Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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Four hours' sleep, three cups of coffee, two dreams of Rania, and one happy ending in the shower when I still couldn't get her out of my head. That was my morning. And now I was sitting in Lloyd Weston's office for an update on progress, trying not to yawn.
"I need to see details of Helene's finances," I said. "Money's the motive behind a large percentage of murders, and I'd like to check through her bank statements and credit card bills to see if there are any clues there."
"But I've already given all that information to the police."
Of course he had. But the chances of Chris Turner cooperating in any way weren't just slim, they were anorexic.
"The police have procedures to follow, and unfortunately, they can't hand over any evidence being used in an ongoing investigation. If you can give me duplicates, I'll be able to dedicate more time to combing through them than the police can."
"Very well. I'll have my secretary make copies of everything. How far back?"
"Let's start with two years."
"And how are the interviews going? I understand you've spoken to most of the staff?"
"I have, but I've got little to go on so far. Helene generally seemed to be well-liked." I mentally crossed my fingers. I mean, nobody hated her. "And the other staff respected her contribution to the company."
"If anybody obstructs your investigation, you let me know, you hear? I won't stand for it."
Lloyd put his head in his hands. He seemed to have aged a year every day since I'd met him. Helene might have been a brat, as Rania put it, but there was no doubt how much her father loved her.
"I'll inform you right away. Looking at another angle, I understand the police are still waiting for some of the forensics results?"
Might as well give the illusion that Chris and I had been talking, even if all I wanted to do was punch him in the mouth. But Lloyd didn't bite.
"That bastard drugged my daughter! Drugged her then destroyed her face. She had the prettiest eyes. They were the first thing everybody commented on. Her whole wedding was going to be themed around them. Green dresses for the bridesmaids, green table centrepieces, green ribbons on the Rolls Royce. Now I'll never get to walk my beautiful girl down the aisle."
This was always the part of police work I'd hated most—seeing the effects of crime on those left behind. I'd never been very good at comforting grieving relatives, but I'd still done a better job of it than Chris Turner, who had all the empathy of a brick despite carrying a spare handkerchief around just in case anyone cried, probably because he'd read to do so in a fucking manual somewhere.
"I'm sorry for your loss. I understand how difficult it must be."
Lloyd stared past me, out of the window at the lawns and woods beyond. Although part of the grounds had been converted to a car park, the rest had been left as it was a century ago.
