With a Narrow Blade (7 page)

‘One child, Elizabeth, generally known as Liza, now deceased. One husband, also deceased. One of them must have been a bit of a romantic, because they got married on Valentine’s Day, 1949.’

Hillary smiled. ‘Most popular day for winter marriages, or so I’m told.’

‘No record, no driving licence – never learned, apparently. The grandson we know about. Oh, by the way, uniform called, they’ve got a lead on his whereabouts – almost derelict ‘vacation’ cottage near Fewcott. Or was it Ardley. One of those villages that cluster around Bicester anyway.’

‘Good. I hope you told them to bring him in if they lay hands on him?’ Hillary prompted.

‘Yep,’ Janine said, still thinking over the victim’s biography. ‘Husband was a bit of a weakling after the war – some old injury. Did light work, never amounted to much or earned much. Died back in the late seventies. Flo did mostly char work to make ends meet. Was in the WAAFS after the war, stationed at Upper Heyford. She was born in Leicester. No family left to speak of, apart from an older sister, in a nursing home up that way. She’s been informed of her sister’s death, but I’m not sure if she’s up to arranging for the funeral. The nursing sister I spoke to said it would probably be a bit beyond her.’

Hillary shook her head. ‘It’ll either be down to the grandson then, or maybe the neighbours. I’ll have a word with Caroline Weekes about it. She seems the competent sort. But there’s no rush on any of that just yet.’ She glanced up as Keith Barrington pushed through the door. It wasn’t yet 8.15, and she could tell by the way he gave them a double take that he’d expected to be first in. She smiled briefly at him as he got to them, then waved her empty mug in the air. ‘Wouldn’t mind a refill, constable.’ There were a couple of coffee-making machines littered about the huge work space, and Barrington took her mug without a word and set off in search of a percolator.

Hillary tackled her mail, first the actual stuff that consisted of paper and real envelopes, then the stuff that came through the ether to her email address. At some point Frank Ross checked in, then checked out again, muttering about leads. Hillary initialled some reports on her other cases, and drank her coffee. When she’d finished, she reached for her notebook and checked her to-do lists. Just as she was flipping the last page, her phone rang.

‘DI Greene?’ a gruff voice said. ‘Desk sergeant here. Uniforms have brought in a suspect on the Jenkins case. They say you’re expecting him?’

‘Dylan Hodge?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Right. Which interview room’s he in?’

‘Six.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute.’ She hung up, and caught both her sergeant and DC Barrington watching her hopefully. ‘They’ve found Hodge,’ she said somewhat unnecessarily. She hesitated a moment, knowing that Janine had seniority and must want in on the interview. But Barrington probably needed the practice more. ‘Keith, with me. Janine, I want you to go back to Holburn Crescent. Fill in any holes the house-to-house missed. Also, I want you to do a thorough background check on Caroline Weekes. Chivvy up SOCO, and see if Doc Partridge can give us a definite time for the autopsy. I don’t doubt the cause of death, but I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be something interesting besides that.’

‘Boss,’ Janine said flatly. She’d have liked to be in on the interview with the grandson. Chances were, the toerag had done it, and once upon a time, she’d have made her feelings clear. But what with the wedding coming up in just a few days, and with everything else on her mind, it hardly seemed worth the effort somehow. Besides, she’d be in Witney soon.

A new start.

It seemed, suddenly, more of a blessing than a set-back.

She gathered her stuff together and walked out to the car park, cursing as the high winds caught at her long black coat and whipped her long blonde hair around her eyes. She was just pulling the strands back from her face when she reached her car, which was perhaps why she didn’t realize the problem sooner. As it was, she opened the door and got in, then cursed, as the car felt distinctly spongy and oddly low-slung beneath her.

She struggled out, again battling with her hair and the wind, and stared at her front left tyre. It was as flat as a pancake. Great. She turned, about to walk to the boot for her spare, and instead stared in dismay at her left rear tyre. It too was flat.

Numbly, she walked around to the other side of the gleaming red mini, her pride and joy. All four tyres had been slashed.

With a yell of rage, she turned and glared around the car park. But the high winds weren’t encouraging anybody to linger, and it was deserted. No roaming gangs of uniforms, entering or leaving, no fag-addicted DCs grouped around the horse chestnut trees having a crafty one. No doubt that was why the stalker had chosen this morning to get out his flick knife. She’d even helped the bastard out by parking about as far away from the nearest CCTV camera in the bloody car park as she could get.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ she yelled, and leaning against the top of the mini, felt hard, hot tears clog her throat. Damn it! She wanted to stomp inside and harangue the desk sergeant, set a fire under Traffic’s arse, wail and rant and rage to Mel. Demand to know where somebody’s car was safe, if it wasn’t effing safe in the effing Thames Valley effing Police Force’s HQ car park.

She did none of those things of course. Instead she forced herself to calm down and call a local tyre and exhaust company. She shamelessly used her status as a police officer to get someone down there right away and watched, impotently, as an acne-beleaguered youth, trying hard to hide the grin on his face, changed her tyres. He eyed her up as he handed over the bill for what she considered to be an outrageous, three-figure amount, and two minutes later, she roared off far too fast up Kidlington’s main road.

All it needed now was for her to get a speeding ticket. She tried to laugh at the thought, to get back some sense of equilibrium. But all the way to Bicester, Janine was aware of fighting off scalding tears of humiliation, pain and exhaustion.

As Keith Barrington followed his boss down the stairs, he felt the familiar tingle that always came whenever he was about to confront a suspect. And, in this case, maybe even their prime suspect.

He was glad, and a little surprised, that Hillary Greene had asked him to sit in on it. He knew Janine Tyler was the logical choice. Perhaps Hillary was already gradually sidelining her, since she was about to leave. It made sense – the Jenkins case might still be ongoing by the end of next week, when Janine left for her new posting, and she’d need to have one member of her team up to speed on everything. And it was beginning to look more and more as if Frank Ross, although technically holding the rank of sergeant, wasn’t a serious player. For the first time, Barrington began to feel a real sense of optimism about this new posting.

When Hillary pushed open the door to interview room six, a uniformed PC nodded, then stared stoically ahead again. Seated in front of a plain wooden table, nervously shifting about on his chair, was a young man.

From his record, Keith knew he was twenty-four years of age, but his body was so stick-like, his face so gaunt and with the skin stretched taut over his skull, he could equally have been a teenager or an old man. He looked, Barrington thought uneasily, like one of those survivors of a concentration camp he’d seen in history books at school.

He was dressed in filthy jeans and a T-shirt so big and loose it threatened to literally drop off his skinny shoulders. It bore an old Def Leopard montage, so worn away it resembled an abstract painting – the sort a seriously mentally disturbed David Hockney might have painted.

Hillary drew out a chair and sat down, waiting until Keith had done the same, then nodded at the tape recorder. Keith obligingly went through the ritual, stating the time and date, the names of those present, and that Mr Dylan Hodge had voluntarily stated that he did not request the presence of a solicitor. Hillary knew that the junkie couldn’t afford one, and was probably either too high, or too far gone on withdrawal systems to realize he probably needed one.

His thin arms bore scabs on both wrists, and no doubt, would bear similar scabs on both the insides of his elbows and the tops of his shoulders. He probably had old needle tracks in his groin and between his toes as well.

She opened her case and pulled out his file. She read it in silence for a moment, whilst the young man opposite her watched, his eyes constantly shifting about the room. He seemed to be most worried about the silent, uniformed police officer standing by the door.

‘Says here you trained to be a television repair man, Dylan,’ Hillary began gently. ‘You even held down a job for nearly ten months. Then you were caught stealing from a customer.’

Dylan Hodge shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a mistake. Didn’t get sent down for it, did I?’ he added triumphantly, casting a belligerent look at the uniformed constable who was staring blankly at the wall about a foot above his head.

Hodge had greasy brown hair that lay flat against his skull, and the pupils of his eyes were so dilated it was hard to tell what colour they were.

Hillary turned a page on the dossier, and said, her voice totally without emotion, ‘I see a few months later you were back before the same judge for car theft. You got eighteen months for that.’

Hodge shrugged. ‘A mistake again,’ he muttered. ‘Thought it was the girlfriend’s dad’s car, didn’t I?’

Hillary sighed and pushed the dossier away. ‘Let’s face it, Mr Hodge. You’re a drug addict. Your girlfriend is a drug addict. You live in a squat. You scrounge off your only relative, you thieve and you con and you’d do anything for your next fix. How long has it been since you had a hit?’ she asked curiously.

Hodge sneered at her. ‘On the methadone, ain’t I? Can’t get me on nothing like that.’

Hillary smiled. ‘I’m not trying to get you on nothing like that, Mr Hodge,’ she said, very softly.

Dylan Hodge suddenly went very still in his seat. For the first time he glanced at Keith. Then he frowned. ‘Here, you’re not Vice,’ he said. His tone of voice made it an accusation.

Hillary smiled. ‘I never said I was, Mr Hodge. We want to talk about your grandmother.’

Dylan Hodge blinked. Something – a look that could have meant anything – crossed his face. Part of it seemed to be the recall of a memory. What might have been fear or apprehension made up another part. But his fried, junkie brain didn’t seem able to unscramble it, and after a second, it was gone, leaving behind his habitual sneer. ‘Gran. Yeah, what about her?’

‘She’s dead, Mr Hodge,’ Hillary said matter-of-factly.

Dylan Hodge began to scratch at the scabs on his wrist. Hillary watched the top of his bent head, and thought she saw the sly, darting movement of lice.

‘Mrs Florence Jenkins is your grandmother, Mr Hodge?’ she prompted.

‘Yeah.’

‘She lived at 18 Holburn Crescent, in Bicester?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Dunno. I’m not much good with time.’

This Hillary could well believe. To the likes of Hodge, ten minutes could feel like ten months, or last year could seem like a minute ago. ‘You didn’t come near her place yesterday,’ Hillary began patiently. ‘What about the night before?’

Hodge could certainly fit the very vague description the witnesses had given for the man who’d called at the victim’s house on the night of her murder. A not-bulky figure in a cap.

‘Do you own a cap, Mr Hodge?’ she asked and Dylan, having picked one scab until it began to ooze, turned to another. Hillary let him get on with it, fighting the urge to lean across and rest her fingers on top of his, stopping the frantic scrabbling. But she knew better than to give him any excuse to start screaming police brutality. She wasn’t about to lay so much as a finger on him.

‘Dunno. Might do. There’s clothes at the squat. We share. Donny’s got a bloody good donkey jacket.’

‘I’m surprised someone hasn’t stolen it,’ Hillary said drily. ‘Must be worth the cost of a few good fixes.’

Dylan grinned. ‘Oh yeah. I forgot. Donny’s gone. Took his jacket with him. Or is he inside? Not sure.’ His eyes, already vague, almost crossed. How long before he simply passed out?

‘The night before last, Mr Hodge, did you visit your grandmother?’ Hillary said loudly, allowing an edge of impatience to lance her voice now.

Instantly the sneer was back. ‘No I didn’t, see. And you can’t prove I did.’

And neither could they, Hillary conceded glumly. Yet … ‘You don’t seem very upset that your grandmother is dead, Mr Hodge,’ she said.

‘Yeah. Well, she was old, wasn’t she. Really old. And she was always complaining about being ill. I suppose she was. The old die, don’t they?’

Hillary stared at him without speaking.

‘I mean, she had these pains and all,’ Hodge said, not liking the silence.

Hillary continued to stare silently at him, hoping to get more.

‘Look, I’m off,’ Hodge said, standing up so suddenly that the chair crashed to the floor behind him. The uniformed officer, startled, took an instinctive step forward, and Hodge reared back.

Hillary quickly held out a hand. ‘It’s all right, Mr Hodge. You’re free to go. For the moment.’

It was pointless, Hillary knew from experience, to talk to them when they’d got to this stage. A mixture of bravado and repetition was all she’d get from him now. Better to try another time – catch him on a high if she was lucky. Besides, with no evidence to link him to the crime, she had no cause to hold him.

Hodge charged for the door clumsily. Hillary watched him go, then turned to Keith. ‘Get out to that squat before he does. I dare say they’ll all be suffering from severe amnesia, but see what you can find out about his movements the day of the murder. Then take his mug shot to your witnesses – but I doubt you’ll get a positive ID.’

‘Guv.’

Hillary glanced at her watch, saw that it was gone twelve, and collected her bag.

She had a lunch date with a legend.

I
n spite of the no-smoking signs and laws, the room was hazy when Hillary walked into the public bar, enough to make her gag, since she was somewhat allergic to cigarette smoke. She coughed into her hand and looked around the crowded bar room, eyes watering slightly, and saw a hand go up in the far corner.

When she made her way over, one toothless octogenarian playing dominoes with someone even older, gave her a wolf whistle from the far corner. She was still grinning when she sat down opposite Mitch Titchmarsh, and shrugged off her coat.

‘What you having?’

‘Just orange juice, thanks,’ Hillary said, ignoring Mitch’s grimace of sympathy. He made no attempt to talk her into something stronger, however, but nodded and wandered over to the bar. The fact that he recognized her need to keep a clear head whilst heading up an investigation, made her feel a little bit better about the favour she was going to ask him. Mitch might have been retired for over five years now, but he was still a copper through and through. Once a professional, always a professional.

She thanked him again as he placed her drink in front of her, and glanced at the blackboard menu. ‘The ploughman’s any good here?’

‘Hell no.’

‘I’ll give it a miss then. Cheers.’ She took a sip of her drink, and glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Mitch caught it, and smiled.

‘Case hotting up?’

Hillary sighed. ‘Not really. We’re still in the collating phrase. You know how it is.’

Mitch did. ‘No obvious suspect then?’ He knew, as did most people who took up law enforcement, that nine times out of ten, the culprit in any case was fairly obvious – unlike television dramas would have you believe. The husband who’d battered his wife just a bit too hard this time. The long-feuding neighbours where one of them had taken hostilities a shade too far. The hit-and-run driver with a series of convictions for drink driving behind him.

It was when things weren’t obvious that the need for painstaking detail came into its own.

Hillary thought fleetingly of Dylan Hodge and shrugged. Did he count as an obvious suspect? Her gut wasn’t yet convinced. ‘I’m not sure.’

Mitch grunted. ‘An old lady you said?’ He shook his big, shaggy head sadly. His own mother had lived until she’d reached her nineties.

Mitch Titchmarsh had joined the police force on his eighteenth birthday. Big, burly, tough as old boots even then, he’d quickly become known as the man you wanted to have guarding your back in a tight spot. He’d served his time on the football fields, fending off hooligans, and on front lines during violent pickets. He’d married young, to a woman who produced a baby boy once a year. By the time he was forty, he had nine sons, and, during the course of the next twenty or so years, all but one had joined the force. Some had climbed the ladder, the brightest and most ambitious now being a DCI out Banbury way. The vast majority, however, had opted, like their father, to stick at the rank of sergeant.

But Mitch had always had brains as well as brawn, and his arrest rate during his stint at HQ had been second to none, earning him kudos and respect from all ranks. He was helped, no doubt, by the fact that he was the son of a car factory worker out of Cowley, who’d been born and raised in a hard, working-class neighbourhood, and retained many friends and snitches, who kept him well informed. Even when university graduates started joining the force, and computers, profiling, forensics and PR began to take the place of foot-soldiering, Mitch’s arrest and conviction rate continued to rise.

He was also a larger than life character, a known womanizer, with just a slightly dodgy reputation for scaring villains that had turned him into an object of hero worship for generations of uniforms. His gang of sons still kept him well up to date about goings on in his old patch, and Hillary wouldn’t be at all surprised if he knew almost as much about what went on as she did.

‘Your Roger did well the other week. Ram-raiders, wasn’t it?’ she said, taking a long drink of her nearly warm orange juice.

Mitch’s big, florid red face flushed even more roseate with pride. ‘He’s a born thief-taker that one,’ he admitted gruffly.

‘And how’re Maurice’s scars doing?’

Mitch guffawed. ‘He always did have an ugly mug. A bit of a white line down the side of the jaw ain’t going to make no difference. His wife still loves him.’ Maurice, one of his younger sons, had got on the wrong end of a drug dealer’s flick knife last year.

Mitch quaffed nearly half a pint from his pint glass of Hook Norton ale, and then slowly put it down. ‘Right, that’s the pleasantries out the way. What can I do for you, gal?’

Hillary grinned. Mitch had been one of the first of the old guard to accept her as a player, all those many moons ago. He’d first noticed her when she’d still been in uniform, of course. That thick nut-brown hair and attractive figure had instantly caught his attention. Naturally, he’d tried it on and been firmly rebuffed, but hadn’t taken it personally. And when she’d finally made it into CID, he’d been as proud as a peacock, almost as if he’d had something to do with it. When others had grumbled and moaned about her promotion, he’d cut them off at the knees, and had crowed every time she’d had a success. Even her disastrous marriage to Ronnie Greene hadn’t lessened his respect for her.

For her part, she knew that having Mitch in her corner had gained her acceptance far sooner than it might have done, and she’d always had a soft spot for him, steering him a few good leads whenever they came her way when she thought he could make better use of them. Those days now seemed long ago and far away.

Now she shrugged. ‘I need a favour.’

Mitch grinned. ‘It didn’t take an Einstein to figure that out.’ He leaned back in his chair, a big bear of a man with the makings of a beer gut, dressed in old grey slacks and a lumberjack’s red and black check jacket. ‘Didn’t ever think the day would come when you’d need one, mind,’ he mused, his somewhat watery grey eyes watching her closely. ‘You always were able to look after yourself.’ The way he said it made it sound like more of a question.

Hillary nodded. ‘It’s not me who’s in trouble, but my sergeant.’

Mitch snorted. ‘You can’t mean Frank Ross? If that git’s in deep shit, let him drown.’

Hillary smiled. ‘Janine Tyler,’ she corrected. ‘Heard of her?’

Mitch had, of course. It was inconceivable that he hadn’t. ‘Pretty blonde bit, getting married to Mellow Mallow, your old pal?’

‘That’s her. She’s attracted an admirer. The kind who leaves nasty notes and nasty gifts.’

The smile was gone instantly from Mitch’s face. A deep frown wrinkled his brow, for, quick as ever, he’d already figured out the sub-text. ‘One of our own, you mean?’ he said grimly.

As pater familias to all the young and not so young lads in blue, she could tell the thought disturbed him. ‘It’s not one hundred per cent certain,’ Hillary said. ‘But I can’t see it being a civilian. I think her up-coming marriage to Mel sparked it off.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Someone thinks she’s slept her way to the top and doesn’t like it.’ He took a swig of beer, then asked, curious, ‘Did she?’

Hillary paused in the act of reaching for her own glass, thought about it for a moment, and said at last, ‘No. Not really. Janine’s bright, ambitious and tough. But she’s also got her head screwed on right, and isn’t above twisting Mel around her finger to get ahead. But there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll be inspector one day, maybe even Super. With or without Mel.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He himself had never wanted to achieve high rank. Working the streets, taking thieves, beating the crap out of wife beaters and kiddie predators. That was his forte. But he was wise enough to know that the force needed all sorts, and was never quick to judge. And Hillary Greene, of all people, coming to him for help, was distinctly flattering. ‘I followed all your murder cases by the way,’ Mitch said. ‘Well done, gal. I’m proud of you. Never lost one yet, right?’

Hillary smiled, somewhat wryly. ‘Not so far. And thanks. About Janine. The trouble is, I’m not in much of a position to help her.’

Mitch nodded, understanding her predicament at once. If it
was
a young, uniformed cop doing the stalking, a middle-aged, female CID officer asking questions and trying to snoop around would soon get given short shrift. Uniform knew how to look after its own. Even though Mitch knew Hillary’s rep at HQ was gold, especially after her bravery award, any goodwill she had garnered would soon disappear when it became known what she was after.

‘And Mel can’t help?’ Mitch mused. The same scenario applied.

‘I doubt she’s even told him,’ Hillary said. ‘She hasn’t even told me.’

‘Eh? How do you know about it then?’ Mitch said, then grinned savagely. ‘Sorry. Forget I asked. Must be getting old.’

‘You see her problem though?’ Hillary persisted. Mitch might not relish sorting out one of his own, but he did have an old-fashioned sense of honour when it came to standing behind someone in trouble, which was what she was counting on. Especially when they were getting right royally shafted. And Janine, female though she might be, and marrying a super though she was, was still getting shafted. ‘She can’t go the official complaint route, because it’ll go on her record,’ Hillary pointed out. ‘And you know how effective it would be anyway.’

Mitch snorted. ‘Fart and colander comes to mind.’

‘Right,’ Hillary concurred drily. Official complaints, when investigated, tended to do only two things; firstly, make everyone clam up and, secondly, spread resentment and general malcontent throughout the force. Hardly surprising, then, that they more often than not failed to find conclusive evidence one way or another, and only made things worse.

‘She’s got too much pride to ask hubby-to-be for help,’ Hillary carried on, ‘and since we’re busy trying to find out who stuck a knife into a seventy-six year old woman, she hasn’t exactly got time to spare to try and track him down herself.’

Mitch snorted. ‘She couldn’t if she tried. If it’s some inadequate wanker in uniform she’ll never ferret him out. His mates’ll cover for him for a start.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You want me and the lads to winkle him out for you?’ He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, and she could understand why.

‘I can’t have her distracted now, Mitch,’ Hillary said, her voice going hard. ‘Until the end of next week, I need all her attention focused on the case. Frank Ross isn’t exactly an SIO’s answer to a dream, plus they’ve just landed me with this kid from London who decked his old sergeant. He seems OK, and is certainly bright enough, but I need Janine Tyler on top form right now. And Flo Jenkins deserves to have the people investigating her murder giving their one hundred per cent effort.’

Mitch’s face hardened, as she knew it would. Part of any successful copper’s repertoire was knowing which buttons to press – and Hillary was very good at it. ‘Damn right she does,’ Mitch muttered grimly. He finished his drink and sighed heavily. ‘OK, count me in. I’ll put out feelers right away.’ Apart from having three of his sons working out of Kidlington HQ, he no doubt had plenty of others he could call on as well, and obviously wasn’t expecting it to take long. ‘Blokes who like to stalk women always give off the vibes. Somebody’ll know who our chap is, and once they know I want to know, I’ll have him. Oh, and gal, I know you just played me.’

Hillary smiled and reached for her juice. ‘What else are friends for?’ she asked, and Mitch Titchmarsh erupted into loud belly laughter, making several people in the pub look his way indulgently.

Caroline Weekes nodded her head, squeezing the handkerchief in her hands compulsively. ‘Of course I’ll see to the funeral. I know what Flo wanted, she talked about it often enough.’

They were sitting once more in her curiously elegant home, and Hillary had to fight the urge to check that her shoes hadn’t left any marks on the immaculate flooring.

‘She reserved a space with her husband in the church yard, so that won’t be a problem,’ Caroline went on, her dark, red-rimmed eyes staring down into her twisting hands. ‘She never believed in cremation. Her generation doesn’t, does it? I can have a little reception here afterwards.’

‘That sounds fine,’ Hillary said. She wasn’t surprised to find Caroline Weekes had taken the day off work. Her nerves looked shredded. No doubt she had an understanding boss. Outside the window, she saw Janine Tyler walk up the road and turn into a house a few doors down.

‘Your husband not at home?’ Hillary asked.

‘No. He has a rather high-powered job. Can’t take time off work, like I can.’

‘This is your second marriage, yes?’ Hillary asked, having read up the notes on their principal witness before coming over to Bicester.

‘That’s right. The first one was a bit of a disaster. John’s so different. So much more mature and dependable, even though he’s younger than me. We’re trying to have a baby,’ she added, for the first time some animation coming into her voice.

Hillary smiled.

‘You have children?’ Caroline asked eagerly.

‘I have a stepson,’ Hillary said.

‘I think it’s really important to have kids, don’t you?’ Caroline Weekes rushed on, making Hillary wonder if she’d even heard what she said. ‘With my first husband, they just never came along. When I married John, though, he was really keen to become a father. Said he didn’t want to wait until he was in his fifties, like some of the executives at his firm. Said he’d be too old to play football with them.’

Hillary watched, fascinated, as the handkerchief being twisted and turned in Caroline’s hand, threatened to actually tear.

‘But when, after a few months, we still didn’t fall pregnant, I had some tests done, and it seems there’s a bit of a problem. But we’ll be starting IVF treatment soon. It has a really good success rate,’ Caroline said brightly. ‘I thought Ruth, or maybe Hope, if it’s a girl. Something simple but pretty. And John of course, if it’s a boy. But we won’t call him junior.’ Her voice was too bright, too fast. Her smile too forced.

Hillary nodded. She’s coming unravelled, she thought to herself. Any time now, her doctor’s going to put her on Prozac. She didn’t know what that would do for her prospects of IVF treatment, but it couldn’t be good.