Pauline Philbey went into the kitchen and poured what was left of her gin down the sink. She looked at the empty glass and wished that she could find the book. That little volume held the key to the murders. She was sure of it; not just who had been murdered, but who would be. Even Halliday was in there; Dr Ernest Halliday, BSc, PhD, FRS.

It had been a short but delicious affair. She had been working for Rhys Williams; Halliday had breezed in and out of the office, always making some chirpy comment. She had laughed at his jokes; listened carefully as he explained his work; smiled as he ruffled his hair when he couldn’t solve a problem with the wonder formula; delighted at his enthusiasm when there had been some breakthrough or other; tried to find out what he was doing – all...

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