Agnes Blake enjoyed spoiling her Lucy, as she had done when she was a small child recovering from a minor illness. It was not yet eight o’clock on Sunday morning and most of the nation was planning a lie-in. But Agnes had already brewed the tea and put the hand-knitted cosy over the small china teapot she kept specially for such early-morning occasions. She was preparing to mount the narrow staircase of the old cottage to her daughter’s room when a phone shrilled beside her. Lucy’s mobile, which she had left on the hall table the night before. Agnes picked it up and began to state her identity. Before she could do so, Percy Peach’s voice said urgently, ‘Get your arse down here pronto, DS Blake! We have a suspicious death.’ ‘I’ll thank you not to refer to my daughter’s anatomy in that way!’ said Agnes haughtily, taking care that no trace of amusement crept into her voice. ‘Ah, it’s you, Mrs B!’ said Percy, thrown out of his stride for all of half a second. ‘Sorry about the language.
