‘How do you think Ralph could’ve been found in the pond a week later, Meredith?’ Gemma asked. ‘Do you have any idea?’

Meredith stared down at her unscarred hand. She was still sitting on the other one. ‘I’d imagine he just fell in; he was definitely drunk enough. But I don’t understand what he was doing down there in the first place. There was no reason for him to be in that part of the grounds. Unless he wanted some fresh air or something … But he was never one for walks…’ She tailed off.

‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Allerton – Paula – and she’s sure her husband didn’t have any enemies. Although last week’s events might suggest otherwise. Do you know of anybody? Any sort of situation he might have tried to hide from her? An affair? Debts of some description?’

Meredith felt like she couldn’t breathe.

‘No,’ she said eventually, realising she was chewing her bottom lip. ‘Everyone liked Ralph. The only thing that he might have hidden from Paula, or downplayed, was his alcoholism. He was a functioning alcoholic, I guess. I feel bad that I didn’t talk to her about it before, because he admitted that he didn’t drink much at home. Only at work. Although it can’t have been anything to do with that, surely?’ She paused. ‘When do you think it happened?’

‘The pathologist will hopefully be able to give us a better indication of time of death. The post-mortem was conducted yesterday.’

‘Right,’ said Meredith, trying not to think of all the post-mortems she’d read about in crime novels; seeing in her mind’s eye the grim vision of the top of Ralph’s sawn-off skull, his organs bagged up to be weighed and put back, the tag on his toe…

‘We saw on the system that you’d recently had a suspected break-in at the shop. Our colleagues did take a look at the CCTV, but as you know, the main shop camera had been deactivated, and nothing suspicious showed up on any of the other nearby cameras, so that all seems to be a bit of a dead end. You don’t think there’s any sort of connection, do you?’

Apart from me, thought Meredith, her mind now swimming with images of dead rats, beheaded flowers, the splash of green paint…

Davis cleared his throat. ‘Do you mind me asking, Merr— … Meredith: what happened to your hand? That’s a nasty scar.’

Fucking hell. Meredith stuffed the offending hand further underneath a cushion, feeling two spots of colour flaring suddenly on her cheeks. How dare he ask her?

‘Yes, I do mind, as it happens. I don’t like to talk about it.’

Davis shifted from buttock to buttock, and Gemma’s eyes slid away, her expression unreadable.

20

Meredith