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hesitant.
    ‘Ye-es?’
    ‘Hello,’ Kathy said, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to trace friends or relatives of Marion Summers.’
    ‘Oh aye? Well, I’m her auntie, but if you’re selling something . . .’
    ‘No, nothing like that. My name’s Kathy Kolla, and I’m a police inspector from London. Could I ask your name, madam?’
    ‘Bessie, Bessie Wardlaw. Did you say the polis?’
    ‘Yes. Are Marion’s parents available, Mrs Wardlaw?’
    ‘Available? Well, her mother’s living in London.’
    ‘Can you give me her name and address and phone number?’
    There was a pause, then a plaintive objection. ‘I have no idea who you are, do I? I mean, you phone me out of the blue . . .’
    ‘You’re right. I can give you a number of the Metropolitan Police for you to ring back. It
is
important.’
    ‘Och, can you no’ just tell me what this is all about?’
    ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Bessie, about Marion. I’m trying to contact her nearest relatives.’
    ‘Oh no!’ Kathy heard the woman’s hoarse breathing on the other end of the line and hoped she wasn’t going to faint. She was regretting this call, catching the frailty of the woman at the other end, and thinking she should have handed this over to the Ayr police to deal with. ‘Do you have someone there with you, Bessie?’
    ‘Aye, the minister, Mr Fotheringham.’
    ‘Would you mind letting me speak to him?’
    There was a clunk as Bessie dropped the phone. Finally a man came on. Kathy repeated who she was.
    ‘I’m very sorry to have to give Bessie some sad news, Mr Fotheringham. I’m afraid Marion Summers, her niece, died in hospital yesterday.’
    ‘That’s shocking news indeed. How did it happen?’
    ‘She collapsed in the library where she was working. She went into a coma and I’m afraid they weren’t able to revive her.’
    ‘Och, poor lassie. Was it the diabetes?’
    ‘We’re carrying out a post-mortem to establish the cause. You obviously know her well.’
    ‘Oh aye. She lived with Bessie for several years before she went down to London, to the university.’
    ‘Bessie said Marion’s mother lives in London, is that right?’
    ‘Aye, she moved down a couple of years ago, I believe.’
    ‘Was Marion living with her?’
    ‘Hang on, I’ll ask Bessie.’
    After a moment he came back. ‘No, they had separate addresses. I have them here.’ Kathy heard the pages of a notebook turning, then he read out the entries. Marion’s mother was Sheena Rafferty, with a home address in Ealing in West London. However the address for Marion was her old one in the student apartments in Stamford Street.
    ‘You wouldn’t know if she had a partner, a regular boyfriend?’
    There was a muffled discussion, then, ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you there. Bessie hasn’t had much contact with Marion of late.’ Then he added, voice cautious, ‘There’s nothing suspicious, is there, in Marion’s death?’
    ‘We’re not ruling anything out at this stage, Mr Fotheringham. Why? Is there something we should know?’
    ‘No, no. Bessie hasn’t spoken to her sister—Marion’s mother—for over a year. She doesn’t really know what’s been going on down there. What was your name again?’
    Kathy repeated it, and her phone number, and took a note of the minister’s number, promising to get in touch when she had more information.
    She rang Dr da Silva’s home number next. He too sounded shocked by the news of Marion’s death, to the point of becoming almost monosyllabic. To each of her questions he returned a series of abrupt negatives. No, he didn’t know where she lived, nor if she had a boyfriend, nor what other close friends she might have had.
    Kathy snapped her phone shut and stared out of the car window, tapping her hand impatiently on the steering wheel. It was beginning to look very much as if Marion Summers had been covering her tracks.

four
    M arion’s mother lived on the second floor of a council block which had