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care. His walk had a very slight mince, and the male-to-male eye contact lingered just that bit too long for the comfort of some of his acquaintances. None of this mattered a jot to Mrs Hayward – she liked him. He was undemanding and easy to look after. In addition, she thoroughly enjoyed their little chats. Some might have called it gossip but she and Janson never thought of it that way.
    While the bucket filled, she put her head out into the hall. Still no sound of life. She stopped by the mirror and glanced at her reflection. Being less than five feet tall, she had to stand on tiptoe to get a quick look at her head and shoulders. Her blue rinse and snug perm were old-fashioned in these days of highlights and natural cuts, but they suited her idea of a respectable appearance. She nodded at herself and then listened again for the man of the house.
    ‘Christopher, are you there?’ she stage-whispered up the stairs. She herself, hated being woken up too quickly and she extended that consideration to other people. She thought that maybe he would appreciate a gentle rousing from sleep, rather than a sudden shocking awakening. The silence was intense and she began to feel the first shivers of concern. He had specifically said he wouldn’t go out until she got there so that they could talk about the carpet, and so that he could give her a hand moving the armchairs. A long-case clock at the bottom of the stairs next to her chimed nine-fifteen and her heart nearly stopped.
    ‘Bloody, sodding thing,’ Mrs Hayward muttered to herself with an inward breath, her nerves allowing her to use vocabulary she would never normally give voice to. With her hand on her chest to coax her heart back to something like its normal rate, she stood for a few moments.
    Telling herself to be sensible, she began to climb the stairs, checking for dust on the banister as she went. She took her responsibilities as a cleaner seriously. This was in spite of the factthat she didn’t regard herself as a professional cleaner, not as such. She would never, in a million years, have contemplated signing up with one of these cleaning agencies, like Happy House or Mrs Mop, who went in every week, carrying their vacuum cleaners with them.
    She was halfway up the stairs by now and she paused.
    ‘Christopher? Are you all right? It’s gone nine, you know,’ she said. It was as much to quell her nerves as to get an answer. Total silence enveloped the cottage; she had never experienced this before. Always there had been bustle and noise: maybe a radio or the television, the sound of the toaster popping, or even just the pages of a newspaper being turned. This heavy, intense silence was new and uncomfortable.
    At the top of the stairs she turned left along the picture-lined corridor. She no longer noticed the paintings. But the gilt-framed awards he displayed there always impressed her. Janson had been an art director in the magazine industry for most of his working life.
    Mrs Hayward knocked on his bedroom door. No reply. She went in and saw Janson was still tucked up in bed, but she could tell immediately something was wrong. He was as white as chalk. She had no tray to drop – but her hands flew up anyway and she screamed.

Chapter 3
    Monday, May 6, Larkshall Lane, Croydon, 9.20AM
    Lynne Parker closed the front door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. She had the house to herself for the first time in more than forty-eight hours. Her husband was up in London, where he worked at New Scotland Yard, and both the boys had been safely dropped off at school.
    She adored all three of them, but right now she didn’t miss them one little bit. She had a list of things to do, a mile long, but for the moment she savoured the peace and quiet. Not only did she have time to sigh, but also she could actually hear herself do it.
    Monday, May 6, Angel Cottage, Sewel Mill, 9.30AM
    By the time Dr Clive Marks arrived, Mrs Hayward had calmed herself down surprisingly well. She