‘I’ll have to ask you to leave, Detective Tennison,’ he said in a firm voice.

‘May I ask why?’ she said, suspecting the News Shopper article had been brought to his attention.

‘I have just spoken with Bishop Meade. He is most displeased to learn that you neglected to make him aware you are investigating a murder. He feels you have deceived the Church by your actions and will be informing Archbishop Malone. Under the circumstances I think it’s best you leave.’

‘Fair enough. Please tell Bishop Meade my detective chief superintendent will be in touch with him to explain our position,’ she said, surreptitiously folding the copied documents and tucking them in her pocket.

The priest followed her to make sure she left the building.

Mrs Parkin returned to her desk empty-handed and looked around for Jane. ‘Why does everything keep disappearing round here!’ she muttered to herself.

*

On the drive to Mrs Gorman’s house in West Wickham, Becky asked a lot of questions about the investigation. Boon tried to confine his answers to things she would already have known through her father.

‘Do you reckon someone connected to the Church was involved?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what the investigations turn up.’

‘Come on, Simon, we both know it’s got to be someone who lived or worked at the convent,’ she insisted.

‘You could be right, but then again you could be wrong. A good investigator considers all possibilities, not just the one that best fits their assumptions.’

‘Very astute, officer. I shall remember that – but I’ll bet you I’m right.’

‘What’s the bet?’

‘You wine and dine me at a posh restaurant uptown, then take me dancing at the Empire nightclub in Leicester Square. If I’m wrong, it’s my treat.’

Boon smiled. Win or lose, he very much fancied a night out with Becky. ‘You’re on.’

She shook his hand. ‘And I’m going to choose the most expensive thing on the menu.’

‘As long as it’s only the starter, I’m happy with that,’ he grinned.

Becky pressed the doorbell of the small terraced house. A plump, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties opened the door.

‘Hi, I’m Becky. Is your mother in?’

‘My mother doesn’t live here,’ the woman replied, looking confused.

Boon wondered if Becky had been the victim of a hoax call.

‘Sorry, I think we might have the wrong address. Do you know if a Mrs Gorman lives in the street?’

The woman laughed. ‘I’m Annette Gorman. You spoke to me on the phone, Miss Rogers.’

Becky looked embarrassed. ‘I do apologise. I was expecting someone a lot older. This is Detective Constable Boon.’

‘I thought it might be,’ Annette said, inviting them in.

They went to the small living room which was littered with children’s toys.