‘Did you grow up in Norfolk?’

‘I was here until I was two, then Dad got a job in Kent, so we moved there. But I’ve always loved Norfolk.’ David managed a smile for the first time.

‘Did your parents tell you you were adopted?’

‘Oh yes,’ he confirmed. ‘They made no secret of it. And I know I was born locally. Maybe that’s why I’ve always had an affinity with the place. Anyway,’ David checked himself, ‘you don’t want to sit here listening to me and my dull past, Inspector. Is there anything else?’

‘Actually, David, there is,’ nodded Jazz. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, and I really think you should sit down.’

Epilogue

One Month Later

When Jazz woke up and drew back her curtains, she saw blue sky and sunlight beyond the window for the first time in weeks. She opened the window and breathed in the smell of freshness that heralded spring.

Almost falling over herself to get outside and paint before the weather changed, Jazz threw on some clothes, grabbed her stool, easel and paints, and stomped across the road to the marshes.

Setting herself up at a good vantage point, and realising that the sunlight still flattered to deceive in terms of warmth, she spent a glorious couple of hours sketching the view. Normally, she’d take a much more surrealist perspective, but she wanted to paint this as accurately as possible, so she could hang it on the wall of her sitting room and remember it during the long, dark days of winter.

When she arrived back at the cottage, her fingers were icy and she couldn’t feel her toes. She jumped in the bath to warm up, dressed in a pair of jeans and a jersey, then set about making a goat’s cheese salad for lunch.

At one o’clock, she saw the car pull up outside.

She opened the door and waited for him to walk up the short path.

‘DS Miles – Alistair – how are you?’

‘I’m good, very good.’ Miles kissed her warmly on both cheeks as she led him inside.

‘Jazz, this is stunning.’ He glanced around the sitting room, loving the freshness of the cream walls, the loose-covered cream sofa, coir matting on the floor and the thick gold curtains that hung at the windows.

‘I’m glad you like it. Not too fussy, is it?’ she asked in concern.

‘Not at all. It’s warm but elegant, unfussy but comfortable, a bit like its owner.’ He smiled.

‘Love the metaphor, Alistair. Drink?’ Jazz offered, walking into the kitchen.

‘A glass of wine would go down a treat. Forgotten how far this godforsaken part of the country is. Took me almost four hours – roadworks on the A11.’ Miles followed her, noting the grey floor tiles and the clean white laminated kitchen units that set off the red Aga so well.

‘You’ve performed miracles, Jazz, really,’ he said admiringly. ‘It’s a fantastic mix of old and new.’

‘That’s what I was aiming for,’ replied Jazz happily. ‘And to try and brighten the place up a bit. Cottages can be so dark.’