The Blissfully Dead

Le

Even better, maybe he would be the one to cause the slip.

Winkler couldn’t see how the three murders – the teen girls and his old woman, Nancy Marr – could be related. OK, so there were the cuts, but he was convinced Daniel Hamlet had made a mistake there. It was a coincidence, that was all. Nancy’s case was dissimilar in every other way. Two victims were young and nubile while the other was well past her sell-by date. Unlike the other two, Nancy’s murder was in her home. They were in different areas of south London, the girls miles apart from Nancy. There was nothing at all to co

The best thing to do, Winkler decided, was to pretend to go along with Suza

He started the car and headed over to Wimbledon, thinking how sweet it would be when he got one over on Le

Winkler stood outside the house where Nancy Marr had been murdered, wishing the building would give up its secrets, that a shaft of light would fall from the sky and reveal some devastating clue. He sighed as the sky remained grey and unhelpful. He was going to have to rely on his brains rather than miracles.

Being honest with himself, he hadn’t put an enormous deal of effort into solving this murder. Nancy Marr had no good friends and only one close relative: a son in his late fifties who lived in Yorkshire, whose main concern appeared to be how quickly he’d be able to sell the house and pocket the money. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign outside now, but, as the scene of a brutal murder, this property hadn’t shifted, despite the property boom that was going on at the minute.

His emotional indifference and unconcealed interest in his mother’s money had made the son, George Marr, the initial suspect. But he had a rock-solid alibi. He’d been in Majorca with his partner and a couple of friends and there was nothing that pointed towards George hiring a hitman to bump off his mum.

Winkler’s next line of inquiry had focused on known burglars in the locality – he’d got the team to check out a dozen other known names, but none of them appeared guilty. They’d done the usual, going door to door, interviewing the neighbours, with no joy. No-one had heard the old woman scream. And there was no useful forensic evidence.

So, with no relatives or friends to pressure the police and no great media interest in the case – after an initial cry of outrage and a leader article about ‘the sickness in our society’, the local paper had soon lost interest – Winkler had been able to put this investigation on the back-burner. It hurt, though, that his clearance rate, which was excellent, was affected. Winkler didn’t do failure. So he was pleased now that he had the motivation to reignite it. Somebody around here must have seen something. It was time to start knocking on doors again.

Chapter 15

Day 4 – Patrick

Patrick and Gill regarded one another warily from opposite sofas. It was ten o’clock on Sunday evening, his and Bo

Patrick guiltily upended the almost finished bottle of Merlot into his wine glass. He’d downed most of it in between his Bo

Gill was sipping cautiously at half a glass – she’d never been a big drinker, but said that now she drank even less. He almost wished she would – perhaps it would make the atmosphere more relaxed, had they both been half-cut. But her counsellor strongly recommended against it, for obvious reasons.

‘So,’ Gill said shyly, staring intently into her glass. ‘This is awkward, isn’t it?’

‘It’s like a weird sort of first date.’ He laughed mirthlessly and then, when he saw how crushed she looked, backtracked. ‘No, I mean, it’s not really, of course, it’s you and me, and how many dates have we been on? I just meant in terms of feeling . . . strange.’

She nodded, but he could see he’d upset her. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Him having to tread on eggshells around her, terrified of saying the wrong thing, constantly worrying that she would lose it again? He forced himself to stand up and walk across the room to her. He sat down close to her and put his arm around her shoulders. It still felt weird. This is my wife, he had to keep reminding himself, glancing down at her wedding ring, trying to feel an echo of the happiness that had consumed him the day he’d slipped it onto her finger.

‘It’s great to be home,’ he whispered into her ear, gazing at the side of her face, unable to prevent himself noticing how much of a toll the last two years had taken on her appearance. Her skin had a permanent greyish tinge that never used to be there, and her dark brown hair, once so shiny and buoyant, was flat and dull.

They needed a holiday, he thought. All three of them.

He felt her shoulder relax a little under his hand and saw the side of her cheek curve up into a smile. ‘This is our new start, right?’

She nodded again, but she didn’t seem overly enthusiastic either.

‘How do you feel about it, Gill?’ he ventured. ‘Are we OK?’ He realised he was asking himself that question as much as her.

In reply, she turned to kiss him. It was the first time they had properly kissed for two years, and initially it was clumsy, teeth clashing, tongues out of synch. Patrick felt like he was fourteen again. That thought in turn led him to have an unwelcome flash of Jessica McMasters’ disfigured body spread-eagled on the dustsheet of the makeshift studio floor earlier that day, with the trappings of a real photo shoot around her, lights and reflectors, making a mockery of a studio portrait. Stupid girl, he thought. How could she have been taken in like that? He would make sure he brought Bo