Charming – check. I thought he was lovely. In fact, I had a real soft spot for him, which was why this mental exercise seemed so very wrong.

Arrogant – not really, actually, not at all at home. Maybe he showed signs of it in the workplace. Maybe he hid it well. Otherwise, he was no more so than most males I knew.

Disdain for authority figures, bad father relationship? Oh, Jesus. I thought about the box of ashes buried in the laundry cupboard, the box no one would talk about, and that cold feeling fingered my bowels and then clamped around them, hard.

Freedom of movement, not drawing suspicion from loved ones? My mind raced onwards. He could do what he flaming well pleased, because Aunty Jude was never there. She was always off doing coffee or some committee thing or championing the latest cause. She’d said so herself – since the twins had left home, and they no longer had to run around after them, she’d had the time to devote to herself and her other interests. And Uncle Phil had had the time to devote to – what? Affairs with pretty young women? Planning elaborate murder schemes? His wife was never home. In fact, he probably resented the amount of time she spent on everything else but him. Had he found other entertainment? That would be one hell of a hobby.

Knew the victim? Yes, although he said he only knew Rose-Marie in passing. Rose-Marie. My mind played back to some of our conversations. Rosie – he’d called her that, last night, hadn’t he? I was sure he’d called her Rosie. I’d only ever called her Rose-Marie when I’d talked about the case, and even then I’d been very careful not to mention particulars or divest any information about it, even when I’d asked his advice about university politics. Rosie – for me, it had seemed disrespectful to call her anything other than Rose-Marie, and he’d called her Rosie. Maybe he’d read that name in the newspaper, although they’d been fairly formal about it too. No, it was the way that he said it. Her name rolled off his tongue with familiarity. It suggested he knew her a little more informally than he made out.

I felt myself break out in a cold sweat.

It was all too unlikely, too circumstantial. Yet, there were enough intersecting points there to raise red flags, and the timing of this morning’s grim find couldn’t be ignored. I didn’t believe in coincidences. My body sure as hell was telling me it wholeheartedly believed what my mind was busy trying to counter. Uncle Phil as murderous psychopath?