Anything for a quiet life, and this as far from one as Tom could imagine. That was what worried him, Ellie knew. And she wasn’t. Maybe it would be to the good, if this cost her her job. Milly was always saying there was more to her than that. It was the last part of her old life, the life that’d ended when Richard died. Her marriage had certainly died that day; it had taken Stan the ironic time span of nine months to leave, but that had been a formality.

Hadn’t her police career died then, really, too? Transferring out here had been a convenient way of relocating without any interruptions to her pay packet. But she was good for more than police work, surely? Maybe it would be an opportunity. Do the right thing and get a new start all at once. Worth a go.

Most importantly, it was the best chance to get Charlotte Famuyiwa out in one piece.

Yeah, yeah. Tell yourself you’re doing it for her.

Tom’s face was grey; his eyes were darting. He wouldn’t look at her. He wanted someone else to come and take the cup but no one would, not unless the radio miraculously started working again. And she knew it wouldn’t. Poor bastard looked close to a heart attack.

And then it came to her.

“You feeling okay, Tom?”

“Fine. I’m bloody fine.”

“You sure?” He scowled at her. “I mean, you’re really not looking well, Sarge. Like you’re coming down with something.”

He frowned, looking at her.

“Look, Tom – if you’re not well, get home and rest up. I’ll handle things here. My responsibility, okay?”

He looked down. “I’ve not been feeling that great, that’s true. Might be the flu.”

“No joke at your age, that, Sarge.”

“Less of the ‘your age’, you cheeky mare.” He was already putting his coat on. Still not looking at her. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, Sarge.”

“I’ll – I’ll head home, then.”

“Do that.”

Ellie couldn’t look at him as he shuffled to the door. He looked suddenly very old.

The door clicked shut. Tom had wanted a way out, and she’d given it to him; she still wasn’t sure she’d wanted to be in charge, but like it or not, she now was.

In charge, and responsible.

Ellie straightened up and breathed out. Then sat behind his desk, grabbed pen and paper, and wrote a list of names.

For a small community, Barsall wasn’t short of churches. There was the old Anglican church, St Alkmund’s, down on Church Street – where else? – and there was a Wesleyan Methodist Chapel out by Blackfield Park, on Spring Bank.

The newest stood close to Ellie’s house: the Assemblies of God church, which resembled an inner-city community centre more than anything else. Still, it had four walls, a roof and the facilities to produce tea and coffee in quantity, and that was enough. Whatever Ellie might think of Matt Williams privately, he’d been glad to help.