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Kaplan occasionally wrote leader-page pieces for the
Daily Mail;
he had ambitions, according to unkind north Oxford gossip, to become a media don like Norman Stone. She had no idea whether his relationship with the paper extended to feeding it sensational stories like this one, but it was no use protesting that Bridget and Sam’s guests would never, ever, stoop to such a thing.
    â€œWe only give them the basics, of course.” The Inspector was roving round the room in search of an ashtray, a column of ash balanced precariously on the end of her cigarette. “Your friend’s quite safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re not empowered to tell them where she’s staying.” She gave up her search, picked up the empty plastic beaker from the end of the table and tapped the ash into it.
    â€œI suppose that’s
something,”
Loretta said, sounding ungracious even to herself. “Well, if that’s all . . .”
    The Inspector returned to her seat and flashed Lorettaa friendly smile. “As I said, someone’11 be round later in the week for a formal statement. Thanks for your help.”
    Loretta opened the door to the hall and found her path blocked by a wide uniformed back. “Excuse me.” She was close enough to smell the stale sweat which had formed dark-blue half-circles under his arms, but he didn’t seem to have heard her. She raised her voice: “
Excuse
me—”
    He turned, revealing piggy eyes and a raw-steak complexion.
    â€œInspector—the Inspector’s finished with me.”
    He picked up a clipboard from the hall table, ran his finger down a list and strode to the open front door without saying a word. “Lawson!”
    â€œNo,” she protested from behind. “That’s me. I’m Loretta Lawson.”
    He turned, stared at her suspiciously as though it might be a trick, then rechecked his list. “Lawson . . .” He ticked her off. “You know a Dunne?”
    â€œIf you want Janet, that’s her over there, in the green shorts.” Loretta nodded towards a narrow strip of lawn and flowerbed, the only area of the garden which had not been cordoned off with blue-and-white scene-of-crime tape. Eight or nine adults were waiting, unable to leave until they had been interviewed, and their faces swiveled eagerly towards the house as Loretta and the policeman emerged. Their expressions revealed shock, boredom and, in at least one case, irritation; according to Audrey, there had been a noisy scene earlier in the afternoon when Stephen Kaplan, shaking off his wife’s restraining arm, had protested at the pace of police inquiries and insisted that he and his family be allowed to go home as he was expecting an important phone call. There was no sign of Jane or the children, but Lorettasaw that Stephen was striding towards them, his face thunderous.
    â€œWho’s in charge here?”
    Loretta drew back into the hall, avoiding the confrontation. Halfway up the stairs she met Sam, who greeted her with relief.
    â€œLoretta—they through with you?”
    â€œSo it seems.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” He peered past her, hearing raised voices.
    â€œJust Stephen Kaplan making a fuss—I’d let him get on with it if I were you.” She was suddenly weary, the emotional energy which had sustained her through the interview draining away like water into parched ground. She was also very hungry, having eaten nothing all day except a single slice of toast for breakfast.
    â€œOK . . .” He didn’t seem very sure. “I’d like to get Bridget out of here right now, before the . . . before the mortuary van shows up. Could you put some things in a bag—whatever you think she’s going to need? Hey, are you OK?”
    â€œI’m tired, that’s all.” She brushed aside his concern. “Are you coming as well? My lodger moved out last week and