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measurements because the bottom slab of the cake will have to be bigger to hold it all.’
    ‘Blimey, how many are coming to their reception?’
    She shrugged. Weddings were such an industry these days and the caterers really ripped off the bridal couple — or their parents, more to the point — especially for the cake. Clare had been a cake decorator all her working life but her specialty was wedding cakes. She’d retired, of course, but now and then took on the odd job that interested her. This was an Irish couple from County Clare — her parents’ birthplace — and she felt a kinship and need to help the young couple out. ‘I imagine itmust be over two hundred by now if the cake is any indication.’
    ‘They’re nuts.’
    ‘You’d better get used to the idea. Peter and Pat will ask at least that many,’ she said.
    ‘Well, they might ask, but we’ll only be sending out invites for a hundred guests tops,’ he warned, brandishing his razor.
    ‘Oh, go on with you and your silly threats. No one takes any notice of you, Garvan!’
    She could see he knew he was beaten. ‘I’ll get the heaters turned up for you, then,’ he said. ‘It’s a cold one today.’
    ‘Turn the news on as well,’ she said, shooing him out of the bathroom.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I want to hear about those murders that were on the radio last night,’ she called through the door. ‘We missed the news on the telly because of your Rotary dinner.’
    ‘What murders? Down here in Sussex?’
    Clare began washing her hands. ‘No. Two men, one from Lincoln, the other from London somewhere, I think. But the police reckon their deaths are similar — they’re saying it could be a serial killer,’ she finished as she opened the door.
    ‘This is England, love, not America,’ he said, his tone suggesting she must have misheard the report. He kissed the top of her head. ‘Hurry up, tea’s on its way.’
    ‘I’m just telling you what the news said,’ she called to his back as he went downstairs.
    Her husband reached the hallway and looked up at her. ‘Why are you interested in them anyway?’

    ‘Because who’s to say the next one won’t be from Brighton, that’s why. Hurry up with that tea — I’m going to pull on something warm.’
    ‘Okay, okay. I’m on my way.’
    Clare arrived in the sitting room just after the BBC presenter had repeated the unsettling news that the bodies of two men had been discovered in separate locations in Lincoln and North London several weeks apart.
    ‘Both males were brutally murdered and similarities at the crime scenes indicate that the same killer may be responsible for both deaths. There is no indication at this stage that the murders were the result of robberies as personal items were untouched. A full investigation is now under way and a special incident team has been established. Police are following up several leads,’ the announcer said ‘and have revealed the victims as forty-four-year-old Michael Sheriff of Louth in Lincolnshire and forty-five-year-old Clive Farrow of Hackney Marshes. Both men were —’
    ‘There you are,’ Clare said over the presenter’s words. ‘Believe me now?’
    ‘Sssh!’ Garvan hissed, surprising her.
    She rounded on him, noticed his gaze intense on the screen, his body leaning forward in anticipation as the BBC ran the footage from the night before showing a grey-haired senior police officer speaking about the murderer they were now hunting.
    ‘We would like to interview anyone who may have come into contact with the men since November last year or who may have any information that might assist with our inquiries and establish the victims’ movements in the past week,’ Superintendent Sharpesaid from the podium. ‘If anyone has been in the areas concerned and has seen or heard something that they think may be relevant to the inquiry — no matter how insignificant — please contact us on the numbers on the screen now. All information will be treated in the