working on the house, and a group of officers were on their hands and knees searching the garden and driveway, seeking traces of the killer on his route to the house. Cooper noticed a garden ornament here, too – not a squirrel or a rabbit, but a concrete heron standing on one leg in the middle of the lawn, as if waiting for a pond to arrive.
‘They think he may have waited under the trees for a while before he approached the house,’ said Fry, who’d been speaking to the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Probably he wanted to be sure she was alone.’
‘Here?’ said Cooper.
‘A few yards along the fence. See the markers? He must have watched the place for a while before he entered. This is the best spot to remain unnoticed, yet have a clear view of the house.’
Cooper looked up at the tree above his head. Most of its leaves were dark green, with the distinctive pointed tip of the lime. But many of the branches had thinner, paler foliage. With a slight stretch he was able to reach up, take hold of a branch and give it a shake. A shower of water droplets fell from the surface of the leaves, followed by a small cloud of brown specks that landed in Fry’s hair and on her shoulders, and clung to the sleeves of Cooper’s shirt.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Fry.
Cooper picked one of the specks off his shirt and looked at it. It was a tiny round floret on a short piece of dried stem.
‘This lime tree is seeding,’ he said. ‘There are thousands of these things up there. If the killer stood here, even for a few minutes, he’ll have them on his clothes, like us.’
‘And in his hair,’ said Fry, brushing the top of her head. ‘OK, if we find Quinn, they’ll still be on him. I don’t suppose he’s changing his clothes very much.’
‘We ought to suggest to the SOCOs that they look for seeds in the material they bagged from inside the house.’
‘It wouldn’t really prove anything. Rebecca Lowe could have carried seeds into the house herself. They could have been taken in by the dog, or anyone.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
Fry stared at him. She wasn’t used to being told that she was right. But Cooper had a picture in his mind. He was imagining the killer standing here, under the lime tree, watching the house. He hadn’t approached the house straight away, but had stood for some time, waiting. Waiting for what, though?
‘It was already dark, wasn’t it?’ said Cooper. ‘It had been for an hour or so.’
‘Yes, of course it was dark.’
She watched him in amazement as he reached up and shook the nearest branch of the tree again. This time he tugged a bit harder, and the bough dipped. More water fell around them. Fry got a spatter of it in her face and wiped it away with her fingers as she stared at Cooper.
‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if it had already started to rain.’
‘I’ve no idea, Ben.’
Cooper looked at the ground. He saw a ripe seedhead from a stem of grass that had been chewed by mice or something. Nearby were a series of markers placed on the damp soil by the SOCOs.
‘Footprints,’ said Cooper.
‘Boots, by the look of them. Nice, clear impressions.’
‘Useful.’
Between the lime trees and the house stretched two gently sloping lawns edged by flower borders and divided by a brick-paved path. The path meandered a little before ending at a sundial on a stone plinth. Cooper could see no more white markers, and the SOCOs were already progressing towards the drive and garage.
‘There are no impressions between here and the house, though. Yet the grass is fairly long, not recently cut.’
Fry shrugged. ‘He must have walked on the path.’
‘Oh, right. He was worried about damaging the grass with his big boots. And what about the six-foot leap to the sundial?’
‘Ben, the grass just didn’t retain any impressions, that’s all.’
‘But it would do,’ said Cooper, ‘if it was wet.’
He watched Gavin Murfin scouting around the side of the house, peering over the dense hedge into the neighbours’ property. Cooper realized this was the first time that he’d been alone with Diane Fry for months, without Murfin or anybody else being on hand to overhear what they were saying or butt in. For once, Fry wasn’t trying to get away from him. In fact, she seemed to be absorbed with her own thoughts.
‘Diane …’ he said.
‘What?’
Fry looked at him suspiciously, already alerted by a change in the tone of his voice. Cooper wished he were a better actor sometimes.
‘I know it’s none of my business,’ he said, and paused while she rolled her eyes in exasperation, though she still didn’t move away. ‘But I heard that Angie is staying with you.’
‘Been gossiping round the coffee machine, have you?’
‘Is it true, Diane?’
‘Like you said, Ben: it’s none of your business.’
‘I was involved, in a way –’
‘In a way? Too bloody involved, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, I know, I know. But is Angie just visiting or has she moved in? I mean, are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Diane?’
‘Ben, would you like me to break your neck now, or do you want to annoy me for a bit longer?’
Fry began to walk across the garden, her shoulders stiff. Cooper had seen her walk away from him like that too often before. He shook his head, spraying more water and brown specks from his hair. Then he hurried after Fry, falling into step alongside her.
‘Have you seen anything of Rebecca Lowe’s children?’ he said.
‘They came in earlier today for identification of the body,’ said Fry. ‘They already knew Mansell Quinn was coming out of prison, of course. Andrea said she’d tried to get her mother to take extra precautions.’
‘Andrea and … Simon?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any children from the second marriage?’
‘She was too old by then, Ben.’
‘I meant, did the second husband have any children? Step-children for Mrs Lowe.’
‘No.’
‘A woman living alone, then.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But if Mansell Quinn came looking for revenge,’ said Cooper, ‘why his ex-wife? What did she do?’
‘We
