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before drawing up in front of a comfortable, shabby sort of house that nevertheless managed to convey an air of wealth, despite its peeling paint and Bohemian aspect. The farmhouse itself had been much extended, and a large silver Range Rover was parked at one side of the circular driveway. There was a building which had clearly once been a stable block, now converted into a garage, which held another black Range Rover and a new model Mini. Thick ropes of wisteria hung over the front of the house, framing the front doorway in drooping fronds of green.
    Olbeck and Kate made their way inside, nodding to the constable who guarded the front door. The hallway was tiled in slate, the walls painted a soft green, an antique console table by the front door. A wire basket held children’s shoes and wellingtons, and a canvas shopping bag, printed with a fashionable mid-century design, was hung from the peg rack up on the wall.
    Kate and Olbeck followed the murmur of voices and the click and whirr of the crime scene cameras through the house. They glanced into the kitchen, where Kate saw more uniformed officers; a man in an expensive suit sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, a blonde woman, red-eyed and sniffling, sat beside him. That was all she could take in in a swift glance before they continued on through a comfortable and understatedly luxurious sitting room and then a playroom crammed with every conceivable toy, finally ascending a flight of stairs to the first floor.
    The bedroom they found themselves in was large and square, dominated by a huge bed with a black iron frame. A grey silk counterpane had slipped to the floor and the bed itself was unmade. Trixie Arlen’s body lay on top, half on her side, one arm dangling from the bed, almost brushing the soft pile of the carpet. Kate and Olbeck paused in the doorway, silently regarding the scene. Doctor Telling had already arrived and was leaning over the body, her deft, gentle fingers already measuring, probing, testing. Kate sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Andrew hadn’t been the pathologist on call and then chastised herself for being so unfeeling.
    Several Scene of Crime officers were already working the room and Kate and Olbeck stepped forward a pace or two and then remained still, to allow them to work undisturbed. Doctor Telling noticed them and nodded a silent greeting before turning back to the body.
    “It is her, isn’t it?” Olbeck asked in a murmur.
    Kate nodded uncertainly. She could see it was Trixie Arlen; that face was instantly recognisable from a thousand different television and press appearances, but she could understand Olbeck’s hesitation. Trixie looked…diminished, somehow; shrunken, reduced. But that was understandable. Death was the great leveller, and Trixie’s beauty had always depended heavily on her natural vivacity. She had been cute rather than sexy; rather gamine, the girl-next-door type – a nice girl , attractively wholesome , good clean fun – in the media’s stereotypical clichés.
    Kate looked at Trixie’s dead face. More so than usual, the scene felt unreal; a stage set of a crime scene rather than a real one. Was it because the victim was so famous? Kate recalled her first reaction to Olbeck’s news – violent disbelief. Celebrities led charmed lives, didn’t they? Things like this didn’t happen to them – not to the ones who didn’t walk on the wild side.
    Kate let her gaze rest on the body, trying to take in as much information as possible. Trixie was dressed in grey marl leggings and a loose pink T-shirt. Her hair – that famous mop of bouncy brown curls – tumbled around her face, partially hiding it. Kate could see the wink of something sparkly in an earlobe, but she wore no other jewellery that Kate could see, except the huge diamond solitaire engagement ring and the plainer wedding band on the hand that dangled from the bed. The tips of her fingers on that hand were already purple with