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asmoothing out across the room, she was made physically aware of being the new girl. She’d been allocated a desk that morning, and moved over to it now with an unexpected pang of homesickness for the incident room in Maidstone where, until last year, she’d been a comfortable part of the gang. She’d known some of those people – Colin, Jeff, Margie – for years, worked alongside them, been through one or two pretty traumatic cases with them. And for what? It only went to show that you didn’t necessarily know people at all. Still, she couldn’t help missing being an organic part of something, even if a lot of the time it had just been mundane chat about cars, sport and holidays.
    Meanwhile she barely knew the names or even roles of half the people in this room. The clean, tidy surface of her own desk contrasted with the files and papers cascading across everyone else’s. Lance, leaning over Duncan’s shoulder, was occupied with something on his computer screen. She wasn’t sure quite what she should be getting on with, but it felt too conspicuous to sit here idle. For something to do, she opened up Twitter and began searching for Polly Sinclair. She wondered how many friends Polly had, what they were like, how far Polly had really been able to trust them.

FOUR
    It was Roxanne who suggested they meet at the Blue Bar. The imposing exterior showed that the premises had once belonged to some venerable Victorian institution, a bank or corn exchange, but the revamped interior, with big wooden ceiling fans and giant potted palms, had been designed to resemble either a New Orleans jazz club or the lobby of a Thirties colonial hotel. Grace, standing in the doorway scanning for the friend she hadn’t seen in several years, couldn’t help thinking of Polly Sinclair who, six days ago, had sat over there by the window with a group of fellow language students. A few of them had been drinking shots and become quite rowdy; now, at seven o’clock, it was too early for a big crowd of serious drinkers, and Grace easily spotted Roxanne Carson seated at the bar. She called out to her friend, and Roxanne slid down from the tall bentwood chair and held out her arms. ‘Grace Fisher! It is so good to see you again!’
    ‘And you! Been far too long.’
    ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns …’
    They laughed and hugged, then levered themselves up onto the bar stools. ‘So how long has it been?’ asked Roxanne. ‘Not that it matters, you look just the same! Hair a bit shorter, but slim as ever, damn you!’
    ‘You look good, too.’
    Grace knew that, trim and tall, with straight brown hair, regular features and grey eyes, she’d never be the one to draw attention from anyone glancing in their direction. Roxanne, on the other hand, was petite and curvy, with a mane of dark curls that she said came from her Sicilian grandmother. At uni she’d never had any trouble attracting either friends or lovers, yet on Grace’s first evening in the hall of residence she’d heard Roxanne sobbing through the wall of the neighbouring room. She’d made her get up and take the bus with her into Brighton, where they’d sat on the beach, eating fish and chips and throwing stones at the reflection of the harvest moon in the water. Although never best friends, after that they’d remained close enough to stay in touch for a year or two after graduation.
    A barman, good-looking in white shirt and narrow black tie, came up and greeted Roxanne by name; if he recognised Grace as one of the detectives who’d come to speak to his manager two days before, he gave no sign. ‘It’s two for the price of one on shorts before eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Special midweek promotion, just for the ladies.’
    ‘We’re fine with the house red, thanks,’ replied Roxanne with a flirtatious smile. She turned to Grace. ‘OK with you?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘So, the last I heard, you’d got married,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, and now I’m waiting for my