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about it. She limited herself to saying, ‘Cynd’s not your responsibility, Jill.’
    â€˜I know, but all the same . . . She’d never worshipped at St Jude’s, apparently – just got to hear of Janie via some
Big Issue
-selling friends whom Janie provides with soup and sandwiches.’
    â€˜Why aren’t I surprised by that? What a good woman she is.’
    â€˜Quite. Anyway, I had a word and Janie had a word, and now Cynd’s actually moved into the vicarage, thank goodness.’
    â€˜Or God.’
    Jill ignored her. Pointedly. ‘I gather she trails Janie like a duckling after its mother.’
    â€˜Well done you. Any news of Cynd’s assailant – or victim, depending on which way you look at him?’
    â€˜None.’
    â€˜In that case, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Fran laid her cutlery down, as if that would make her think more clearly. ‘That she gave a false description? For whatever reason?’
    â€˜Like—?’
    â€˜Like she was so scared of the real assailant she wanted to put us off the track? Would that wash? But then there’s the problem of the stabbing – why confess to killing the wrong person?’
    â€˜Doesn’t make sense.’ As if was the end of the speculation, Jill started eating.
    â€˜No, it doesn’t. But what if someone else stabbed the victim? If Cynd doesn’t have a police record, and was clearly a victim, then she might get away with it. Shit, Jill, I don’t want to harass a girl we should be cosseting, but we need a few answers.’
    It seemed as if Jill wasn’t enjoying her potato – she pushed her plate away. ‘Won’t do it. You drew up the code of practice yourself, Fran. Don’t even think of asking me to go against it.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t dream of it. Eat while I think. Go on. My salad won’t go cold like your spud.’ She pressed her temples. ‘I reckon I could stretch the budget to speeding up the DNA tests on the bedlinen at least. And on her vaginal swabs. And we pray there’s a match on the database. How about that? It’d probably mean a proportionate reduction in your overtime, though.’
    â€˜Maybe we wouldn’t need so much.’ Jill smiled hopefully. ‘Thanks, Fran. Now, before we hit the shops, what sort of wedding outfit did you think of?’
    â€˜I was wondering – hell, is that the time? Another bloody meeting!’ She grabbed her apple and ran.

SIX
    â€˜R etirement would mean more time for sunsets like this,’ Mark observed, slowing to admire the view from the hills guarding what he thought of as their valley. The rectory, still bristling with scaffolding, was centre stage. To its right was the village from which it had somehow become separated years ago – or perhaps some moneyed rector of Great Hogben had decided he didn’t want his parishioners inconveniently close to his glebe land. The sun just caught the weathervane on top of the stocky church tower.
    â€˜It’d mean more time to worship at our parish church,’ Fran observed, ‘where I’d bet the congregation’s better heeled than at poor St Jude’s.’
    â€˜The patron saint of lost causes,’ Mark murmured. ‘Speaking of which, Ms Harman, soon to be Mrs Turner – no, you’d stay as a Harman, wouldn’t you? – shall we make ourselves even later home by dropping down to see what they’ve been up to?’
    â€˜Paula and Co or Kim and Co?’
    â€˜Both, I suppose. And then catch a snack in our new local?’ He didn’t manage to stifle a terrific yawn.
    â€˜It’s tempting, but we’ve still got stuff in the freezer we ought to eat. More of my unlabelled meals. You can choose some at random while I deal with the utility room.’
    â€˜What about the self-store? We said we’d take a preliminary load?’
    â€˜Tell you what,