“Yeah, I’m fine; just a bit tired, that’s all. I only rang so you wouldn’t be worried. See you later.”

“All right. Take care, now. I’ll wait up for you.”

Lindsay put the phone down quickly. The concern in Cordelia’s voice hurt too much. She didn’t want to do what she was going to do, but she couldn’t see any alternative. That didn’t take the fear away, however. She left the phone box and quickly walked the hall mile to their hotel. She ran upstairs to their room and let herself in. She pulled out her miniature tape recorder from her holdall and checked the batteries. She broke open a fresh pack of tiny cassettes and inserted one. Finally, she did a check for voice level with the machine in her jacket pocket. Satisfied that her equipment was working properly, she took a last look round the hotel room. She thought of writing a note to Cordelia in case anything happened to prevent her safe return, but then dismissed the idea as melodramatic, turned on her heel, and marched back downstairs. It took her a couple of minutes to get her bearings, then she set off to walk to James Cartwright’s house.

The street was quiet and empty except for a few parked cars. Lindsay shivered when a strong gust of wind caught her face as she turned into Cartwright’s drive. There was a light burning in the hall, and a smudge of light on the lawn at the side of the house, which Lindsay guessed came from the ground-floor office where she and Cordelia had interviewed Cartwright before.

On the doorstep, she set the tape recorder for voice-automated recording and rang the doorbell. Some time elapsed before it opened, framing Cartwright against the strong light from within. He looked tired and disheveled, as if he’d gone to seed overnight, and as he spoke, his sour gin breath hit Lindsay. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded angrily.

“I want to talk to you. About Sarah,” said Lindsay quietly.

“You? What the hell do you think you’ve got to say that I would want to listen to? My daughter’s dead, thanks to you, and now you want to talk to me about her? You can piss off.” He moved to close the door, but Lindsay was quicker and pushed her body into the gap.

“That might be what the police have told you, but you and I know a different story, don’t we? If anybody drove Sarah to slash her wrists, it wasn’t me. I know the truth, Cartwright, and I want to talk to you about it. You can take your pick. Either we talk about it now, or I go to the police and talk about it with them.”