, and Wendy was wearing her emerald-green ball gown. Ted followed her gaze.

‘She was beautiful. Just like you, Kelly.’

She waved her hand in front of her, batting away the praise.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to let your head get too big,’ he added.

Kelly smiled at him. She could see that he missed Wendy terribly; they all did. Her nieces, her sister; all of them. She felt a pang of guilt that she had stopped checking in on Nikki. Her head told her that it was out of her hands: her sister didn’t appreciate her poking her nose in. But her compassion (and the voice of her mother) told her otherwise. With Dave Crawley out of prison, though, and his wife best friends with Nikki, she reckoned that now more than ever she wouldn’t be welcomed. As always, prevarication won.

‘Did you say gunshot wound?’ Ted asked, shaking her from her musings.

Kelly nodded. ‘I know, unusual round here or what?’

Gun crime was the preserve of the Manchester ghettos, not the Lake District. Obviously Kelly had seen plenty of gunshot wounds in London, and Ted had worked and trained all over the world. But here in the Lakes, it was unheard of.

‘Weapon?’ he asked.

‘Nope, no sign of it, and we used gun dogs. They’re clean shots, from what I saw: and look professional. The stripping of the body was cool and calculated, not leaving us much to go on. Whoever did it doesn’t mind so much that we find out who the victim is, but he doesn’t want us to know exactly where and how he came to welcome a couple of bullets in his brain.’