‘You can’t, it’s personal!’ she shouted, and taking her phone darted past him, out of the lounge into the pub garden. Gillard didn’t attempt to go after her. He hoped Vicky at least would see sense, but she pocketed her phone, slid the baby into a plastic high chair, and ducked out of the room and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

The boy twisted in the high chair, staring after her, his tiny stubby fingers flexing on the edge of the tray. He turned a perplexed expression to Gillard, searching the detective’s face with his bright blue eyes. Gillard smiled at him. In what was a typical reaction in his experience, the child’s face began to crumple, and he began an enormous inhalation. He was getting ready to cry.

‘Come on, be a cheerful chappie for me,’ Gillard said, gently offering his own index finger for the child to grasp. The crying had not yet begun, but with the unerring emotional radar of even the tiniest child, he knew something was not right.

The detective could only agree. The nature of the conspiracy between the three women was not yet clear to Gillard, only the certainty that one existed. Whether it reached to murder or was limited to something more mundane he was not yet sure. Vicky and Rowena could deny him their phones for now, but he only needed to get the numbers to order a warrant, and with that he would be able to unearth every text message and voicemail between them and others in the last six months.

He was still thinking about this when Vicky reappeared. At that moment his mobile rang. It was Kirsty Mockett from CSI. ‘Sir, I think you should come and see what we’ve just found at Cleaver’s house.’

‘I’m on my way. Are you going to give me a hint?’

‘Bloodstains. Lots of them.’

Chapter Fourteen

Given the congestion of police vehicles in Bourne Lane, Gillard decided to walk. He grabbed a fresh Tyvek suit, booties and gloves from the boot of his car. It was five minutes’ brisk walk from the Anvil, across the war memorial to the bottom of the village green, and down Bourne Lane past the Tickett yard to Cleaver’s home. He then made his way through the press of police patrol cars and CSI vans, under the crime tape, and signed in again with the PC in charge of the site. He noticed a couple of news reporters who had gathered beyond the tape but ignored their shouted questions.