Mathers had received everything now, even the DNA sample that had been picked up at the train station just before Sean had driven to Sheila’s. It was now at the lab, being analysed. Charlie Higgins had come back to him too. John Brendan Kenyon was not a name that showed up on the Police National Database, no chemical traces there of Noj to compare and contrast. Higgins’ recorded voice held a trace of concern as he relayed the message. “Be careful with those farm boys, won’t you?” he said before he signed off. Sean eyed the dashboard clock. Time for one call before he had to move. As the numbers connected, he wondered where she would be. Sheila had told him, on the way out, that Francesca didn’t live far from here. Shared a house with her father on the edge of Brydon Water, was always out walking her dogs along the old marsh wall. But when she picked up, the sounds of the busy newsroom surrounded her. “Just stepping outside,” she said, “where I can hear you better. Have you had an interesting afternoon?”
