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greyhound, running on machine coffee and the adrenalin of residency.
    ‘How is she?’ asks the DCI.
    ‘Physical y, she’s fine.’
    ‘Is there a “but” in there somewhere?’
    ‘Her hearing and speech seem to be functioning normal y and she’s responding to visual stimuli, but her heart rate keeps surging.’
    ‘She’s traumatised,’ I say.
    The doctor nods and scratches his initials on a form. ‘Quite possibly, but the neurologist wants to rule out brain damage. He’s ordered a CT scan.’
    Cray opens the door. Helen Hegarty is sitting beside Sienna’s bed, holding her daughter’s hand. Tight-lipped and tired, she’s dressed in her nurse’s uniform with the pockets of her cardigan stretched out of shape. Her dyed hair is fal ing out of a kind of topknot and occasional y she reaches up and pats it with her hand.
    The detective motions her outside. Helen kisses Sienna’s forehead, tel ing her she won’t be long.
    ‘Mrs Hegarty, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cray. We’ve met once or twice before.’
    ‘You were at Ray’s farewel .’
    The DCI nods gently. ‘That’s right. I’m investigating his death.’
    The statement seems to wash over Helen.
    ‘Ray was a good friend. A fine detective.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Has Sienna said anything?’
    Helen shakes her head. ‘She woke about an hour ago. Her eyes opened and she said hel o, but then she fel asleep again.’
    ‘That’s a good sign,’ I tel her. ‘She’s probably just trying to process things.’
    Helen glances at me. ‘You’re Charlie’s dad.’
    ‘Yes. Cal me Joe.’
    Helen wipes her hands before she shakes mine. ‘Thank you for finding her.’
    Ronnie Cray motions her to a chair. Helen sits, unsure of where to put her hands. She presses them in her lap. The detective sits next to her, turning her body so they face each other, knees almost touching.
    ‘What time did you leave the house last night, Mrs Hegarty?’
    ‘At about a twenty to six.’
    ‘How long have you worked at St Martin’s?’
    ‘Four years.’
    ‘Where was Sienna when you went to work?’
    ‘On her way home. There was a rehearsal at school. She’s in the musical.’ Helen looks up at me. ‘Joe was bringing her home.’
    Cray turns to me for an explanation.
    ‘But Sienna cal ed you,’ I say to Helen. ‘She told you that her boyfriend was going to bring her home. I heard her talking to you.’
    A sad, crumpled smile creases her face. ‘She can be such a devil.’ As soon as the words leave her lips she regrets them. ‘I don’t mean . . . Sienna wouldn’t do anything to hurt . . . she loved her dad.’
    Cray interrupts her. ‘What do you know about this boyfriend?’
    ‘I haven’t met him, but I know he’s older and he drives a car.’
    ‘Do you know his name?’
    ‘Danny Gardiner.’
    ‘How long has Sienna been seeing him?’
    ‘About eight months.’ Helen glances at me, looking for understanding. ‘I tried to put a stop to it because Sienna was only thirteen, but she was always sneaking out to see him. You can’t lock them up, can you? Sometimes I wish I could.’
    ‘How did Sienna meet him?’
    ‘Danny went to school with Lance - my son.’
    ‘Does he live local y?’
    ‘Somewhere in Bath. His mother works as a tour guide.’
    The DCI presses her chin to her chest, choosing her words careful y. ‘Do you know what time Sienna got home last night?’
    Helen shakes her head.
    ‘And you weren’t expecting your husband back?’
    ‘Not until Friday.’
    There is a pause. I’m watching Helen’s body language, looking for signs of outright deception or omission. Shy and unadorned, she strikes me as a hard worker, private and uncomplicated. She must have been a beauty in her youth, but lack of sleep and a poor diet have spun the clock forward.

    A few times I’ve seen her walking through the vil age dressed in clothes that might have been bought twenty years ago. She reminded me of a factory worker during the war, when women took over