“They wouldn’t want the custody time to run out without enough evidence to charge her,” Lindsay said sourly.

“You know how the Police and Criminal Evidence Act works? That might come in handy. Anyway, she’s been advised not to attempt to leave the country and to report back to the police station on Friday morning. Just so’s you know.”

“And you want what, exactly?”

Her wide mouth twitched in what looked like a half smile, half grimace. “My client’s instructions were to get you here so you could establish her innocence. I think I’d settle for that.”

“Nothing too difficult, then,” Lindsay muttered.

“Not for you, according to Meredith.” Her eyebrows rose momentarily. If it hadn’t been a wildly inappropriate moment, Lindsay would have been convinced she was flirting. As it was, she decided, it was simply part of a formidable armory Geri Cusack dedicated to the greater good of her clients. “I’ll let you get on,” the lawyer said.

Lindsay stayed where she was for a moment, watching Geri Cusack say farewell to her client and scoop Sandra Bloom up in her wake. Then she moved across to Meredith and sat down beside her, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Meredith stared bleakly at Lindsay with the red-rimmed eyes of a sick and bewildered child. “I didn’t kill her,” she said. “God knows, I felt like it, but I didn’t do it.”

Chapter 3

The service flat in St. John’s Wood was a reminder to Lindsay that Meredith and Penny inhabited a different financial dimension from her and Sophie. While Meredith was making coffee, Lindsay prowled the room, noting the deep pile of the carpet and the expensive brocade of upholstery and curtains. The weekly rate was probably about double the monthly mortgage on the house in Half Moon Bay. Whatever had brought Meredith to England, it was clearly something she valued.

It hadn’t been difficult to persuade her that the arrivals lounge at Heathrow wasn’t the best place to deal with her grief. Stifling her Calvinist conscience at the thought of the expense, Lindsay had followed her to the cab rank, secretly grateful that she wouldn’t have to lug her bags any further than absolutely necessary. They hadn’t said much on the stuttering journey through west London’s heavy traffic, contenting themselves with superficial conversation about San Franciscan acquaintances and Lindsay’s flight. It had been a relief to escape from the stuffy cab and feel able to talk openly.

Meredith carried through a tray with mugs and milk jug grouped around a steaming cafetière and placed it carefully on a footstool large enough to accommodate a pair of seven league boots. As she poured, Lindsay looked at her more closely. Meredith’s dark blonde hair was ratty, pulled back into a ponytail held by an elastic band. Her eyelids looked bruised and puffy, and dark pouches had appeared under eyes whose grey irises swam in a background of red and white craquelure. The skin on her face and neck seemed to have sagged and crêped overnight, and her lips were chapped and split. Passing her in the street, a casual observer would have assumed the expensive clothes, carefully chosen for their flattering cut and color, belonged to someone else. Lindsay had always thought Meredith attractive; now she understood that it was only the spark of her liveliness that had made her so. With Penny dead, the light in Meredith’s face had died, leaving her damaged and ordinary.