Before Norma could agree, there was a musical peal that could only be her front doorbell. The patio was at the back of the house, a door opening onto it from the kitchen. Rather than go through the house to the front, it was much quicker to trot around the side and see who might be standing there. And even quicker than that to call a welcoming ‘Hello-o-o?’ and invite the newcomer to join the little party. Which Norma did, in a loud but wavering voice.

But instead of a single person, there were two. Caz Barkley led the way, square-shouldered and professional, closely followed by a woman Thea had just seen in a newspaper photograph. ‘Mrs Chadwick?’ said Barkley. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I was hoping for a word with Mrs Slocombe. I’m Detective Sergeant Barkley and this is Ms Berensen.’

‘What on earth …?’ squealed Norma, getting to her feet, fork still in hand. Nice Norma. Nice normal Norma was clearly very perturbed by this turn of events. Thea’s mind was working slowly, with no instant realisations or implications bubbling up. Norma was still uttering shrill half-sentences. ‘How did you know …? Who told you …?’

Grace Berensen stood back, her eyes red and blurred after what had obviously been a prolonged spell of crying. 328Thea tried in vain to meet her gaze with a comforting smile. She tried to remember what time she had phoned Cirencester with the dead woman’s name. How long would it have taken the police to work out where Grace lived, go to find her, break the news and suggest she go with Barkley to the scene of her partner’s murder? It all felt remarkably quick.

Caz addressed Thea directly. ‘Could we go to the Ibbotson house, do you think? Ms Berensen wants to see the place—you know what I mean. And she’d like to talk to you about what happened.’ Then she turned to Norma. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Chadwick. That is, we will want a word with you at some point. I’d appreciate it if you could stay here until somebody arrives to speak to you.’

‘Me?’ Norma’s voice rose even higher. ‘What on earth for? I had the police round here on Sunday, asking me whether I’d seen anything suspicious at the Corner House. What more do you want to know?’

Caz glanced at Thea. ‘Just routine,’ she said blandly. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Questions began to stir sluggishly in Thea’s mind. How much did Caz know? Had she spoken to Ben Harkness? Was she here all on her own, or were there people from Cirencester swarming all over quiet little Barnsley?

The cooling cottage pie called to her, the few forkfuls she’d managed thus far only increasing her hunger. ‘Can I just finish this, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Are you in a tearing hurry?’329

‘Only Thea Slocombe,’ murmured Caz, rolling her eyes. ‘Hurry up, then.’

Norma Chadwick watched her in undisguised amazement, as she finished the food. Thea knew she was behaving strangely, ignoring the clear request of a police detective, as well as the evident needs of the suffering Berensen person. But she was giving herself time to think; wanting to test the dawning theories that were nudging at her. She was aware of Grace Berensen finally giving her a close scrutiny, trying to understand this apparent callousness. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she said, with her mouth full. ‘It would be a shame to waste it, you must admit.’ She beamed at Norma. ‘It really is very delicious.’