Opposite her, her hands wrapped around my Mr Perfect mug (and yes, that is a joke), is a woman. I’ve seen her before. Emma something. She was at the same college as Alex years ago, but there isn’t really a word for what they are now – not exactly friends but a bit more than acquaintances. She works for the council fostering and adoption service. Last year, when a couple of local builders found a traumatized young woman locked in a basement with her eighteen-month-old son, it was Emma who arranged for Alex and me to foster him for a few weeks. Though lest you should think I really am Mr Perfect I should say at once that it was against my better judgement, and, I suspect, against Emma’s too, though we never discussed it. It was my wife’s idea, and she is both very persistent and very persuasive. And if you know about that case, and that little boy, and you’re wondering what happened to him, Brandon is doing well. He’s with long-term foster parents who are hoping to adopt him. It’s not my case any more, but I keep in touch. I don’t have to, but I do.
‘Adam, you remember Emma, don’t you?’
We smile at each other, a little awkwardly. I’m uncomfortably aware that I didn’t shower at the gym and even my own wife wouldn’t want a clincher with me right now. So I just stand there, trying not to look like an oaf.
I raise a hand. ‘Hi.’
Emma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She has long strawberry-blonde hair and a pair of silver hoop earrings that she keeps fiddling with. I seem to remember her hair being darker the last time I saw her, but it’s been quite a while. I could be wrong.
‘Emma just popped by to drop off a present for the baby,’ says Alex, levering herself out of her chair. I see now there’s a white teddy bear sitting on the worktop beside her. It has a red bow tie and that slightly imploring look soft toys always manage to have.
‘We were just having a bit of a catch-up –’
I start to back out of the kitchen. ‘Great – absolutely. Totally fine by me.’ I gesture towards the stairs. ‘I’ll just, you know, have a shower. Take your time.’
* * *
‘Bloody hell,’ says Baxter, sitting back in his chair. He’d had his earphones in but he’s pulled them out now and is looking round at the rest of the team. ‘I think you lot need to hear this.’
Quinn and Asante have only just got back from seeing Sandford – Quinn’s still in the process of hanging up his jacket – but they all know Baxter, and if he says there’s something, there’s something.
‘What you got?’ asks Quinn as they start to gather round.
‘I had a call a while back from Clive Conway,’ says Baxter. ‘He’s got the results on the prints at Fisher’s house. Nothing on the champagne glasses, as expected, but there were prints on the bottle. Both Fisher’s and Morgan’s.’
Quinn frowns. ‘But they both said Morgan was the one who opened it, didn’t they? So where does that get us?’
Baxter shakes his head. ‘It’s not just that. Apparently when Conway fished the bottle out of the bin, there was a whole load of broken glass in there too – and it was right at the top, so it couldn’t have been in there very long.’
‘So?’ says Ev, looking increasingly mystified.
‘So, it turns out it was another wine bottle – prosecco, Conway said. And there were prints on that too. Two different sets. One lot were Morgan’s, but the others are unidentified. But one thing we do know – they’re definitely not Marina Fisher’s.’
Quinn’s still frowning. ‘And? Am I missing something?’
But Baxter hasn’t finished. ‘The only reason Conway bagged it up in the first place was because he remembered there were bits of broken glass on the front step when he arrived. Exactly the same broken glass. There can’t be many ways that got there, can there? Not in that part of town. So barring a clumsy supermarket driver –’
Ev gives him a dry look. ‘Oh yeah, fat chance. Trust me, Marina Fisher’s Ocado list does not include prosecco. I doubt she’d even allow it in the house.’
Baxter raises an eyebrow. ‘My thoughts exactly. So I did a bit of digging of my own.’
He leans forward and reaches for his keyboard. ‘And as it turns out, a woman called Pat Hart rang 101 at just after nine the night of the dinner. She was on her way to meet a friend at the Playhouse bar.’
He turns up the volume and presses play.
Caller: Hello? I’m ringing because there’s some sort of incident going on at St Luke Street.
Call handler: What sort of incident, madam?
Caller: There’s a man and a blonde woman arguing in the street. I just went by in a cab and they were really going at it. It looked to me like she’d had quite a lot to drink – she had a bottle in one hand and was waving it about.
Call handler: Has there been any sort of physical altercation?
Caller: I couldn’t see that much just going past, but I did see him pushing her. Pretty hard, from what I could see – and he’s quite a big bloke too.
[background noises]
Hang on a minute – the cab’s dropped me off now and I’m walking back. I think I just heard the sound of breaking glass.
Call handler: I’m arranging for an officer to attend –
Caller: No, hold on – they’re not there any more.
Call handler: They’ve gone into one of the
