‘We had some good news for you this morning, before this,’ Robin said.

‘Really?’ The sudden hope in her eyes was painful to see.

‘We don’t think Becca was using morphine any more,’ she said. ‘Opioids generally. It sounds like she’d managed to stop some months ago.’

Valerie’s body relaxed, her shoulders visibly dropping. Almost immediately, though, she tensed again. ‘But what does that mean? If it’s not that, what’s left?’

The car doors slammed, shutting out the street. Robin remembered how they’d left Valerie’s house the first time. A week ago today – it felt like months.

‘Christ on a bike,’ said Maggie, putting on her seatbelt. ‘Bring back the insurance fraudsters.’

‘Could she actually have done it, do you think? Killed Becca accidentally in a rage, disposed of the body, constructed all this to divert attention?’

‘Would she have hired us? She’d have had to go to the police, it’d raise suspicion otherwise, but investigators? Seems unlikely. Also, she’d never have been able to lift the body so how would she have disposed of her?’

‘Maybe that was why the kitchen was so spick the first time: she’d just done a big clean-up. Messy business, dismembering someone.’

Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, sicko, get moving.’

The street was empty so Robin did a U-turn and headed them back towards Stratford Road. At the end, however, instead of turning left towards town and the office, she indicated right.

‘Qué?’ said Maggie, looking up from her phone.

‘Quick detour. While we’re here.’

Robin watched as with the tip of his knife, Gamil arranged the kite-shaped pieces of kaju barfi into a seven-petalled flower then, in a deft sequence, whipped a length of ribbon from the dispenser, tied it present-style around the box and curled the ends. ‘You’re sure that’s all? You see how many different kinds I have.’ He swept a hand through the air over the pastel array. ‘These, with pistachio, they’re my favourite – try one.’

‘No, honestly, that’s perfect. But please let me pay for them.’

The hand again, this time waving her away.

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. So what did you want to ask me this time?’ He looked between them. ‘Is it the same girl?’

‘Becca, yes,’ said Maggie. ‘Rebecca Woodson.’

Robin brought up the picture she’d just taken of the photograph on the fridge, Valerie and Becca in Torbay after Becca’s GCSEs, Becca in her cut-offs and strappy top, Valerie in Clarks nun-sandals and a mid-length skirt, their squinting smiles. She handed it to him.

‘We wondered if you knew her mother at all?’

‘She lives locally?’ he asked, pinching out to enlarge her face.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t, I’m sorry.’

‘She’s not a customer? She doesn’t come in?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

Chapter Eighteen