‘Such as?’

‘I can’t say any more until you’ve told me whether you’re interested or not.’

They both knew she was.

‘Maybe, as long as I can be home in time to paint the next Mona Lisa,’ Jazz replied casually.

‘And I’ll send DS Miles down to give you a hand.’ Norton’s eyes were twinkling now.

‘Give me a day to think about it, will you, Sir?’

‘No time, I’m afraid. I need you on the case as of now. You’re booked to see the boy’s mother at two this afternoon. She lives a good hour and a half’s drive from here. That means’ – Norton checked his watch – ‘you have approximately one hour to make up your mind. Otherwise I must send someone else in. Here’s the file.’

Norton handed Jazz a thick brown envelope.

She looked at him helplessly.

‘An hour?’

‘Yes. Seems like you’re going to have to make another one of your famous spur of the moment decisions, DI Hunter. Looking back on your career, I’d say they’ve never served you wrong – apart from your decision to up and leave, of course.’ Norton checked his watch. ‘I must make a move. Said I’d be back in town for a meeting at two and these country roads are a nightmare.’

He stood up and, taller than Jazz at six foot two, brushed the top of his head against the ceiling.

‘If I say no, what do I do with this?’ She indicated the file.

‘Burn it on that rather sad fire of yours. Looks as if it could do with some kindling. Right, I’ll be off then.’ Norton shook her hand. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ He walked towards the door, then turned and faced her. ‘I wouldn’t come chasing all the way to Norfolk for just anyone, DI Hunter. And I promise you, I won’t go down on bended knee again. Call me by noon. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, Sir,’ Jazz said. ‘And thanks . . . I think,’ she muttered, as an afterthought.

Chapter Three

David Millar paced up and down the small, untidy kitchen. Then, in a blaze of fury, he grabbed a milk bottle and hurled it against the far wall as hard as he could. It bounced off and fell with a clatter onto the linoleum-covered floor, but, infuriatingly, didn’t break.

‘Christ!’ he screamed, then crouched where he was, head in his hands. Tears pricked under his eyelids, his breathing heavy and ragged.

‘What the hell did I do?’ he moaned, staggering to his feet, walking through the arched alcove and throwing himself onto the sofa.

In desperation, he tried practising the exercises the therapist had given him. Breathing slowly, concentrating on each breath, his anger gradually subsided. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the photograph of himself with Angelina and Rory, the smiling, happy family of three years ago.

He remembered the day it had been taken. A hot July afternoon, the sun gently baking the Norfolk countryside whilst they’d sat in the garden, eating lunch from the smoking barbecue nearby.