CHAPTER 2

The satnav tells Truce it's one hour and twenty minutes to the relevant local nick, if he takes the fast route as opposed to the ecological one. Truce decides, if he puts his foot down, he can make it in time for his subject's 11 a.m. report.

One hour forty-five minutes later, he's swearing like a true army man as his satnav gets him locked into yet another one-way system that wasn't included in its data. When he finally gets to the nick, the woman is long gone. Fortunately, the desk sergeant, who bears an uncanny familial resemblance to Bob, has her home address.

When Truce draws up outside June Mills' home he is reminded of the older flats down in St Leonards in Edinburgh. Grey, weather-worn stone, built in a semicircle with communal staircases, the flats embodied a time when a family counted itself lucky to have two rooms. At one time it might have been slum territory, but it has been distinctly smartened up. Walls knocked down, flats melded into each other, and luxuries like running water added.

He checks the file. June is sixty-five and will remember the flats from the old days. She probably feels she is living the good life here. There is a small patch of green outside the flats that is surrounded by an iron rail. A handful of children are scampering around a ball. It can't properly be called a game. There is a distinct lack of cooperation between the players, mainly due to them ranging in age from very small to small. He looks up at the flats that curve gently around the green and sees at least two faces at windows watching the kids. There's an open staircase in the middle and, at the bottom, a couple of bikes rest against the wall. They're not chained. It all feels a bit like stepping back into the good old days of community living. Whatever else June might be, she's not some pensioner stuck halfway up a tower block looking for an excuse to make contact with the outside world. He wouldn't be surprised if one or more of her neighbours drop in from time to time to see if she is okay and share a cup of tea.

He takes a last look over his shoulder at the kids playing outside and wonders if the place will be as peaceful when this lot turn into teenagers. The one who currently has the soft ball is biting it hard, a good quarter jammed into his small mouth in a possessive manner.

June's door shines with a glossy layer of fresh paint. It's a deep grassy green. The letterbox and knocker gleam apart from the tell-tale spots of cleaner near the door edges. Truce surmises June's eyesight isn't as good as it used to be. He knocks, careful not to leave a mark. In a surprisingly short time, the door swings open and the phrase "merry widow" sounds so loudly in his head for a moment, he fears he has said it out loud.

June has left her hair white, but it is styled in a feathered pixie cut. She is wearing enormous silver hoop earrings and restrained make-up suitable for a woman her age. But it's the skimpy leopard-skin top, knee-length leather skirt and strands of multi-coloured beads round her neck that surprise him. These coupled with her fluffy bunny slippers mark her, in Truce's view, as out of the usual. Of course, there's nothing wrong with that. But could it signify forgetfulness or irrationality? He shows his card.

"I was wondering if I might have a word, ma'am?"

She smiles, showing teeth with thinning and faded enamel. Her skin isn't bad, but Truce reckons she hasn't always been in good health. There are dark shadows under her eyes and a few laughter lines. But her eyes are bright and welcoming.

"Come in, officer," she says. "I'll put the kettle on. I was making shortbread this morning for the primary school sale. Now I have an excellent excuse to try it. I take it you're a biscuit man?"

"Indeed, I am," says Truce easily. He listens.

"So many young men your age are cyclists. Whippet thin, yet still watching their carbs. Honestly, I ask you, who wants bones and wires on top of them? Not at all comfy, I'd think."

"I admit I'm not a fan of the size-zero model," says Truce.

June ushers him into a cosy, impeccably clean, living room with two plush fabric sofas opposite each other. The whole room is covered in a profusion of patterns, bright colours that don't exactly clash, but you wouldn't want to sit in here with a headache. He sees no sign of cat hair. There is also a small table with two chairs. Truce moves towards the sofas before June can suggest the table. He wants to be able to see her feet.

He sits and sinks very low into the seat, enveloped by the overly plush cushions. Springs going, not replaced for a while, thinks Truce. June is on a budget.

"Won't be a mo," she says.

Truce nods, but makes no move to follow her. As soon as she's gone, he is up and looking for the side table, sure it must be somewhere around. He finds it tucked behind one of the sofas. He sets the table between them and to one side. Then he takes a quick peek at the framed photos on the shelf above an aged electric fire, the kind with the fake plastic log and the little fan that spins underneath to give the pretence of real flames. It was the height of sophistication in the seventies. He catches a glimpse of an old black-and-white wedding photo. There is also a selection of pictures of children, some black and white and some in colour. Her siblings? Her children? Grandchildren? A large colour one of a young woman in a wedding dress, all flouncy and frills. Eighties wedding, he thinks, probably her daughter.

June comes back in with the tray, and he takes it from her before she can move the small table to a more convenient position and sets it down.

"What a gentleman," she says and sits down opposite him with a sigh. "Shall I be mother and pour for us?"

"It looks like you are," he gestures to the photos.

"Ah, yes, my daughter, Jeannie. She made such a beautiful bride. Her two little ones are fully grown now. Both doctors." She beams with pride.

Truce makes a mental note that she has access to medical knowledge. "In Scotland?" he asks.

"Scottish NHS," says June proudly. "Calum was offered a well-paying job in the States, but he chose to stay with the people who trained him."

"Hard job," says Truce.

June smiles and goes through the process of ensuring he has his tea just how he likes it, neither too hot or too cold, and that he has nice biscuit in his saucer. She still hasn't asked him why he is here.

As if she had read his mind, she looks over at him, her eyes twinkling, "I'm assuming it's not bad news. You seem too relaxed for that."

"You're very observant, Mrs Mills."

"Oh, I don't know about that. My eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be, but I'm as keen as I ever was up here." She taps the side of her forehead. "Probably more so," she says with a laugh, "I was a right ditzy mare as a teenager."

Truce has no idea how to respond to this, so he doesn't. "It's about the murder you reported."

"Ah, I thought that was the most likely reason for your visit. I take it you've come to ask me to desist in my visits to the station?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Och, I know I sound daft. I feel sorry for the boys dealing with me. I'll take them a few treats. I'm a great fan of those baking programmes. They probably mark me down as a lonely old bird looking for attention."

"And are you?"

"I like you, officer! Officer - sorry, I couldn't make out the name on your badge."

"Truce, Daniel Truce."

"Well, Mr Truce, I am not lonely. I'm down at bingo every week. I still have connections with the school my daughter and grandkids went to - a sort of honorary member of the PTA. My cakes for the bake sales are an institution in themselves. I babysit for a lot of the young mums round here, and I'm head of the local residents' association. I go to the community council meetings and always say my piece! They all know me. I won't say I have hundreds of friends, but I have four ladies who I see regularly. We do pot luck suppers among ourselves and have little outings - shopping, cinema, even the pantomime at Christmas. And I don't exactly live like a nun. Since Mr Mills died ten years ago - taken very early he was, bad heart - there have been a few pairs of shoes under my bed. Not many, mind. But I'm not quite out of the game yet."

Truce lets her words run over him. She is sitting directly opposite him. She placed her cup down before he started speaking. Her back is straight and both feet are on the ground. Her hands are in her lap, and apart from when she gestures, they remain still. No fidgeting. She's tense and on the defensive, but she's not nervous. There's a clipped edge to her voice that suggests anger.

"Many people would have given up by now," said Truce. "It must seem like the police aren't listening to you."

June shakes her head. "No, they did listen. The sergeant at the station even explained that they had investigated thoroughly." For the first time, her hand flutters, a distinctly nervous gesture to Truce's trained eye, to her...