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her mobile was turned off.
    Ironically, I was the one to reassure Becci. At first when Amy left, I worried all the time but I had to learn to stop or I would have gone out of my mind. It was probably good for both of us for Amy to move out. I should have worried though, shouldn’t I?” Nancy’s eyes flitted from one to the other of them, seeking what? Reassurance? Blame?
    Ava felt for her. Nancy Hill had no reason to blame herself. Amy’s flight from the nest had clearly benefited both — Amy had gained her freedom, and Nancy, the peace of mind that came with no longer being able to worry about what her daughter was up to.
    “I threw myself into the shop when Amy left home,” Nancy said, looking around at the crowded but orderly room, “Amy always came first. I opened fewer hours, and fitted work around her needs.”
    Neal and Ava exchanged glances. No doubt Nancy needed to talk, but time was moving on. Ava caught Neal sneaking a look at his watch.
    Nancy dabbed at her tears with a pretty, embroidered handkerchief. Her immaculate, glossy black bob was still perfect, but it now framed a face that was blotchy and pallid, streaky foundation caking in the fine lines under her eyes.
    Neal asked about Amy’s father.
    “I. . . I hardly knew him,” Nancy said, “I haven’t seen him since before Amy was born.” She dabbed at her nose and eyes with the pretty handkerchief. Hiding behind it, Ava thought. Nancy’s eyes were wide with fear.
    “We’ll need to contact him,” Ava said.
    “I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t even remember his name. He doesn’t live in this country. Amy was the result of a one-night stand. Her father doesn’t even know she exists.”
    Ava looked at Neal and he shook his head, indicating that later would do.
    “May I see her?” Nancy asked, looking from one to the other of them, pleadingly.
    “We need someone to make a positive identification of Amy’s body. When you’re ready, Sergeant Merry and I will take you,” Neal answered.
    Thus far, Nancy had requested no details about the circumstances of her daughter’s murder. And, other than the evident cause of death, there was little they could have told her. There had been no obvious indications of rape or sexual assault but, of course, these could not yet be ruled out. “Did she suffer?”
    Neal said simply, “She would have died quickly,” and Ava was relieved that Nancy did not ask for further details.
    “Is there someone we can call for you, Ms Hill?” Neal asked. “A relative, perhaps, or a friend who could come with you? You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
    Nancy nodded. “My friend, Anna Foster. She owns the second-hand bookshop down the hill from here.”
    * * *
    At a nod from Neal, Ava left the shop and walked along to a crossroads. The cobbled Castlegate was still quiet; a hush foreign to most large towns. To the right, the street led to the cathedral, to the left was the medieval castle built by William the Conqueror as he plundered his way southwards. Ava walked straight ahead. She seldom came to this part of the city, except as a tourist when friends came to visit. It was the cultural centre of Stromford, and more to Jim Neal’s taste than hers. Ava preferred her culture popular, and was unimpressed by what the aptly named Long Hill area had to offer in the way of craft shops and restaurants, galleries and museums. She supposed the narrow hill had a certain charm, with its harmonious jumble of half-timbered medieval houses and elegant Georgian architecture, but for a good night out, she’d head for the bars and restaurants at the other end of town any day of the week. That’s where the life was.
    The bookshop to which she had been directed was about halfway down the hill. A sign on the door promised the browser thousands of titles inside, but from the outside it looked tiny. A chime announced Ava’s arrival as she stepped inside. The shop was a labyrinth of small interconnecting rooms and