‘Jamie!’ Maggie knocked impatiently on his door. ‘Jamie!’ The teenager appeared, wearing a T-shirt and jogging bottoms, his hair sticking up in various directions.

‘Right, you two, the police are coming to talk to me.’ Maggie made it sound slightly more important than it was. ‘I don’t want you barging in and asking for breakfast or anything. If you’re hungry get yourselves some food now, and, if you do see them, remember to be polite.’

‘Why are they coming here, Mum?’ Leigh showed interest, which pleased her mother. Jamie did not. ‘They want to talk about,’ Maggie moved a bit closer to her daughter and half whispered, ‘the murders.’

‘I’ll be in my room,’ Jamie said, leaving them to it and closing the door.

‘Murders?’ Leigh was confused by the plural use of the word.

‘They found Janet Cox dead now an’ all.’

‘What?’ Leigh, who was a bright girl, looked more concerned than thrilled by the revelation. ‘When?’

‘Today, in town.’

‘Hasn’t she got a son?’ Leigh struggled to remember his name.

‘Yes. Dean. A bit older than you.’ It was the first time since hearing the news that Maggie had given any thought to the boy, and she felt a twinge of sadness.

‘You alright, Mum?’ Leigh asked.

‘Yes, fine.’ Maggie turned and headed downstairs. ‘I’m just going to get that cake out of the freezer for the police. Nice to be able to offer them something.’ The Richman family lived on Verulam Way, in Arbury – an area north of the city that had a reputation for being rough. The house was a 1960s semi that Terry and Maggie had bought twenty years ago, when they were newlyweds, with the intention of it being their family home. Maggie was especially house-proud and, luckily, Terry was willing to fully redecorate as often as his wife decided necessary, which was usually every two years.

Maggie bent down into the chest freezer, her bosom getting in the way, and fished out a large chocolate cake she’d made a few days before. Maggie always liked to be prepared: ‘You never know who might drop in’, was one of her many mottoes.

She defrosted the cake – in her professional standard microwave – and displayed it in pride of place on her dining room table. It was all she could do to stop herself from tucking in before they arrived; with twenty minutes to go before they were due, she busied herself with the washing-up that was piled in the sink.

Normally she would insist that one of her children did it, but she wanted them out of the way and needed something to do while she waited. Wrapping a kitten-patterned apron around her waist, she pulled on her pink Marigolds and got stuck in.