Crazy Lady. James Hawkins

files are missing — well, not exactly missing," Donaldson admits as soon as he has stacked his first plate.

      "Where are they then?"

      "There never were any."

      "Three dead babies and no files?" questions Daphne skeptically, wondering if her old friend is just being diplomatic about sensitive documents.

      "All natural causes — death certificates duly signed by two doctors — so no police investigation or inquest. The coroner seemed satisfied; just a coincidence."

      "Three is one more than a coincidence," says Daphne sharply. "Two is a coincidence, Ted. Not three."

      "Daphne. If we investigated every natural death we'd never do anything important."

      "And three deaths in one family isn't important?"

      "Suspicious," he confesses. "But it was before my time."

      "You're not hiding anything, are you?"

      Donaldson's seat is a little uncomfortable as he admits that his predecessor wasn't always as straight as he should have been. "Old Bob Hinkey could bend the rules a bit at times."

      "So who bought him off?"

      "I'm not saying that," protests Donaldson, though knows that Daphne well understands the local politics. "Put yourself in Bob's place. He probably spent his weekends shooting and fishing over at Creston's estate. Have you seen the place? Bigger than Buckingham Palace, choppers flying in and out, more security than the padlock on the prisoner's pee bucket down at the station."

      "So what's he scared of?" questions Daphne. "Nothing ticks off a villain more than the prospect of being done over by another one," suggests Donaldson.

      Daphne queries, "Creston — a crook?"

      Donaldson shrugs. "I've got no proof, but that's how most of these bigwigs make it — either them or their ancestors. It ticks me off that we waste time nicking some unemployed jerk for pinching a bar of chocolate when people like Creston are siphoning millions out of their companies."

      "If Creston is as pious as he claims he'll have to get off his camel sooner or later or he'll be going downstairs with the rest of us."

      "Nice idea," laughs Donaldson. "But he's already working on that. According to someone — let's say a friend of mine — Creston shovels money into religious organizations all over the place. Mind, I take a less charitable view. I reckon he does it for the PR and the tax write-off."

      "Trina said they think Janet was involved in a religious group," begins Daphne, then questions, "I don't suppose you could find out from your friend if any of Creston's largesse reaches Canada."

      "You'll get me shot… aiding the enemy."

      "What enemy?"

      "David told me that you and Trina had cooked up some crazy notion about being private eyes."

      "And PIs are the enemy?"

      "Competition… definitely not privy to classified information."

      By the time Ted Donaldson has persuaded himself that a second helping of bread and butter pudding would round him off nicely, Daphne figures that he is sufficiently softened to try another tack.

      "D'ye know anything about Amelia Drinkwater?" she asks with blank-faced innocence.

      Donaldson puts down his spoon. "You mean the venerable Mrs. Drinkwater, Chairman of Dewminster Magistrates…" he begins, then lowers his tone. "I didn't know she qualified for a Christian name. I could tell you one or two things…"

      Daphne leans across the table. "Just one good one will do."

      "Well, to start with she strikes more terror into my officers than she does the villains."

      "Really?"

      Donaldson checks around before saying, "Bloody old battleaxe. Her husband died young and her son committed suicide, and I can't say I blame either of them."

      "I've met her," agrees Daphne. "What happened to her boy?"

      "Abuse," mouths Donaldson. "She totally smothered him. He was still living at home in his thirties for God's sake; Peter Pan syndrome, couldn't grow up… you know the type."

      "Why suicide?"

      Donaldson shrugs. "The only way out I suppose." Janet Thurgood hasn't been trying to escape from Trina's again, but with the possibility that Mike Phillips or Dave Brougham might show up at any time, Rob has been turned out to make room for her in the main part of the house. However, Trina is convinced that a police visit is imminent so she checks the basement suite.

      Wearing dark shades and Kylie's Nike runners, she slips from room to room, keeping low. She flips open each door and jerks back as if expecting a shot, then she launches herself into the room and dives for cover.

      "I've seen them do this in the movies," she hisses over her shoulder to her daughter, who is standing at the bottom of the stairs pretending to stick her fingers down her throat.

      Trina inches her way across the room on the floor and closes the curtains before turning back to Kylie. "Shh," she hisses with her fingers to her lips. "The place may be bugged."

      Telephone, paintings, lamps, and a four-foot-high plastic flamingo all get inspected, though Trina has little idea of what to search for.

      "Here's a bug," calls Kylie, picking a dead spider from behind the television, and she gets a tart look from her mother.

      "There's a police car up the hill," calls Rick as he comes home from the office and catches Trina in the act.

      "I know. They're after Janet."

      Rick laughs — he can't help it. "April fool."