‘Charlie was eighteen and, from what I’ve heard, liked a party. I don’t think what Mummy says would have held much sway. Like all youngsters, I’m sure he had a taste for danger.’

‘So say you’re right,’ Jazz mused, ‘why would he wait until he got back to his room before he took the stuff? If there was drug abuse in his group of friends, it’s a pack activity. Listen’ – Jazz drew a piece of paper out of her pocket – ‘would you mind a quick pit stop before your pint? I want to visit Hugh Daneman, the Fleat tutor, see if he saw anyone coming or going out of Fleat House that night. Poor chap, it seems he’s rather been dropped in it by Mr Frederiks absconding to a secret location.’

‘Usually it’s a case of being with someone they shouldn’t be. Mind you, Frederiks is single, isn’t he? Left or right to this tutor’s place?’

‘Er . . . left here, Roland says.’ Jazz directed Miles down a narrow road. ‘Frederiks is certainly hiding something. It all depends whether the “something” is relevant to the enquiry. Turn right here.’ Jazz looked out of the window. ‘There’s number twenty-four; we’re looking for thirty-six.’

They pulled up outside the terraced cottage and got out of the car. Jazz pushed open the gate, noting that the front garden was beautifully tended. She knocked sharply on the front door.

‘He may not answer if he’s upstairs sick in bed,’ Miles suggested as Jazz knocked again.

‘No, but I really would like to speak to him tonight if I can.’ Jazz bent down, opened the letter box and peered inside. She saw a chair facing the fire and an arm hanging over it. ‘He’s in there, but he must be asleep.’ She put her mouth to the opening and called, ‘Mr Daneman, it’s the police. Sorry to disturb you, but we need to speak to you. Mr Daneman?’

There was no response. She looked up quizzically at Miles.

‘Maybe he’s deaf?’ he suggested.

Jazz put her eyes back to the letter box. Something about the way the arm hung, lifeless over the arm of the chair, told her it wasn’t deafness preventing Hugh Daneman from answering the door.

She stood up and turned to her sergeant. ‘He’s not deaf. Break down the door, Miles. My guess is we have another dead body on our hands.’

Chapter Seven

Angelina Millar stirred her lamb casserole, then added some seasoning. She popped the pot back into the Aga and looked with satisfaction at the table, set for two, with a fresh bunch of early tulips in the centre to add a touch of spring.

She paused before she left the kitchen to make sure everything was ready, then went into the downstairs loo to check her make-up and her hair.

As always, she looked immaculate. Her pretty doll-like features stared back at her and she thought how lucky she was that a little mascara and a dab of lipstick were still enough to accentuate her big blue eyes and full lips.