Very kind of you.’ It had been Quantrill’s intention to meet Pc Godbold at the Ashthorpe Chequers before going to interview the dead girl’s parents, but the constable had forewarned his wife to provide coffee and sandwiches. Preferable, anyway, on this occasion, to a pub snack; bad enough to have to go badgering the bereaved, without breathing beer all over them. Quantrill bit into a cheese and pickle sandwich and waited patiently for the constable’s stout wife to stop fussing and leave them alone in the front room of the police house, where family photographs stood on top of the official filing cabinet. ‘Very tasty, Mrs Godbold. Just what we needed, thank you.’ ‘My pleasure, Mr Quantrill, I’m sure. I hope your—’ She saw her husband’s scowl and abandoned her attempt at conversation, but retained her dignity. ‘I hope you’ll let me know if there’s anything else you want.’ ‘Very good of your wife,’ said Quantrill as the door shut behind her, firmly putting down the apologies that Godbold looked as though he might be about to make on her behalf.
