A loud crash was followed by the sound of voices. Charlie, with a final jerk of Molly’s arm, gave up the idea of taking her with him. He shoved her away and ran for the garden.

Molly lay dazed on the floor as heavy feet came running in, passing her to follow Charlie, shouts and calls fading as they chased after him.

‘Where can he go?’ a quiet voice asked, and she looked up to see Fanshawe bending over her.

She managed a satisfied smile. ‘Nowhere, it’s a walled garden. He can’t escape.’ The pain in her arm easing, she struggled to sit up. Fanshawe put an arm around her waist and helped her to the sofa. ‘You heard everything?’ she said, indicating her phone.

He nodded. ‘Every word, that was very clever, and very brave of you.’

‘It was lucky I’d put your number in speed dial,’ she said, hugging her injured arm to her chest.

Fanshawe sat in the chair opposite, ignoring the shouts coming from the garden. ‘What about those pills he gave you? Should you go to the hospital?’

Molly slid her fingers down the side of the sofa, felt around for a few seconds, then pulled up the two capsules Forster had handed her earlier. ‘I don’t like taking pills, so I palmed them. The ones the hospital gave me made me feel very woozy.’ She rolled the capsules on the palm of her hand. ‘I wouldn’t have taken them anyway, but I’m almost certain these aren’t the same ones.’

Fanshawe pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, opened it and held it out. She knocked them into it. ‘Where do you keep the remainder?’ he asked, holding the bag up to look at the two capsules.

‘In the en-suite bathroom cabinet, top of the stairs, first on the left.’

‘I’ll get them before I leave, forensics will be able to compare them.’

‘He’ll be put away, won’t he?’

‘We have him for attempted murder,’ Fanshawe said, ‘and I have no doubt that when we search his home and check his phone and computer, we’ll find enough evidence to prove he murdered Pleasant.’

Molly gave a long sigh of relief and turned when she heard raised voices and heavy steps.

Charlie was looking pale and subdued, handcuffs on his wrists, a police officer gripping each arm. He didn’t look at her as they passed by and left through the front door.

‘You’ll need to get the Yale lock fixed,’ Fanshawe said, staring after them.

‘It’s not a problem, we normally use the sash lock for security anyway.’ She rubbed eyes that were prickling with tiredness and tears.