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Gilberts’ lane to the right and the church on its left. Across the green, a few rooftops and red-bricked gables peeked from among the trees.
    Deveney had gone back to Guildford Police Station to oversee incoming reports, delegating Will Darling to drive Gemma and Kincaid back to the Gilberts’. “Meet you there in an hour and we’ll compare notes,” he’d said as he got into his car and gave a mock shiver. “Looks like I won’t be getting the bloody thing in the shop any time soon.”
    Will parked in the car park behind the pub, and they walked across the lane slowly, studying the house and its surroundings as they went. The thick hedge almost met over the curved iron gate, and above it only the upper floor of the house showed, black beams against white-trimmed red brick, creeper softened. “A suburban fortress,” Kincaid said softly as Will nodded to the uniformed constable on duty at the gate. “And it didn’t protect him.”
    “Any too-curious onlookers?” Will asked the constable. “I’ve passed through a couple of neighbors wanting to help, but that’s been it.”
    “No press?”
    “A few sniffers is all.”
    “Won’t be long, then,” said Will, and the constable agreed resignedly.
    “I hope Claire Gilbert and her daughter are ready for a siege,” said Kincaid as they took the path towards the back of the house. “The media won’t let this go easily.”
    When they reached the mudroom door, Kincaid hesitated, then said, “Gemma, why don’t you and Will find Mrs. Gilbert and take a detailed statement of her movements yesterday afternoon, so that we can run a check. I’ll be along in a bit.” Gemma started to protest, but he had already turned away, and for a moment she stood watching him walk across the garden towards the dog’s run. Then, sensing that Will was watching her, she turned and opened the mudroom door a little more forcefully than necessary.
    The white-tiled kitchen floor winked at Gemma as she entered, its glossy surface pristine, unmarred. Someone had cleaned away the blood.
    Gemma looked suspiciously at Will, remembering he’d made some excuse to stay behind when they’d left for the pub last night, but he merely gave her an innocent smile. The fingerprint technician was still busily dusting the cabinet surfaces, but aside from that Gemma could almost imagine it an ordinary room on an ordinary day, waiting for the smell of toast and coffee and sleepy breakfast chatter. A colorful place mat and napkin lay on the table before the garden window, along with a copy of the Times. The paper bore yesterday’s date, Gemma discovered when she examined it, yet she hadn’t seen it last night—in fact, she’d barely noticed the breakfast alcove. That wouldn’t do at all, she told herself, and interrupted Will’s quiet conference with the technician more sharply than she’d meant.
    “Mrs. Gilbert made herself a cup of tea, said she’d be in the conservatory if anyone wanted her,” the fingerprint man said in answer to Gemma’s question, then went back to his tuneless whistling.
    Recalling the glassed extension she’d seen from the garden, Gemma led the way through the kitchen and turned to the right. She tapped lightly on the door at the end of the hall, and when she heard no answer after a moment, opened the door and looked in.
    Although a profusion of green plants gave the room the proper conservatory ambience, it was obviously very much lived in. Two squashy sofas faced each other, separated by a low table covered with books and newspapers. A woolly throw drooped from one sofa back, and reading glasses sat jauntily on a side table. A pair of Doc Martens peeked from under the other sofa, the first sign Gemma had seen that Lucy Penmaric lived in this house.
    Claire Gilbert sat in the corner of the near sofa with her back to the door, stockinged feet curled up beneath her, a yellow legal pad in her lap. Her gaze rested not on the pad, however, but on the garden, and even when