There are two of them, a woman and a man. I see their shapes through the frosted window in my front door—featureless, darkly dressed, like shadows against the glass. For a moment I think: I could refuse to see them. But I go to open the door. The woman is blond and rangy, with long, toned limbs and Princess Diana hair. The man is short and solid and smells strongly of some over-sweet hair product. I once had a boyfriend who smelled like that: I’m reminded quickly, irrelevantly, of teenage dates, of fumblings in the back row of a cinema watching Barbra Streisand. They both have briefcases. “Mrs. Holmes?” says the woman. Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes,” I say. “I’m Detective Sergeant Karen Whittaker, and this is Detective Constable Ray Jackson. Just call us Karen and Ray.” “Right,” I say. I take them into my living room.
