He looked at Claire to assess her response.

‘I’ve a simpler idea,’ she said. ‘Our killer is a woman – the very same woman we saw on the train.’

Chapter Six

Gillard spent Saturday afternoon with Claire driving around the leafy vicinity of Westmeare looking for locations where a body may have been disposed of. They had visited a couple of dairy farms, a trout hatchery, a builder’s yard, and many streams and rivers, all swollen by the recent rain. Meanwhile, Claire had fleshed out her theory. A woman had stopped at the bus stop, given Beatrice a lift and taken her home to kill her. Gillard had listened patiently, but then answered with statistics: female on female stranger killings were almost unheard of. If a woman had killed or abducted Beatrice, then she would have to have had a much stronger motive. To the usual emotions of love and jealousy could perhaps be added musical rivalry. But nothing on any of the interview notes, either their own or those conducted by the Met Police, had given even a hint of this. All they were left with was conjecture.

The life of a detective is full of hours and days which seem pointless, until suddenly a clue appears. But on this weekend afternoon, fate had not cooperated. Gillard had dropped Claire back at Mount Browne to pick up her own car, then headed home. He’d been aiming for seven, but it was nearly nine p.m. when he finally arrived.

Sam had earlier sent him a couple of texts to remind him about that evening’s dinner party, but once she revealed that Ellen’s boyfriend had been forced to cry off too, he knew the pressure on him was off. It was now a girls’ night in, and his attendance he knew from experience could only detract from the quality of the conversation, and inhibit revelations. That didn’t stop Sam from glaring at him as he opened the door and let himself in. ‘At least home-made pâté doesn’t spoil,’ she said, as she gave him a perfunctory kiss. ‘The main course is a different matter. Halibut doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ And neither do I, was the not-very-hidden subtext.

‘That’s a lovely dress,’ Gillard said, admiring the low-cut satin number he hadn’t recalled seeing before. Sam’s flicked eyebrow dismissed the conversational gambit. Ellen emerged into the kitchen holding a still-full glass of white. He was surprised he hadn’t remembered her. Dirty blonde hair, trim figure and dressed to kill in a lacy black top, dark hose and high heel sandals. They batted a bit of small talk around for a few minutes, until Gillard put his foot in it.

‘I understand your boyfriend couldn’t come?’

Sam sighed, passed behind her husband and jabbed him sharply in the ribs with a fork. Ellen might not have seen the weapon, but Gillard’s jump could not be disguised. Their guest’s eyelashes flickered for a few seconds, before the obviously well-prepared statement: ‘Gabriel travels a lot, often at short notice,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry he’s not able to meet you both, he did say he was looking forward to it.’