Molly collapsed back on the chair, her hand over her eyes. There was no point in arguing that she hadn’t been unfaithful, that she hadn’t had the opportunity. Eventually, she’d make him understand. Jack was right about one thing; she wasn’t a violent woman, but the police wouldn’t know that. And that inspector had, after all, advised her to hire a solicitor. How did you go about doing such a thing? The internet, she supposed, like everything else these days.

Her head was throbbing. She struggled to her feet and went to the kitchen in search of paracetamol, finding a packet in one of the drawers and popping two tablets, swallowing them dry.

Murder.

Her eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. It was almost eight, she’d watch the news, see if it was mentioned. She sat on the sofa, switched on the TV and waited, her eyes glued to the screen, widening when she realised that indeed the murder of Oliver Vine had made the news. She watched as the reporter, her voice suitably solemn, told of the murder of a young man in Green Park. There were few details, but a witness described the man staggering onto the pathway clutching his belly, the handle of a knife clearly visible.

‘Stabbed,’ Molly muttered, then closed her eyes. Green Park! So that was why the inspector’s expression had changed when she’d told them where the shop was. She had been within a few minutes’ walk of where Oliver Vine was murdered.

It was a coincidence. Only a coincidence. But she guessed it explained their advice. They may or may not believe she was involved in the murder, but either way she was sure to be dragged through a lot of mud before the real murderer was found.

Desperate for coffee to try to sort the scrambled thoughts in her head, she made a pot, but the first two cups brought no clarity. How had the man found out where she lived?

Perhaps, after all, he had followed her. She hadn’t seen him when she’d looked back, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there lurking behind the hedgerow. He might have seen her cross the bridge. You could see the canal from the garden of the hotel, so the reverse also had to be true. Maybe, he’d seen her go across the garden. Her pink Lycra T-shirt would have made her very visible.

She frowned. It was possible. Semington House Hotel was also the only hotel within a few miles; he might have assumed she came from there. If he’d called around, would staff have told him who she was, and more importantly where she lived? If he’d spun a good enough tale, it was possible. She rubbed her forehead, smoothing the creases away. Anything was bloody possible.