‘Yes, I taught Selena, taught her Fashion Design,’ Marjorie Prentice replied, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I just can’t believe that she’s dead. Murdered and dumped on the golf course like that, dumped as if she were just a bag of rubbish, how could somebody be so cruel and heatless as that?’
Marjorie Prentice was in her mid-twenties, moon faced and with the largest eyes Yarrow had ever seen on a woman, eyes that continually welled up in tears which she dabbed at with a small white handkerchief embroidered with roses in one corner. She was short and slightly plump with brunette hair tied in bunches and was wearing a tweed skirt, jacket and a white blouse buttoned up to her throat, attire that Yarrow thought belonged on an older woman.
‘Did you know her well?’ Yarrow asked.
