Pam, on the other hand, loved cooking. She had done a brief stint behind the counter at Boots the Chemist, then married and produced two children. Her third baby was due within the month. She was easygoing, sweet-natured and boringly happy squashed into Jane’s tiny kitchen. Sunday mornings in her household were reserved for preparing the big lunch, but she had managed to send Tony and the kids off to Hampstead Heath so she could come round and help. Yet it was Jane who was brewing the coffee, Jane who set out the cups and saucers, who had brought out the well-thumbed cookery books and was frantically searching for a suitable dish for Peter’s big dinner party. Everything Pam had so far suggested had been greeted by groans from Jane; she couldn’t attempt a roast, she’d never get the joint ready at the same time as all the vegetables, and she’d never made proper gravy in her life.

“For Chrissakes, Pam, just something simple that looks like it’s not, easy to cook but doesn’t look like it, know what I mean? I’ve got the starters organized, just avocados with some prawns bunged in, but it’s the main course I’m worried about.”

“How many is it for?”

“There’ll be six of us. It’s got to be something simple, I haven’t cooked for so long I don’t think I could cope.”

“Tell you an easy one—fresh pasta, a little cream and seasoning, then strips of smoked salmon. Plenty of good crusty bread, and fruit and cheese to follow. Are any of them vegetarians?”

The front door banged open and Peter appeared, with the News of the World open at the center pages.

“Are any of your friends vegetarian, Pete?”

Ignoring her, Peter read aloud from the paper: “ ‘George Marlow opened his heart to our reporter. He wept, saying he was an innocent man, but the police are making his life a misery . . . ’ ”

Jane tossed her head, thinking he was joking. “Very funny!”

He laughed. “I’m serious! They’ve got a terrible picture of you, like something out of a horror movie. Dragon Woman!” He dodged her as she grabbed for the paper, and continued reading in a Monty Python voice. “This is the woman detective in charge of the murder investigation. To date, her only words have been 'No comment.’ Should be at home with me, mate!”

Jane’s next attempt to get the paper from him succeeded, but she tore it in half in the process. “Now look what you’ve done!” he teased.

But she wasn’t listening. Her mouth hung open as she scanned the article. She screamed, “My God, they’ve got pictures of my surveillance lads!”

Still laughing, Peter was reading over her shoulder. “ ‘Marlow states that he is being hounded by a woman with an obsession—to lock him up . . . ’ ”