‘That you know of,’ Fanshawe said, unperturbed. ‘Your suspicions of Amelia Lovell are based on a simple slip-up, brown eyes instead of turquoise. And that she happened to call upon you on the morning you were knocked down.’ He held a hand up when he saw she was going to argue. ‘I’ve been a detective for a long time, I’ve heard more preposterous ideas. I’m not ruling anything out yet.’

‘You’ll speak to her?’

‘To her, and to Stuart Mercer.’ Fanshawe stood. ‘You’re being discharged today. We don’t have the manpower to post an officer outside your home, but I will ask for a car to pass down your street as often as possible.’ He gave a quick smile. ‘Which won’t be often, I’m sorry to say. Go home, keep your house alarm on, don’t go out alone, don’t let anyone in. I assume your husband is collecting you?’ When she nodded, Fanshawe handed her his card. ‘This is my direct number. If you see or hear anything suspicious, ring me immediately.’

She looked at the card. Somebody wanted to kill her. It was a chilling thought. It was even more chilling to remember that somebody had murdered Lucien Pleasant.

‘Will they try again?’

Fanshawe kept his eyes fixed on hers. ‘We are working hard to pin down some connection between you and Pleasant. If it’s there, we’ll find it.’

‘If it’s there?’ She put his card down on the bed table. ‘If it’s not, if it is some weird coincidence, then despite what that woman… that copper said… maybe my accident was simply that, an accident.’

‘Maybe,’ he said and with a final nod, he and Carstairs left.

‘Maybe, my ass,’ Molly muttered as the door clicked shut after them. A connection between her and Pleasant. Once again, she faced the only truth she could see, it had to be something to do with Amelia.

22

When the nurse returned to check she was comfortable, Molly asked about her phone. ‘Was it damaged in the accident?’

Jane checked the monitor, updated her notes and moved to the small wardrobe in the corner of the room. ‘Everything you had was put in here. Would you like me to have a look?’

‘Please.’

‘Here you go,’ the nurse said, returning with a handbag. ‘It’s not in the coat pocket so maybe it’s in here?’

‘Thanks.’ Molly took the bag, opened it and looked inside. Everything was as she’d left it, just as if someone hadn’t tried to kill her. There was the usual glut of rubbish; old receipts, three lipsticks, a few old bills, and, finally in the bottom, her phone.