“Yeah, I got that first time around, thanks. What I mean is, what tipped them off to the fact that Penny died the same way as her fictional victim? I’m having some trouble getting my head round the idea of some cop sitting down with Penny’s laptop and scrolling through her files on the off chance of finding something that would turn an accident into a murder inquiry. It’s usually the other way round, isn’t it? Ignore the suspicious circumstances, call it an accident, it doesn’t half cut down on the paperwork.”

Sandra Bloom breathed heavily through her nose as she listened to Lindsay’s irony. “According to Ms. Miller’s solicitor, Ms. Varnavides’ agent called the police. She’d read a synopsis of the book and she believed it was more than coincidence that her client should die in an identical way.”

“Her agent? Bloody hell, that’s one way to make sure you maximize your ten per cent!”

“I think that’s a pretty harsh judgement,” Sandra said stiffly.

Lindsay snorted. “Easy seen you’ve not encountered many literary agents. Think about it. Penny’s death is going to increase sales anyway. But murder? That’s a whole different ball game. Tie your dead author in to a gruesome murder mystery that’s linked in turn to her books and you’ve hit the jackpot. Penny Varnavides is probably going to sell more books dead than she ever did alive. But I don’t suppose any of that even crossed her agent’s mind when she rushed off to perform her civic duty.” Her Scottish accent intensified with her sarcasm.

“It was bound to come out sooner or later,” the detective said. “I expect her publishers will be doing their bit to cash in too. Somebody will presumably have to finish her final book so they can publish it. So they’d have been bound to make the connection.”

“I suppose so.”

“And by that stage, the waters would have been muddied by the passage of time and it would have been that much harder to nail the killer,” Sandra observed calmly.

Lindsay nodded. “You’re right. In fact, you seem to be pretty good at this being right business. I don’t suppose you’d want to stick around, help me out with the investigation?”

Sandra Bloom gave the first spontaneous and open smile Lindsay had seen so far. “With someone as awkward as you? No offense, Lindsay, but life’s too short.”

Put in her place as firmly as few had ever managed, Lindsay grunted and squirmed round in her seat, tucking her pillow under her head and pulling her blanket over her shoulders. “Wake me for breakfast. Not before,” she said firmly.

You could never confuse the approaches to San Francisco and Heathrow, Lindsay thought as she stared down at the chequerboard of small fields and housing estates. Having dozed fitfully some of the way across America and the Atlantic and read the rest of the time, she’d been stupefied with lack of sleep during the transfer at Dublin Airport. At one point she’d found herself wandering dreamlike into a Doc Marten’s shop and trying on a pair of shiny gold boots. If it hadn’t been for Sandra Bloom looming over her at the crucial moment, she might even have bought them. But now she was grittily awake, feeling faintly sick and aware that the long flight had just been a way of putting things on hold. In a few minutes, they would land, and she’d be in the thick of things. Penny’s death, Meredith’s grief and someone’s guilt would have to be dealt with. She wished she’d waited for Sophie.