Ellie Quicke had problems enough before she was asked to look into the untimely death of first one neighbour, and then another. Not to mention a third. Each one getting closer to home . . .

                                                                         One

Tuesday afternoon

There really was no need for anyone to suffer nowadays, was there?

The important thing was to keep a list of people who needed her help. When she heard of someone she entered their name in her diary and, when she was having a good day, she went to see them.

She’d just heard the sad news about an old friend, confined to a wheelchair after an accident. He was taking it hard, poor man. She must make time to visit him soon.

The list never seemed to get any shorter, which was a bit worrying because she was not getting any younger. She told herself to think of all the people whose names she’d been able to cross off over time, and that made her feel better.

Looking back, there was only one death which had really upset her. Many times he’d said he wanted to die, and she’d done what she could to help him out of his misery. She’d pounded up the tablets and dissolved them in his whisky. He’d necked the lot down, but then . . . she didn’t understand why . . . he’d changed his mind and begged her to call the ambulance. She’d been so flustered that she hadn’t known what to do for the best and she’d left him to die alone. No one had questioned it, because he’d said so many times that he wanted to end it all, but it had upset her.

She’d crossed through his name in her diary with a red biro, to remind her not to help anyone unless they really, really wanted to die.

The only thing was, she couldn’t remember where she’d put her diary. She must have another look for it after supper.

Tuesday afternoon

One of the pleasures of Ellie’s life was a trip to a garden centre.

She’d planted masses of wallflowers in the herbaceous border in the back garden so that even in the nastiest of weathers the effect was not entirely grim. Soon the viburnum and the witch hazel should be showing colour, though her winter-flowering pansies had stopped blooming when the wind had turned to the east. As far as she was concerned, it was a penance and not a pleasure to go into the garden in November.

There wasn’t much doing in the conservatory at the back of the house, either. In the old days their elderly housekeeper had regarded this as her territory, but lately she’d allowed Ellie to potter there, picking dead leaves off the over-wintering geraniums, spraying the azaleas and coaxing the Christmas cactuses into flower.

Titivating wasn’t the same thing as planting so, when Ellie received yet another importunate letter from a woman she’d tried to help, she’d tossed it into the waste paper basket – knowing it would have to be retrieved and dealt with at some point – and decided to take the rest of the day off.

She ordered a minicab and trundled off to the nearest garden centre, where she picked out half a dozen of the biggest, fattest amaryllis bulbs she could find. Bringing them home in triumph, she didn’t even bother to see if any messages had accumulated on the answerphone. Instead, she assembled everything she needed for potting the bulbs up in the kitchen: terracotta pots, a large pack of peat and the trusty trowel that had once belonged to her mother. Ellie knew that you could buy dormant amaryllis bulbs in ornamental pots complete with cylinders of peat, but that felt like cheating to her. She believed that if you wanted to do a job, you should do it properly.

She donned an old apron and a pair of bright yellow latex gloves, cleaned out the sink and half-filled a washing-up bowl with the crumbling, black peat. She made a well in the middle, poured in some water, and began to mix and knead. It felt rather like making pastry – just as satisfying and just as messy.

She put a layer of wet peat into the bottom of each pot, placed a bulb on it, and began to fill up the space with more of the soggy black stuff. The mess in the kitchen sink was truly amazing. She grinned. This was better than making mud pies as a child and, as she was an adult, it was doubly enjoyable. Wasn’t there some song about Glorious Mud . . .?

The front doorbell rang.

She was up to her elbows in muck.

It was true that their elderly housekeeper Rose was in her bed-sitting room next to the kitchen, but Rose always had an afternoon nap with the television on and wouldn’t hear the bell.

Ellie’s husband, Thomas, was . . . where? Out for the day. He’d retired from parish work to run a small but influential Christian magazine, but was often called upon to help out in emergencies at local churches. He could be anywhere in London. As for Vera, who helped Rose to run the household, neither she nor her schoolboy son were due back yet.

The house was quiet, except for the susurrus of the television coming from Rose’s room.

The bell rang again.

Ellie rinsed her gloves under the tap and went to answer it. The wind caught the front door and the visitor swept in on a gust of rain.

Ellie knew her caller well enough to say, ‘I’m just in the middle of something. Take off your wet coat and hang it over the chair. You’ll have to come into the kitchen. Mind the cat, I know he likes you, but he can trip you up if . . . No, I’m not cooking. Well, in a way I am. I’m potting up some bulbs and if I don’t get the sink cleared up before Rose wakes from her nap, I’ll be in trouble. Would you like a cup of tea?’

Detective Constable Milburn said, ‘Brrr. Horrible weather. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Please do. You want something to eat? I hope you don’t want cake, because I doubt if we’ve got any left.’

‘No, no. A cup of tea and five minutes of your time would be splendid. Those aren’t daffodil bulbs, are they?’

‘A sort of lily which flowers indoors. I pot them up and put them in a dark place for a while. When the flower buds appear, I bring them into the light. Some people leave them in the light all the time, but I think the bulbs like being fooled into thinking it’s winter when they’re put in the dark, and it’s that which makes them start growing again.’

She finished putting wet peat around the bulbs, and placed the pots on the draining board to let the excess water runoff. The mess in the sink was indescribable. There was black powder everywhere she looked: up the sides of the washing-up bowl and slopping over into the sink itself. And the draining board. And over her apron. ‘Mugs are in that glass-fronted cupboard. Milk in the fridge. Sugar? No? The biscuit tin is on the end shelf.’

‘I would have thought you’d have a greenhouse. Save you doing it in the kitchen sink.’

‘Mm. I know. Rose will kill me.’ She managed to scoop out nearly all the remaining peat and began to swill the rest around the sink and down the plug hole, hoping she wouldn’t block up the drains. ‘I’ve been thinking about putting a greenhouse against the garden wall where it would get the sun, but I haven’t got round to doing anything about it.’

She stripped off her gloves and her apron, bracing herself for what was to come. Which member of her family was in trouble now?

‘The family’s all well?’ DC Milburn poured boiling water onto teabags in the mugs and added milk.

So it wasn’t Thomas. ‘Fine.’

‘Your daughter Diana? Her baby must be about due, now.’

Ellie pulled her mouth into a smile, belying the anxiety which she always felt when she thought of her only daughter. ‘Due any day now. Getting a bit tired.’

‘The girl you took in as a lodger to help your housekeeper? With her young son? That was good of you.’

‘Vera. Such a blessing. It took a lot of persuading to make her enrol at college, but the hours fit in with Mikey’s schooldays, and she’s doing well. Rose doesn’t seem to mind her running the kitchen, either.’

Had Mikey been truanting from school? But Ms Milburn wouldn’t have come visiting for that, would she?

‘Relax,’ said Ms Milburn. ‘No one in your household has been crossing the line, as far as I know.’

Ellie smiled naturally this time. ‘Shall we take our mugs through to the other room? You bring the biscuits.’ She had smudges of peat on her sweater. She tried to brush them off, failed and decided to deal with them later.

As they passed into the hall Ellie nudged a wedge under the door to the kitchen, to keep it open. Then, if Rose should call for help, Ellie would hear her.

Once in the big sitting room, Ellie drew the long velvet curtains and picked up some of the newspapers which Thomas had dropped onto the floor that morning. The room felt chilly, despite the central heating, so she switched on the gas ‘log’ fire.

Midge, the family’s marauding ginger cat, followed them in and plumped himself down in front of the fireplace. He kept a beady eye on DC Milburn as she did sometimes let him have a titbit. He ignored Ellie, because he knew from experience that she wouldn’t feed him outside mealtimes.

‘So, are you very busy at the station?’ Ellie, making conversation.

‘The usual. Budget cuts. Redeployment of personnel. But the crime statistics are down, so the boss has been on holiday and gained five pounds.’ She frowned. She was no fan of her boss’s.

Neither was Ellie, who had unfortunately made an enemy of the Detective Inspector. In a moment of distress Ellie’s brain had slipped a cog and she’d referred to him as ‘Ears’, since his appendages turned bright red when he was angry. The nickname had spread till even he had heard about it. To make matters worse, Ellie had shown him up for poor police work. Ears had been heard to say that if he could only have one wish, it would be that Ellie Quicke should be shut up in a nunnery. In a silent order.

‘He’s in a good mood for once?’ said Ellie. Hope dies hard.

‘Well, no worse than usual.’ Ms Milburn attempted, and failed, to sound nonchalant. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard. A girl came into the station to lodge a formal complaint. She said her cousin had murdered her aunt for her second-hand Prada handbag.’

Ellie wanted to giggle but, looking at Ms Milburn’s solemn face, decided that this would be inappropriate.