Hope to Die

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ says Boddie tetchily, flushing a little under his mask. ‘Don’t be so literal, Giddings. It’s just a little light humour to start the day.’ He pulls on his gloves and gives the technician a heavy look. ‘One for that Instagram account of yours.’

Now it’s the CSI’s turn to flush – they’ve been posting Boddie’s special brand of mortuary humour on @overheardinthemorgue for months, but they didn’t realize Boddie knew.

‘So,’ says Boddie briskly, logging that as a win, ‘shall we get started?’

* * *

When Gis divvies up the tasks, Ev gets Gantry Manor. She gets Hansen too, who immediately offers to drive – an offer she politely but firmly refuses. She made the mistake of going to Eynsham with Baxter once and it was Country & Western all the way. Hansen looks more like an R & B man to her, but you can’t be too careful, not in such a confined space.

It’s a fine, clear morning, and with the trees on the turn it should be a pretty drive, as well as a useful chance to get to know Hansen a bit better. He was at Cowley for a couple of years before transferring to CID, but their paths never crossed and she knows nothing about him beyond that. She spent the odd idle moment trying to work out what his backstory might be, given neither his accent nor surname gave much of a clue, then overheard someone in the canteen one day mention that though he was born and brought up in Bristol, his father is Swedish and his mother Vietnamese. Which explains the glossy black hair, the blue eyes and the amazing bone structure. Ev’s also pretty sure he’s gay, but until he mentions it, she won’t be.

He certainly doesn’t mention it in the car, but in the half-hour they spend together she finds him funny, thoughtful and – praise the Lord – a cat-lover (which has never yet failed her as an indicator of decency in the male half of the human race). He obviously knows what he’s doing professionally too, judging by the one or two questions he asks about Gis’s briefing. So far, so good. It’s not that she had a problem with Asante, but one thing you could never accuse him of was being a team player.

When they pull up outside Gantry Manor there’s crime-scene tape across the gate and a young PC fending off a couple of journalists. But that’s all: both the weather and the location are on their side – it’s too far and too chilly for casual nosey parkers.

They leave the car on the side of the lane and make their way up to the house. Three uniformed officers in high-vis jackets are doing a fingertip search of the garden, supervised by a visibly tetchy Barnetson, his nose red with the cold, who tells them in terse tones that it has been, thus far, ‘a complete waste of bloody time’.

Their own mission, thankfully, is not only indoors but rather more likely to yield results. ‘Fawley wants us to get a feel for the Swanns,’ Gis had said as they left. ‘What sort of people they are. Neither of them will be there so take the opportunity to have a poke about in their dirty washing. And I do mean literally.’

‘But be careful,’ says Ev, as she sends Hansen off to the sitting room. ‘Make sure you leave everything exactly as you found it. I don’t reckon much gets past Margaret Swann.’

There are four bedrooms upstairs, two of them under dust sheets, and one little more than a box room, with a single bed and a faded candlewick counterpane. Though the stack of John le Carré paperbacks and half-empty packet of Rennie suggest it’s rather more than just a guest room.

There’s a lot more clutter in the master bedroom – more dried flowers, china ornaments of milkmaids and chubby Victorian urchins, an ancient TV and an old free-standing wardrobe rammed tight with flannel shirts, A-line skirts, sensible shoes and, at the far end, a dinner jacket and a dark-coloured evening dress in dry-cleaner bags that don’t look like they get out much.

There’s nothing on Richard’s side of the bed but Margaret’s more than makes up for it. A white plastic jewellery box, full water glass, wind-up alarm clock and a framed photograph of what must be the Swanns on their wedding day. Ev picks it up; Richard has slicked-back hair and a vague resemblance to the young Prince Philip, though that might just be the height; Margaret’s in a shiny high-necked ruffled dress that doesn’t look very comfortable.

Ev puts the picture frame back down but manages to jolt the table in the process, spilling some of the water. She reaches into her pocket for something to mop it up, hearing her mother’s voice berating her for her clumsiness. But something about the spill makes her pause, then raise the tissue slowly to her face. Well, well, well, she thinks. Who’d have thought.

When she goes back down she finds Hansen working his way methodically round the sitting room, taking notes and photos.

‘Anything?’ asks Ev, glancing round herself. She was in here last night, but it was too rushed and too gloomy for a proper look.