Numbly she went downstairs for her phone and keyed in Gladwin’s number. But her call went straight to voicemail, which Thea supposed was meant to convey that this was Sunday, a day of rest, and even detective superintendents did take time off from work now and then. But hadn’t Drew said Gladwin was fully occupied with two separate investigations? That she was too busy to enquire after Thea’s welfare? So, didn’t that mean she ought to answer her phone? She left a brief message, saying somebody had died, and she was expecting trouble.

The prospect of dialling 999 and having strange uncomprehending police officers turn up was grim, but there was no alternative. She resisted the powerful urge to call Drew for advice. What could the poor man say? Far kinder to leave that until the worst was over and she could report it all in relative tranquillity. She had brought this disaster entirely onto herself, and she ought to deal with it on her own, if that was what it came to.

So she made the call and forced herself to explain patiently to the woman, who asked a long list of questions 72that felt entirely irrelevant. There was a predictable moment when it was assumed she was speaking from Yorkshire. ‘No, it’s a small village in Gloucestershire,’ Thea insisted. ‘A few miles east of Cirencester.’

‘Do you know the postcode?’

‘No. Sorry. I only got here yesterday. It’s not my house.’

Thea could visualise the woman scanning her crib sheet for this eventuality. Was it acceptable to take a call about a dead body from somebody other than the official resident of the property? Had anybody foreseen this particular scenario, and if so, what had they decided to do about it? ‘Can I give you directions? It’s not very difficult,’ said Thea.

Apparently this old-fashioned idea was no longer tenable. Without precise programmable digits and letters, the responders would be lost. ‘Well, it’s all the same to me,’ said Thea impatiently. ‘I’ve done my duty in calling you. If you can’t process the information I’ve given you, that’s your problem, not mine.’ It gave her immense satisfaction, she discovered, to turn everything around like this.

‘Thank you, madam,’ said the woman stiffly. ‘Someone will be with you from Cirencester in a few minutes.’

‘So I should hope,’ said Thea.

And they were. It had to be less than ten minutes later that a car pulled up outside the house and two women got out. Two women was a first, and Thea savoured the moment. It was obviously ridiculous to suppose that they would be any more intelligent or patient than men, 73but there was at least a glimmer of hope that they might be slightly more human.

The hope was in vain. Something about the uniform, perhaps, rendered them every bit as robotic and cautious as all the other uniformed officers Thea had encountered. Nearly all, she corrected herself. There had been one or two honourable exceptions over the years. She led them up to the attic, where they stared at Grace for a minute or less, then called in the team that would deal with a sudden and suspicious death. They asked Thea for a name, time last seen alive, and brief explanation of her relationship to the deceased. Her answers were obviously unsatisfactory. ‘I know it sounds strange,’ she said with a deep sigh. ‘It makes hardly any sense to me, either. I don’t even know for sure that her name really is Grace. She hasn’t got anything with her to say who she is—was.’ Thea had not even tried to tell the whole story, as Grace had told it. The escape from nameless and numberless individuals; the Manchester mention; the wrenched shoulder; the hint at her own guilt. ‘She didn’t seem ill at all – just tired and scared.’