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but he too died of smoke inhalation. He also had some ischaemic changes in his brain. I understand he had a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. I’m waiting for the results of a brain scan he had about a year ago.’
    â€˜That’s right.’ Martha looked sharply at the pathologist. ‘No other wounds, Mark?’
    â€˜No.’ He shook his head.
    â€˜OK.’ She looked at him and marvelled at the change the last twelve months had wrought in him. Mark Sullivan, a brilliant pathologist, had had a serious and fairly obvious drink problem as well as a reputedly wretched marriage. But now he was a different man. Not half drunk most of the time, with shaking hands and bloodshot eyes but clear-eyed, steady-handed and best of all sober. ‘You’ve changed,’ she commented.
    Surprisingly Mark Sullivan took this as an invitation to sit down, smiling, and confide. ‘I had to,’ he said bluntly. ‘Otherwise . . .’ He didn’t enlarge but stayed sat down, still smiling at her.
    â€˜Well, I’ve noticed,’ she said. ‘And it’s a welcome sight, I can tell you, in a doctor with your talent.’
    â€˜It was a big change,’ he said. ‘I was drinking too much.’
    She deliberately didn’t respond but now Mark Sullivan had begun to open up he seemed anxious to continue.
    â€˜Like most people I was drinking for a reason.’
    Again she made no response but watched him.
    Sullivan ploughed on. ‘My wife and I – we’re divorced.’ He smiled now. ‘Take away the reason why you’re drinking too much and everything else falls into place.’
    â€˜Well, I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘You’re a good pathologist, Mark; it would have been such a waste.’
    He stood up then. ‘Thanks,’ he said, grinning at her, and left.

FIVE
Tuesday, 1 March, 7.30 a.m.
    M artha opened her eyes and remembered why today felt special. It was the first of March, not only in her mind the first day of spring but also St David’s Day, patron saint of Wales. She made a mental note to ring her dad this evening and wish him happy St David’s Day, knowing he would be noisily celebrating at the pub, wearing either a leek or a daffodil, (the emblems of Wales), and watching the St David’s day concert broadcast live on the large-screen TV from Cardiff’s Millennium Centre. The weather was bright and cold and she was still smiling as she drove round the ring road towards her office in Bayston Hill. Today the weather displayed the best of early spring, the time when a young man’s thoughts turn to love. Martha pulled in outside her office, switched the engine off and sat still for a minute, contemplating. And a woman fast approaching middle-age? What do her thoughts turn to in the early spring? She pushed the thought aside and opened the door. Jericho was waiting for her. ‘Any news about the fire?’ She tried to make the question sound casual but Jericho wasn’t fooled for a minute.
    He shook his head solemnly. ‘Not so far as I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘In the
Shropshire Star
last night it said that they was looking for an arsonist.’ His Shropshire burr was always more pronounced when he got overexcited. He paused, his eyes as round as saucers. ‘I can’t think how anyone would do such a terrible thing.’
    â€˜No word from Detective Inspector Randall, then?’
    â€˜Not this morning, Mrs Gunn.’ Jericho Palfreyman spoke firmly, eyeing her with bright-eyed curiosity. It was time to drop the subject. She moved towards her office door. ‘Coffee’s already waitin’ on your desk, Mrs Gunn,’ he called after her.
    That was another thing about Jericho. He had to have the last word.
    She walked into her office and closed the door behind her. Quite apart from the scent of fresh coffee that steamed from the mug on her desk, she simply loved the room.