She was a polished product, Joanna realised quickly. Manicured nails, shining strawberry-blonde hair, neat size-ten jeans and three-inch stilettos. Such women had always fascinated Joanna. How did they keep it up? To never have wild hair, be caught without make-up, slumming it in slippers and a shabby dressing gown? Charlotte appraised her right back, gave a cursory glance at their ID cards, swiftly ran her eyes over Korpanski and addressed Joanna. ‘Let me guess,’ she said shrewdly, fixing her with a stare of expertly made-up very blue eyes. ‘You’re here about poor old Grimshaw, aren’t you? I heard he’d been murdered. Bashed over the head,’ she said with relish. ‘How awful. Right on my doorstep too.’ ‘That’s correct, Mrs Frankwell,’ Joanna said formally. ‘We wondered whether you might be able to shed any light on the crime.’ The pupils of Charlotte’s eyes became very small and clever. ‘In what way?’ she asked silkily. ‘Well – for instance – when did you last see Mr Grimshaw?’ Frankwell’s ex-wife was no fool.
