Despite the exhaustion and trauma of the previous day, Kate woke early and refreshed. On Dalgliesh’s and her late return from Droughton, the team’s usual review of progress had been intensive but brief—an exchange of information, not a prolonged discussion of its implications. The result of the autopsy on Rhoda Gradwyn’s body had been received in the late afternoon. Dr. Glenister’s reports were always comprehensive, but this was uncomplicated and unsurprising. Miss Gradwyn had been a healthy woman with all that implied of hope and fulfilment. It had been her two fatal decisions—to have the scar removed and the operation performed at Cheverell Manor—which had led to those seven stark decisive words: Death by asphyxia caused by manual strangulation. Reading the report with Dalgliesh and Benton, Kate was seized by the familiar impotent surge of anger and pity at the wanton destructiveness of murder.

Now she dressed quickly and found that she was hungry for the breakfast of bacon and egg, sausages and tomatoes served to her and Benton by Mrs. Shepherd. Dalgliesh had decided that she, not himself or Benton, should meet Mrs. Rayner at Wareham. The supervising officer had telephoned late the previous night to say that she would take the five-past-eight train from Waterloo and hoped to arrive at Wareham at ten-thirty.

The train was on time and Kate had no difficulty in identifying Mrs. Rayner among the small number of alighting passengers. She looked intently into Kate’s eyes and shook hands with a brief pumping action, as if this formal meeting of flesh was a validation of some prearranged contract. She was shorter than Kate, stout-bodied with a square clear-skinned face given strength by the firmness of the mouth and chin. Her dark-brown hair, greying in streaks, had been well and—as Kate knew—expensively cut. She was without the usual symbol of bureaucracy, a briefcase, and carried instead a large linen bag with a drawstring and straps slung over her shoulder. For Kate everything about her spoke of authority quietly and confidently exercised. She reminded Kate of one of her schoolteachers, Mrs. Butler, who had transformed the dreaded fourth form into acting like comparatively civilised beings by the simple expedient of believing that when she was present they could do no other.

Kate made the customary enquiry about the journey. Mrs. Rayner said, “I had a window seat with no children or obsessive squawkers on their mobiles. The bacon sandwich from the refreshment car was fresh and I enjoyed the scenery. That for me is a good journey.”

They didn’t speak of Shirley, now Sharon, on the drive, although Mrs. Rayner asked about the Manor and the people who worked there, perhaps to put herself in the picture. Kate guessed that she was saving the essentials until she was with Dalgliesh; there was no point, and there might be misunderstanding, in saying things twice.