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large and clumsy uniformed officers to go to Le Petit Poisson to take
     statements and Wesley knew that the DCI found the idea of a couple of plods tramping through the restaurant’s hallowed portals
     mildly amusing. He’d noticed the boss’s belligerent attitude to up-market restaurants before – probably stemming from the
     time he’d been refused service in aparticularly snooty establishment because he had forgotten to put on a tie.
    Wesley took off his jacket and was about to put it over the back of his chair when a flash of white paper sticking out of
     his inside pocket caught his eye. He took it out and saw that it was Colin Bowman’s impromptu sketch of the type of knife
     that had killed Charles Marrick. Long, slim and sharp. A lethal weapon or an innocent tool to cut up food. Take your pick.
    He stared at the sketch for a moment. Colin was no artist but he had caught the basic shape of the thing. He stood up and
     made his way to the office where Gerry Heffernan was wrestling with his paperwork before assembling the team for an afternoon
     briefing.
    He poked his head round the door. ‘Gerry, where’s Carl Pinney’s knife?’
    Heffernan looked up. ‘It’ll be in the evidence cupboard. Why?’
    Wesley placed Colin’s sketch on the desk in front of his boss. ‘This is Colin’s drawing of the type of knife that killed Marrick.’
    Heffernan studied the sketch and shook his head. ‘You trying to say that little toe-rag Pinney murdered Charles Marrick? Nah.
     Not his style. And according to Marrick’s Merry Widow, nothing’s missing so it wasn’t a burglary gone wrong.’
    ‘He could have panicked – left the scene without taking anything.’
    Heffernan shrugged his shoulders. Anything was possible. ‘The whole place has been dusted for prints. If Pinney was there,
     we’ll get to know about it.’
    Wesley left the DCI’s office and made for the evidence cupboard that stood next to Trish Walton’s desk. When he took the plastic
     bag containing the knife off the middle shelf, he spread Colin’s sketch out beside it.
    ‘Bingo,’ he muttered under his breath. He looked up at Trish who was sitting watching him, curious. ‘Trish, can you make sure
     this is sent off to Forensic right away. I want the stain on this knife matched with Charles Marrick’s blood.’
    Trish looked surprised. ‘The murder victim? You don’t think that kid … ?’
    ‘I don’t know what to think yet,’ he said as he handed her the bag.
    Petronella Blackwell washed up the elegantly shaped black mugs. There was a dishwasher, of course, built into the sleek white
     kitchen units but she wanted something to do. Something that would occupy her hands and mind so that she didn’t have to think
     what to say to Annette. She could hardly bring herself to call the woman her mother, even though she had given birth to her.
     Annette wasn’t – or had ever been – the motherly type. But Petronella had still come at her call. She hadn’t been able to
     help herself. Blood is strong.
    The presence of the young policewoman who’d been sent round to see they were all right, irritated her. She was sitting with
     them now, pretending to watch the TV that chattered softly on the granite worktop. Even though the woman was pleasant and
     sympathetic and near her own age, Petronella could never get the thought that she was there in an official capacity, to watch
     and report back, out of her mind. She had heard the WPC referred to as ‘family liaison’ – officialdom in a smiling, caring
     mask.
    She didn’t want anyone to overhear what she had to say to Annette. It was embarrassing at best and dangerous at worst. So
     when Annette put down her glossy magazine and stood up, Petronella hurriedly dried her hands on a tea towel and followed her
     casually out of the room, smiling at the policewoman as she passed.
    Annette walked ahead and when Petronella caught up with her she took hold of the older woman’s arm.
    Annette swung