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in hospital in Lewisham. She’s made a good recovery, but they’re waiting for a doctor to discharge her,’ said Moss.
    ‘Okay. Let’s pay her a visit – you too, Peterson.’
    ‘You don’t think she’s a suspect?’ asked Moss.
    ‘No, but mothers are often a hive of information,’ said Erika.
    ‘I know what you mean. Mine has her nose in everybody’s business,’ said Peterson, getting up and grabbing his jacket.
    ‘Then let’s hope Estelle Munro is the same,’ said Erika.

8
    U niversity Hospital Lewisham was a sprawling mix of buildings in old brick and futuristic glass, with a new wing of blue and yellow plastic. The car park was busy, and a steady stream of ambulances was pulling up at the Accident and Emergency department. Erika, Moss and Peterson parked the car and made their way on foot to the main entrance, a large glass and steel box opposite A&E. As they approached, they saw an elderly lady parked outside in a wheelchair, shouting at a nurse crouching down beside her.
    ‘It’s disgusting!’ she was saying, stabbing at the nurse with a gnarled finger topped with red nail varnish. ‘You keep me waiting, and when you finally discharge me I’m sat here for over an hour in the heat! I don’t have my handbag, or my phone, and you’re doing nothing!’
    Several people coming out of the main entrance took notice of this, but a group of nurses on their way in didn’t bat an eyelid.
    ‘That’s her – Estelle Munro, Gregory Munro’s mother,’ said Moss. As they drew level, the nurse noticed them and stood up. She was in her late forties, with a kind but tired face. Erika, Moss and Peterson introduced themselves, holding up their ID.
    ‘Is everything all right here?’ asked Erika. Estelle squinted up at them from the wheelchair. She looked to be in her mid-sixties and she seemed to be an elegant dresser, but after a night in hospital her pale slacks and floral blouse were crumpled, most of her make-up had sweated off and her short auburn hair was sticking up in tufts. On her lap was a plastic bag containing a pair of black patent leather court shoes.
    ‘No! Everything is not all right here …’ started Estelle.
    The nurse put her hands on her broad hips, interrupting: ‘Estelle was offered a lift home by the police officers who came to take her statement this morning, but she declined.’
    ‘Of course I declined! I’m not pulling up outside my house in a police car! I would like to be taken home in a taxi… I know how this works. I am entitled to a taxi. You people just want to cut corners…’
    In Erika’s experience, grief and shock affected people in different ways. Some crumpled in a heap of tears, some went numb and couldn’t speak, and others became angry. She could see Estelle Munro was in the latter category.
    ‘I’ve been kept prisoner all night in that God-awful hell-hole called A&E. I just had a funny turn, that’s all. But, no – I had to queue up, and the drunks and drug addicts were seen first!’ Estelle turned her attention to Erika, Moss and Peterson. ‘Then your lot asked me endless questions. You’d think I was the criminal! What are the three of you doing here, anyway? My boy is lying dead… He was murdered!’
    At this point, Estelle broke down. She clutched the armrests of the wheelchair and gritted her teeth. ‘Stop crowding me, all of you!’ she shouted.
    ‘We’ve got an unmarked car. We can take you home right now, Mrs Munro,’ said Peterson kindly, crouching down and offering her a tissue from a small pack in his pocket.
    She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. ‘You can?’
    Peterson nodded.
    ‘Then please, take me home. I just want to be at home, on my own,’ she said, taking a tissue and holding it to her face.
    Thank you , mouthed the nurse.
    Peterson took the brake off the wheelchair and started to push Estelle towards the car park.
    ‘She was admitted in a bad way, extremely dehydrated and in severe shock,’ said the nurse to Moss and