‘I know exactly how I’d describe it,’ Judith said. ‘It was a look of triumph.’

The women looked at each other. They both knew that Judith had hit the nail on the head. Elliot had looked at the camera triumphantly.

Becks shivered.

‘Sorry, these old stone buildings. Even in the height of summer, they’re cold.’

‘Okay,’ Judith said, ‘so what’s our next move?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That footage proves he can’t be the killer, but he’s definitely involved in Stefan’s murder. Somehow he managed to be in two places at once. Or he hired someone else to do the killing. But that look he gave to the camera proves his guilt as far as I’m concerned. Don’t you think?’

‘Hang on, what do you mean “what’s our next move”?’

‘Well, we’re the only two people in the world who currently believe Elliot’s implicated in any way in Stefan’s murder. So it’s up to us to work out how he did it.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly get involved,’ Becks said. ‘This is a matter for the police. We have to let them do their job. That’s what they do. Catch criminals and murderers. Whereas I make sandwiches, that’s my job. I serve tea and biscuits, raise my kids, and help my husband. So I’m sorry, it’s been lovely meeting you, Judith, but I couldn’t possibly get involved.’

And with that, Becks left the room, all of a twitter.

Judith smiled to herself. She remembered being that young. Not neurotic like Becks, or desperately worried about what people thought of her. But, in her book, anyone who could pick up a couple of coffee cups, and a few short minutes later find herself hiding inside a cupboard, was okay by her. She looked forward to meeting Becks again.

In the meantime, though, how could she prove Elliot was involved?

Chapter 7

After her encounter with Judith, Becks hurried back to the vicarage, a gorgeous bow-fronted Georgian house to the side of the church, but she found she couldn’t settle. Her second-hand brush with a possible murder had upset her more than she’d like to admit. So, to calm her nerves, she did what she always did when she felt anxious, and that was tidy up. She plumped cushions that were already plump, straightened pictures on the walls that weren’t askew, and ran a hoover over a kitchen floor that was entirely dirt-free.

Her fourteen-year-old son Sam was slumped over his phone at the kitchen table.

‘Where’s your sister?’ Becks asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sam said without looking up. ‘Probably snorting nitrous oxide somewhere.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Becks yelped.