The Darkest Evening

front – Harriet Stanhope – was written in her father’s hand. The envelope was unsealed and Juliet removed the single sheet inside. She’d suspected the letter’s existence for years; her father had mentioned it obliquely a few days before his death in a whisper although nobody else was in the room. She’d thought later that perhaps he’d had a premonition that he was about to die. Harriet had never mentioned it, though, and Juliet had been too much of a coward to challenge her. Now Juliet read the contents with a rising anger that pushed fear of an anonymous killer out of her mind. She took a photograph of the letter on her mobile phone and replaced it in the envelope. She was just returning the key to the music box when she heard Harriet’s car on the drive.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

HOLLY DROVE HOME FOR A COUPLE of hours before the evening briefing. In her sleek, clean flat, with its view of the graveyard, she made camomile tea and changed into her running gear. It was dark and the rush hour was over, so the streets were quiet. Running was a habit that was fast becoming an obsession. A ruling addiction. If she missed a daily run, because of the demands of work or because she’d come home exhausted, she felt guilty. She wondered if Lorna had felt like that when she was cutting down on calories, if each mouthful of food was followed by guilt then more exercise. Holly told herself this was quite different. Running relaxed her and it made her stronger and healthier. Running was an antidote to the irritation of working with Vera, it wasn’t an illness. As she moved down the deserted streets, passing the flicker of television behind occasional uncurtained windows, she felt the stress leave her and her mind become clear again.

She returned to thoughts of the forthcoming briefing, and what she would say. Vera seemed to assume that none of the women linked to Lorna had a motive for killing her. Now, Holly thought that was a false assumption. Apart from Josh Heslop, all the men with connections to Lorna had partners. Even Josh had a mother, who seemed anxious to protect him from harm. If any of the suspect men had been Lorna’s lover, wasn’t it possible that a woman could have murdered her? Out of jealousy if, as Lorna had implied in her last conversation with Olivia, the man in her life had been willing at last to acknowledge his son.

Holly’s thoughts were interrupted by the screech of a police car driving too fast, the scream of a siren, but the rhythm of her running continued, and the beat of her training shoes on the pavement allowed her to concentrate on the case once again.

The faces of the women she’d come to know through photographs on the whiteboard, even if she’d not met them in person, came into her mind one by one. Could the gentle Juliet, who was apparently so anxious and timid, have killed Lorna? Or her mother Harriet, who seemed desperate to preserve the reputation of the Stanhope family, that branch of the family at least? Because surely, she’d see Vera Stanhope as beyond salvation.

Holly turned a corner and came into a less affluent street. There were fewer trees, tiny front gardens, a house gaudy with external Christmas lights. She’d never met Rosemary Heslop, though they’d spoken on the telephone. She’d sounded busy, pleasant. It was hard to imagine she’d kill anyone to save the reputations of the men in her life. And surely Jill Falstone couldn’t have murdered her own daughter.

Holly was on her way home now. She was moving easily, her muscles warm, despite the chill air and the fact that her breath was coming in clouds. Another face came into her mind. Dorothy Felling. Holly had admired her for her strength, for her courage in choosing an unconventional career path, had envied the close family in the small cottage, the easy relationship between man and woman.

In the shower, her mind was still whirring. She knew she was a competitive woman. It was pathetic, but she saw her colleagues as rivals and collaborative working had never come easily to her. Now she thought she’d do as Vera would want and check into the background of the male suspects of the case, but she’d do some of her own research too. Perhaps the ladies of the manor and the farmers’ wives weren’t as harmless or ineffectual as they first appeared, and she’d find the murderer before the rest of the team. Holly had never considered Dorothy to be ineffectual but now it occurred to her that the sudden decision to leave well-paid posts in law and accountancy could be seen as suspicious rather than laudable. Perhaps Dorothy and the charming Karan had something to hide. Would a woman who’d sailed through A levels and into Cambridge, then been sufficiently ambitious to pursue a career in the law, really be satisfied with a life of cleaning up other people’s domestic messes?

Holly changed into her work clothes, made more tea, and looked out over the dead.

The call came just before they started the evening briefing. Everyone was there; Vera at the front was writing furiously on the whiteboard. She reminded Holly of some elderly, eccentric graffiti artist, arms flying in wide sweeps, occasionally balancing on her toes to reach the top of the board. Finally satisfied, the inspector turned back to face them, eyes narrowed, soft bum planted on the edge of the desk behind her, stretching the dreadful crimplene trousers, which were her go-to office wear, into wrinkles round her belly. ‘Well, team, what have you got for me?’

Holly was thinking how she’d describe her encounter with Josh Heslop when there was a tap at the door and a constable stuck in his head.

‘Yes?’ Vera was fierce and irritable. She never liked being interrupted.

‘There’s just been a 999 call, boss.’

‘Well?’

‘A worker from the Forestry Commission driving back