‘Get out!’ screamed Jasmine. ‘Betrayer! Judas!’

‘I’ll leave if you really want me to,’ said Amelia, ‘but I think you’ve misunderstood my actions.’

Jasmine turned to Pearl. ‘What do you think?’ she demanded.

‘I … I …’ Pearl stammered, sensing that anything but complete agreement would be treated by Jasmine as treachery. Still, she wanted to speak up for Amelia. ‘I think Amelia’s a loyal friend to both of us,’ she plucked up the courage to say finally. ‘After all, she’s been kind to us for as long as we’ve known her. That’s how we should judge her loyalty.’

‘But her kindness is worth nothing if she’s also kind to that bitch Tara,’ Jasmine wailed.

‘Why?’ asked Pearl. ‘I don’t think that’s true. Her kindness to Tara means that hopefully Tara won’t attack us now.’

‘She’s refused to denounce someone who hurt us, therefore she’s disloyal,’ Jasmine insisted. ‘And now you’re refusing to condemn her for her betrayal of us – which makes you disloyal too! Get out, both of you!’

That night, in the back gardens of the street on which the four women lived, the three new puppies whispered over garden fences to one another in dog language that humans couldn’t understand. One of the puppies declared herself happy because her owner was truly enlightened. Another said he was cautiously optimistic: his owner was a bit screwed up, but had very recently resolved to be less of a disaster area in future (thanks to him, he couldn’t help thinking, rather immodestly). The third puppy sighed and confessed to a feeling of deep despair. His owner had a shockingly unhealthy belief system and he saw no hope of her ever changing or learning. She had completely misunderstood what loyalty truly meant.

Chapter 15

15

15/1/2015

‘Anyone heard from Dunning? Or the eye-rolling DC Wing?’ Proust looked around the table. He, Simon, Sellers, Gibbs and Sam were at the Brown Cow. It was shallow breathing room only again today. Every table had been taken when they’d arrived. They’d only got the one they were sitting at because the Snowman had glared its occupants out of the building. His talent for making strangers feel they’d rather be a thousand miles away, even if that meant abandoning a perfectly decent pudding, was useful at times.

‘Wing, Dunning, they’ve all gone quiet,’ said Gibbs. ‘It’s Marion Hopwood – third Culver Valley murder and the others are all breathing a sigh of relief. Hopwood’s death makes it squarely our problem, far as they can see. That and what they know about Waterhouse’s reputation as a legend … They’re all sitting tight, hoping we’ll have a solve in hours or days. Then they’ll be front and centre, sharing the credit.’

‘Waterhouse, you must have heard from Wing,’ said Proust. ‘Doesn’t he stay up all night texting you love-hearts?’

Simon had known something like that was coming. The Snowman had taken to calling the Dorset detective ‘the Wing beneath your wind’. ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ he said. ‘Gibbs is right: everyone’s waiting on us.’