Patrick pushed open the gate and went into the garden, finding a patch of shade beneath an apple tree. ‘I need to talk to her. Nothing to worry about. Do you know where she might be, Mrs Hardy?’

The woman scrutinized him, looking him up and down in a manner that made him wonder if he’d forgotten to put his clothes on that morning, then smiled. ‘Call me April, please. Georgia went out for a run – crazy, in this heat.’

‘Would you be able to call her for me?’

‘I suppose so.’

She led him inside the house, where a golden Labrador lay panting on the stone floor of the kitchen.

‘Lemonade? I made it this morning. Excellent with Pimms but I suppose you’re on duty.’ Her quietly wicked smile made him warm to her immediately. He could picture her when she was younger – the naughty public schoolgirl, secretly sneaking a fag in the school grounds. From what he knew of Georgia, she had probably inherited her rule-breaking side from her mum.

Without waiting for a reply, April poured him a glass – it was sharp and sugary – then fished her phone out of the pocket of a pair of shorts that showed off a great pair of legs.

‘Let’s see.’ She pressed the screen and held the phone to her ear.

‘Hmm. Straight to voicemail. I’ll text her. She usually answers straight away, unless she’s with a boy.’

‘Does Georgia have a boyfriend?’

She sent the text and laid the phone on the marble kitchen surface. ‘Oh no. Georgia’s attention span isn’t long enough for her to have a boyfriend. She’s more like a butterfly, flitting about, taking what she needs.’ She laughed and fluttered her hands in imitation of the insect.

‘Do you let Georgia have a lot of freedom, then?’

April took a step closer. ‘She’s sixteen, detective. She needs her freedom to be able to find out who she really is. We’ve always encouraged that. Although we’ve had to curb her spending recently, make her take responsibility for her own money. She’ll get access to her trust when she’s twenty-one. We’re very strict about that.’

‘Have you got any reason to think Georgia has been in need of money recently?’

April leaned against the worktop and smiled with one corner of her mouth. ‘Am I being interviewed? This hasn’t happened to me since the late seventies when I was arrested for smoking a joint.’

‘I’m not interviewing you, April. Just making conversation.’

Her wicked expression returned. ‘Shame. There’s a very naughty cop in my new novel.’

‘You’re a writer?’

‘Yes. Well, I guess there’s no reason why you’d have heard of me.’ She gestured towards a framed poster on the wall. Enslaved, by April Hardy. ‘That’s my new one. I used to write what were called bonkbusters but now it’s all about erotica.’