The address was outside the city, one of those quiet and remote areas where you might think nothing nasty would ever happen. Fifteen minutes of Jessica’s calm, efficient driving replaced urban sprawl with pleasant countryside: trees festooned in golden-hued leaves, rather than pollution-stained brick and concrete; lush grass, hedges and sweet-smelling flowers, rather than pavement, crowded roadways and the city-smell of car-fumes, compacted humanity and garbage left uncollected due to the current strike; and a soft quiet composed of gentle breezes, bird song and undulating foliage, rather than the endless hub-hub of city life.

​

Our car was an intruder into the placid realm outside Prestford, heading down a narrow lane for Thurstead Cottage. At Jessica’s suggestion, I had borrowed her iPhone and Googled the location. The fiendish little device boasted instant knowledge of our destination. A large bungalow home built in 1952 by the Thurstead family. Sold in the 1990s to Rafe Masterson and converted to offices for his fledgling financial consulting firm. Masterson’s company must have done well since it still survived today at the same location. I guess the business of helping rich people get even richer will always be popular.

​

“So,” Jessica said, after I gave her the run-down on our destination, “what do you think happened?”

“We don’t even know who got killed.”

​

“Yeah, but we do have nuggets of info. Enough for a bit of wild speculation. A secluded location. A murder someone tried to disguise as suicide. A big-money business... Money is always a good motive for murder, isn’t it?”

​

“Plus,” I added, “a crime so easy to solve that Matt Dean and Donat solved it almost instantly. Suggests the killer left a signed confession.”

​

She laughed. I was being a little sarcastic about our police friends, but my aim wasn’t far off the mark. Over the years, the Prestford Police Department had been hammered by budget cuts and crippling reorganisations. Their equipment and facilities were five to ten years out of date. And, perhaps worst of all, the best personnel had left the department either to work elsewhere in the country or to take less-dangerous and better-paid private sector jobs. Of the cops we had, those at the top were only interested in playing politics or waiting for retirement; plus, at least twelve percent of the force were corrupt. DI Dean and DS Donat proved the best of a bad lot. Dedicated and honest, hardworking and relentless – just not either overly capable or clever. During my work in crime reporting, I had forged an uneasy alliance with the pair. I was good at cracking tougher cases and had resources they lacked: I gave them ideas and solutions, they gave me information and exclusives. In general, Matt Dean liked the situation. Donat thought I was an intruder who hindered their fine efforts, and an atmosphere of mutual antagonism had grown between us. But relationships can change fast: during the last case, Dean had got to the point of threatening to arrest Jessica and myself, whilst Donat had worked more closely with us than ever before. I now hoped for goodwill from both men, particularly since we were doing the pair a favour.

​

Jessica asked, “You do think they have got it solved, don’t you? This isn’t a lure to get us there and do some work for them?”

​

I considered. “I dunno. The usual line would be that there was a case which would be ‘of interest to us’... It worked last time.”

​

“Yup. And almost got us shot, blown up, car-wrecked and burned alive.”

​

“I think this time they just want us to boost their credibility in a nice front-page spread. There could even be another review of the force coming up and they want to be sure of surviving it.”

 

*     *     *

 

Thurstead Cottage sat at the back of a rectangle of land cut from nearby farm fields. There was enough room in front of the building to park twelve cars, and seven spaces were filled already. Matt’s dark sedan, two patrol cars and the crime scene tech van were instantly recognisable. I also saw a gorgeous green Mercedes, a classic sporty red Jaguar and a grey Toyota Yaris hybrid four-seater. Small name-bearing signposts behind the spaces for the latter trio suggested they belonged to staff at the cottage.

​

Beyond the grey gravel parking area, the cottage was about a hundred feet wide. It appeared as if it had been built yesterday. The red brickwork, dark framed windows and doorway, and the gently-sloping dark grey roofing, were all immaculate. Original chimneys had been removed. A central set of smoked-glass double-doors offered access to the bungalow; either side were two large windows, the rooms beyond obscured by vertical window blinds. Between the lintel of the doorway and the ceramic guttering was a large, bold sign declaring ‘Masterson Investment Consultancy’.

​

Jessica eased us into a parking space near the Mercedes.

​

“Well, at least you didn’t get us lost,” I offered.

​

She gaped in horror at the thought. “Me? I never get lost. You know that.”

​

I shot her a wink. Jessica was easier to tease than Fizz. “C’mon Columbus, let’s see what they have for us.”

​

We got out of the car together and moved to the boot, which Jessica opened. From my friend’s stash of equipment and supplies, I took the digital camera and Jessica took the digital recorder. I’d shoot the photos – Jessica couldn’t take a decent picture to save her life – and she would record our interview with the intrepid crime-fighting cops.

​

I glanced around while Jessica closed-up and locked her car, then said to her: “So, what do you see?”

​

My friend backed away from her rear bumper and gave her surroundings a series of sweeping gazes.

​

“Three non-cop cars. Two are very expensive: one must be Masterson’s, and the other must be a partner. The hybrid car is in a lower-earnings bracket than the Merc and Jag, so must be from someone who works here as a personal assistant or secretary. Still clearly well-paid, though, so suggests the business is, or has been, doing well...” She eyed me, to see whether that was what I’d hoped she would spot. I gave a shrug back to suggest keep looking.

​

After more narrow-eyed sweeps, Jessica stopped. She’d found a second morsel of information. “The car park is wet from the rain: under the police cars, mine and the hybrid. Under the Merc and the Jag, the gravel is dry. They arrived before the rain, so before seven-thirty.”

​

“Nice,” I said. For me, identifying small details was natural and the product of years of practice. Jessica had a mere few months’ experience, but what she didn’t determine herself she soon found with a little helpful nudge. And she enjoyed my subtle tutoring.

​

I offered another nudge: “What else?”

​

My companion clicked her tongue. Another search about and: “Hey, how did I miss that?”

​

She was studying the Jaguar, and moved to its far side. “Wow. All four tyres are flat.” Her head swung from side to side a little while she considered the ramifications of this. “Couldn’t have arrived this way... So...” Jessica double-checked the Mercedes and the Toyota. “And the other cars’ tyres are fine. Someone did this on purpose, after the owner arrived and went inside.”

​

The opening of the cottage’s double-doors broke her concentration. We peered across together and saw the large, distinct form of Detective Sergeant Donat stepping out onto the gravel.

​

“You pair!” he bellowed, annihilating the peaceful quiet of the area. “You ever coming in?”