Jazz bristled. ‘Of course. You’re the senior officer. You can do as you wish. Would you speak to DS Roland and make sure his men continue to maintain a comfortingly high profile for the head? Right, I’ll be off.’ Jazz nodded grimly at them, and left the building to walk across Chapel Lawn to her car.

Patrick’s inference had riled her, however ridiculous. At present she should be grateful for all the help she could get. But the old familiar feelings were lurking, ready to jump out and accost her. This was her case, she had taken it on in good faith, not thinking for an instant Patrick would become involved.

Part of the problem at the Yard had been that Patrick had seemed to take pleasure in undermining her, putting her down in front of both her team and their superiors. Towards the end of her time there, Jazz had felt that Patrick was one of the worst exponents of the chauvinism directed at her. But because he was her husband, she’d been unable to do anything about it.

It was interesting that his behaviour had not gone unnoticed by Norton. He’d mentioned it when he’d come to see her at the cottage last week.

Jazz started the engine, trying to put Patrick out of her thoughts and concentrate on the case. If there was one part of the job she hated, it was informing relatives of a death. Especially today, after the past twenty-four hours of thinking she was about to lose her father, she empathised even more with the way Angelina was going to feel.

She pulled out her mobile, dialled the hospital and asked to be put through to the critical care ward. The sweet nurse she had seen yesterday told her that Tom was continuing to progress, and if she called later, she might be able to speak to him.

Feeling reassured on that count, Jazz drove off towards the Millar house. Even though she was tired, her brain felt alert and the adrenalin was pumping, as it always did when the pressure was really on.

Two murders and one suicide, all three of which had a connection to Fleat House. Charlie, a pupil, Julian, an ex-pupil, and Hugh, the house tutor.

And Rory, too, Julian’s stepson to be, whose trunk had almost certainly become Julian’s temporary tomb.

What if Patrick was right and she had been taken in by David Millar’s sad circumstances?

No. She must not let Patrick affect her confidence.

Jazz sighed. He’d got to her already.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Drawing up in front of Angelina’s door, Jazz steeled herself.

Issy answered the door and raised her eyebrows. ‘You took your time. I’ve been playing tiddly-winks and other fun games with Rory for the past two hours. She’s in there.’ Issy indicated the kitchen. ‘I’ll go and continue my nanny duties upstairs. Let me know when you’ve finished. I really need to talk to you ASAP,’ she hissed.

‘Thanks, Issy. Oh, and could you ask Rory what his middle name is, please?’