‘It’s a she. And she moved to a rival firm a few months ago.’

‘But you could find her, though, if you tried.’

‘I suppose so.’ Murfin paused. ‘Diane, surely we could ask Lowther’s parents? They must know about his hospital stay.’

‘Yes, I’m going to ask them,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t trust them to tell me the truth. I want to make sure I have an independent account.’

‘I can’t promise anything. There’s such a lot on right now.’

‘OK, Gavin. Just try, will you?’

Fry seemed to have heard herself saying that far too often recently. Was she the only one these things occurred to? Or was she obsessing too much over irrelevant details?

‘Where’s your Bulgarian?’ asked Murfin.

‘C Division. He’s assisting on the Zhivko bombing, too.’

‘Busy man.’

‘When he comes back, I’m taking him down to Foxlow. He wants to see Rose Shepherd’s house.’

‘Does he know anything about her?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Murfin answered the phone and held it out to Fry.

‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. ‘It’s Boris.’

Fry took the phone. ‘Hi, Georgi.’

‘Diane, alo. I’m returning to Edendale. I need to talk to you.’

‘Has something come up?’

‘I have to talk to you about the assassination of Rosica Savova.’

‘The assassination of who?’

‘The woman you know as Rose Shepherd.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Standing in the sitting room at Bain House, Fry thought of the heaps of flowers and cards piling up outside the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. Last time she’d been there, teddy bears and other children’s toys had been added to the pile. There was talk of opening a memorial book at the community centre. This morning, the local papers had been full of photographs of the Mullens, tributes from people who’d known them, and poems from children at the school Jack had attended.

But there was none of that for Rose Shepherd. No one in Foxlow had left flowers at her gate. No one had talked to the papers about her. Even Eric Grice had decided against that.

‘So who was Rose Shepherd really?’ asked Fry.

‘She was a woman by the name of Rosica Savova,’ said Georgi Kotsev, staring at the grey walls. ‘She had a Bulgarian father, but her mother was an Irish national, from County Galway.’

‘She could put on an Irish accent, if she felt like it?’

‘It might have been natural. We don’t know much about her past history, so which country she spent most of her time in is unclear. But she had been working in Bulgaria for several years before she came here. Our police department has an intelligence file on her, due to her association with Simcho Nikolov and Dimitar Iliev.’

‘What crime was she involved in?’