Page 110 of Deep Blue Sea

Rachel wasn’t sure if the tight cobalt-blue Roland Mouret dress that Diana had lent her was the right thing to wear to meet the investigating officer in charge of Julian’s case, but she didn’t really have much choice. On her sister it was respectably knee-length, but when you were five foot ten it hovered mid-thigh, making her feel like a seventies game-show hostess.

She glanced up and saw Detective Inspector Mark Graham coming out of the station.

‘Inspector!’ she panted. ‘Can I have a word?’

He turned around and for a moment looked her up and down as if he was pleasantly surprised by the sight before him. Rachel couldn’t help smiling. As a student, she would have practically punched a man if he’d wolf-whistled at her in the street.

‘Sorry, hi,’ she gasped. ‘I’m Rachel Miller, Julian Denver’s sister-in-law. Julian Denver – the suicide victim. Big house. Near Holland Park tube.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said, frowning.

‘I think Diana – his wife – I think she mentioned that I wanted to speak to you.’

‘She mentioned it,’ confirmed the inspector, moving away from her. ‘But I’m just leaving for the day. If you’d like to make an appointment, I’m sure—’

Rachel ran ahead of him to block his path.

‘With respect, Inspector, I tried that. You’ve been avoiding my calls.’

‘Avoiding your calls?’ he asked with an amused arch of his brow.

‘I’ve phoned three times and you haven’t got back to me. Please,’ she said, trying to bat her eyelashes.

‘Are you okay? Do you have something in your eye?’ he said, offering her a tissue from his pocket.

‘Look, do you have five minutes? I just need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Back to the day job, is it?’ he asked, motioning back to the station.

He found them a small room and left her in it while he went to fetch two plastic cups of coffee.

‘Day job? How do you know I used to be a journalist?’ she asked when he sat down.

‘Because I’m a police officer looking into the death of a high-profile industrialist, Miss Miller. It pays to know who you’re investigating.’

‘So I’m a suspect now?’

‘You sound a little paranoid, or is the caffeine fix making you jumpy?’

‘Or perhaps you don’t like me because of my former career.’

Mark Graham started to laugh. ‘Your type have caused the Met a great deal of trouble over the last few years, you know that.’

‘It takes two to tango and all,’ she said, remembering the brown envelopes of cash she had paid to bent coppers in the past. ‘So. We both know that inquests can be shy of reporting a suicide verdict, but what do you think?’

‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’

‘I live in Thailand now. I have an apartment with a sea view and I want to get back there,’ she said, almost convincing herself that this was true.

‘Well, it wasn’t a kinky sex thing and we haven’t referred it to the Murder Investigation team, so there’s your answer,’ he said, sipping his coffee.

His words reminded her of Megan Hill and an observation she had made in Washington: Three people are dead: Madison, her brother and Julian Denver. And they all have a connection to Rheladrex.

‘So it wasn’t foul play?’ She had to ask the question, otherwise what had she sent Ross to Jamaica for?

Mark Graham took her remark seriously.

‘Julian Denver was an extremely wealthy man, one with lots of enemies if you believe the rumours, and that makes us consider all options. But as far as we’re concerned, cause of death was ligature strangulation. No third-party involvement. Not unless the investigative journalist in the family thinks there’s something else here?’