We ended up pulling into the driveway of an old stone house surrounded by gardens. It was slightly wild-looking, with tufty heads, crawling holly and wildflowers poking out from every available space. The front door was painted red, the paint starting to peel and flake away, a jutting porch overhanging it with lights wrapped around the supports. The house had big bay windows and two huge chimneys on either end, the sandstone bricks turned grey in the rain, and the roof looked ready for some new tiles. A low, moss-covered brick wall surrounded it, with a rusty iron gate through to the back. We climbed from the car, holding our coats over our heads as we walked to the small porch where some wellies had been left kicked to one side, and I pulled on the long chain doorbell that echoed through the house. From where we stood, I could hear the sound of chickens from over the wall, clucking and squawking, and something else, a sheep or a goat bleating in the rain.
The door opened with a sound not unlike a sigh, and a man looked out at us. He wore an apron over his smart shirt and trousers, a pair of over mitts in his hands and his grey hair curled outwards from his head. He smiled at us with eyes just like Sonia’s.
“Hello. How can I help? If you’re looking for Rosebud House, it’s the next left, past the oak tree.”
“We’re not. Are you Mr Petrilli?” I asked.
“I am,” he confirmed happily enough. I pulled my warrant card from my pocket and held it out to him as I spoke.
“My name is Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. This is Detective Sergeant Mills. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”
Mr Petrilli’s face fell instantly, and he looked around, searching for something before stepping into the house.
“You’d better come in then. Just through here,” he shut the door and led us through the kitchen to a small room beside it, warmed by large windows where a table sat covered in magazines. “Darling!” He shouted back into the house. “Can I get you anything?” He asked us. I quickly shook my head.
“No, thank you.”
Mr Petrilli nodded, and he fumbled with his apron strings, shouting out through the door again. “Darling! Esme!”
“Alright!” A voice called back. “Give me a minute, darling. I’m not the Flash!”
A woman appeared in the doorway and stopped.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Hello.”
Her long white hair fell in a plait to her hips, her baggy dress spattered with paint and clay, and she looked to her husband.
“Darling, these are policemen,” he told her, still struggling with his apron. She reached out and untied the knots as he spoke. “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant, Mills, was it?”
Mills nodded.
“I see,” Esme said in a concerned voice. Her husband finally broke free from his apron, and she indicated the seats. “Shall we sit?” We obliged her, and they sat across from us, looking worried.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you this,” I began, meeting their eyes as I spoke. “But your daughter, Sonia, was found dead a few hours ago in her place of work.”
“Dead?” Mr Petrilli repeated. I nodded grimly.
“No,” Esme said, her face still bright. “No, not my Sonia.”
“I’m so sorry,” I managed to grit out.
Her face fell, and a heart-breaking sob wrenched itself from her, her shaky hands fluttering up to her face. Mr Petrilli tucked her into his side, his face buried in her hair. Mills and I sat back, and turned our attention to the view outside, to a small pond where some ducks happily waded. We’d give them as long as they needed, but the borderline screams coming from Esme Petrilli made me want to get up, run away and never come back.
We sat there for some time, and then Mr Petrilli cleared his throat, and we looked back at him. He was sitting upright, his wife still cradled against him. His face was red, eyes swollen, but he met my gaze and gave me a small, determined nod.
“Was it an accident?” He asked in a croaking voice.
“It doesn’t appear that way, I’m afraid. We are investigating it as a homicide, in connection to another attack on her research partner, Abbie Whelan.”
“Abbie,” Mr Petrilli nodded. “Yes, Sonia said she was in the hospital. You think it was the same person?”
“We believe so, but we can’t know for sure yet.”
“Where is she?” Esme Petrilli asked, pushing herself up from her husband’s arm. “Where’s my Sonia?”
“She’s been taken back to the station with our pathologist, Dr Lena Crowe. She’ll establish exactly what happened to your daughter, and then you will be free to make whatever arrangements necessary.”
“Well, it was probably her, wasn’t it?” Esme said, wiping at her face.
“Who, Mrs Petrilli?” I asked.
“The girl. The partner, the one who always took the credit. Abbie.”
“Abbie Whelan has been in a coma in hospital since Tuesday,” I assured her patiently.
“Her family then,” she cried. “They must have done it!”
“Esme, come now,” Mr Petrilli took his wife’s hands in one of his and smoothed her hair down. “Why would they do that?”
“Maybe they suspected Sonia of hurting Abbie,” she pointed out, looking at me. “Was she a suspect?”
“She was a person of interest, purely due to her proximity to Abbie,” I told them, not wanting to lie.
“See?!” Esme cried, fresh tears rolling down her face, and she looked at her husband. “Her family must have done it.”
“Will you investigate such a lead?” he asked me.
“At the time of death for Sonia, Abbie’s only relatives were with us,” I answered.
“With you?” He asked. “Why?”
“Abbie has a daughter, a four-year-old. There’s been some trouble from her father trying to take her from her aunt and
