Pauline Philbey watched while Joan Wilberforce’s shrouded body was stretchered out of the living room. Boris observed from the safety of his basket, licking the blood off his paws as he did so. There was a whiff of the signature Clarins as the corpse departed the house.

How long was it since the two women had met and chatted over a cup of tea and a scone at the Speckled Teapot? Weeks; months even. Philbey regretted the fact that she had not been more supportive after Terry had traded Joan in for a younger model, as he had scornfully and cynically described it. There had been few tears when it had happened. Indeed, most of Holme Hill had seen it coming for years. Terry Wilberforce’s twice-weekly walks along the old railway line or the canal towpath into Hartley had been not only for exercis...

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