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of it. I was seventeen so officially still in need of a responsible adult to care over me. I was determined it wasn’t going to be Kay even if it meant signing up with dotty old Vinnie till I made eighteen.”
    “Vinnie?”
    “My aunt Lavinia. Dad’s only sister. Mad as a hatter; you need feathers and a beak before she’ll even speak to you. But being a blood relative did the trick and I was able to give Kay the finger.”
    “But Helen thought different?”
    “Don’t think thought entered into it. She was only nine. Pal and I tried to get her out of the clutches, but she went all hysterical at the idea of being separated from Kay. Poor little cow. Not much upstairs, and I’m sure Kay preferred it that way. She’s a real control freak. Probably hand-picked Helen’s husband with that in mind too.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Jason. He’s a PE teacher at Weavers, so not what you’d call an intellectual giant. But a real hunk. And hung. Known as a bit of a stud before Helen hooked him. They say he fucks like a Rossini overture.”
    This was an interesting concept but not one that Ellie, in her present antaphrodisiac mode, felt it wise to pursue.
    “So Helen’s stayed close to her stepmother? Which means you and Pal aren’t all that close to Helen?”
    Cressida shrugged.
    “She made her choice.”
    “But Pal plays squash with Jason?”
    “Yes, he does,” said Cressida. “Can’t think why, especially as I’m sure Jase must whup the shit out of him and Pal’s not a good loser. Still there’s nowt so queer as folks, is there? And most of us are even queerer than we think.”
    She gave Ellie what could only be described as a suggestive leer, then said, “Fuck this,” and drove the broken segment of cork down into the bottle, squirting wine over her hand and forearm.
    She raised her fingers to her mouth and licked the red drops off, her eyes fixed on Ellie and a tiny smile twitching her lips.
    “More ways of popping a reluctant cork than one, eh?” she said. “Pass your glass.”

6 A FISHY SMELL
    Moscow House was full of light, which the shuttered and curtained windows kept penned within. Only through the open front door did any escape to offer a weak challenge to the besieging fog.
    Finding the electricity switched on had been a big bonus, particularly for Jennison, but he still stuck close to his partner as they went methodically through the downstairs rooms, then headed upstairs.
    “Hello hello hello,” said Maycock as he pushed open a bedroom door to reveal a double bed, neatly made up, though not with fresh linen. “This looks like it’s still in use.”
    “Yeah. Hey, do you think some of the girls might have been using this place to bring their punters?”
    “Could be.” Maycock sniffed the air. “Smell a bit sexy to you?”
    Jennison sniffed.
    “Nah,” he said. “Think it’s thy haddock.”
    There was only one door they couldn’t open.
    Some of Jennison’s uneasiness returned. In haunted houses there was always one door that was locked, and when you opened it…
    Maycock was kneeling down.
    “Key’s in the lock on the inside,” he said.
    Jennison said hopefully, “Maybe one of the girls heard us come in and she’s locked herself in here.”
    “Could be.”
    Maycock banged his fist against the solid oak panel and called, “It’s the police. If there’s anyone in there, come on out.”
    Jennison stepped back in alarm, recalling tales of vampires and such creatures who could only join humankind if invited.
    Nothing happened.
    Maycock stooped to the keyhole again. Once more he sniffed.
    “More sex?” said Jennison.
    “Bit of a burnt smell.”
    “You think there’s a fire in there?”
    “No. Not strong enough. Listen.”
    He pressed his ear to the door.
    “Can you hear something?”
    “What?”
    “Sort of whirring, scratching noise.”
    “Scratching?” said Jennison unhappily, his imagination reviewing a range of possibilities, none of them comforting.
    “Yeah. Here, give it a