Emma went back to her computer and typed quickly. The Ravensword website came on the screen, and Kelly recognised the logo of a black raven sitting on top of the pommel of a golden sword and realised why she was familiar with the company. She’d never thought much of it before when choosing a bottle of shampoo or mosquito spray for her holidays.

Diagrams of cells and brightly coloured strings of DNA, website forums, excerpts from learned journals, and photographs of starving Africans, presumably being helped by Ravensword medicines, flooded the home screen.

‘What the hell is that?’ Kelly pointed to a bright turquoise spiky ball being invaded by orange slugs. Emma tapped on the play icon and they watched an animation of how one particular virus attacked liver cells.

‘I was rubbish at science at school,’ Emma said.

‘But amazing at poetry,’ Kelly reminded her. ‘I was crap at science too. Let’s find George.’

Emma deftly navigated her way to the staff area. She scrolled through pages of mug shots until she came to a man in a white coat, beaming into the camera. He’d begun working for Ravensword fifteen years ago, in the neurocellular section. It sounded extremely grand and mystifying at the same time. Kelly craned her neck.

‘What is it, guv?’

‘Come out of that and bring up my emails.’

‘You’ll have to put your password in.’

Kelly tapped her code in and her emails came up on screen. She opened one from Ted from earlier in the afternoon. It contained the initial coroner’s report and a selection of photographs from the autopsy. It was the first time Emma had seen the body found at the marina.

‘Wow, that’s clean, isn’t it?’ she said, studying the wound. Kelly nodded. She scrolled through the photographs. Ted was thorough and had taken close-ups of everything he’d flagged for analysis. They looked at fingernails, nostrils, skin colour, teeth, lip contour, and eye fluid. Then they came to one of his whole face.

‘What do you think?’ Kelly asked. ‘Maybe he hadn’t left when the burglars came after all. I’d bet my life that we’re looking at George Murphy.’

Chapter 8

Tilly Knight called George’s number again. It was well and truly dead. It wasn’t uncommon for a man of his age to let his mobile phone run out of juice; her dad did it all the time. But she was frustrated. When she got wind of a new story, it wasn’t only her professional interest that was piqued, it was also her livelihood. A freelance journalist’s income was random at the best of times, and she never knew how long she’d have to wait in between jobs until her next cheque. She’d registered as self-employed rather than as a limited company because she didn’t earn enough.