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tie-up burglary in Brighton earlier in the year, in which the victim had died.
    On his iPhone notepad he had a ‘to do’ list, which was the reserve list for their wedding. There was a limit on numbers, so every time they had a refusal they’d been able to add someone else from the waiting list. There were so many people he would have liked to have asked that it was really worrying him. What should have been a joyous occasion had turned into a major headache for them.
    But one thing he was looking forward to was this evening’s poker game, which he had played most Thursday nights for the past fifteen years with a group of friends, several of whom were police colleagues.
    It was his turn to host the game, and Cleo had been hard at work preparing snacks and cooking a coq au vin for the meal they always had halfway through the evening.
    With particularly bad timing, he was the duty Senior Investigating Officer for this week, and he sincerely hoped that none of the average thirteen homicides a year that occurred in the county of Sussex would happen today and mess up his plans.
    He dealt with the rugby club correspondence and then made his way to the tiny kitchenette that housed a fridge and a few basics to make himself another coffee. As the kettle came to the boil his mobile phone rang.
    ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered. Instantly, he recognized with dismay the voice of the duty Ops-1 Controller, Inspector Andy Kille.
    It was not good news. Such calls never were.

10
    Thursday morning, 24 October
    ‘You okay, Red?’
    No, I am so not okay, she thought. But that was not what her boss, Geoff Brady, at Mishon Mackay, the estate agency where she worked as a negotiator, would want to hear. Still not a word from Karl.
    Bastard.
    You complete bastard.
    Why did you lie to me?
    She looked up from the property details in front of her that she had been tasked with writing. It was a new instruction and a horrid little place in her opinion. A tiny terraced house, overshadowed by an industrial estate next to it, on a busy hill with endless traffic day and night. It fronted straight onto the road, had no parking facility outside, and a sunless backyard just about big enough to exercise a lame gerbil in. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
    Geoff Brady smiled. He always smiled. Forty-five years old, a dapper dresser with an Irish accent, he exuded charm. If he’d been told the world would end tomorrow, he would have kept smiling, and still managed to sell a property to someone. ‘You’ve a worried look on your face,’ he said.
    ‘I’m good.’
    He peered down at what she had written on her computer screen.
    Period bijou terraced cottage within five minutes’ walk of Hove station, close to the recreation ground and all the amenities of the much sought after Church Road district. In need of some modernization, this period property comprises two ground-floor rooms, a separate kitchen and cloakroom, and two bedrooms upstairs, with separate bathroom, all nicely proportioned. A unique opportunity to acquire a city-centre property.
    ‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Mention that it’s handy for the buses.’
    It was, she thought. There was a bus stop almost outside, so close the engines made every room shake. ‘Okay, good point.’
    ‘ Charming ,’ he said. ‘People always like that word. You have two periods. Change the first one to charming .’
    ‘ Charming bijou terraced cottage?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I like that. That has a nice ring to it. What about photographs?’
    She clicked to bring them up, feeling proud of her artistry with her camera. Brady peered at them. ‘These are terrible – who took them?’
    ‘I did,’ she said, a tad crestfallen.
    He pointed. ‘Look, the toilet seat’s up in that one! There’s a bottle of bleach on the draining board there. There are clothes strewn everywhere in that bedroom. You can’t put photographs like that on any property details. The place has to look immaculate.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’