The Cradle in the Grave by Sophie Hannah Page A

that’s been on the news and in the papers so often that most people in Britain would recognise her. No wonder she didn’t want to meet me in the pub.
    I can’t believe she wants to meet me at all.
    Her face is slightly too long and her features too blunt, otherwise she’d be stunning. As it is, she’s the sort of plain that has missed attractive by a hair’s breadth. Her thick wavy hair makes me look again at her face, thinking she must be attractive; it’s the sort of hair you’d expect to frame the face of a beauty: well cut, lustrous, golden blonde. She looks like somebody important; it’s in her eyes and the way she holds herself. Nothing like Helen Yardley, whose absolute ordinariness and accessible friendly-neighbour smile made it easy for most people to believe in her innocence, once her convictions were quashed.
    Rachel Hines opens her car door, but still doesn’t get out. Tentatively, I approach the Jaguar. She slams the door shut. The engine starts up, and the headlights come back on, blinding me. ‘What . . .?’ I start to say, but she’s pulling away. As she draws level with me, she slows down, turns to face me. I see her look past me at the house and turn, in case there’s someone behind me, though I know there isn’t. It’ll be just the two of us, won’t it?
    By the time I’ve turned back, she’s halfway down the road, speeding up as she drives away.
    What did I do wrong? My mobile phone starts to ring in my pocket. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ I say, assuming it’s Tamsin calling for an update. ‘She was here about ten seconds ago, and she’s just driven off without saying anything, without even getting out of the car.’
    â€˜It’s me. Ray. I’m sorry about . . . what just happened.’
    â€˜Forget it,’ I say, grudgingly. Why is it so unacceptable, if you’re a decent human being, to say, ‘Actually, it’s not okay, even though you’ve apologised. I don’t forgive you’? Why do I care what’s socially acceptable, given who I’m dealing with? ‘Can I go to bed now?’
    â€˜You’ll have to come to me,’ she says.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Not now. I’ve inconvenienced you enough for one day. Tell me a time and date that suit you.’
    â€˜No time, no date,’ I say. ‘Look, you caught me off-guard in the pub tonight. If you want to talk to someone at Binary Star, ring Maya Jacques and—’
    â€˜I didn’t kill my daughter. Or my son.’
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜I can tell you the name of the person who did, if you want: Wendy Whitehead. Though it wasn’t—’
    â€˜I don’t want you to tell me anything,’ I say, my heart pounding. ‘I want you to leave me alone.’ I press the ‘end call’ button hard. It’s several seconds before I dare to breathe again.
    Back in my flat, I lock and bolt the door, turn off my mobile phone and unplug the landline. Five minutes later I’m rigid and wide awake in bed, the name Wendy Whitehead going round and round in my brain.

From Nothing But Love by Helen Yardley with Gainer Mundy

21 July 1995
    On the twenty-first of July, when the police came, I knew straight away that this time was different from all the other times. It was three weeks to the day since Rowan had died, and I’d become an expert at reading the detectives’ moods. I was usually able to tell from their faces whether the questioning on that particular day would be relentless or sympathetic. One detective who had always been kind to me was DS Giles Proust. He always looked uncomfortable when I was being interviewed and left most of the questions to his junior colleagues. On and on they would go: did I have a happy childhood? What was it like being the middle sibling? Did I ever feel jealous of my sisters? Am I close to my parents? Did I ever have