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tired, and wanted out. But the link between them all, according to Anton, was Harriet Reilly.
    No one had a bad word to say about her. There wasn’t the least suggestion that she’d helped people on their way for any other reason than simple compassion. But word of the service she offered had slowly spread. If you wanted a good death for yourself or a close friend, then Harriet Reilly would spare you the one-way trip to Zurich. Get yourself on her list, and your troubles would be over.
    Lizzie looked at the names Anton had supplied, all of whom were now dead. Including Alec, there were three. After Harold Shipman had been found guilty, Lizzie knew that there’d been a full inquiry. That, she presumed, must have led to changes in the law around GPs and the certification of death. Ten minutes on the Internet told her the rest of the story. Patients who die and go for burial are released on the death certificate signature of a single GP. For cremations, on the other hand, the process is more complex. Another form is involved, which must be countersigned by a second GP, plus a nurse or carer or even relative who was close to the deceased towards the end of their life.
    Lizzie leaned back from the screen and made herself a note. Three people to certify a death, she thought, one of them probably a fellow GP from the same practice. The makings of a conspiracy? She didn’t know. The seed of a decent story? Again she was uncertain. It was common knowledge that many doctors hastened nature on its way when it came to terminal disease, and as long as these gentle killings spoke of nothing but compassion then she saw no point in pursuing Harriet Reilly any further. But the fact that this same GP had herself been killed told her to keep looking, keep pushing the story on.
    In Pompey her address book had been full of contacts in every conceivable field. She fetched it out of her desk drawer, a name already in mind, and reached for the phone. She had the woman’s mobile number. She liked to think they’d been good friends. Moments later came a voice she recognised.
    ‘Coroner’s office. How can I help you?’
    ‘It’s Lizzie, Dawn. Lizzie Hodson.’

Six
    T UESDAY, 10 J UNE 2014, 11.56
    Suttle and Luke Golding were back in Lympstone by late morning. Harriet Reilly’s cottage lay up a lane that climbed away from the river. Suttle parked behind the Scenes of Crime van and got out. The front door of the cottage, half-open, was guarded by a uniformed PC.
    ‘How are they doing in there?’
    ‘Fine.’ The PC turned and yelled a name. There was a muffled response and then Suttle heard the clump of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
    The Crime Scene Investigator was an overweight Brummie who’d recently joined the force. Gordon Wallace had already won himself a reputation for painstaking attention to detail, and he had a nose for the story that every scene can tell. Suttle had worked with him on a dodgy suicide on a hill farm near Bodmin earlier in the year, and on the evidence of that single job he had considerable respect for the man.
    ‘Well?’
    Wallace pushed back the hood of his protective suit, peeled off a glove and shook hands. He was sweating in the hot sun and he gestured Suttle into the shade of a nearby tree.
    So far they’d boshed the downstairs and had just made a start on the bedrooms. The place was small and, as far as they could judge, the woman seemed to have lived alone. A handful of riding gear – jodhpurs, recently muddied boots – suggested an interest in horses, and Wallace had been through a photograph album he’d found in the living room. What had taken his fancy was the fact that Reilly had bothered to print out photos and stick them in the album. These days, given hard disks and Facebook, he didn’t know anyone who did that.
    ‘These are recent shots?’
    ‘Yeah. She put the date and place under each one. Very anal.’
    ‘So what do they tell us?’
    ‘She’s travelled a bit, especially