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David Morgan was in his sitting room, the one at the front of the house with the bay window. It had the feeling of a room not often used. As with so many old houses nowadays, the back room and kitchen had had their walls knocked out to make one large room across the back where everything happened. The kitchen area at one end looked new-ish and expensive-ish, while at the other was a huge wall-mounted TV, an enormous shabby sofa, a coffee table, cupboards and, spread around, all the clutter of everyday living, things in use, things put down and never tidied away. Between the two ends a pine table with six chairs around it stood in as dining room, opposite the open French windows onto the patio. There was a crumby plate and sticky knife on it, along with a used mug, a nail file, a heap of what looked like junk mail, a battered paperback entitled Only For You, open and face down, and several local freebie newspapers that did not seem to have been opened.

Messy it might be, but to the expert eye it was the normal chaos of home life, no sign, again, of a struggle or unlawful entry.

By contrast the sitting room was tidy and clean. The mantelpiece had been removed, and a gas fire had been installed around hip-height—a glass-fronted box containing an arrangement of pebbles. The walls were painted pale grey, the floor was laminate grey oak, there was a modern three-piece suite in dark grey tweed with contrasting scatter cushions in black and white, and a glass coffee table. The television in one corner was much smaller than the one in the kitchen, on a glass and chrome stand. The overhead light was a modern chandelier of bare Edison globes. There were no pictures or photographs on the walls, and the only other furniture was a glass and chrome display cabinet filled with little crystal animals. It was the most sterile room Slider remembered entering. He could imagine young Rhianne coming in here in a strop when she needed a door to slam but not anyone entering the room for purposes of pleasure. So much grey, so much glass. And what was with the flaming pebbles? What kind of sense did that make?

Morgan was sitting on the sofa facing the unlit fire, and a mug of tea stood untouched before him on the coffee table. A uniformed PC, Jilly Lawrence, was keeping him company, or standing guard over him, depending on your perspective. He looked pale and strained, and his aftershave was competing in the small room with his sweat of distress. He was of medium height and medium build, with fair hair cut in a sharp style. His suit was as stylish as a high street chain could make it, his tie was silk, pale blue with a pattern of pale pink elephants—a little act of defiance against corporate diktats, or evidence of a sense of humour?—and his shoes were shiny and fashionably pointed. His features were pleasant, just this side of handsome. His skin was lightly tanned and smooth. Altogether, he looked like a man putting his best foot forward on a limited budget, a man to whom appearance was important. Slider guessed he would be in some public-facing job where he had to look good.

'Mr Morgan?' Slider introduced himself and Atherton. They settled in the two matching chairs, and Atherton took the notes. 'You're Rhianne's father?'

'Rhianne,' Morgan corrected, putting the emphasis on the second syllable. 'Stepfather.'

'I'm very sorry for your loss. Please tell me about how you found her.'

'Well, I came home around four thirty. I called out, but she didn't answer.'

'You expected her to be home?'

'She might have been. School's out at the moment, and I didn't know of any plans she had.'

'Go on.'

 

'Well, I went through into the kitchen, and I saw the French windows were open. So I went across, and then I saw her, on the floor, crumpled up.'

'Did you move her?'

'Of course I did!' he said wildly. 'I didn't know what had happened. I ran to her, turned her over. Tried to rouse her. I shook her and called to her, and when she didn't wake up, I rang for the ambulance and started CPR on her. When they came, they took over, but—' His voice trailed off. He looked down at his hands. 'They said it was no good. They said she was already dead,' he went on, his voice low. He looked up. 'I wanted them to take her to the hospital. I begged them. I said there must be something you can do. But they said not. Then the lead paramedic said he had to call the police because it was a suspicious death. Why?' He stared at Slider with wide, frantic eyes. 'Why is it suspicious? What were they saying?'

'Any death without an obvious cause is suspicious. And in this case—' He examined Morgan's expression carefully. 'You didn't notice the mark on her neck?'

'What? What mark? No. She has a mole. What's that got to do with it? What are you talking about?'

He was growing agitated again, and Slider left that for now. 'Never mind. When did you last see your daughter alive?' he asked instead.

'This morning,' Morgan said. 'She came down just as I was going to work.'

'What time was that?'

'Just before nine.' The routine questions calmed him down, and he answered easily. 'I don't have to get in until half past nine. We're open from nine, but Janine unlocks, and you hardly ever get people coming in that early.' Slider gave him an enquiring look and he said, 'I work for Buckfast's, the estate agents. I'm branch manager of the Acton office.'

That explained the smartness. 'And is four thirty your usual time for coming home?'

'Well,' he said. 'I work until six on weekdays, but I'm out and about a lot, looking at properties and seeing people, and I often pop in if I'm passing. Spruce up a bit. Have a cup of tea, check emails. I was looking at a house in Emlyn Road this afternoon, so I was just round the corner.'

'And is your wife usually at home?'

'No, she works. At Waitrose, ten till six. They're sending someone to fetch her, to tell her—' He glanced at Lawrence, who nodded confirmation.

 

'You didn't want to break it to her yourself?'

His mouth bowed in misery. 'I couldn't,' he said. 'She'll be... I couldn't be the one. She'll... It's better coming from someone official.' He shook his head. 'I can't believe this is happening. It's like some horrible dream. I can't believe just this morning we—' He stopped and rubbed his face with both hands, from the cheeks back towards the ears, as if he might reshape the actual fabric of himself. Then he looked sharply at Slider. 'Why are you here? I don't understand.'

'We have to investigate any sudden, unexpected death,' Slider said.

Fathom appeared in the doorway and mouthed that Dr Cameron had arrived, and he nodded. 'We shall want you to make a formal statement,' he said.